TRIBE, by Sebastian Junger

Sebastian Junger

“What people miss [about combat] presumably isn’t danger or loss but the unity that these things often engender. There are obvious stresses on a person in a group, but there may be even greater stresses on a person in isolation” (p. 92-93).

It’s been over a week since I finished Sebastian Junger’s TRIBE (2016), a slender work of non-fiction by the bestselling author of The Perfect Storm, War, and Fire. Since completing this quick read, I have found myself repeatedly glancing at its matte black cover and feeling drawn uncomfortably to its title — the word TRIBE. For nearly ten days something has bothered me about it. Not until this afternoon, while copying passages from the book onto a yellow legal pad, did I finally determine why the title provokes me. Its typeface features a camouflage pattern. On the surface, this is fitting. But symbolically, the camouflage is indicative of a troubling fact about our society.

For a book that often refers to military service in order to explore the differences between tribal societies and modern Western culture, the use of camouflage is ideal. After all, the external face of the U.S. military – especially the Army and Marines – mixes olive drab, dark brown, chocolate, and greenish-yellow. Thus the camouflage typeface is not only appropriate in its connection to soldiers’ fatigues, but it appeals to shoppers whose passing gaze may fancy the green-brown-yellow pattern that adorns everything from women’s yoga pants to pre-teens’ school backpacks. Camouflage is cool.

But this afternoon I realized why the pattern has been nagging me. I value Junger’s use of military references to help readers understand the distinctions between tribal societies (both historical and contemporary) and modern Western culture. But it dawned on me today that it is the purpose of camouflage that has been provoking my discomfort; camouflage helps its host disappear. Drawing on influences from the natural world, humans have disguised their appearance for well over a hundred years through the use of specially-crafted garb. The goal of such clothing is to blend in to one’s surroundings, to become invisible against the background.

Understandably, on the battlefield and behind enemy lines, soldiers want to achieve invisibility. If you can’t be seen, it’s much less likely that you will be shot or bombed. But when soldiers return from duty and re-enter civilian life, what occurs if they are still camouflaged? Not from face-paint or jungle fatigues, but from the fact that most civilians in modern Western culture are at least partially – and in many cases largely — invisible inside their communities. Junger’s thesis asserts that disconnection has become widespread in the United States and western Europe, and that servicemen and women are not the only ones feeling lost. Rather, the entirety of modern Western culture is showing signs of alienation from community-centered values.

Junger believes that this disconnection, this sense of feeling invisible, is due to several causes: (1) the lack of a crisis around which people must band together in order to survive, (2) the affluence of modern society and the fact that its luxuries are prized when they are amassed instead of shared, and (3) the belief that success has become a solo effort, not one measured by improvements in group health and welfare. He writes: “Whatever the technological advances of modern society – and they’re nearly miraculous – the individualized lifestyles that those technologies spawn seem to be deeply brutalizing to the human spirit” (p. 93). These are heavy words.


Much of the work’s 136 pages features a fascinating historical analysis of why our human spirit has been eroding over the last several centuries. The first quarter of the book documents stories from the American frontier, a time during which a striking number of European settlers found more appealing living conditions with Native American cultures than they did with the colonies that they were, by nationality, a part of. As a result, both men and women migrated from colonies to tribal encampments. And even when rescue parties were sent out to bring these individuals home, they often resisted; in fact, more than a few hid from their rescuers. For those who left the colonies to join tribal life, the tight bonds of Native American cultures were more reassuring than what they were experiencing in “civilized” settlements on the east coast.

For the remaining chapters, the author turns toward World Wars I and II, conflicts during which the need to band together (as both civilian communities and military units) witnessed dramatic decreases in people’s self-reported depression, anxiety, and stress.  Because the members of those populations joined together for a common cause, they formed connections with strangers. They focused on others instead of themselves because their well-being (if not their survival) could be ensured only if the group remained viable. One of the most powerful examples that the book features is the well-documented phenomena that manifested in London during the Blitz. Despite weeks of brutal aerial bombardments by the German Luftwaffe, the citizens of London experienced a pronounced increase in spirit and emotional intimacy at the very time that their lives were most threatened. Imminent danger catalyzed relationship building.

