Rivers of Thought
On Love, Legacy & the Discoveries Along the Way
The sky held its breath in quiet layers—deep charcoal at the top, soft lavender below it, and then a warm blaze of amber and gold stretched across the horizon. It didn’t shout. It waited.
The Columbia River shimmered in muted silver, calm but full of knowing. The mountains stood as shadows, outlined like memory—solid and watching. And the land below, still cloaked in darkness, whispered rather than spoke.
I stood at the window and let it rearrange something inside me.
It wasn’t just beautiful. It was hallowed — sacred.
It’s made me think about all the places I’ve stood that carried that same quiet gravity. The ones that slowed my step and softened my voice. The ones that felt like they were waiting for someone to listen.
When we first began the journey that became Uncharted Moments, we thought we were following the Lewis and Clark trail. And we were…at first. But over time, we realized something more profound was happening. We weren’t just following their story. We were writing ours.
And along the way, some places didn’t just mark a location—they marked something holy. Not in the traditional sense. But in the sense of knowing, somehow, that you’re standing in a place that matters.
There was the grave of Jim Morrison in Paris, where Carmen and I sipped wine from plastic water cups under the watchful eye of a patient gendarme. We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to. The silence did the work.
There was Locust Grove in Louisville, where the spirit of the Clark family felt close enough to touch, and where York’s story finally began to be told with the gravity it deserves.
There was Traveler’s Rest, where archaeologists proved what many already felt in their bones: they were here. Lewis and Clark camped on this very ground. And you could feel it.
There was the tower overlooking the confluence of the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers, where Carmen and I asked ourselves a question we weren’t quite ready to answer: What will you do when the journey is over?
And, of course, a small log chapel with a window that frames the incredible peaks of the Grand Tetons — more sacred than the massive cathedrals of Europe.
But none of them hit quite the way this Gorge does.
Maybe it’s the sheer force of the place. Maybe it’s the echo of their journey nearing the ultimate goal of the ocean. Or, perhaps it is the voices of generations of those who called this gorge home for millennia before the expedition arrived. Maybe it’s because Carmen and I stood together in this very stretch of land, looking out at the same water I’m watching now. Perhaps it’s because I return to this place more often than any other place on the trail.
Some places don’t just get visited. They get absorbed. They live in you.
Uncharted Moments is full of places like that. They may look like highway pull-offs, forgotten cemeteries, trailheads, and riverbanks. But they’re more than that. They’re the places where something changed. Where the moment turned.
Where the ordinary paused just long enough to become holy.
If you’ve ever stood in a spot that made you go quiet without knowing why—you’ve been there too.
And you know what I mean when I say: some ground is hallowed—even if the only marker is the way it rearranges you.
— Jeff
P.S. Over the next few months, I will be sharing more from my upcoming book, Uncharted Moments Along the Lewis and Clark Trail – A Love Story. If you want to be in the know as it proceeds through the publishing process, sign up for my newsletter in the side panel of this page!
(AI-generated image)
Goin’ to Kansas City
Kansas City, here I come
Goin’ to Kansas City
Kansas City, here I come*
Kansas City, Again (and Again): Four Versions of Me, One Book That Ties Them Together
I’m sitting in the Kansas City airport bar, bourbon in hand, watching travelers drift by. I’m on my way west—to Portland, then up the Columbia to Stevenson, Washington—where I’ll be guiding The Lewis and Clark Experience: A New Way Forward, a leadership program I helped build and now deliver several times a year.
This is my first business trip in nearly ten months—leaving Carmen is getting harder and harder. But this isn’t just about the flight or the program.
It’s about the city.
Because Kansas City has shown up in my life more times than I ever expected. And each visit marked a shift. A pivot. A story that wouldn’t leave me alone.
The Handcuffs, Yes, Handcuffs
The first time I came to KC, it was to visit my brother, who was based here as a pilot. I’d just landed when he called and said, “Wanna have dinner in Atlanta?”
Wait, what? I just got here.
He had a round-trip flight before our weekend could start. This was before 9/11, so when he pulled his plane, already loaded with passengers, to the gate, I climbed on board. We flew to Atlanta, had dinner, and then flew back.
That was just the start.
Later that night, we hit a bar popular with pilots. My brother’s girlfriend joined us. After a few drinks, she wisely decided not to drive. I chivalrously offered to take her car and follow my brother home. Because, hey, I was ok.
We were less than two blocks from their apartment when I saw flashing lights. A few failed “stupid human tricks” later, I was handcuffed and riding in the back of a police car. Fortunately, I passed the breathalyzer at the station. But the moment stuck with me.
Not the kind of moment you put on a postcard. But the kind you don’t forget.
The Fourth of July — Two Hundred Years Apart
This one’s sweeter. My Carmen and I would return to Kansas City during Leg Six of our Lewis & Clark Journey — the first Fourth of July celebrated west of the Mississippi…OUR first Fourth of July west of the Mississippi. It was a trip that delivered several Uncharted Moments — the hawk returned, a beer slogan on a t-shirt, and the idea of buying an ARRRR VEE.
We spent time on that trip in Kansas City, Leavenworth, and Atchison. Didn’t go anywhere near the airport. It wasn’t our longest trip in terms of miles, but it was the longest trip in terms of days, at least for the first six legs of our journey.
It is also the trip where the question was asked. The question that would haunt me for years. “What will you do when all this Lewis and Clark stuff is over?” Over? BAM!
I didn’t have an answer then. I do now. Write a book.
Stuck in Kansas City
My third visit was more suit-and-tie. A client’s CIO was tense, and I was sent in to smooth things over. The meeting went great.
Then the snow came.
A wallop of a storm hit. Flights canceled. Roads iced. But I had to get home—had a keynote the next morning that had taken months to prepare.
