Tag Archive for: Lewis & Clark

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From Dream Catcher to Compass

I’m sitting in my basement office while a hurricane of crepe paper and balloons gathers upstairs.

Earlier today, I picked up three of my grandkids from school and told them I had a “meeting.” They were instructed to help Grandma with “something.” We would have snacks after my meeting.

Based on the thundering overhead, it sounds less like three children and more like thirty.

Tomorrow I turn sixty-eight.

Upstairs, Carmen is trying — with all her heart — to surprise me.

It’s hard to surprise a man who signs for the deliveries, helps buy the party supplies, and manages the calendar. But that was never really the point. The point is the trying. The love poured into effort. The desire to make a moment sacred, even when logistics refuse to cooperate.

This weekend will hold laughter. It will likely hold tears. That, too, is our life. Joy and fragility inhabiting the same room.

 —  —  —  —  —  —  —  —  —  —  — 

And then she gave me the gifts.

Two bracelets — one that reminded her of the woman who watches over us. One tied to the country where my ancestors first learned to endure wind and water.

And then a compass.

 

Sterling Silver Compass Pendant

 

 

A silver compass pendant on a simple chain.

Engraved not with a message, but with a place — the one we’ve chosen as our final camp beside the river.

When she told me what she had engraved, we both cried.

Not dramatically. Not loudly.

Just the quiet kind of tears that come when something true is spoken aloud.

Belonging.

Years ago, Carmen gave me a replica of William Clark’s compass. And a sextant. They sit upstairs now — steady and still — reminders that direction matters.

But once, we stood before Clark’s actual compass. Not a replica. His.

I imagined him under a hard sky, wind pressing against his coat, taking a reading and sketching a line with cold fingers. Beside me, Carmen had gone perfectly still — but not for the compass. She was studying a case of pressed flowers from the journey, the captains’ careful notes beside them. She traced the names as if reading a poem.

Native plants have always been her doorway.

Something shifted that day. She wasn’t simply accompanying me on an adventure anymore. She was inside the story.

Clark’s compass pointed west into conjectural territory.

This one does not.

This one points home.

When we first met, I wore a dream catcher around my neck. I even marked it on my skin. Back then, I was searching. I didn’t have language for it. I only knew there was something I hoped to find.

She was — and is — my dream.

And somehow, I caught it.

Now I wear a compass.

Not because I’m lost.

But because I know where we will one day lay down our packs.

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A few minutes ago, my phone buzzed.

“Your meeting is over,” she wrote.

I climbed the stairs and was met by two grandkids nearly vibrating with excitement. They were far more animated about the surprise than I was.

Crepe paper hung crookedly. Balloons leaned against door frames. The house was louder than it needed to be.

And somehow, it felt hallowed.

The compass rests quietly at my throat.

The house is full.

I am exactly where I am meant to be.

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Walking Into Autumn at Latourell Falls

Lower Latourell Falls, a single ribbon of water carving basalt for centuries.

I drove east from Skamania Lodge this morning, the Columbia River off my shoulder and the day so clear it almost rang. September-blue sky. Sun bright enough to make the river flash like a blade. My grandson, Jordan, told me Friday with precision: autumn arrives Monday at 2:19 p.m. Eastern. Out here, that’s 11:19 a.m.—still ahead of me as I wound into the Gorge toward Latourell Falls.

Autumn carries a certain somberness for me, a quieting. Not sadness exactly—more like the sound turns down so you can hear what’s underneath. Maybe that’s why I felt pulled to the trail. I wanted to walk into the season rather than let it arrive without me.

At the trailhead, a tour group had just gathered for the lower falls. Laughter, a few wool caps, an airhorn of enthusiasm. I smiled, stepped aside, and chose the upper falls first—the steeper, quieter way. I wasn’t looking to be alone, exactly; I was looking for the kind of company a forest keeps.

Within a few minutes, the Gorge did what it always does—it closed the door on the highway and pulled me into its own weather. Ferns stitched the ground, their fronds beaded with last night’s damp. Moss softened every trunk and limb as if the trees had been given green coats for the season ahead. The air smelled like earth made new, like stone rinsed clean. Even as I climbed, it felt like a descent into a sanctuary—cooler with every turn, light growing spare and slanted. Morning clouds had pooled in the ravine and hung there, a gauzy haze caught in the evergreens. Some places down here probably never see direct sun. They don’t need it. They glow on their own.