The author writes: “What catastrophes seem to do – sometimes in the span of a few minutes – is turn back the clock on ten thousand years of social evolution. Self-interest gets subsumed into group interest because there is no survival outside group survival, and that creates a social bond that many people sorely miss” (p. 66). With the exception of natural disasters like floods, hurricanes, and wildfires, most Americans are largely insulated from anything resembling a true catastrophe. Although global warming, poverty, and discrimination are very pressing problems, they do not possess the commanding immediacy of an invasion by a foreign army, the outbreak of a communicable disease, or a power outage that puts half of the nation in the dark. Consequently, we rarely depend on others. This results in a situation where Junger writes: “A person living in a modern city or a suburb can, for the first time in history, go through an entire day – or an entire life – mostly encountering complete strangers. They can be surrounded by others and yet feel deeply, dangerously alone” (p. 18).

Supporting Junger’s argument are interviews with scholars and social scientists, who attest to the strengths of tribal cultures. These experts also provide sobering commentary about the ways in which modern society is falling far short of upholding the values that more primitive cultures maintain through their reliance on group dynamics. In response to Junger sharing some of his observations with anthropologist Sharon Abramowitz and asking her how suitable they are to disclose to readers, she responds this way: “You’ll have to be prepared to say that we are not a good society – that we are an antihuman society” (p. 93). She continues by saying that, “We are not good to each other. Our tribalism is to an extremely narrow group of people: our children, our spouse, maybe our parents. Our society is alienating, technical, cold, and mystifying. Our fundamental desire, as human beings, is to be close to others, and our society does not allow for that” (p. 94).

My only regret about TRIBES is that it is not twice as long. In my estimation, Junger has just scratched the surface on this provocative subject. Whether you are interested in Colonial American history, the impact of PTSD on servicemen and women, the dynamics of fraud and greed in the financial sector, or the health of your suburban neighborhood, I recommend investing a few hours in Sebastian Junger’s book. It is a quick read, but its content will stick with you. And after considering the author’s observations, you may understand why camouflage is both a blessing and a curse. Invisibility is beneficial on the battlefield, but it harms everyone — soldiers and civilians alike — back home.

Interested in learning more?  

  • Sebastian Junger’s TED talks are worth your time. Here is a link to his most recent one, a presentation recorded in May 2016 entitled Our lonely society makes it hard to come home from war.
  • Sebastian Junger’s film Restrepo, which won the Grand Jury Prize for Documentaries at the 2010 Sundance Film Festival, is riveting.

Note — The images contained in this post were obtained from Sebastian Junger’s website and

The BBC’s Loneliness Experiment

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When it comes to loneliness, you may not be alone.

On October 1, the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) unveiled data compiled during its 2018 Loneliness Experiment, an online survey designed by a trio of academics that was filled out by over 55,000 individuals beginning on February 14. An article posted on the on Monday summarizes the data; it also features interviews with three participants of the project who come from different walks of life.

Perhaps the most noteworthy insight revealed by what the article deems “the largest study of loneliness yet” is this: “There is a common stereotype that loneliness mainly strikes older, isolated people – and of course it can, and does. But the BBC survey found even higher levels of loneliness among younger people, and this pattern was the same in every country” (emphasis is my own). By “every country,” the authors are referencing the fact that individuals from “237 different countries, islands, and territories took part in the survey.”

The following table provides data from seven different groups based on age. The group featuring the greatest percentage of respondents who indicated that they experienced frequent loneliness included those between ages 16 and 24.

BBC loneliness table

The article’s authors proceed to explain that this increased prevalence of loneliness among younger people is not necessarily a generational difference (i.e. that today’s teens and twenty-somethings feel lonelier than young adults growing up decades ago). The staffers cite the fact that older people who completed the survey indicated that the loneliest periods of their lives occurred when they were younger.

Why? The author’s suggest that, “The years between 16 and 24 are often a time of transition where people move home, build their identities and try to find new friends.” Whether you navigated high school and college in the 1960s or early 2000s, these circumstances generally hold true. Young people immerse themselves in new employment and educational experiences, test new living situations, and venture forth into new relationships with friends, lovers, and employers.

Although these growth initiatives can result in powerful interpersonal bonds and the security of new-found belonging, they can also yield dramatic gulfs of soul-searching, isolation from the familiar, and a demoralizing uncertainty about what comes next. Anecdotally, being young has never been easy. The data from the BBC’s 2018 Loneliness Experiment seems to suggest that this has been true for many generations. Loneliness is a common condition experienced by people of all ages — but those who are younger self-report it at slightly greater rates. Regardless of age, it may be accurate to acknowledge that we are not alone in our loneliness.