I took an Uber to the airport anyway. Rented a car. Drove across I-70 in whiteout conditions, barely breaking 30 mph until St. Louis.
I made it. Delivered the keynote. And realized I couldn’t live in that kind of tension anymore. A month later, the pandemic hit. I asked to be laid off…and pursued my side gig full-time.
Another pivot. Another Kansas City.
Kansas City — Again
So here I am now—version four of Jeff, overloading on memories before I fly out. I left my Carmen at home this morning; we haven’t been apart in ten months. Her wave goodbye was strong, but when I pulled out of the driveway, I felt the familiar ache of being away.
I ride these departures hard. These days, they feel heavier—and yes, more sacred.
The Ties That Bind
Four visits. Same city. But the deeper connection isn’t geography—it’s transformation.
The handcuffs taught humility.
The Fourth of July taught us to listen with open hearts.
The snowstorm taught resilience.
And this latest trip? It reminds me that legacy is built in every goodbye, every return, every story we carry forward.
That’s what Uncharted Moments is about. Not just the places we visited, but what those places revealed.
I didn’t set out to write a book about Kansas City. But somehow, Kansas City wrote itself into the book.
So here’s to the bourbon, the t-shirts, the snowdrifts… and yes, even the handcuffs. They’re all part of this story. And soon, they’ll be part of yours…well, maybe not the handcuffs.
– Jeff
P.S. Over the next few months, I will be sharing more from my upcoming book, Uncharted Moments Along the Lewis and Clark Trail – A Love Story. If you want to be in the know as it proceeds through the publishing process, sign up for my newsletter in the side panel of this page!
*Songwriters: Jerry Leiber / Mike Stoller – Kansas City* lyrics © Jerry Leiber Music, Armo Music Corp., Fort Knox Music Co
If you’re a regular reader of Rivers of Thought, you’ve probably noticed I’ve been unusually quiet over the past year. No new reflections, no trail updates, no musings on leadership or love or life. Just… silence.
Not because I ran out of things to say.
But because life, as it often does, had other plans.
The past year has been a season of deep change—personally, spiritually, and emotionally. I won’t go into all of it here (not yet, anyway), but I will say this: there have been moments that brought me to my knees, and moments that reminded me—gently, fiercely—why I write in the first place.
So here I am, surfacing from the quiet to share something that’s been two decades in the making.
I’ve finished the manuscript for my next book.
It’s called:
Uncharted Moments – Along the Lewis & Clark Trail – A Love Story
It’s not a history book, though history plays a starring role.
It’s not a love story, though love is its heartbeat.
It’s not a memoir, though my fingerprints are on every page.
It’s a journey—along rivers, through loss, into wonder.
Twenty years ago, I found myself drawn to the story of Lewis and Clark. What began as historical curiosity quickly became something more personal. Carmen and I started tracing the trail together—not just on maps, but in life. We followed in the footsteps of the Corps of Discovery, yes—but we also discovered each other, one sacred, uncharted moment at a time.
This book tells that story.
Of the rivers we crossed. The history we absorbed.
The laughs. The tears. The whispered conversations in campgrounds and museum halls.
The epiphanies that hit you like a thunderclap… and the ones that sneak in like mist over water.
Uncharted Moments is about finding your path—not by following someone else’s map, but by walking it together.
In the weeks to come, I’ll be sharing more: a glimpse at the cover, some behind-the-scenes stories, a few treasures that didn’t make it into the manuscript, and ways you can be part of this next adventure.
For now, thank you for being here—for sticking around through the silence.
I can’t wait to bring you along on this new leg of the journey.
Still paddling,
Jeff
Here is a little teaser:
Excerpt from Uncharted Moments: Along the Lewis & Clark Trail — A Love Story
We arrived in Philadelphia with one goal in mind: to see the journals.
Not just any journals—the journals. The ones penned by Meriwether Lewis and William Clark themselves. The ones that had guided us, inspired us, haunted us over thousands of miles and twenty years of travel. I had traced their words across maps, through dusty archives and riverside trails, always chasing the next uncharted moment.
The American Philosophical Society Museum was closed. Not for the day. For three weeks.
A sign on the heavy door made it plain. Closed for renovation or installation—something vague but definitive. The kind of sign that doesn’t budge, no matter how far you’ve come or how much your heart is invested.
But Carmen wasn’t one to give up easily. She pressed the doorbell.
A moment later, a woman emerged—clearly on her way to lunch, keys in hand, purse on her shoulder. Her pace slowed when she saw us, but her body language said, “I’m already gone.” Still, she paused.
We told her our story. About how this journey began with a book of journal excerpts and a spark of curiosity that became a shared obsession. About the RV, the trails, the graves, the monuments, the river crossings, the heartbreak, the healing. All of it. Condensed into a few breathless sentences.
She asked, “Are you researchers? Academics?”
“No,” I said. “Just… believers.”
She tilted her head, considering. Then she gave us directions to the library—across the street—Carmen convinced her to take us.
After being asked again if we were academics, we were introduced to Nan.
Nan greeted us warmly, no sign of skepticism or hurry in her demeanor. She gave us a tour of the public spaces, weaving in bits of the Society’s history, its legacy of Enlightenment ideals, and early American curiosity. I tried to absorb it, but my eyes kept drifting toward the closed doors, the private corridors.
Eventually, Nan turned to us and said, “I hear you’re interested in Lewis and Clark, right?”
We both nodded.
Without another word, she led us through a quiet hallway, past a door with a keycard lock, and into a climate-controlled back room.
There was a table. A few chairs. Silence.
Nan directed us to sit down at the table and disappeared into the vault.
Carmen and I sat down, our hands resting flat on the wood. We didn’t speak. We looked at each other with ‘what’s going on’ faces.
And then—