I thought of the Corps of Discovery—how often I do. Did Lewis or Clark, or any of their men, step into a bowl of forest like this and go quiet because there was nothing else to do? The Gorge isn’t the Missouri, but wonder travels well. The particulars change—rock, water, tree—but the feeling is the same: smallness that enlarges you.

This place surely carried another name, spoken in a language older than maps.

I also thought of the Indigenous peoples who walked this land long before Lewis and Clark, long before any of us. What drew them to these falls? Did the sound carry meaning, the mist hold stories, the basalt cliffs serve as markers? Surely this place, with its power and beauty, carried a name of its own—a name rooted in language older than English, older than the maps I’ve studied. I wondered what ceremonies, what moments of gathering or prayer, may have happened on these same stones where I now stood, a guest in their homeland.

And then, as always, I thought of Carmen. I miss her in places like this with an ache that’s both tender and grateful. I wish she could see what I’m seeing, breathe this somewhere-between-summer-and-fall air, hear the steady hush of water working the canyon. She has a way of noticing beauty that makes my noticing better. It’s one reason I’m writing Uncharted Moments—to gather these places and hours, to honor the way they’ve shaped us, to invite readers into the country we fell in love with (despite its flaws), the land itself and the people whose homelands these are, and the love story that carried us along.

That’s the challenge I carry up trails like this: how to translate a feeling into words without dulling its edge. How to write a scene so true you can smell the moss and taste the spray. How to talk about the wonder that arrives unannounced and refuses to be photographed. I want Uncharted Moments to do that—to rise, chapter by chapter, into a kind of crescendo that isn’t noise but resonance. Not louder, truer.

The path leveled, and the sound of water shifted from rumor to presence. At a break in the trees, the upper falls appeared—veil and plunge, a white ribbon slicing the basalt. I stood and let time do what it does in front of moving water: lengthen and loosen. You don’t measure a waterfall; it measures you.

On the way down, I rejoined the lower trail, and the crowd’s energy returned in bits and pieces—footsteps, voices, the happy clatter of trekking poles. I rounded a bend just as a woman—seventies, camera in hand, careful on the narrow path—rounded from the other side. She looked up, caught her first sight of the lower falls, and her face opened. It was all there at once: surprise, delight, reverence. A smile that belonged equally to her and to the water. Pure joy. Pure “oh my God.”

I wish I had taken a picture. I didn’t. The moment kept moving, as it should. But it stayed with me, because that expression—hers—was the mirror I needed. That’s what I’m trying to write toward. Not a catalog of places, not a ledger of miles, but that spark of recognition when beauty strikes and we say, without words: yes.

If you’ve followed my work for a while, you know how often I return to rivers and trails, to the Lewis & Clark story that first sent Carmen and me west, to the way travel can teach you to listen. You also know my bias: the land is a mentor if we let it be. It slows you down, insists on your senses. In a ravine like Latourell’s, you start to notice things you’d otherwise miss—the way the spray cools the air twenty paces before you see the falls, how moss drinks light, how a single cedar can hold the smell of a decade. The world doesn’t have to shout here. It just is, and that’s enough.

I think that’s why autumn carries that somberness for me. Not because something ends, but because the world invites you closer. Leaves turn, not to be dramatic, but to mark the shift. The river lowers. The light sharpens. The calendar clicks forward—11:19 a.m. Pacific, the equinox arrives—and whether you’re ready or not, the season proceeds on.

Driving back west toward Skamania, the sun a little higher, I thought about that smile again and what it asked of me as a writer, a husband, a grandfather. Pay attention. Say what you mean. Carry the moment carefully and then set it down so others can pick it up. Uncharted Moments isn’t a museum of our travels; it’s a living room. I want readers to walk in, sit with the stories, and feel the same quiet joy I felt on that trail—or the grief we’ve carried, or the stubborn hope that keeps us going. I want them to meet Carmen on these pages the way I’ve met her on a hundred trails and riverbanks: steady, brave, eyes bright at the edge of a view.