“But I didn’t want to ask for help.”


What happens when elite athletes suffer from mental illness as a result of head trauma? One answer to this question can be found in the August 2018 issue of Bicycling magazine, which features the first-person account of professional cyclist Alison Tetrick.

Before Tetrick transitioned from a successful road-racing career to her current role as a gravel-racing champion in 2017, she suffered two concussions. The first, which occurred in 2010 at the Cascade Cycling Classic in Bend, Oregon, was devastating. During the race’s first stage, another rider — who was trying to avoid a crash she could see ahead — accidentally clipped Tetrick’s front wheel. The pair were traveling downhill at an estimated 45 mph when Tetrick was launched from her bike and hit the tarmac.

In her words, “I didn’t slide, didn’t tear shorts, didn’t bleed. I just hit the ground. I landed on my hip and head, and shattered my pelvis” (p. 56). After spending over an hour on the ground while first responders arrived and stabilized her, the 25-year-old was airlifted to a hospital where she was quickly diagnosed with a concussion, a form of traumatic brain injury (TBI). The journey that commenced after she was released from the ER included daunting physical rehabilitation, and an even more challenging mental climb — a process that is still on-going.

While her body slowly healed over the months following her crash, Tetrick’s mind seemed perpetually in a “dense, never-ending fog” (p. 56). In both her relationships with friends and with family, she struggled to maintain a stable emotional state; she felt anxious and irritable at times, and emotionally vacant at others. Her marriage ended. And she struggled to determine how she would continue as a professional athlete in a sport where confidence is key. But despite these challenges and concerns, Tetrick fought on. Her body recovered and she made a comeback in 2011 at the Merco Cycling Classic in Merced, California. Despite winning the second-stage time trial, holding the leader’s jersey for three more days, and then winning the overall event, Tetrick knew something was wrong.

She writes: “Throughout my recovery from my broken pelvis, and after, I felt vulnerable and fragile, insecure and mentally frail…But I didn’t want to ask for help. I wanted to pull myself up by my bootstraps, cowgirl up” (p. 56). In language that testifies to the understandable fear of being an athlete who is perceived as weak or lacking in confidence, Tetrick says: “I didn’t want to admit I wasn’t okay [mentally] because if I admit that, and I’m leading a bike race, I’m going to get stuck in a corner because people know I’m going to have a panic attack…As a professional athlete, you hide your weaknesses….You can constantly find ways to tell yourself, ‘People like me. I’m normal. I’m okay'” (p. 56).

But, when dealing with a host of frightening symptoms that seem to indicate that your personality is morphing in strange ways, she admits that, “Deep down I was like, I don’t know if I’m okay” (p. 56). She continued forward, though, training and racing until disaster struck a second time in October 2011. At the Pan American Games in Guadalajara, Mexico, her front wheel got stuck in a storm drain during a pre-race warm-up. She “flew over the handlebar, and smacked [her] head” (p. 58). Despite this injury — a second head trauma in less than a year and a half — she raced that day. But her life began unraveling shortly thereafter. The once vibrant and outgoing young athlete was not okay.

Looking back on the period following her second concussion, Tetrick describes her situation this way: “I stared at the wall for weeks, couldn’t move, couldn’t stop crying. The depression wouldn’t go away. My parents sent me to psychologists…We were trying everything, because I couldn’t function. I couldn’t sleep — I had to go on sleeping pills” (p. 58). Again, she fought back. With the support of family, friends, and a neuropsychologist whom she works with today, Tetrick got back on the saddle and started racing again. For two years she did so while using the antidepressant Wellbutrin. She reflects: “During that time I didn’t really have emotional highs or lows, I just felt flat” (p. 60).

Tetrick continued racing until shortly after she and her team finished the 2016 Tour of Flanders in Belgium. The day after that Tour, she attended a smaller race where riders “were taking all of these [unnecessary] risks” (p. 78). There, she saw a rider “hit a light pole” — a collision that seemed entirely unnecessary. And that is when Alison Tetrick decided that her professional road-racing career was nearing its end.


