The Mountain Bike Problem: When Good Intentions Replace Good Planning

Every organization has its "mountain bike problem."

It's the well-intentioned purchase that seemed like a great idea at the time but slowly became a symbol of something much larger: planning that focused on acquiring equipment rather than building a sustainable program.

At first glance, our mountain bikes look like a valuable community asset. But today they occupy nearly half of the storage space in two storage buildings while seeing very little use. This year they may have been used once or twice. Even during summer camp, we quickly discovered that riding local roads was too basic for experienced youth, while transporting the bikes to better trails required a specialized trailer, a capable tow vehicle, insurance, fuel, staff time, and someone experienced enough to lead a safe mountain biking program.

The bikes themselves were never really the program. They were only one small piece of a much larger system that was never fully developed.

This is a common mistake in community programming. We often become excited about purchasing equipment because it feels like progress. Grants pay for tangible items, and equipment is easy to point to. But equipment without infrastructure, staffing, transportation, maintenance, scheduling, and long-term planning rarely produces lasting impact.

A successful mountain biking program isn't simply twenty bikes sitting in storage. It's trained instructors, transportation, partnerships with trail systems, maintenance schedules, safety protocols, regular outings, and consistent participation. Without those supporting pieces, expensive equipment quietly becomes expensive storage.

Sometimes the better investment isn't owning everything ourselves.

If our community only wants to offer mountain biking two or three times each year, it may be far more cost-effective to partner with an outfitter or local guide service that already owns the bikes, trailers, tools, and safety equipment and specializes in delivering high-quality experiences. Instead of spending resources maintaining equipment that sits unused for most of the year, we could invest directly in exceptional programming when it's actually needed.

This principle extends far beyond mountain bikes.

Every program should begin with one simple question:

What problem are we trying to solve?

Only after answering that question should we determine what equipment, staffing, partnerships, facilities, and budget are necessary to support the solution. Too often organizations work backward—they purchase equipment first and hope a program develops around it.

Good planning starts with outcomes, not inventory.

Before purchasing anything, organizations should ask:

• Who will use this?
• How often will it realistically be used?
• What additional infrastructure is required?
• Who will maintain it?
• What will it cost over five years, not just today?
• Would partnering with another organization accomplish the same goal more effectively?

These questions may not be as exciting as opening new equipment, but they are the difference between building programs that thrive and filling storage buildings with forgotten ideas.

The mountain bikes remind us that successful community programming isn't measured by how much equipment we own. It's measured by how consistently we create meaningful experiences for the people we serve.

Sometimes the smartest investment isn't buying more things.

It's planning better.

Working With the Elements

Most people spend their days touching glass screens, sitting under artificial light, walking on concrete, and interacting more with symbols of life than life itself. We become mentally overloaded while physically and spiritually undernourished. We know thousands of abstract ideas but forget the feel of dirt in our hands, the smell of smoke on our clothes, or the rhythm of working with natural materials.

One thing I have slowly begun exploring is the idea of working with the elements. Not as fantasy or mystical escapism, but as a practical and embodied way of reconnecting with reality.

In Chinese thought, particularly Wu Xing, the elements are not simply substances. They are patterns of transformation and relationship. Earth, Wood, Fire, Metal, and Water are constantly interacting, shaping one another, and moving through every aspect of life.

What interests me is not memorizing theories about the elements. What interests me is physically engaging with them.

Working with clay while building hornos.
Carving wood into tools and utensils.
Carrying and conserving water.
Using fire to cook and transform food.
Sharpening and using metal tools with precision and respect.

These experiences ground a person.

When you work with earth, you learn patience and structure. Clay cannot be rushed. A horno teaches humility because if moisture, shape, and timing are wrong, the structure cracks.

When you work with wood, you begin understanding grain, tension, flexibility, and growth. Wood carving teaches attention. A knife immediately reflects your mental state. Force and frustration rarely create good work.

Fire teaches transformation. It can nourish or destroy. Cooking over fire reconnects us with one of the oldest human experiences. It reminds us that food is not simply purchased. It is transformed through effort, heat, and time.

Metal teaches discipline and refinement. A sharp blade requires maintenance, awareness, and care. Tools shape us as much as we shape materials with them.

Water teaches adaptability and survival. Water carries life through everything. It softens clay, cooks food, cleans wounds, and sustains the body. Learning to respect water changes the way a person moves through the world.