The Gorge didn’t try to make a speech today. It offered a handful of simple things: cold air, wet stone, trees in their green coats, a waterfall doing its work, a stranger’s face turned to wonder. That’s plenty. That’s abundance. And it’s enough of a map for me to keep writing, to keep trusting that the right words will arrive, as seasons do, right on time.

Autumn is here—my grandson’s clock confirms it. The light is already different. I’m grateful for a morning that let me walk into it on purpose, east from Skamania, up into the hush, and back again with one small, perfect reminder: joy is often just around the bend, waiting to be reflected.

Beauty reflected back in the faces of those who find it.

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Shep at the Bend

Shep - Patiently Waiting for His Master's Return

Shep – Ever Vigilant

 

Fort Benton wears the river like a well-earned badge. The Missouri slides past the levee with that steady, old-timer confidence—no hurry, no apology—shouldering stories you can feel even if you can’t name them. We parked, stretched road miles out of our backs, and did what we always do when we arrive anywhere along the trail: we listened. Not just with our ears, but with that other sense you learn on the water—the one that asks, What happened here, and who’s still holding the memory?

You don’t have to look far in Fort Benton. The brick storefronts, the iron bridge, the museum signs—they all point to lives stacked over lives. And there, near the river, is the town’s quiet heartbeat cast in bronze: Shep. Head lifted, ears set to a frequency I swear you can almost hear if you stand there long enough. The statue is beautiful, yes, but more than that, it’s attentive. It watches the place like a promise.

We learned the story—most visitors do—a dog and a depot. Loyalty stretched across too many days. Waiting that outlived an answer. Even if you only catch it in passing, the story tugs something in you that’s older than words. But that afternoon, the pull landed somewhere personal I hadn’t noticed before.

We read the plaque, circled the statue, and let the river do its slow work. The trick with places like this is to resist the urge to rush. You let your mind walk past the easy facts and settle into the grain. And in that space, Shep became less a legend and more a lens. Who’s keeping watch while we cross? Who’s marking the thresholds we don’t even recognize as thresholds until we’re on the other side?

A Second Shep

Back home, weeks later, I wrote the Fort Benton pages. I tried to capture the light on the water and the way that bronze posture lifted the afternoon into something like prayer. I tucked the scene among the rest of Leg 8—the miles, the small talk, the way a town on a river is never just a town. Then I slid the draft to Carmen.

Hickey Family circa 1909

Hickey Family circa 1909 – Shep Front Right

Carmen proofreads like a cartographer—pencil steady, eyes tuned to terrain. She loves me enough to circle what’s true and underline what needs another pass. She also listens for echoes I miss. She was a few pages in when she looked up, soft smile, head cocked just a hair.

“You know your Granny’s dog was named Shep, too… right?”

The room did that slow-focus thing. I could hear the pencil roll to a stop. “What?”

“Your Granny’s farm dog,” she said, like we were both standing there in the yard already, like we’d just heard the back porch screen door slap. “Shep—it’s in her journals.”

There it was. Two Sheps, one in bronze beside the Missouri and one running fencerows in stories I grew up hearing without really hearing. A simple name becomes a through-line you can trace with your finger across a map of years. You think you’ve written a scene about a statue, and it turns out you’ve been writing about keeping watch your whole life.

I can see him now in the mind’s film—my Granny’s Shep—tan, with a white face blur at the edge of chores, tail sweeping the dust of a long afternoon. Whistle and he comes. Whisper and he hears. That’s what a shepherd does, even on a farm nowhere near a flock: he tends the threshold. He tells you when a stranger is coming up the lane. He walks with you to the barn at dusk and back to the house in the blue wash of evening. He is presence in motion.

Presence

And that’s what Fort Benton’s Shep felt like to me: presence. Not just the story tourists trade on the levee, but the way a place remembers for you when you’ve forgotten. The statue doesn’t just honor a singular dog; it blesses the job all guardians have—human or canine, living or gone—to stand at the crossings and keep an eye on us as we pass.

Carmen has always been the one to catch these threads. She did it in Paris when a bell peal turned “just friends” into something is happening. She did it in Louisville, at Mulberry Hill, when a small chain-link fence around forgotten graves felt louder than the big history down the road. She does it daily in our living room with a pencil poised over my prose. She doesn’t preach; she notices. Then she hands me the noticing like a found coin: This matters. Don’t walk past it.