In 2017, Tetrick traded her skinny road tires for stouter off-road rubber and entered the 200-mile Dirty Kanza gravel race which is held in early June. It was her first time competing at that distance. And she ended up winning, sprinting to the finish line just ahead of reigning 2016 champion Amanda Nauman. Today, Tetrick seems to be on top of her game. Physically, she is performing better than she ever has before. However, she knows that the mental consequences of her concussions still follow her. She says: “Every day you have to make a choice for your mental health, and possibly deal with the physical side effects…I still get emotionally flooded. It’s an injury that you can’t see” (p. 79).

Despite the coverage that concussions receive in the press related to sports, military service, and workplace accidents, a stigma still exists around the psychological effects of traumatic brain injuries. Even though there is nothing shameful about being struck by a fellow cyclist and crashing to the pavement — or being tackled by a monstrous defensive lineman — we still seem to tread delicately around the emotional and mood-related consequences that those massive blows can impart. Physical injury caused by others’ actions can be interpreted as an sign of having performed courageously on the field of play, but mental anguish rarely receives equal respect. Both are tragic, to be sure, but it is the latter that is often darkened by shame.

I applaud Alison Tetrick for writing candidly about the physical and mental challenges that she has faced in the wake of her concussions. Speaking about broken bones can be easy, but talking about a flagging spirit or a troubled mind requires much greater resolve. Tetrick possesses a character made stronger by her willingness to be vulnerable.

Kate Spade: More than a name


The other day I was helping a middle-aged woman check out with her order, and I watched as she placed a slightly-worn wallet down on the counter between us. In small raised gold letters, the name kate spade stood out above the black leather. In an instant, I wondered what that name — and that brand — now holds for this woman, and for others. What role does it play in their fashion sense, in their estimation of what displaying this iconic logo on a purse or shoes or belt might now symbolize?

My second thought after recognizing the tiny gold letters was this: the name of a prominent fashion pioneer has taken on new meaning. On June 5, 2018, Kate Spade took her life. She, the woman, no longer exists. But the products she developed are still ubiquitous. The namesake brand that has represented quality, sophistication, and style for many years has not necessarily shifted in identity. Those traits remain. Though the importance of that name — perhaps even its jurisdiction, its sphere of social influence — may have.

As I processed the order, the urge to ask this woman about her perception of the logo on her wallet rose in my mind. But I quickly assessed that such a inquiry coming from a stranger would not be proper; in fact, the question would be so charged with threatening energy that she may have been rendered speechless. Obviously, I did not want to create an extremely uncomfortable moment for her — or for me. Yet inside my brief period of curiosity and reticence lies a question. And perhaps an opportunity.

Speaking about what Kate Spade chose to do is, I believe, inherently difficult because it causes most individuals to at least consider having an internal dialogue about an act that elicits tremendous uneasiness. Suicide. More than ever, though — especially in light of Anthony Bourdain’s choice to end his life only days after Spade’s tragic demise — we need to hold these conversations. And we need to open spaces for those dialogues to occur, spaces without shame or criticism or the fear of dismissal. But how do we accomplish this?

For a moment the other day I considered initiating such a conversation with a stranger, but the unspoken guidelines of appropriate social discourse dampened that impulse. However, I wonder if similar constraints largely inhibit — and perhaps prohibit — those conversations among friends, between partners, and with children. Suicide is a scary subject. And the conditions that can lead to suicide — depression, loneliness, and low self-image among others — are often just as scary.

So too often, I fear, we simply don’t consider raising the topic of suicide with anyone — stranger or loved one. And I believe that needs to change. Because we are all so much more than just our names.

Note — The image featured above was obtained from

Suicide in the United States

According to the National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH):

  • Suicide is the 10th leading cause of the death in the United States.
  • In 2016 it claimed the lives of nearly 45,000 Americans.
  • It is the 2nd leading cause of death of those ages 10-34.
  • It is the 4th leading cause of death of those ages 35-54.
  • 90% of those who died by suicide had an underlying mental illness.

Additional NIMH information about suicide can be found here.

The Ranch Hand


Note — “The Ranch Hand” was composed over a two-day span in late November of 2017. Since then I have made several edits to grammar, pronoun use, and interior dialogue to make the piece more suitable for inclusion on ink + sky.

Clad in faded blue denim and a checkered shirt, a slender ranch hand stands with one dusty boot on the lower rung of a fence that corrals a group of horses. While they wander under the mid-day sun their tails swish gently, discouraging flies from settling on their dappled brown and white coats.

