I can’t remember the first time I picked up a guitar, but I can vividly remember the first time I played a song in front of people. I was in 9th grade, and I sang U2’s 40 at a Young Life Camp. I was transfixed by the experience, and from that moment on, all I wanted to do was be in a band someday. I loved the rush of playing in front of people and writing songs to see how they might respond. It made me feel uniquely alive. No other art is as real-time in its response as music. You write the song, or play a guitar line in front of a crowd, and you instantly know if people like it or not. I can remember many times finishing a song and playing it that night at a concert to see what people thought. There was nothing like that feeling. I came of age in the 90s. I was surrounded by amazing music everywhere I turned. I loved Pearl Jam and the Beastie Boys. The Beatles and Dan Fogelberg all found their ways into my listening rolodex, and I became singularly focused on writing great music. My old girlfriend bought me tickets to the Eagles’ Hell Freezes Over tour for my birthday, and I knew that I was going to pursue playing music for as long as I could.

I was mesmerized by the Eagles' harmonies. The guitar playing was second to none, and the songwriting told stories that made me want to sing along. I owned a 12-string Washburn guitar that I had purchased with my high school graduation money, and I soon formed a band. Parachute Adams was going to be the next great band. My cousin Grant was the lead guitarist, and we had, as I saw it, the full recipe for a new sound and band that was going to be my ticket to music fame. The truth was, we weren’t all that great, but it didn’t matter to me. I was so thrilled that we were being asked to play at places. Talent shows and youth camps filled our concert lineups, but we could pack a place, and we always had fun.

We recorded 14 songs on our album. 16 tracks at a time on a reel-to-reel at a basement studio in Greeley. Fred’s Mom’s Basement, as my best friend laughingly called it. But I loved it. Tracking sounds and the silence of the studio was amazing. We were never good enough to get a record deal. Not that I even tried. But I learned how to do it all in the independent veins available. I did the photography for the CD. Learned how to typeset for a printer. Figured out who made CD’s and how I could get our band’s tape to the format. All of it was built on summer jobs and spending all the free time I had, and some I didn’t, on learning how to be in the music business. I was cordially uninvited back to the University of Northern Colorado after my grades took a tremendous turn for the worse. There was an inverse relationship between the hours I spent playing guitar and learning the music business and my macroeconomic grades. At the end of the semester, I decided to move to Canada to go to a small Bible School. It was a bit hairbrained, but in one of the only deals I ever made with God, I realized He had come through on a number of things I had asked for, and Canada was the answer I had promised I would fulfill for his blessings.

When I arrived, I met a friend who would change my life. Jonathan Gay was funny. He loved rock climbing, and so did I. He also happened to be the finest singer I had ever encountered. His voice lapped my own. We soon started playing guitar in a band we called the Lunar Absolutists. We played our first song together in a garage at the college. Parallel Lives by Chris and Johnny was how I learned to sing harmony. Making the monitors buzz with a chord of my voice and Jon’s was like a drug. I loved practicing and trying to make the songs we were writing work. He was better at it than I was. He was a better player, a better singer, and a better songwriter. But somehow my friendship with him allowed me to play in his orbit.

The bible school was only a year long, but I was not going back to Colorado when it was over. I loved Calgary. It was an incredible place where I felt alive. I was my own man, a young one to be certain, but I found the autonomy from my old hometown in Colorado liberating. I found another Christian college and honed my musical skills there. I played in every setting I could. I played coffee shops, worship chapels, clubs, living rooms, wherever anyone would have me play, I would be there. And I wrote music like crazy. A friend of my father was a songwriter in Los Angeles. He wrote me an email on my Compuserve account, and I will never forget his advice. He said, “The music business is the most selfish business there is. It is all-consuming. You have to have time to write, and you have to write every time you get the urge. And you have to write even when you don’t feel like it. Write a song every day. Even if it’s garbage, force yourself to do it. You never know what might come from a session. Maybe it's a chorus for another song, or a bridge, or maybe it’s a hit, but you keep writing every chance you get.”

Jon called me that spring and asked if we ever wanted to do more with the music stuff. I said I did, and by that summer, we were back at our old bible school rehearsing for recording an album. We hired a drummer and our old professor from school to play bass. Hired is probably a stretch. I think I traded out a fly rod for the bass tracks, and I can’t remember what I paid the drummer. Maybe a few six packs of his favorite beer. Regardless, we spent the four weeks working through ten songs. Five of mine, and five of Jon’s. His were all better than mine. It was incredible how he could write. I still believe he wrote the best Christian song of all time, even though very few have ever heard it. My Lot was a lament that I would only come to understand years later when Jon took his own life, but his wrestling match with God was real and as honest as any songwriter I had ever heard speak about.

We played that summer at a huge church festival called CHIC in Fort Collins. People loved the music. I could sense that something else was coming for us. I had one more year of “school” for my bachelor’s, and I decided to spend it back in Calgary as a student of a new program called the Worship Centre. (A little Canadian Lingo for you who reside south of the border.)

When I arrived on campus for the program, I walked in on a long-haired guy in a tie-dyed Allman Brothers shirt ripping away on a Strat. I had met him earlier, and he annoyed me. He had already linked up with a girl before the whole program had even started, so I doubted his Christian piety. I, of course, was always motivated by the right reasons, and never by the cuteness of a bible college girl. (Eye roll)

But as time went on, I started to interact with Dan more often. By Christmas, we were the rhythm section for the Christmas spectacular that the college put on for the town. I was playing bass, and he was playing guitar. We were not great at reading music, and we hadn’t learned how to help one another turn the pages of music, so we found an old scrap of drywall and taped our music to it, spread across three or four music stands. We looked like an IBM typewriter as we walked back and forth reading the music on our 8’ long music holding contraption. But we could laugh. More jokes than anyone ever thought possible came from his observations of the quirky people in the music world. Diamond Dave the sound guy, and Big Blues the worship director. Laugh after laugh came as we learned to write and play music together. We formed a band called Cardboard Village, and we wrote songs about breakups and living in basement apartments. We traveled on behalf of the school and played music in British Columbia on a “tour.” He got caught fishing in a closed river after our drummer decided to light a fire and smoke signal the game warden he was down in the canyon, and I backed my car into the youth pastor’s Datsun, crushing his hood and bumper. I think it was fine, though, because I left a note.

After the semester ended, Jon called and asked if we wanted to try playing music on the road together. I knew nothing about what kind of money or effort it would take, but I was excited to figure it out. I called Dan and asked if he could help me arrange a tour in Batavia, IL, his hometown. Soon enough, we had enough shows to fill a month. Kiss the Sky Record store, Covenant Cafe and Coffee, and North Park College were all willing to host our band. We drove around the Chicagoland area for weeks. I fell in love with it. Jon did not. By three weeks into the tour, he announced he was going to go home at the end of it and wasn’t going to come back. Meanwhile, I had booked another month in Minneapolis with other friends there.

A friend from Canada joined me to play bass for that tour, and for the next four years, I was consistently putting an iteration of the band out on tours. It was always called Maskil, no matter who was in it or what lineup we brought to the venue. By the summer of 2000, I had written ten songs that I thought were worthy of recording. So Dan and Ben (the aforementioned bass player) and his brother Andrew (drums) came to Colorado, where we recorded what turned out to be a relative masterpiece for us. Alta Products was released in the summer of 2000 after spending nearly two months recording, mixing, flying back and forth to Chicago, and bringing engineers to Colorado. It was filled with our best playing. Dan found his inner Duane Alman, and Ben and Andrew made the grooves of the songs come to life. They were both Dave Matthews Band fans, and so their sounds had an eerie similarity to Carter Beauford and Stefan Lessard. They crafted their parts behind my songwriting, and we made an album better than anything I had ever done before. It became the soundtrack for so many of my friends and many of our fans for the next season of life.

Back then, you had Caselogic CD cases in your car. If you were lucky, you had a built-in CD player, but if you were like many of us, you had a Discman and a funny tape you inserted into the cassette player to make the CDs play in your car. It was an analog world then. My sound equipment was loaded in a specific order in my minivan. Heavy black boxes and cables in old imitation leather suitcases were packed perfectly in the back so that four of us could ride to the gig with all of our gear. Night after night, we would arrive at the venue and unpack it all. Set it all up, play a show, sell some CDs and T-shirts, and load it all up when it was over. I liked to schedule shows every other day so that we had time to get from town to town, or if we were in a city, we could take a day off and rest. Being on the road was a lot of fun, but it was an almost immeasurable amount of work. Calling and booking the next tour while I was on the road, managing the money from my blue accordion folder I kept under the seat, and making sure all of us had enough to eat and a place to sleep was hard, but indescribably invigorating.

Town after town we went. Brookings, South Dakota, Eau Clair, Wisconsin, Salina, Kansas, St. Charles, Illinois, every place a new memory, every place a chance to show off our music. I was living what I had hoped would come from music. I loved it. I learned so much about people and business. I learned how to handle long stretches of empty highways and lonely feelings of missing family. I learned I was comfortable with who I was, and that was the best gift of all.