Her Shep comment sent me back to the manuscript. I didn’t rewrite the scene so much as I recalibrated the listening. The river was still there, the afternoon still shouldered the same light, but the center of gravity had shifted. The statue wasn’t simply a point of interest on a Lewis & Clark-ish road day. It was an icon for a vocation that keeps finding us: stewarding what’s sacred as we move.

Sacred, for me, is not a word trapped in stained glass. It’s the living room where my grandmother’s stories breathe. It’s a town that builds bronze to say, We remember. It’s the Missouri’s hush beside a levee that has seen more arrivals and departures than any ledger can hold. It’s Carmen connecting dots I didn’t connect and, in doing so, knitting past to present so the cloth won’t tear.

If you’ve traveled with us in Uncharted Moments, you know we chase big landscapes and find small mercies. We go looking for history and discover our own hearts leaving breadcrumbs. Fort Benton gave us Shep twice—once in metal and once in memory—and both times as a gentle nudge: Pay attention at the edges. That’s where crossings announce themselves. That’s where love does its quietest, bravest work.

Thresholds

I’ve been thinking about thresholds a lot lately. The obvious ones—weddings, funerals, new jobs, last days—carry rituals we recognize. But the smaller ones shape us just as surely: a pause before you say the hard thing, a glance across a room that says we’re okay, a pencil mark in a margin that turns a “nice detail” into a seam you can pull. Maybe that’s why Shep lands so deep. He stands there without fanfare and makes the ordinary act of going from one place to another feel witnessed.

I don’t know what threshold you’re approaching. A decision you’ve been delaying. A phone call. A goodbye you didn’t choose. If I could hand you anything from Fort Benton, it would be the sense that you don’t have to cross alone. Somewhere nearby, there’s a keeper of the bend—someone or something that will sit within sight and wait until you’re on your way. Sometimes it looks like a bronze dog by a river. Sometimes it looks like a memory you thought you’d misplaced until your person says, Hey, remember? And sometimes it looks like the river itself, patient as breath.

When we left the levee, I turned once more to the statue and gave a small nod, the kind you give to an usher who helped you find your seat. Back in the car, Carmen squeezed my hand and returned to the pages. I drove with the Missouri in the corner of my eye, thinking about Granny, about dogs named Shep, about all the watchers who’ve kept vigil while we figured out our way.

We call them Uncharted Moments, these little collisions of place and past, because you can’t plan them and you can’t force them. You can only be there when they arrive. And when they do, you mark the spot—on a map, in a book, in your bones—and you carry on, shepherded by love toward whatever’s next.

— 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!

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The Question That Stopped Me Cold – How one moment at Skamania Lodge made me rethink my “why”

Jeff Ton - Lewis & Clark Experience: A New Way Forward

 

It happened at the cocktail reception before dinner. The sun was starting to drop behind the trees at Skamania Lodge, the white tablecloths on the garden patio lifting in the breeze, and the smell of dinner drifting across the lawn. One of the participants, beer in hand, approached. 

“So, I have a question for you. This morning, you asked about our “why”  — why we came to this program. What is your why? Why do you travel halfway across the country three or four times a year to guide this program?”

In five years, a dozen cohorts, and over two hundred participants, no one had ever asked me that.

I gave the first answer that came to mind: “I love the story, I love storytelling, I love seeing the lightbulb moments in people’s eyes when something connects.”

True enough. But the question stayed with me—over dinner, around the campfire that night, on the flight home. Why do I really do this? Especially now, when leaving Carmen is harder and harder with each trip.

Why – Deep Learning

I am honored to have been selected by my client, FCCS, to help build this program. What began as Carmen’s and my journey to follow the Lewis and Clark Trail blossomed into an entirely new career when Jean Canty Segal of FCCS read some of my writing about leadership and Lewis and Clark. She invited me to meet with a team of people in Seattle to discuss building the program. I was thrilled to be selected as a part of the team. 

It stretched me. I learned so much in those 18 months of developing the program. Not so much about Lewis and Clark, but about leadership development programs, experiential learning, and the discipline to bring their vision to life. I walked away from every meeting we had with new insights and new perspectives. 

From Sean Murray, I learned how to pace an experience so it flows.