The deeper lesson is that none of these elements exist alone.

Water nourishes wood.
Wood feeds fire.
Fire creates ash that returns to earth.
Earth produces metal.
Metal shapes and channels water.

You begin to see these cycles everywhere once you slow down enough to participate in them.

I think this return to elemental work is important because modern people are often fragmented. We separate physical health from spirituality, work from meaning, food from culture, and knowledge from direct experience. We live in abstractions.

But building a horno, carving a spoon, chopping wood, carrying water, cooking outdoors, hiking through weather, or practicing Tai Chi brings things back together again.

These are not hobbies in the shallow sense. They are ways of remembering that human beings were shaped through relationship with the natural world.

The body understands things the intellect alone never can.

Sometimes the most advanced thing a person can do is return to the foundations.

 

Bushcraft Beneath Our Feet: Going Beyond The Typical

For a long time I thought Bushcraft was mostly about forests, carving tools, shelters, and fire making. I kept thinking I needed to travel somewhere far away to learn the deeper skills I was searching for.

What I did not realize was that I was already standing in the middle of another form of Bushcraft here in the Southwest.

Over the last few days I have been working closely with Mildred from the Tiwa language and culture program at the Taos Day School. She has spent years teaching youth and helping build hornos, passing on knowledge through direct experience instead of books or videos. Working beside her has changed how I think about Bushcraft completely.

Bushcraft is not just about wood.

It is about learning to work with the materials of your environment. Here in the Southwest that means clay, dirt, straw, stone, water, and heat. Earth itself becomes shelter, cookware, insulation, and community.

While helping repair and shape hornos, something obvious finally clicked in my brain. I have spent years fascinated by primitive pottery and survival skills, yet never fully connected the fact that if you need bowls and you have clay, then you can simply make your own bowls.

That is Bushcraft.

Not fantasy. Not gear obsession. Not consuming endless videos online. Real Bushcraft is solving human problems with the materials around you.

The Southwest has its own ancient technology and wisdom. Hornos, pottery, earth building, and clay work are just as much Bushcraft as carving a spoon in a northern forest. Maybe more, because these skills fed and connected entire communities for generations.

Sometimes the knowledge you are searching for is not somewhere far away.

Sometimes it is already beneath your feet. In another post, I will specifically write about the genius of hornos.

Unlocking Your Heart Is A Necessary Step For Spiritual Growth

On the surface, it can look like the best way to move through life is to lock your heart up so nobody can hurt you.

We grow up watching that image. The tough, silent type. Like Clint Eastwood in those westerns. Stoic, unreadable, no emotional reaction. It looks strong. It looks controlled.

And honestly, it is fun to watch on a weekend.

But I do not think it is something to build your life around.

That “stoic man” archetype can be a trap. It can actually lead to some pretty serious consequences. You end up cutting yourself off from your own experience. You might look solid on the outside, but inside you are operating as less than a full human being.

I used to think being tough meant not feeling.
Now I think it means being able to feel everything and still stay grounded.

Because the emotional side of us is not a weakness. It is the bigger part. It is where connection, meaning, and growth come from.

And I also think this is where it moves into something deeper. Something spiritual.

When you lock your heart, you are not just keeping pain out. You are also shutting down your ability to grow, to connect, and to experience something beyond yourself.

Being fully human is not about shutting down.
It is about opening up and being able to handle what comes with that.

Maxpedition Pygmy Falcon-II Backpack Review

I just picked up the Pygmy Falcon-II and put it straight to work on a tough hike. I transferred everything over from my old Helly Hansen pack that I’ve been using for about 4 to 5 years. Even though the Pygmy Falcon-II has slightly less volume, it outperforms it in almost every way.

The first thing you notice is the build quality. This pack feels solid. No looseness, no wasted space, no cheap materials. Everything about it feels intentional and durable.

When you put it on, it really hugs your body. That snug, close-to-the-back fit makes a big difference, especially on steep elevation or longer miles. It doesn’t shift around, and it carries lighter than it should for its size.

On the Trail

On today’s hike, which was no joke in terms of terrain, the pack stayed locked in and comfortable the entire time. That’s where it really proved itself.

The side water bottle pockets are strong and tight. They easily fit two Nalgene bottles, and there’s an elastic retention system that keeps everything secure. That alone is a big upgrade.

There’s also a nice external elastic area where you can stash a towel, shemagh, or an extra layer without digging into the main compartment.