In the summer of 2000, I met a keyboardist. She was on staff at the camp where we ended that summer's tour. We had been to Kansas and Tennessee, and looped all the way back to a Christian camp on a lake outside of Edmonton, Alberta. I would never be able to add all the miles I've driven up. It might be millions by now. But after one of those long drives from Tennessee to Edmonton, I met a woman who would change my life. She had the most amazing voice and could play piano beautifully. Ben, the bass player, said one night, before I had heard her sing and play, that we should have her join us for the worship sets. I was opposed to the idea. The summer before, we had a drummer join, and he was a wreck. Every song we played came off the rails, and I had made a vow never to allow unknown players into the band. But the next night, I walked into the chapel to get my guitar and heard her at the piano singing. Within a few measures, I asked her if she wanted to join us. When Ben heard about my flip-flop, he made sure I recalled my dogmatism about “new band” members. The grief I got from him was worth it. She was better than all of us at music. Her voice was a beautiful combination of Sarah McLachlan and Chantal Kreviazuk.

By the end of camp, I knew that I not only wanted her in the band, but I thought she and I might make a good pair for life. She liked the band. She wasn’t quite sold yet on me. But in 2001, after a year of dating long-distance, we all relocated to Colorado to make a run at being in a band full-time. She lived with my parents, and I lived in a run-down farmhouse with Ben and Andrew. She had a nice room and heat. We had mice and a wood-burning stove, that we had not procured any wood for it in the fall. It was a long winter. But we started to make even better music than we had before. Her voice was a game-changer for us. We had changed our sound a bit too. She did most of her work from a Hammond Organ and Fender Rhodes, and I moved more into electric. We were listening to The Samples and Sarah Harmer most of the time in the van, and we were starting to sound like a very cohesive group. The grooves were deeper, the lyrics more interesting, and the sound was evolving.

But the money never followed our changes. By that time, we were caught right in the middle of the digital transition. Things were going online to Napster and Apple Music, and making any money on the road or even at local venues was hard to do. We played plenty of free shows and coffee shops for a cup of coffee for the road home. Our most hilarious payout was a battle of the bands at an all-you-can-eat pizza buffet, where we each were allotted one slice and beer to split amongst the four of us. But even though it was changing, I wasn’t about to give up. We recorded another album and found ourselves playing at a few bigger venues after the release.

But with no money, the end came rather quickly. The bass player and drummer were Canadian citizens here on a performance visa, so working anywhere to help support the dream was impossible. The lady behind the keyboard and I were engaged and ready to start a new chapter, too. When Ben took me for a drink and told me they were moving home, I wept. They had become irreplaceable. Not for their talents alone, but for their friendship. We had built something almost mystical out there under the hum of the asphalt and the hypnotic white dashes. We were an organism that breathed art. It was beautiful, and when it came to an end, I was heartbroken.

Anna, my wife, and I tried a few times to replace Ben and Andrew, but nothing ever took. We could find players who could play the parts, but nobody filled their shoes. Within a few months of their departure, my wife and I put our instruments in their cases and put them in the music room downstairs. We rarely ventured down there. It was too hard to remember what was and try to make something new from the remnants.

Life got in the way of it all, too. We had our own bills to pay and desires to start a family. We bought a house and started having kids. The music was a fading memory. On the odd night when the babies weren’t crying, we would play together, but it never lasted long, and it was less painful for me not to try to recreate the magic of the past. So we would play for church, or the odd gig here and there with cover songs, but the era of Maskil was over. We still loved music. We would find a new artist we liked and listen to their music for months at a time, like we always had before, but it never translated to writing something new. We had a brief moment after the kids were old enough to sustain themselves for more than 30 minutes, where we wrote a few songs again and recorded them, but we had no time to take them out into the world and play before an audience.

The music business didn’t wait for us either. Everything had changed. It was all driven now by social media and Spotify playlists. I had never heard of Spotify when we released our Collectables project in 2017. So the idea of ever playing music again was pretty far-fetched. Music itself had changed, too. Digital recording made everything perfect. There were never any “live” albums released, or in the odd case there was, it was autotuned to perfection. No mistakes, no honest moments in a concert, no imperfections that made it real. The professionals were like everything else in America: manufactured into the perfect, most consumable form possible. The music of Pearl Jam and The Samples was cast aside in favor of pop-laden bubble gum. Brittany Spears and Taylor Swift were the new icons. The number of artists like Mark Knopfler or Tom Petty was diminishing. And if they were out there, they were the old rockers who had made their careers in the golden age of rock music. Precious few new bands made it to the consciousness of the American music scene. All of that contributed to my belief that surely our music was never coming back.

But this past summer, I decided to try it all again. I don’t know what brought me to that place, but something inside said I needed to try one more time. Audaciously, I rented a theater I knew I couldn’t fill and got my favorite local players together to remake the old music. When we signed the rental agreement, they asked about stage props and LED walls, and I rejected all of them. I wanted to host an old-fashioned 90s-style concert, complete with a T-shirt booth and CDs for sale. No fancy video imagery to distance the audience from the music. I was going to try to bring back something that had long ago died in the industry: a connection with an audience purely based on the music that we performed and our invitation to the crowd to join us. We recorded the show and captured it on video. (I’m so old, I know it’s not called that, but it conveys the point.) I wanted people to remember what it was like to just enjoy music for its own sake. In our world of hyper-attention-grabbing devices and entertainment choices, I thought the best thing I could do for the audience was to remind them of what we used to have. Don’t get me wrong, a Dead and Co show at the Sphere is probably mind-blowing, but the spectacle has always come from the noise being made by the instruments and the voices on the stage.

I love music. I love a great concert. I love how music brings people together by their commonality surrounding the band or the songs. Complete strangers set aside politics, and religons, and class status to enjoy the creativity of sound. What happened that night at the theater was like traveling back in time. I was 25 years younger again, and the music, which had been placed in a strange sort of time capsule, shook off the dust and brought people together around the experience.

I thought I would share a few of the songs from that night. I hope you enjoy them. We are starting to play again because of what happened there in that theater. It was magical and amazing, and it was music that did it.

On the night of the concert, I was stunned by all that happened. As I stood there and saw a crowd of people whom I felt humbled to be in front of, I was reminded of the good life I have lived. There, next to me, was my wife of 24 years. My son was playing guitar and bass on a few songs with me, and throughout the room were old friends from a hundred circles of my life, since my time in the music world, who had come to cheer us all on. In a profound moment, I realized that music had shaped my entire life. Everything I had I could attribute to my time with a guitar in my hands. My friends, my family, my beautiful wife and children, and an equal number of memories to the white dashes I had seen night after night in my youth. How should I be so lucky?

Blue

See Me

Child Of The West

Jennifer Smiles

Cold Water

Bighorn Mountains

If you live in Colorado and want to come see us, we are playing a few shows in the coming months.

Rialto Theater - April 10, at 7 pm: Buy Tickets

Jamaland - August 28 Redfeather Music Festival

Thanks for listening. There will be more videos and a live album on Spotify and Apple Music soon. I will send an update when everything comes out.

I’ve been spending a lot of time in Cheyenne, Wyoming lately. I decided late last year to pursue some more work in Wyoming because, frankly, it is a much less frustrating place to do business than Colorado. But as in any new endeavor, spending time getting to know a place is the only way to really do business. So walking the streets of downtown Cheyenne has become a weekly ritual over the last several months. I have come to love it. Growing up in the more luxurious sister city of Fort Collins, we always drove by Cheyenne as quickly as possible. It was rough around the edges and always windy. There were the occasional stops for gas or a quick jaunt into downtown for a cup of coffee at the Plains Hotel, but the objective was usually the same: get out of town as fast as possible. But funny things happen when you take a few moments to enjoy something unfamiliar. You start to look more closely at what is happening and how people are living. I have shared many times how much I love Sheridan, Wyoming, and the spirit of freedom and entrepreneurial energies that are readily available when walking Main Street, so I wanted to give Cheyenne a real, honest look, too, because perhaps the same things that make Sheridan special could be housed on the streets of this classic western city.

Last Wednesday, I grabbed lunch with a friend in the old Train Depot, and then we decided to walk a sleepy street back towards the center of town. On one corner as we walked, we could see through some clear glass windows, a multitude of colorful leather rolls, and a workshop. We both were intrigued. We followed the signs to the front door and were greeted by a lovely young woman who welcomed us to “Alexis Drake.” Perhaps I should have known the brand, but having spent very little time shopping for handbags and leather goods for the fairer sex, I was unaware of what we had just discovered. The retail front end of the store was filled with impressive goods. Wallets, handbags, hats, and other handmade gems adorned the shop's tables and walls. It was lovely in every sense. The smell of leather, the old wood floors, and beautiful artwork told me that something special was happening in this place.

“We just saw the leather in the windows on the other street and wanted to come in and see what you are doing.”

“Would you like a tour?” The young woman asked us.

“Absolutely!”