The ranch hand has not always worked on this western prairie, one which stretches for hundreds of miles in all directions. Prior to arriving out on Colorado’s plains, he spearheaded a touring show that crisscrossed the country for fourteen years. It featured dozens of horses, numerous performers in sequined-costumes, a talented cast of musicians, and an arena full of fences to jump and obstacles to negotiate.

As the tour’s leader, the ranch hand donned a red jacket and black top-hat when he walked out under the grand tent’s lights and introduced the show and its acts. His voice carried resolutely, and audiences leaned forward with anticipation. The lights then dimmed, a spotlight shone, and he proceeded to narrate the stories that his cast spun with horse and rider and rousing score. Every afternoon and evening the shows concluded with hearty applause. The touring troupe performed brilliantly, the stallions pranced with pride, and the clamor of requests for future dates reinforced the performers’ resolve to continue.

This traveling show ran ten months of the year, five days per week, two performances per day. When he was not in front of the crowd, the ranch hand was consulting with veterinarians, negotiating with agents, tending to finances, and smoothing out expected tensions among the acrobats and riders and musicians. It was hard work, but very satisfying. During the two months when the show was dormant, the ranch hand invested time studying other acts, always trying to improve his cast’s choreography, always desiring to give the audience more.

While his show’s success steadily grew during its first decade, he noticed that his peers leading other touring groups were living somewhat different lives. They returned to their communities on the weekends to nurture relationships, build families, tend to homes. Then they boomeranged back out on tour, engaging their audiences with their unique stages and performers and exploits of daring and joy. And the ranch hand, too, went back out excitedly with his crew, making more stops each year, hitting cities they had not yet visited. But the niggling awareness of his peers’ second-lives remained as an unsettling ghost of what-if.

Then, during the show’s twelfth year on the circuit, at a performance late in the ten-month season, something entirely unexpected occurred to the man now leaning against a rough-hewn fence, gazing at the horses stepping deliberately under the Colorado sun.

The spring evening was perfect. The seats were occupied; an electric buzz of anticipation crackled through the stands; and the smells of buttered popcorn, fresh hay, cherry soda permeated the air. As the hour of the curtain-raising approached he donned his jacket and hat as he had done so many times before, while containing the butterflies of anticipation that always preceded a performance. From a dim corner of the arena he peered out at the crowd, grinning at the knowledge that he and his performers would put on another satisfying show that night. A full house — and we are ready for them, he whispered to himself.


After the local mayor finished his introduction and the audience settled into its seats, the ranch hand strode out onto the vast dirt floor already dotted with white ramps and colorful flags and a half-dozen performers standing at their posts. He tipped his hat, smiled, accepted the microphone from the mayor, and began his welcome. The opening was smooth, as he knew the words from hundreds of previous deliveries.

But fate chose a different path for the ranch hand that night, and a few minutes into his monologue he felt his chest seize and he lost the ability to breathe. The inhales ceased, and his delivery sputtered to stop — his warm voice suddenly silenced by a mysterious foe. The crowd around him watched expectantly, leaning forward in their seats. The ranch hand’s chest tightened further, his mind racing with alarm. But his lungs remained stubbornly vacant of air.

That night, for the first time in thousands of performances in hundreds of cities, he had to leave the stage at the very moment when he had everyone’s attention and was inviting them to embark on a journey through the story that his performers would construct. What is happening? I can’t breathe, his mind cried in alarm before he hurried off stage. Although he returned to the spotlight mere minutes later and resumed his delivery, a deep and expansive crack had already snaked through the ranch hand’s confidence and sense of identity. He had faltered, and years of experience and training felt like they fell away in seconds. It was the most devastating moment in his career, though the eager crowd perceived nothing other than a temporary technical glitch.

The rest of that night’s show was a success, but the ranch hand was deeply shaken by this completely unforeseen occurrence. Never in his eleven previous years as the head of a touring show had anything like it occurred before. Unfortunately, that night’s paralysis was not a one-time slip out of character; rather, it was an omen of what was to come. Although the next day’s afternoon performance was flawless, the evening’s show hosted a return of the breathless malady. Yet again he lost his voice and had to depart hastily from the performance floor, his mind reeling in confusion and distress. This can’t be happening again, his terrified conscience cried.

As any responsible showman would do, during the following two-month off-season the ranch hand sought out a respected and experienced consultant to help him process the demoralizing breaks from his otherwise smooth-running on-stage persona. They worked together for the entirety of the next touring season — ten months of meetings and reflecting and soul-searching. That relationship proved rewarding, supplying the ranch hand with both a background of understanding and a range of strategies to employ when the paralysis returned. And it did, unfortunately, return.