Internally, there’s plenty of organization. The pockets are well thought out and actually useful, not just filler. You can separate gear without overcomplicating things.

Bottom Line

This pack feels more compact, more efficient, and better built than my old setup. Even with slightly less volume, it carries better, feels lighter, and performs stronger on the trail.

For a demanding hike, this thing was exactly what I wanted:
secure fit, smart layout, and no wasted space.

 

Trusting your path

There’s a strong idea in martial arts that you always need a teacher.

And I get it. Teachers matter. I’ve had great ones. You can learn a lot from people who have walked the path longer than you.

But lately, I’ve been realizing something.

At this stage in my life, I don’t feel the same need for a teacher to explain things to me.

That doesn’t mean I think teachers are wrong. It doesn’t mean I’ve “figured it all out.” It just means my focus has shifted.

I’m in my 60s now. Martial arts, as a system of techniques or even as a pursuit of skill, is less important to me than it used to be.

What matters more is understanding what is actually happening in my body.

Tai Chi has become less about fighting and more about regulation. My nervous system. My breath. My structure. How tension dissolves. How movement connects.

And if I’m being honest, it’s also become spiritual.

There’s something in the practice that goes beyond mechanics. The energetics of it. The way it brings me into alignment. The way it quiets the noise and connects me to something bigger.

You could call that being one with the universe.

That’s where my interest is now.

So when I hear explanations about internal arts, I don’t reject them. But I don’t feel the need to adopt them either.

I’m not looking for someone else’s model to overlay onto my experience.

I’m more interested in direct observation.

What do I actually feel?

What changes when I relax here?

What happens when I shift weight this way?

That’s my teacher now.

Experience.

Not theory. Not lineage. Not terminology.

Just honest feedback from my own body.

If I ever needed self defense, that would mean something has gone very wrong and my life is in danger. That’s not a space for subtlety or philosophy. I’m prepared for that in practical ways.

But Tai Chi, for me, isn’t about that anymore.

It’s about refinement. Awareness. Regulation. Connection.

And at this point, I don’t need someone to explain that to me.

I need to feel it.

I need to live it.

That doesn’t make teachers unnecessary for everyone.

But for me, right now, the path is experiential.

And that’s enough.

Moving With the Hum of the Universe

I know this new age kind of language can turn people off. I usually write about the practical side of tai chi. But honestly, the more I practice, the more I see alignment as the priority. Even over fighting. Even over longevity.

I know that sounds strange coming from someone in public health. We are trained to focus on outcomes, on years, on metrics. But spiritual alignment and nervous system regulation matter in a deeper way. Maybe they lead to a longer life. Maybe they do not. But does the number of years really matter if you are out of tune?  

Another moment that shaped this for me happened almost 30 years ago. I met Master Fook Yueng at a workshop. He taught a form of Tien Shan Qi Gong that he had learned in Tibet. When I practiced it, the experience was immediate and undeniable. It felt like an acid trip without drugs. I was completely in tune. In that moment I knew I was going to do this for the rest of my life.

He was an incredible teacher. That experience also changed my relationship with substances. I have been sober for many years now because I realized I did not need anything external to access that state. The body and the mind are capable of it on their own.

There is another layer to this that I do not dismiss.

For me, the idea of being one with the universe is not abstract or poetic. It is motivating. It always has been.

I remember being a kid in high school when I first heard Brain Damage and Eclipse by Pink Floyd. The lyrics have stayed with me and continue to inspire me.  

And all that is now

And all that is gone

And all that's to come

And everything under the sun is in tune. 

It did not just sound good. It felt like a direction. Like something to aim at. A way of being.

I did not have the language for it then, but I knew I wanted that sense of connection. To be in tune. Not separate. Not fragmented.

I have strayed from that many times. But I have always come back. Even this morning.

Because there are moments when the body settles into something deeper than effort. The nervous system quiets. The noise drops out. What is left feels like alignment. Like you are moving at the right frequency.

You can call it vibrational. You can call it nervous system regulation. The language does not really matter.

What matters is the experience.

For me, that is where the real power is. Not just in strength or balance or longevity, but in the ability to settle into a state where the body and mind feel in tune with something larger.

And that state changes things.

It makes you want to move better.
It makes you want to take care of your body.
It makes you less willing to drift into that slow surrender.

So yes, the practical side matters.

But the feeling of being in tune, of moving with that underlying hum, is what keeps me coming back.