Every hall that we walked down led to another incredible revelation. The room we had spotted from the street was our first stop. Floor-to-ceiling rolls of Italian leather in dozens of colors were on perfectly organized racks. An etching machine was burning artwork into a sheet of leather as we listened to the woman operating it, tell us how this piece of technology worked.

She was working on a branded piece for a new design that had just come from the owner’s studio, just around the corner, under a “Hotel Rex” branded doorway. Clearly, this brand had seen success. The store was not only beautiful, but it also housed an air of excellence. Details were everywhere. As someone who loves great interior design and architecture, it was evident that the owner of this brand wanted to create a place where people would love to work and could make beautiful goods.

We walked around the corner to another room where several women were at sewing machines, working on handbags. It was so refreshing to see people actually making something in their hometown. I probably am too sentimental about what it means, but a great country makes things. In our era of maximum efficiency, corporations and brands have chased the highest margins, and most of the time that means that their goods are made somewhere else, by people who are much less expensive than American labor. So to walk in and see people from Chyenne actually working on the bags that would be sold in their retail store or online was something special.

I had never heard of Alexis Drake before our encounter, but with a few quick internet queries, it’s easy to get hooked on who they are and the products they make. The founder, Lexie Garrett, was encouraged by her husband to trade in the recycled grocery bag she was using for a handbag in favor of something more professional. When she couldn’t find something she was looking for, she channeled her inner Wyoming spirit and made something instead. After a few iterations and some feedback from friends, she started making more of them. She sold her first bag while standing in line for a coffee, and from there her brand exploded, and she was “selling handbags as fast as they could be made.”

I am in the mood these days for beautiful things. There are so many troubles in our world, so when someone is doing something that they love, and they are making incredible products, they should be celebrated. As I walked around the store, I couldn’t help but smile. There are still stories in America where people are rising above the din of mediocrity and adding to our collective American heritage of making the best things. We lose something when we trade away our heritage for something cheaper. Our communities suffer, our ethos fades, and our quality of life is diminished. The handbags that Alexis Drake offers will never match the price of an imitation-leather bag from Walmart, but what we save on the reduced price has a cost somewhere else. Perhaps we don’t see it immediately, but over time, the dollars we exchange from our communities into the hands of conglomerates wear our spirits down. It is invigorating to walk into Alexis Drake. Something from an older era is happening there. People are making beautiful things and, in that act, are offering a different version of capitalism. One, I might add, that is much more appealing. Every dollar someone spends on a handbag, purse, or wallet at Alexis Drake stays in Cheyenne. It goes to her employees, her building rents, and her marketing agency, and instead of just one person benefiting from a good idea, the circle of beneficiaries could easily grow to hundreds from her own hometown.

I will always admire makers. They have the hardest row to hoe in America. The competition is steep, and in an era where every dollar feels less valuable than it did yesterday, selling something that includes the cost of American labor, taxes, insurance, rents, and the hidden ambushes of the small-business playing field can be a more difficult task than most could imagine.

One last thought. In our world, where the rules have become the matrix for functioning, there is something to be said about what just the smallest advantage a place like Wyoming offers. Alexis Drake has a new store in Fort Collins, but what she has created in Cheyenne would likely never happen in Colorado. The taxes are four times what she likely pays for her space in Cheyenne. The regulations for manufacturing and retail would be impossible to navigate through the zoning police. Even hiring the wonderful young college student who welcomed us at the door, who was put together and dressed nicely, and had a beautiful smile, would be harder to find in Colorado. Wyoming feels like what America was 30 years ago. A timecapsule of an older ethic and can-do spirit that is fading in places where the rules have superseded the people they were designed to protect. Freedom can be tasted in the air. I really believe that. Maybe it’s the wind or the wide open fields of expanse that cause it, but Wyoming has it. You can taste it, breathe it in, and feel it when you walk the streets. When we celebrate those like Lexie Garrett who took a chance and believed that she could make something better than what already existed, we add a bit of fuel to that wind of freedom. It helps us celebrate who we are as a people. I wish Lexie the wildest of success. I hope she someday fills a city block with people making her handbags. It is beautiful, it is wonderful, Wyoming, and it is what I hope we always work towards as Americans.

If you want to find out more about Alexis Drake or shop their wares, visit their website here.

Alexis Drake

A few summers ago, two of my sons had a swim meet in Rapid City. We had been there once before on a trip through the Black Hills during the early days of Covid, when South Dakota chose not to lock down to the extent that other states had, and I loved the Black Hills. When the meet came up on the schedule, I was excited to go and spend some more time in the area. If any of you are parents of swimmers, you know how long the meets can be, so a good cup of coffee is an imperative for surviving a day on aluminum bleachers. We rented an Airbnb near the center of town so that the boys would have a comfortable place to sleep and unwind after the day’s events at the pool. Once we arrived, I did my normal exploratory search of the downtown for the coffee that would help get through the next three days of cold mornings and sustained bouts with boredom.

The roaster that came up to the top of the list, no matter where I searched, was Harriet and Oak. It was within walking distance of our house, and they roasted their own beans. So it looked to be the best choice from all points of view. The first morning of the meet, I walked over and was completely pleased with my choice. The atmosphere is fantastic. The shop sits in a renovated building that was an old car dealership building right on the main street coming into Rapid City. There was a line, an always-affirming sign, and the energy within the shop was wonderful. There was an upstairs that overlooked the main floor, and inside, there was an old VW Van placed as their mascot. The menu was more prolific than I thought, and the selection of baked goods was rather exceptional, too.

Aaron Neiman, who is a veteran coffee-shop owner, decided to bring the old dealership to life and open Harriet and Oak Café & Roaster. In an article from 605 Magazine, Neiman describes his vision for the coffee shop. “I love the culture that surrounds a coffee shop; the sense of community, the connections you can make, and of course, the coffee. I do love coffee, but I think the thing I’m most passionate about is creating a space where people feel comfortable and welcome,” he continued, “We are really in the people business, we just happen to serve coffee.”

It is evident that Aaron is meeting his goals for both. The coffee is branded as Oak Roasters. When I was there, they had several different bean varieties, including one from Guatemala, which happens to be my favorite bean from around the world. The roaster sits near the building's entry and is a clear symbol of what this place is all about. Great coffee first, which helps create an atmosphere for lingering and enjoying community.

The cafe is named after Aaron’s grandmother, Harriet, and serves an amazing selection of pastries, sandwiches, and other breakfast and lunch items prepared to order by the kitchen. I grabbed my latte and a scone and sat down for a few minutes to watch the operation. I have a fascination with the American coffee shop. It has become the new gathering place for almost every community in our cities. People love to gather around this mystical brew of bean and water and share thoughts, or read a book, or laugh together after a long disconnect. The good shops are mesmerizing. They somehow make it work with one of the smaller ticket items in the food industry. Each place does it just a little differently from the other, and despite the fact that Starbucks dominates nearly every corner of the market in most communities, there is still room for the locally owned coffee shop.

There was a moment in the 90s when Starbucks began to take over the landscape because its coffee was consistent. You could count on a latte in LA tasting the same as one in Denver, and that helped them build a great American brand. I can remember trying to find a Starbucks in any city I traveled to because I wanted to have something I could count on for taste and quality. But as in most corporate endeavors, they began catering to the stockholders’ bottom line more than the customers, and the coffee took a turn. Overly roasted and expedient. Apps to order your coffee for convenience and diminished interactions replaced the counter experience. By the early 2000s, I had moved on from Starbucks and would look for the local person. Not everyone had caught on to the elegant coffee trend, but those who did were making the best coffee and giving people in their communities a place to enjoy something special.

Sitting at the window in Harriet and Oak, I could tell that this was one of those places. The food was excellent, and the coffee was even better. Aaron and his team have put together the right recipe for the coffee experience, and the people in Rapid City have responded. I love to see success in places that are supposedly saturated or impossible. Coffee shops seem to thrive when they put the perfect recipe of great coffee and community together. Harriet and Oak is better than most at both of those. If you are in Rapid City, be sure to carve out some time to enjoy this place. It is worth your time and a few dollars for a great cup of America’s favorite beverage.

Sheridan, Wyoming

Walking down Main Street in Sheridan is a trip down memory lane. Though it’s not large—only spanning a few blocks—you get a sense that something’s different here, and I felt it the first time I visited back in the late ’90s. You can’t help but ponder a not-too-distant past where cowboys and Native Americans roamed these streets, coming down from the mountains and surrounding ranches to trade and partake in commerce and community.

The two-story buildings that line Main are historic, some renovated over the years but still maintaining the character of a classic Western downtown. One thing you won’t see on Main Street are chain restaurants, stores, or coffee shops that have seeped into most towns. Yes, they exist on the outskirts of Sheridan, but downtown has been resilient, showcasing a variety of small businesses—from a pottery studio (Red Bison Studio) to clothing boutiques, barbershops, a fly shop (Fly Shop of the Bighorns), a coin shop, and a handful of locally owned restaurants and coffee shops (Bison Union and Java Moon). It’s a town where you can still bring your ideas to Main Street and not have to compete with crushing behemoths.

