Columnists
Traveling from South Australia to Reno usually takes about a day—longer if connections fail. When I was living “down under” and my dad, Mark King, and my step-mom Luanne were here in northern Nevada, that long journey became an annual ritual. Every 12 to 18 months, I boarded a
Columnists
The flashing airplane beacon in Stagecoach caught my father’s attention the first time he flew over this area in the 1960s. Mark King was working with the film crew of Bonanza, teaching horses and actors how to work together safely during stunts. While most outdoor filming took place at
Columnists
Can you recognize the opportunity waiting for you—or does it look too much like work to bother with? In the summer of 1859, miners in Dayton, Nevada thought they were chasing gold. For nearly four weeks after June 8, they sifted creek beds and mountain soil, tossing aside a
Religion
Perth sits where the Swan River meets the Indian Ocean, two and a half miles wide at its mouth, on the western edge of Australia—about as far from New Jersey as a 13-year-old boy could get without falling off the map. Ships entering the river are often escorted by
Columnists
At what point in life do you dare step out and take a chance, gambling everything? Most of us sense that we’re meant for some kind of adventure, but the moment to begin rarely announces itself. It usually arrives quietly—looking suspiciously like a bad idea. For my dad,
Columnists
Anger is one of the first things we ever do well. The moment we’re born, we announce our displeasure loudly—at the lights, the cold air, and the general surprise of being here at all. It’s not subtle. It’s not polite. But it is honest. That first
Columnists
The stretch limo was solid white. The handsome man standing through the sunroof—wearing a solid white tuxedo and a grin you could see from orbit—was my dad. As the limo crept around California’s state capitol buildings, a string of cans rattled loudly behind it, doing exactly what
Columnists
D-Day. Normandy, France. Omaha Beach. Third wave. Running out of the landing craft into an ocean where bloated bodies from earlier waves were floating. Getting onto the beach, then heading up the steep hill toward concrete bunkers filled with German snipers. Halfway up the hill, a bullet passed through Robert
Columnists
At eleven years old, my father, Mark King, moved to a farm in Wisconsin near a tribal nation. There he befriended an Indian boy his age, and the two forged a bond grounded in the purest form of childhood friendship: shooting things. Their favorite pastime was target practice with arrows
Columnists
Roaring Camp was not the sort of place where good news happened. In 1850, if a gunfight broke out, nobody paused their card game long enough to notice—French Pete and Kanaka Joe once shot each other clean through right in front of Tuttle’s grocery, and someone simply leaned
Columnists
It was early on the Saturday morning before Thanksgiving—the kind of gray, muted morning that makes you wonder if the sun took an early holiday. It had rained more days than not that week, and everything was soaked: the yard, the fields, the road, even the air felt waterlogged.
Columnists
Cowboys in the Old West didn’t have therapists, bullet journals, or apps reminding them to drink water and ‘practice gratitude.’ What they had were long days, stubborn cattle, bad coffee, and enough silence to make a person hear thoughts they didn’t know they had. And when life got