From Matt Walker, I learned how the outdoors can carve a lesson deep into memory.

From Jared Nichols, I learned to stand in the future and imagine beyond the present.

My why? The learning never stops — and I love what we built.

Why – Continuous Learning

We launched the program in 2021, and since then, I’ve had the privilege of leading a dozen cohorts through the key concepts of Vision, Team Building, Overcoming Obstacles, Developing Resilience, and Proceeding On.

It never gets old. It never becomes routine. It never gets mailed in.

Each group arrives ready — hungry to learn, hungry to grow as leaders. They bond quickly and deeply. They are open to new and sometimes uncomfortable experiences. They push themselves. They challenge each other.

It’s a joy to watch it happen. Twenty strangers on the first night become friends, teammates, colleagues by the end of day one. They come from different industries, different parts of the country, different perspectives — yet they share a willingness to listen, to learn, and to support each other.

And I learn from every single one of them. Sometimes it’s an insight shared quietly after the hike or the aerial course. Sometimes it’s a reflection offered around the campfire, or a look across the table that says, Yeah, that makes sense now. Other times it’s a suggestion scribbled on a survey form (yes, we read every one), or a perspective I’d never considered, or a question no one had ever asked me before.

That constant exchange — giving and receiving, teaching and learning — is one of the things that keeps me coming back.

Why – Legacy

One of the leadership lessons we teach in the closing module is about legacy, not necessarily the legacy you leave behind when you leave this earth, but the legacy you leave behind in your team, in your teammates, when you transition to a new role or a new job. What do you hope they carry with them? 

I have grown so much through the program, sometimes taking to heart the very lessons I am teaching, perhaps in a different way. Like celebrating victories. As the facilitator, I too, need to celebrate victories, like the successful conclusion of another cohort. 

I have been thinking a lot about legacy as I approach the end of my career, as I move into the final chapter of life. What do I want to leave in the hearts and minds of others?

Family, of course. My wife Carmen — my partner in all things. Good times — tough times, through it all, I want her to carry my love in her heart. My sons, Jeremy and Brad. I see pieces of me in them — different pieces, similar pieces. Yet, they are their own men, teaching me each and every day. My grandkids  — Braxton, Jordan, Jasper, and Hayden, step grandkids Ari, Avery, and Henry, and step grandkids from a son’s prior marriage, Donny and Charity. Legacy.

The Indiana CIO Network. A group of IT professionals across Central Indiana and beyond. What started as five colleagues having lunch has grown into a group with over 400 members. Each member brings their insights and expertise  —  and their willingness to share and support each other. A new group of leaders have taken the reins and the group is thriving! Legacy. 

The Lewis and Clark Experience: A New Way Forward. There will come a time when I no longer serve as a guide for the program. Having the program on a solid foundation is one of the reasons I have poured my heart and soul into it. It is why we fine-tune it almost every time. That’s why I rehearse until I can forget the script and speak straight from the heart. Legacy.

The Journey

When Carmen and I first set out to follow the Lewis and Clark Trail, we had no idea what we’d discover. It became the theme of our life, the shape of my career, and the heart of my next book — Uncharted Moments Along the Lewis and Clark Trail – A Love Story.

I suppose that’s my real why: to keep the story alive — for the people in the room, for the people I love, and for the people I’ll never meet.

— 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!

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The Long Silence—and the Next Chapter

 

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—

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The Good Life: Leadership Lessons from Lewis and Clark Part II

#AmplifyYourLeadership Lewis & ClarkIt’s not often I get to speak to someone who is equally passionate about Lewis and Clark as I am. I was thrilled to be a guest on The Good Life podcast to talk about the leadership lessons that can be gleaned from the Lewis and Clark Expedition. Host, Sean Murray, and I dig into the expedition in Part I of this two-part interview. Having authored a microbook titled Everything I Learned About Leadership…I Learned from Lewis and Clark and numerous blog posts, I enjoyed the conversation with Sean.

In Part I, we talk about vision, team building, accountability, and diversity as we trace the footsteps of Lewis and Clark on the first part of their epic journey. If you missed it, here is the link!

In Part II, we discuss developing resilience in yourself and your team, overcoming obstacles, and how to make a decision when your team disagrees! Check out this installment of Lewis and Clark!

 

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