Stroll into the iconic King’s Saddlery on Main Street, and you’ll see craftsmen still building saddles and creating some of the most impressive leatherwork you’ve ever seen. The Mint Bar’s neon street sign lures you in for a beer while sitting at a bar top that probably hasn’t changed much since its opening in 1907. Visit in May and you’ll experience the annual Eaton Ranch horse drive, where nearly one hundred horses make a thunderous march through town. Come back in mid-July for the WYO Rodeo—one of the best rodeos in the country—the centerpiece of Sheridan’s annual event calendar. The rodeo parade that overtakes Main Street is Americana at its best, where horses outnumber vehicles and local businesses proudly celebrate their town.

Sheridan is iconically Western, and that spirit is still alive and well today. Ranching and farming remain a major way of life. It’s a small town with even smaller towns surrounding it, distant from the influence of nearby cities. Billings, Montana, is the closest “city.” I grew up in the suburbs of Chicago and now reside on the ever-expanding Front Range of Colorado. The spirit of the West is all but a faded memory in Colorado, so I find myself gravitating more and more to smaller towns like Sheridan, where authenticity still thrives. Many of our stories will come from this place.

Sheridan: The Food

One thing Sheridan isn’t known for is being a culinary destination. Don’t get me wrong, there are some excellent food options in town, but the “Michelin committee” hasn’t had much reason to visit (and that’s fine by me).

A few years ago, while driving to a fishing trip in Montana, we stopped in Sheridan for coffee and noticed the historic Cady Building on the corner of Main and Alger Street undergoing renovation. This building has always been an iconic landmark, once home to the Cady Opera House, retail shops, offices, civic functions, and restaurants, but it was in need of some TLC to bring it back to its former glory. And that’s exactly what happened, and then some.

Fast forward to the fall of 2024, and I first stepped foot into Le Rêve. I was instantly taken aback by the stunning décor. Stepping inside, you immediately sense that this is a place built with intention. For a moment, I felt more as if I had walked into a New York restaurant than one in Sheridan. The historic charm of the Cady Building was preserved beautifully—the exposed brick, high ceilings, and original moldings honor its past—while modern touches, elegant lighting, and plush seating elevate the space into something truly special. It’s the kind of environment that feels both luxurious and welcoming, a rare balance in fine dining, especially in a small Western town.

Le Rêve is the vision of new owners Christer and Gina Johansson, who saw the potential to turn this Sheridan landmark into a culinary destination without losing its character. Under the expert guidance of Executive Chef Zoilan Ruiz, the kitchen delivers a menu that reflects both French sophistication and globally inspired creativity. Think fresh oysters and caviar, artisanal charcuterie, seasonal dishes highlighting local ingredients, and small plates designed for sharing—all presented with artistry and care.

My experience with the food? A meal to remember.

I had the Classic Cassoulet—a white bean casserole with duck confit, pork belly lardons, fennel sausage, and garlic herb breadcrumbs. It was so good I ended up ordering it again on my second visit. The cocktails were just as incredible, including an old fashioned that was top-notch, and the wine list easily ranks as world-class. Each bite, sip, and course felt thoughtfully executed, showing that Le Rêve doesn’t just deliver a meal—it delivers an experience.

The ambience is elevated but never intimidating. Soft lighting, rich textures, and even live piano music on certain nights create an experience that feels deliberate yet approachable. Whether you’re enjoying a full tasting menu, a cocktail at the bar, or a quiet evening with friends, every detail—from the plating to the pacing of service—feels thoughtfully executed.

The renovation itself is a masterclass in respect for history while embracing modern refinement. The Cady Building’s architectural integrity was preserved while creating a space that feels current, comfortable, and cinematic—perfectly framing the culinary experience that Le Rêve delivers. It’s a statement: fine dining, creativity, and ambition can thrive in a place that cherishes its roots.

In short, Le Rêve doesn’t just bring world-class cuisine to Sheridan—it elevates the entire downtown experience, proving that even in small towns, bold vision and careful execution can create something unforgettable. Be sure to stop in the next time you’re in Sheridan!

Le Rêve - Sheridan, Wyoming

“Hot Action!” The voice on the other side of the phone says, catching me off guard.

No matter how many times I have called in an order when we are in Glenwood, the owner’s voice always surprises me.

“I’ll have a Phat Pig, a LAS, and an Original no bread, and a side of gravy.”

“Give me 20 minutes. Want any doughnuts with that?”

“Yeah, give me 6 of your choice. Need a couple that are gluten-free.”

“See you soon.”

I love this bastion of breakfast deliciousness in Glenwood Springs. I found it years ago on my first guys’ fishing trip on the other side of the mountains, and it has become a regular part of any Glenwood experience. We bought a home in Glenwood in 2021, escaping the Front Range busyness, trading it for a quiet spot close to skiing and fishing. Glenwood is a fabulous town; it's my favorite in Colorado. Small enough to see familiar faces, but busy enough with tourists to have a host of wonderful shops and restaurants. As the gateway to its more luxurious and famous neighbor, Aspen, Glenwood is what most people think of when they imagine what Colorado is like. Good, kind people tucked into the most beautiful valley in the state. Huge canyons, wide rivers, and massive mountains dominate the landscape there. We fell in love with it in 2016 as a family. We came to ski, and then did all we could to figure out how to be here as much as we could.

Part of why we love it there is the long and extensive list of great places to eat. But chief among them is Sweet Coloradough. It wouldn’t be a ski trip without the breakfast sandwiches and doughnuts from this little gem on Glen Avenue.

The building is unassuming. A modified A-Frame with a 70s style bus parked out front, both painted with red, yellow, and blue Colorado flags and adorned with images of doughnuts and mountain scenery. Yet one step inside and you will quickly realize this is a popular place for a reason. The line usually starts out of the door, and it serpentines around shelves filled with Colorado souvenirs. Funny hats, t-shirts, and socks help set the mood for the morning fun.

It is rare that I have been to the shop and the owner, Aaron, isn’t there. He is as integral to the experience as the food is.

“Do you need any tequila with the burrito?”

“Want anything else since she’s paying?”

“A dozen doughnuts, a Phat pig. Anything else? Bloody Mary? Salad?”

“What are you waiting on? Kitchen says just a little more time, no more than an hour.”

It’s a nonstop comedy show, and no matter how many times I have heard the same jokes, they never get old. Behind the counter is a whir of activity. Some of the staff are in the kitchen making made-to-order sandwiches. Others are making lattes, and someone is attending the line filled with tourists trying to decide which deliciousness will be their pleasure. The line moves fast because the staff makes the magic happen. Pushing for decisions in their voice with a half kindness and a half Soup Nazi tone, the staff helps to assuage the chaos of the place with a beautiful kind of casual Colorado order.

The doughnut cases are filled with the most incredible creations. This isn’t your average doughnut shop. Ranked number one in Colorado and number nineteen in the nation, the sweet, sugary beauties are something to behold. Cronuts and old-fashioned cake-style pastries make the choices difficult. A dozen seems like it will be short of flavors, given how many different types and styles they make. They make all of their doughnuts from scratch in their kitchens across four locations in Western Colorado.

What goes somewhat unnoticed in the casual, comedy-filled atmosphere is the business talent of the owner. Aaron Badalato and his wife, Anne, have made a doughnut empire on the Western Slope, but as he said in an article from the Post Independent, “This place wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for my desire for a good apple fritter!” Aaron has focused on creating a quality product, and the business has thrived because of it. From that same article, Aaron describes what has helped create their successes: “From day one, we’ve always focused on the highest level of quality, highest level of ingredients, highest level of pay — so we can ensure the highest quality of people working.”

Glenwood Springs is a town of 10,000 people, but it is not uncommon that Sweet Coloradough will sell over 5000 doughnuts a day. That’s staggering for a little shop in a sleepy valley. But it’s clear that Aaron knows more than just recipes for a great doughnut, but also knows how to make a business work. He is dedicated to creating the same fun experience every time you step through the doors. Sweet Coloradough continues to expand, opening its most recent store in Grand Junction. And while Aaron and his wife moved from Denver to the valley for a better quality of life, it hasn’t stopped him from creating a fixture restaurant of the western slope experience.

I love his ambition and his sense of humor. Finding someone who is content with what it is they do for a living is really amazing. You see a joy in their eyes that so many fail to have. Glenwood has provided Aaron with the chance to live out a business dream, and you can see that reciprocated thanksgiving in the eyes of Aaron. We never eat doughnuts unless we are at our home in Glenwood, and it’s because Aaron provides more than just a sugary pastry; he makes the entire experience of coming to his store worth it.

Success in business isn’t easy, especially in today’s climate of paperwork and inspections, so when someone does it well, they deserve all the accolades we can muster. I love Sweet Coloradough. It makes me happy to go in and see Aaron and the whole line of bewildered tourists spinning like they are in a washing machine as a loud voice from behind the counter asks them if they need any salad with their doughnuts.

If you come to Glenwood, Rifle, or Grand Junction, be sure to make your way to one of Aaron’s stores. You won’t be disappointed.