The touring show pushed through season thirteen, and every couple of week the ranch hand found himself caught like a startled deer – frozen at the moments when he most needed to be fluid, relaxed, and responsive in front of the audience. By this point, though, he had learned how to hide the bouts of unannounced terror and paralysis from the onlookers, and he was able to stay on-stage despite the shrieking alarm that echoed through his mind. The ranch hand was managing the dilemma, but he knew that his status as a ring-leader was likely to soon conclude if he could not find a way to eliminate the symptoms or, better yet, root out the cause and remedy it.

By the time the fourteenth season began — over two years since his initial episode of unprovoked panic — the ranch hand knew that he had to break from his routine. He was exhausted from the seven-day work weeks, saddened by acknowledging that his home was empty, and drained by constantly fearing the unannounced return of the throat-clenching immobility that left him feeling ashamed in front of his attentive and respectful audiences. I can’t continue like this, he lamented. So he approached the show’s investors and requested a leave, citing the need to address health issues. They agreed to hire a replacement, and the ranch hand was granted twelve months to escape from the rigors — and, unfortunately, the rewards — of his respected show-on-the-road.

Now, having exchanged the red jacket and black top-hat for a checkered shirt and a weathered Stetson, he leans forward with one foot propped on a fence rail. Over a thousand miles from his home, he peers into the corral that stands before him on a Colorado plain. Contained in its wooden embrace are wild horses, similar to the tamed ones that populated his show. Other than the sounds of their hooves on the dusty hardpack and the indecipherable language of the wind, the scene is largely quiet. Small farmhouses squat in the distance; dirt roads stretch through the terrain; amorphous clouds float sparingly in the broad blue sky.


While he watches the wild horses swish their tails and nod their heads, he hears the phantom sounds of a show coming from the mountains beyond: the buzz of the crowd, the nervous chatter of performers, the snorting of tamed mounts eager for another run around the arena. A show continues this season, but he is not part of it. And on many days, he has a hard time reconciling who he was as the showman and who he is now as a ranch hand in this wide western landscape. They seem like different beings — one so brave and daring and the other so pensive and wary. One inflated with pride and purpose, the other shrunken with resignation and uncertainty.

To make matters more challenging, the ranch hand learned that the investors decided—on the eve of his departure—to deconstruct the show and build another one out of the pieces that he had fashioned with so much care and consideration. The touring extravaganza that he had nurtured was dismantled and reconstituted, but it was not done with an imagination or a sense of vision. Instead, the investors decided to cut out many acts of the original performance: acrobats and cowboys were let go, horses were sold to ranches, sets were destroyed. They never said a word to me; they just went ahead as if I did not even exist, he observed with a mixture of sorrow and betrayal. The audience was the last thing that the investors considered in their eagerness to streamline, save money, and simplify.

Despite these many changes—all of which occurred in secret—the investors kept the name of the touring company intact. So the ranch hand has the misfortune of knowing that a show continues to visit cities across the country, and that it bears a name that no longer adheres to the core commitments to quality, responsiveness, and authenticity on which it was originally built.

Rather than return excitedly to his changing room this evening and enjoy tea with the band’s conductor and the head veterinarian, the ranch hand will stroll back to a small cabin on this plain and dine in solitude. Seated at his table, he may hear the howl of a coyote or the bark of the dog watching over the sheep at the neighboring farm. But there will be no soaring musical score, no gasps from the audience, no clamor of hooves as the costume-clad horses saunter back to their water troughs and evening meals. The ranch hand is not part of the show, and he is left wondering if he ever will be again. The terrifying moments of stage-fright are gone, but the quiet that remains in the wake of fourteen years of showmanship feels like a paralysis all on its own.

If the ranch hand has learned one thing—and he believes that he has learned many—it is that he is not naturally a person who thrives on stage. While he loves the touring show, he is more suited to a role behind the scenes, one where he can let his intellect and curiosity and reflectiveness add value to the mobile theater. Now he believes that someone else should be donning the red jacket and black top hat each night.

But he is proud for having worn them for as long as he did, for having pushed himself far beyond where he ever thought possible. And for having cared so deeply about the audience members he met along the way.


Note — The photographs featured above were obtained from