Returning Soon
There’s a substantial amount of work and many updates to be completed here. The Sassenach Moose has been simmering on the back burner while I checked off other projects and commitments.
Some 27,000 people follow us across our platforms. Many more visit this website and buy prints and other items. I value that interest and support.
Between leaving the Iron Range, our stint in New York, our expedition to Italy via a pandemic, and establishing a temporary base camp in the Far North Scottish Highlands, there have been a great many unplanned chapters and footnotes stuffed into our britches.
Paperwork, work, and the business of literally taking care of business have taken precedence of late. Oh, boy, is there a reckoning, and a return to our normal, required.
TSM is on catch-up duty this winter.
Well, you know what they say about moose. A moose couldn’t use a keyboard even if a bear taught him how. That’s what they say, bud.
There are three parts to this concoction. First, me—the one with the magnificent red beard that I grew myself. Propelled from the craggy Yorkshire coastline of England to the snowy boonies of the coldest small town in the contiguous United States late one evening, I began typing up notes on the strange ways and wonderful sights I was experiencing in the New World.
Approved, naturalised, and sworn into American nationhood rather than fleeing a womb screaming, somewhere within the United States by happenstance, I’m now committed to a military draft and a supplementary taxman by choice. Today, I’m in my mother’s homeland: specifically the Far North of the Scottish Highlands, stag-bustling, stone-wall-draped, mountainous territory parallel to Anchorage, Alaska.
I’m the author; the instigator. Here you will find articles, photography, musings, ye olde shoppe, but no further dirt that several governements don’t already hold on me.
My wife, the one that doesn’t have a beard, thankfully. My co-conspirator. Known to have fallen through the ice on Lake Superior, surfacing with bloody hands while I stifled my giggles. Local hero for stalking and killing a rogue bear ending its months-long rampage on household pets and livestock. Prone to colouring her hair orange for MS Society charity walks. Trekking toward Italian naturalisation. Cousin to a Star-Lord. Former ice hockey player that could have gone pro. Burner of pancakes, unfortunately.
My wife and I met in the perfect example of a chance meeting 3,726 miles apart. For more than a decade we have given several versions of how we met. How we met is now a mystery to even me—was I kidnapped? There’s an NDA that confirms, yes. She’s a Minnesotan whom is now likely to throw a, “lovely”, imitation in her best Yorkshire twang. Irritatingly accurately so.
We get around. By get around, I mean in distance measured per town and county line; experiences and challenges measured in hijinks, and seemingly, passports. Not in far-flung cruises and space flights, yet. Pursuers of activities best served cold; purveyors of wilder ways and arduous campaigns. Salt of the earth and willing to dare.
And Honk, he’s a bit wooden. All pseudonyms need a great mascot, and this handcarved monarch of the Cervidae with his honking big nose, plundered from Ely, MN is mine. Learn more about Honk here.