Each month, I mentor a group of small business leaders here in my hometown of Fort Collins. Our meetings are under the umbrella of a company called Loco Think Tank. Curt Bear, its founder and director, has been a lifelong friend. He was my banker when I was building houses, and we have both seen each other work our way in and out of success and failure in our small business endeavors. Years ago, he said he wanted to set up a peer-to-peer advisory group for small businesses. He’s worked hard to make Loco one of the best ones in our area. We get into the nitty-gritty of what is happening within the walls of our operations. What do our numbers look like? How are our employee relations? How are our marketing efforts going? Each member of the group acts as a member of a board of directors, giving advice and looking at ways that we can improve our performance.

I said to my group this month at our meeting how much I admire each of them. We had just been through a round of rolling 24-hour blackouts from Xcel Energy, and in the Christmas season, losing a day can be so devastating. One of our members recounted that she had been at a restaurant when it first started. There was no way for the establishment's owner to collect payment. Their point of sale was down, and in our ever-increasing reliance on computers for calculations and payment processing, he had no way to collect for the dinners he had just served. I said to my group, “Small business gets up every day and puts on a sixty-pound pack and steps up to the starting line of a hundred-yard race, and the corporations and deep pockets of the new consolidated landscape in business get a hundred-yard head start. But small businesses believe so fervently in what they are doing that they head to the line anyway.”

That should be celebrated in America.

I know that it’s complicated out there. We feel it all the time. The struggles are very real for the person trying to make a living from the work they do. There seems to be a new trouble around every corner. But people sign up every day to try again. That inconcoruble spirit is contagious, it’s deep in the fabric of what makes our country work, and it’s beautiful.

When we started this publication a few weeks ago, we never imagined that we would see a landscape in America of people who are trying as hard as they are. The news and the doom and gloom of the glass portals to hell we all scroll through each day would indicate that everyone has given up, taken their shattered dreams to the corner, and sunken into misery. But it isn’t true in the slightest. Every day, we discover a new group or person who is trying something incredible. I thought that spirit of ambition was dead in the 21st century, but it may be as healthy as ever. As the business climate has become more difficult and the paperwork has piled higher, people are finding ways around all of it. The rumbling underneath all of the frustrations is a spirit of doubled-down perseverance and desire to reinvent the ways we see and define success. People are taking their futures into their own hands. They aren’t interested in what the corporate versions of America are offering. They have taken to their garage or their computer and are moonlighting a new world into existence. It’s truly beautiful.

I am quite tired of feeling like there are no good things out there, and that the future is some kind of sanitized version of Mad Max. Instead, I have found incredible encouragement in the stories we have already highlighted and those to come. I want to tell people that this all still works. I know that the challenges exist, and that it continues to get harder as the machine grows, but what I see happening in the lives of people who have resolved to try things a different way is a better and more beautiful version of America. When someone gives up a good, steady job in the media to make their own future, that means that the nuggets they’ve been offered no longer entice them into complacency and serving someone else’s dreams. When the young man who is making guitars decides that he’s going to take the advice of those around him who keep reminding him “not to miss his children growing up” and quit his aerospace job to build gorgeous electric guitars, that lifts my spirits. It means that people are waking up to the realization that they have all the talents they need to remake the world.

In that quiet act of disobedience to the “normal,” they are showing everyone who wants to look, that there is a path to change the country's trajectory. I love what I am seeing, and it is so encouraging to me that the spirit of tenacity that has always been a part of the American ethos is still there. This is a Christmas to celebrate the good things happening. There will undoubtedly be a lot of shifting and instability as these changes take place, but I love that it’s coming from a place of hopeful ambition instead of pitchforks.

Thanks to those who have already subscribed, and I would love to have you share this with friends who you know need to hear that things are not nearly as troubled as they might think. Merry Christmas, and I can’t wait to show you what we’re seeing. You are going to be stunned at all of the good news in America.

Many of my readers know that I spent most of my boyhood in Sheridan, Wyoming. I am an advocate for that town and the way it retains an older version of America within its city limits. I love the incredible Main Street, where small enterprises can put out their flag and see if they have what it takes to make a living. Most who try actually make it because the people of Sheridan go out of their way to support the local businesses. The town has events on Thursday nights all through the summer and Christmas season, where they shut down the street for vehicle traffic and allow people to wander up and down as the shopkeepers hold their doors open late into the evening. It is a magical place that will always feel like home to me, no matter how many years I have lived away from it. Our family has been doing our real estate business there for more than 40 years, with only a few years of interruption in the 90s, so we have spent a lot of time in this amazing place. My mom and dad have a home there, and with only a few exceptions, we haven’t missed a rodeo in twenty years. In our writings here at On The Uptick, you will probably hear a lot about the great stores and creators in Sheridan. In the late 90s, I started taking all of my college friends there for a fishing trip each summer, so Scott has fallen in love with the town, too.

All of my friends and I joke that if the zombies ever come for us in the apocalypse, we know where to meet in the Bighorns. Sheridan is just that kind of place. Unassuming, but beautiful. Their Main Street is arguably the most vibrant one I know of in the West. There are fabulous restaurants (Scott will be sharing with you about Le Rêve later this week), great art galleries, old western stores, a coin shop, and fantastic coffee shops. The town's heartbeat comes from this incredible strip of shops and businesses, and even the newest visitors to Sheridan recognize it.

One of my favorite shops on the street is Red Bison Studio. The store owner is a master of clay, and he sells some of the most beautiful creations I have seen. The studio started in 2012 and has been selling its western-style mugs and clay creations to locals and tourists alike since. The artistry of the designs is truly marvelous. Intricate details and stunning artwork are the studio's hallmark.

A quick trip into the store and it’s apparent how the passions of Stephen Mullins, the owner, have made Red Bison a fixture on Main Street. Amazingly, Red Bison is a beautiful story about how the company grew from Stephen’s own hustle and the town of Sheridan’s investment in their local makers. In fact, Stephen didn’t open his storefront until 2018; instead, he got his start by selling his mugs and wares at the Third Thursdays markets the downtown association holds each month. It’s a great success story about how a small town, giving people a place and opportunity to show off their talents, can help someone create a life with their art and passions.

Everything in the store is made in Sheridan. All of the clay creations are thrown on the wheels in the back of the store and fired in the local kiln. “I feel fortunate to call Sheridan home and being able to have a store on Main Street has been great, I feel fortunate,” Stephen said of Red Bison Studio in an article by the downtown business association.

It’s what I love about Sheridan. The people who live and work there love their town, and they support the people who make their lives better. Red Bison is an incredibly artistic store, and the people of Sheridan love its work. I am sure, like all businesses, Red Bison has its challenges. But there’s a beauty in the community-supported business model that Sheridan still enjoys because of its smallness and isolation. People know they can succeed with a great product and a dedication to community-mindedness, and those who support the businesses do so because they know that if they don’t, the heart and soul of their community will be changed for the worse. Red Bison holds classes to learn the art of pottery and sees it as an integral part of that cherished community relationship. There’s a beautiful model in Sheridan for the rest of America. Something that was once there and has been covered over by corporate consolidation and the offshoring of jobs and manufacturing. Making things in your community creates a symbiotic relationship. Both people learn that they need one another.

A mug from Red Bison is more expensive than something from Amazon, but somehow, in this small town, people know they need to make sure the creativity and beauty coming from the Red Bison studio remain part of their ethos. That doesn’t mean Red Bison has it made or doesn’t compete with Amazon for cheap goods produced elsewhere, but it does mean they have a shot at doing something they love in a town that loves them back. That’s the America that people love. The one that enables someone to take a risk and see if what they have to offer is worthy of an exchange.

They do ship nationwide, and you can order online at their store. Red Bison’s trout mug is one of my most cherished possessions. The beauty of the mug unfortunately promotes my overconsumption of coffee each morning, but when I have the chance to sit by the fire in our house with a great cup in that mug, I am transported for a moment to my favorite town in the United States. Having something handmade and beautiful elevates nearly every experience, and a Red Bison mug is no exception.

If you want to learn more, visit their website

Red Bison Studio

Or if you are ever in the area, stop in and shop. It’s one of the highlights of this fantastic town in Northern Wyoming.

Meet Grant - a wine maker from Colorado who is trying to fulfill a spiritual passion he discovered about wine making. He lives in Northern Colorado, and despite the general beauty of the Front Range, growing wine grapes in this region is nearly impossible. He has immeasurable hurdles to overcome compared to other makers in other regions of the world. Wind, drought, hail, and a high desert environment make for a monumental task in his pursuit. But his passion runs very deep. He sees farming and freedom inextricably linked. Planting, harvesting, and making wine are connected to his soul’s liberation and love for the world around him.

Small business in America is hard enough - obtaining the licensing, the permits, and the permissions can drive someone crazy, let alone adding the complexities of growing cold-hardy grapes in the high desert of Colorado. There was a time in America when farmers understood that their connection to the land was linked to their ability to pursue righteous government and a good life. But the small farmer has been relegated, as with most things in an ever more consolidating America, to the sideline, while the most connected and best funded are celebrated and given advantage in an ever greater industrialized enterprise.

But American small businesses are beautiful. Innovators like Grant want to find ways to make the world a better place and find a way to carve out a small piece of life on his land.

Recently, he travelled to the Willamette Valley to learn about the process of growing biodynamic wine. Compelled by its relations to the land and to the product, Grant has been researching and discovering this old-world way of making a drink most connected to life on earth. This, after all, is the beverage more than water that is written about in epochs and fables, and in religious celebrations and miracles - it is the lifeblood of life on earth, and it has been made in thousands of places around the globe as a way to preserve a harvest, and celebrate the bounty of good measure. Farmers have made wine for centuries without the aid of tractors or oak barrels, or pesticides - they have lived in harmony with the land, learning from its gifts, but also being keenly aware of its brutality. The beauty of wine is that every vintage has a story that is locked inside its bottle. It is glorious and tasty - colorful and cruel. Nature runs her course, and the grapes tell the story.

Learning about biodynamism is of the highest priority to a winemaker like Grant - because the harsher the landscape, the more you have to rely upon the earth to deliver the end results. Spraying pesticides and herbicides in a vineyard may have short-term benefits, but the longevity of the soil and the vines themselves are on life support the moment the first spray hits the leaves. Colorado’s soil is harsh and unforgiving. Our winters are cruel and filled with punishing cold and snow. The summers are mean and filled with indescribable heat, wind, and hail. Listening to the land is imperative to the success of a vintage.

His trip to Oregon yielded a great understanding of the process. What does it take to grow vines that yield their output upon the land’s treatment? How does working with the land, instead of against it, develop a wine that tells a story and is the catalyst for a story around the table? For many in our country, these terms sound superstitious and pseudo-religious. They are antithetical to the “science” of agriculture and industry. They seem silly and childlike and are no way to raise the volume of goods required for an advanced civilization. But our habitats are dying - the abuse we have placed upon them with corporatized agriculture and industrial production is becoming the modern-day Dust Bowl. Grant’s grandparents were from Oklahoma, and he remembers the tales that they would tell of dust clouds so large and dark that they would choke out the sun - so he is keenly aware that our practices in farming may very well contribute to the destruction of our own homeland. He realizes that, because of that heritage, regardless of any stance on the change in climate, the habitats we inhabit are struggling. The soil is producing less and less, and each year the crops require more natural resources in water and more chemicals to make the yields viable.

So Grant is in the valley to learn, to understand what the future in winemaking looks like. It adds no moniker to him. He isn’t radicalized or a political ideologue; he’s a farmer trying to understand what ancient methods look like and how they treated the habitat, and how they might once again be resurrected to treat the habitats of today.

He’s interested not only in his product but in the longevity of his business. He wants to understand what the land will yield if treated with goodness and humility. Stewardship is the care of the land that humanity has been charged with. Growing wine and hoping for it to be good and symbiotic is not a political issue - it is a human issue and one that has great compassion and beauty in it. These are the lessons lost in our ever-insatiable pursuit of more, which is leaving our ground in trouble. Humans and wine have an intertwined relationship and one of harmony. Wine gives goodness and depth to the human experience. What we have turned it into is another place to take from the bounty of earth, with deferred consequences for us and a burden upon the future generations. Winemakers have always been our most in-tune makers with the environment. They understand the changes in weather, water, and soil - and they craft their wines with the abundance of the year’s story embedded in every bottle.

Makers like Grant want the best of both worlds - to make a living on the land they know is the hub point of their freedom, and to let the land last for the duration of his story here on earth and beyond. As a species, we have to lean into these places more than we once did. We have extracted the bounty of the land in reckless abandon. Sacrificing today’s gain for tomorrow’s desolation.

America is the land of the beautiful farmer - a place where the freehold of land informs our liberty.

We owe ourselves the duty of asking our questions and building a better future upon our land. We were once the envy of the world for farming, and today our food is considered poison by most other people groups around the globe. What happened? Where did we lose our care for the liberty locked in our ground that is imperative to our survival?

We need to look to farmers like Grant, who are asking the better questions than those of politics and division. We should be wondering how we can live upon this earth in a manner that adds beauty, tells stories, and creates a future for those we will leave behind. This is the future of America. It won’t be solved in the dark halls of Washington. It will be solved in the vineyards of Colorado, in the rivers of New York, in the seagrass beds of Florida, and in the tide pools of Oregon. We can live a better life if we tell better stories. We can leave a better world if we can coax the grapes upon the Colorado desert to yield their story to the bottle.

Grant is my cousin, so I am biased towards his success. I want him to fulfill a passion to farm and create. I love how much it lights him up when I am with him at the winery or clipping grapes in the vineyard with him. I know Grant well; no one is closer to being a brother to me than he is. We have shared ski runs and rivers together. We have traveled to Italy and France together and have had more adventures than we can count. So his success is a big deal to me. I want him to have the best life, learning the rhythms of the seasons and the soil.

Alluvial Farm and Vineyards grow flowers for farmers’ markets, and raise sheep and pigs for the betterment of their land. I love my trips out to his farm. I love the conversations we have had about the taste of his wine, and the strategy for what finish the wines should have. Scott, the other writer and creator here at On The Uptick, and I love visiting with Grant about what we can do to help market his wines and make his labels. I love tasting this year’s vintage and reminiscing about our time in Corsica, where he lost a key to a bike lock, and we spent the next few days riding around on a pear-shaped tire after cutting the spokes. We have a lifetime of memories, and Grant is doing his best to make the land he lives on create something as beautiful as those memories in a bottle.

Wine making is hard work. It takes incredible patience and trust that the winds and the rains and the soils will treat his vineyard with just enough kindness, and just enough hardship that the grapes will yield something magical.

Grant does tours and tastings by appointment, so if you are ever in Northern Colorado, come visit with him. He’s an incredible human being and a wonderful friend. He will quickly become that for you, too.

Find out more about Alluvial Farm and Vinyards by clicking the link

Alluvial Farm and Vineyard

I received a text this summer from an old friend from politics.

“Would you want to be on a podcast to talk about the failings of media?”

“Sure - who is it?”

“It’s a new one that started this spring called Why Should I Trust You. I’ll introduce you to Brinda. You’ll love her.”

“Send her my number.”

When my phone rang with a New York number, I had no idea what to expect. I had made my rounds through the “media” before, and my skepticism always runs hot with television types. But the voice on the other end of the line was different than the other people I had talked to before. She was fun and full of life. She was eager to talk to me about what I thought about things and passed no judgment on the statements I was making.

“Let’s get you on the pod,” Brinda said.

Before I knew it, I was on a Brady Bunch Zoom call with a bunch of doctors and nurses from public health and a few of us who had been labeled as MAHA advocates. In the hours-long discussion that followed, something profound happened. I realized that most of the people on the call didn’t think alike in the slightest. There were people who were frustrated about the outcome of the election. There were people on the call who thought that the public health officials should be in jail for their role in the pandemic. It was as diverse in thought as I could have ever imagined. Brinda started the call with the following admonition:

“This should be like a great dinner party…you know, maybe you disagree, but when the night is over, maybe you might even set up a time to get together for a beer or something.”

I remember being jarred into the realization of what Brinda and her cohorts were doing. They were asking questions, trying to get a real conversation started. Not one that created an adversarial, Crossfire yelling match, but one where people might hear each other. I was hooked.

This country we live in has struggled to do the one thing it needs to do well: have conversations. We have siloed ourselves into buckets where we only talk to the people we agree with. Our online communities are filled with voices we like. We watch and listen to the media that tickles our ears, and we never hear the voices with other ideas. That continued isolation has put our country in a place where we have decided that hating one another is more powerful than working together to solve the big issues of the land. When Brinda and her team went to the Children’s Health Defense conference in November and got the attention of some of the bigger names in the MAHA movement, and then sat down and had a discussion with them, it was profound. People who had been enemies for the last five years suddenly were listening to one another. It was a breakthrough in the thing that needs restoring the most: trust.

I want to highlight this podcast because Brinda Adhikari is doing something that is making America work again. She is asking people to do the hard work that is required in a free country. Disagreeing is easy. Listening is difficult. Hashing out ideas and solutions is nearly impossible, but each week, Brinda, Tom, Maggie, and Dr. Mark round up a bunch of people from the opposite sides of the table and sit them down in a room to hash it out. That is something worth celebrating in our crazy world. I don’t think politics, especially the national, electoral kind, is going to solve much in the future. It is much more theater than anything else. But that doesn’t mean we don’t still have collective problems that our people and country face every day that need solutions. The wonderful part about what Brinda and her team have created is that the discussions and fact-checking that go on during the podcast are leading to real opportunities to fix what ails us as a nation. The more that these doctors and nurses talk to us hippy-dippys of MAHA, the more we find we have in common. It means that there could be real pathways to solutions in the “political arena” if we keep talking about it with each other.

Why Should I Trust You is doing something really wonderful in our country. They should be applauded.

This week, I received a text from Brinda.

“OMG, you guys, Joe Rogan just mentioned us on his podcast!”

Deservedly so.

Why Should I Trust You is showing everyone that activism doesn’t have to be angry. That lesson is one we need to learn as Americans. We don’t have to destroy someone else in order to get our way. In this winner-take-all system we have been forced into, voices that step outside of that and help us see there are better ways to live as Americans need to be elevated. I am so thankful for what I have had the chance to participate in during my time on the podcast. I have met some of the most wonderful people. Do we agree on everything? No, but neither do my wife and I. It’s ok to admit that we can live in a nation with 350 million different ideas, and that even the ones that are not our own have some merit.

Give it a listen. You will appreciate what it is they are trying to do.

Why Should I Trust You?

Finally, A Motherlode of Data About Who Supports the MAHA Movement

“I’ve been a pollster for almost 20 years. These numbers blew my mind.” - Erica Seifert, senior director, Navigator ResearchWhy Should I Trust You? is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support our work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber…

Read more

6 months ago · 13 likes · 5 comments · Tom W. Johnson

1990s Fort Collins was a sleepy place. Our town had so little going on that if you searched for significant things that happened here before 1990, you wouldn’t find much. Back then, everyone knew everyone. We had three high schools, but most of the kids in town knew a lot of the other kids at the other schools. There were cross-town sports rivalries in football and basketball, but no one really ever won state championships because we couldn’t compete with the big Denver schools. The Fort Collins versus Rocky Mountain High basketball games were the best events in our town for sports. CSU was stuck in their patterns of 1-11 losing seasons year after year. So when our local high schools met up, it was an early version of Friday Night Lights.

In those sleepy days of our city, we used to joke that it was the “vanilla valley.” We could count the number of African American kids in our town on one hand. There was Donny McDonald, with whom I had played JAA football, who taught me how to catch a football the “right way.” And there was Joe Buckner. He was the star athlete in any sport he tried. He went to the odd-man-out high school called Poudre. But everyone knew that if Joe was on the field, Poudre had a shot at winning the game.

Joe and I grew up in different worlds. My family was in the real estate business, and my grandfather had made a name for himself. We had real estate signs everywhere, and we never wanted for much. Joe, on the other hand, lived very differently. He knew what it meant to live in a world of want. He and I could not have had different upbringings. After high school, Joe went on to play sports, and I left to play music in Canada. When we finally made our way back to our hometown, our paths crossed again. He was working in sales, but anytime I sat down with him, I could feel the desire in his heart to make himself into something better and more. He wanted to be an entrepreneur. His life had taken a hard turn in those years in between the football field and our first coffees. He had found out that selling furniture was far less profitable than selling drugs, and he found himself on the wrong side of the law.

He lived in his car for a season and struggled to get back on his feet after a stint in prison. When we started having regular breakfasts together, it was fascinating to learn of his journey and what had happened to him while I was off travelling the world playing music.

Our first breakfast together was hours long. We sat and heard the hearts of one another and realized that, despite our incredibly different lives, we both wanted to make and create great things in business. He was just starting his Beautifully Savage Boxing club, and I was deep in the throes of our manufacturing business, where we made barnwood wall decor. We sat and listened to one another about how each of us had difficulties making payroll and paying rent. We learned quickly that we fought hard for the same things every morning. Both of us saw each customer as critical to our success. We were, after all, from the generation that had been taught that our reputations were the backbone of our business, so doing the right thing was always the only option.

Somewhere, a few years ago, Lululemon heard about Joe’s story and decided to tell it. They brought a film crew out to do a documentary about his journey into the entrepreneurial space. It is incredibly compelling. As many of his friends sat in the room where the documentary was premiered, we were astonished at the story. Something special had happened to Joe in his darkest time. He learned to fight for what matters. Joe loves to say that “fighting solves everything.” He believes it.

Don’t skip past that video. It is profoundly beautiful and shows the real dedication Joe has to overcoming anything in his way.

Joe and I are likely not on the same page politically. But I don’t care, and he doesn’t seem to care either. We don’t talk much about it at our breakfasts. More than anything, we love to sit together and catch up about how we are doing as “business guys.” We open up about what life after kids looks like, or how now, both at 50, we don’t have the same gas in the tank for it that we once did. Joe continues to reinvent himself to try to grow his businesses, and I admire him deeply for that. In an exhausted moment at breakfast this month, both of us admitted that we were tired. We both said how much we might just want to work for someone else and let them worry each night about where the rents were coming from, or how this month’s unexpected expenses were going to be paid for. The small business landscape in America is not for the faint of heart. It takes an almost ignorant devotion to the idea to survive. If you asked Joe if he would have started his business knowing what he knows now, I bet he would emphatically tell you “NO!” But once you get started, a small business never has the luxury of hindsight. Mistakes and lost revenue are just as much a part of the game as the great compliments from a customer that keep you going.

Joe is a good man. He’s a close friend and someone that I know I can tell anything to. We don’t need to be on the same page about life, or economics, or presidential politics to be friends. We get to live in our town together, having watched it grow up from sleepy nothingness to a place filled with people and entrepreneurial giants. This is the town of New Belgium Beer and Otter Box. Joe and I got to watch them both come of age in our lifetimes. That is wonderful, and demoralizing at the same time if you don’t get the same recognition they do. But Joe and I found our way into friendship in the midst of those late-night, lonesome thoughts. I love what he does. I love who he is. We both need each other on this crazy ride, and for the fact that he will still go to breakfast with me and talk about the deep things, I am forever thankful.

Beautifully Savage Boxing - Click to find out more about what Joe is doing and his plans for the future of the gym.

I met Justin Harris online during the 2024 presidential campaign. He liked one of my video essays and made some online comments about the battles he and his company were facing as a small business in America. We exchanged a lot of our frustrations with the current political climate around business, but also found that we were both Gen X -kids-grown-up who wanted to see America return to a sane place, where small business was the true engine of a reinvisioned American. I immediately ordered a bunch of soap and products from him, because I do really believe that the best way we are going to restore our country is to make sure that the people who are trying are rewarded for their efforts. Justin and his family are from Nebraska, and he and his wife are 4th & 5th generation Nebraskans who “desire to go back to both our family’s heritages of farming and ranching for a healthier and simpler life, even if it’s on a very small scale.”

In an America increasingly conscious about health, Justin and his family have created a product that meets the moment. They “are passionate about advocating for animal agriculture by producing a healthy product line that employs healthy animal fat byproducts from regional food systems.”

It is nearly impossible to argue that the crony capitalist, coercive version of the cosmetic industry has become more of a chemical soup than anything else. When Justin and I spoke online, you could tell he was eager to see something different from the current version of American business — particularly in the stuff we put directly on our skin. It became evident in our conversations that the battle to sell a great product in the United States takes more than just doing something well. The system is designed to prop up the biggest and most capital-intensive companies. Justin and his family believe that making something healthy shouldn’t have to compromise their values, but in the country we currently live in, it takes moral fortitude not to succumb to the temptations of cutting corners.

Justin and Kaylynn, his wife, talk about their passion for this business on their website:

“We believe in the spirit and drive of local businesses and their relationships with their customers and communities. It gives us an enormous sense of pride to bring amazing products to customers right here in our own communities in southwest Nebraska. We love the fact that we are creating opportunities for our future generations and strengthening our local economies so that our small rural communities continue to prosper for future generations.”

One of our bonding points was that they have four children. I immediately resonated with the struggles of being a dad, trying to run a business, and keeping food on the table. I often wonder how many people actually understand the hard work it takes to operate a small business. There are troubles nearly every minute of the day. If it isn’t in the actual product, it might be in keeping up with the paperwork or paying the taxes. Toss in the oddities of bank accounts being hacked or credit cards being stolen, or a bureaucrat critiquing your label for “health and safety,” and you could quickly add up the time it takes into months and years that are spent dealing with the noise of the business rather than working on it.

Justin’s story deeply connects with me. I know the realities of being a father, running a business, and all the other side hustles it takes to pay for kids’ activities or a Christmas gift. The stories of the people, who I think are on the uptick, have a lot in common with one another. No one is afraid of work. Everyone believes that their products make a difference in the world, and that they can try to demonstrate why what they do is worth the hard-earned money of someone else. I love that deep-seated belief in themselves. It comes from a place so many struggle to find, or worse, has been buried before it ever got traction in their hearts, because they see the world as too troubled for any opportunity at success.

I love that his two oldest sons are key to the operation. Wyatt and Lane are cut straight from the quintessential Nebraska cloth. They look the part of farmers and ranchers, and they are learning from their father how to build something. How incredible is that?

Justin and Kaylynn have two other children, a daughter and a younger son. Their youngest has Down Syndrome, and learning that about their family added to my respect for their family, their hearts, and their business adventures. It takes so much to make something great, and Justin and Kaylynn are succeeding despite the obstacles in their path. I love that they see the family and their life in Nebraska as the peak of the living experience. They see what farming and ranching have meant to the previous generations, and they still see value in it. When so many others have decided to bow to the consolidation that has happened in American business and agriculture, the Harris family has made their stake in the ground that there is still another way, a way deeply wrapped in the ideals of person-to-person capitalism and the American ethos.

On a side note, On The Uptick does not do any of this as an advertisement. We tell these stories because, in so many cases, the race the small-business person is running needs all the advantages it can get. The stories behind these amazing people are what matter. I happen to love Wild Ass Soap. I think what they offer is better than any others I have tried, but it’s not an advertisement. These articles are written to celebrate the people and their efforts. I do hope our readers support these businesses, makers, and artists. They deserve it. But more than anything, I hope the people whom we highlight have an afternoon of joy as they read about our feelings about their adventures. Small business is brutal. So, when someone is doing something great, we should all leap from our chairs and applaud.

One final thought on the Harris family. I have four sons. It has taken all of my wife's and my energy to raise them and help them be good people in an ever-corrupting world. When someone is raising their kids to be a part of the American experiment, it stands out in an increasingly self-absorbed culture. Wild Ass Soap is a true family business. It takes all of them to lift this ship, and it is clear they are doing it together. This is the great stuff of America, and we should celebrate it.

If you want to learn more or support their business, head over to their website. I think there’s still time for orders before Christmas.

Wild Ass Soap

Seeing an EarthRoamer in the wild is like spotting a luxury sports car. You stop. You stare. You admire. And, inevitably, you dream about owning one. There’s an aura of precision, of freedom, of adventure that radiates from every line of the vehicle. To hop in an EarthRoamer, hit to road and explore our amazing country is a bucket list item for me!

I got the chance to tour an EarthRoamer at the Vail Concours in 2024, and stepping inside was an incredible experience. Amid a showcase of exotic sports cars and classic vintage automobiles, the EarthRoamer immediately captured my attention. The finishes and amenities rival any modern-day condo or luxury home. Plush leather, sleek cabinetry, spa-like bathrooms, fully equipped kitchens—it felt like stepping into a high-end condo on wheels. Every detail has been carefully considered and refined over the years to balance rugged capability with comfort, and the experience left me in awe of what American ingenuity can produce.

A Brand Built for Exploration

EarthRoamer isn’t just about luxury—it’s about capability and independence. Founded in 1998 by Bill Swails, the company grew out of a simple need: he couldn’t find a vehicle that allowed him to explore remote corners of the world without sacrificing comfort. So he built his own. That first modified pickup sparked what would become the EarthRoamer line: purpose-built expedition vehicles designed to go anywhere, in any climate, with every amenity imaginable—fully customized for each owner.

Today, every EarthRoamer is designed, engineered, and handcrafted in Colorado. The company starts with powerful chassis—Ford F-550s or Chevrolet 6500—and builds proprietary carbon fiber camper bodies that balance structural integrity with reduced weight. These vehicles are designed for off-grid independence, featuring massive solar arrays, high-capacity lithium batteries, and advanced water systems that allow owners to travel for days or even weeks without hookups or generators.

Meet the EarthRoamer Models

EarthRoamer’s current lineup includes the LTx and the larger SX, each designed to provide comfort and capability in remote locations. Both models embody the balance of rugged capability and high-end comfort, offering owners the freedom to roam anywhere while living in complete luxury.

EarthRoamer LTx

• Built on a Ford F-550 chassis with a single-piece molded carbon fiber camper body for strength and lightness.

• Features a 24-volt system with an 11 kWh lithium-ion battery bank and a 1320-watt rooftop solar array.

• Equipped for extended travel with a 95-gallon diesel fuel tank, 100-gallon fresh water capacity, and a pass-through garage.

EarthRoamer SX

• A larger, full-featured vehicle based on the Chevrolet 6500 4WD chassis with a Duramax 6.6L Turbo Diesel V8 engine.

• Boasts a spacious 34-foot carbon fiber body designed for full-time living.

• Includes a large dining area, California king bed, full bathroom with separate shower, washer/dryer combo, and a fully equipped kitchen.

• Also designed for independence with a 100-gallon diesel tank and 120-gallon fresh water capacity.

More Than a Vehicle — A Statement

What impresses me most is how EarthRoamer embodies the spirit of American entrepreneurship: building something exceptional from scratch, innovating fearlessly, and daring to redefine what’s possible. This is a company that doesn’t just make vehicles; it crafts experiences—the freedom to roam, the joy of exploration, and the thrill of going beyond limits, all while traveling in one of the most capable and luxurious vehicles on the planet.

For me, EarthRoamer is a reminder of what it means to dream big and chase those dreams with purpose. Every time I see one rolling down the highway, or imagine driving one off-grid into the wilds of Colorado, I’m reminded that innovation and craftsmanship are alive and well in America. And that, to me, is what it means for a brand to be On the Uptick.

Learn more at: EarthRoamer.com

Scott, my cohort in this endeavor, loves watches. For as long as I can remember, he has been telling me about a company from our hometown, Fort Collins, Colorado, called Vortic. I am not a watch wearer, but every time Scott would show me their work, I couldn’t help but be impressed. Vortic has found a way to take old pocket watches and make them into beautiful, upcycled wrist watches. These old timepieces find new life in the work of their company. R.T. Custer and Tyler Wolfe had a wild idea to make a company out of these old American-made wrist watches and bring them back into the modern world. Their dream started as a Kickstarter and has grown into a brand that is one of the most sought-after watches in America. When they launch new products, they sell out in minutes, and their pricing has continued to escalate with demand. As R.T. describes in the video above, their journey has taken them all over the city. From a small retail shop in a converted farmstead to their manufacturing facility in Old Town Fort Collins, Vortic has continued to grow and be in high demand.

They are true believers in American manufacturing. They donate proceeds from their watch sales to a watchmaker and repair school in Delaware that specializes in training disabled veterans. Their dedication to restoring this once-robust art on American land is profound. Vortic has had incredible challenges, including being sued by Swatch for copyright infringement. Ultimately, Vortic prevailed and beat the Goliath of the watch industry. R.T. suffered a stroke earlier this year, and his team stepped in to help get him back on his feet and keep the company alive.

Vortic is a fantastic American story about perseverance and how belief in the spirit of American manufacturing can overcome almost anything. Here’s what they say about why they see their role as being more than making a product:

This problem is much bigger than watches. It’s called the Skilled Trade Gap. America needs more watchmakers just like America needs more plumbers, electricians, carpenters, and others. As a nation, we’ve become too reliant on other countries for our products and a very small, and shrinking number of Americans know how to work in these skilled industries.

So what do we do about it? First, we become the proof. Proof of what’s possible. Next, we train the next generation.

For these reasons and many others, we support the Veterans Watchmaker Initiative in Odessa, Delaware. They are one of the only watchmaking schools left in the United States, and they focus on training disabled military veterans. Starting with Batch 5, $100 from each GCT watch sold supports the school and we do our best to provide jobs for their graduates.

It is an amazing mission they hold to. I love what they do, and think that their efforts should be celebrated. As in many cases in American small business, the system has treated them harshly. Yet despite the obstacles, they have overcome them. Their celebration of 10 years in business is to be applauded. We thought it only fitting that the first profile of our stories of perseverance at On The Uptick be about a watchmaker.

Take a closer look at their incredible work:

Here is a breakdown of their lawsuit where Hamilton Watch (Swatch parent company) took Voritc to court over copyright infringement.

I love a great David-and-Goliath story, and it is fantastic that they ultimately prevailed in this case.

Here are some up close shots of watches they have offered in the past:

If you want to find out more about Vortic - here is their website.

Vorticwatches

The landscape of American business can be brutal, and in the case of Vortic, they have faced a tremendous uphill climb to reach their successes. With each watch sold or court fight, they have overcome another small battle that helps them believe a little more in what it is they are doing, and that is the real story of small business in America. Little fights, daily doses of meaningless paperwork to satisfy a cubicle dweller, inspections by city tax authorities, all pile on to the issues they likely face in manufacturing or repairing, to meet customer demand and deadlines, or running their business.

In so many ways, it feels like American small businesses are in a race in which they have to carry a sixty-pound pack, and the massive corporations get a huge head start. But what never ceases to amaze me is that despite the long odds, there are people like the founders of Vortic who believe so fervently in their dreams that they sign up for the race anyway. That is the DNA of a country that never sees the obstacles as a reason to quit. They rely on enthusiasm and, in some part, ignorance about the coming troubles to forge on despite the odds. These are the real stories of why our country is worth fighting for. It is a defeating time, and in so many instances, we see the burden that the system bears upon its people and see it all as hopeless. But when I see people fighting for their dreams, I am encouraged. This relentless, almost irrational pursuit of an idea, and a little slice of independence, is why America remains the most amazing place.

I had a great conversation with one of my best friends the other day. We were lamenting the same old same old about how complex navigating the world of small business and entrepreneurship is. We had just finished paying our self-employed taxes and filing this year’s state compliance documents, and we had had it. But this was another in a long list of days where we got together and expressed our frustrations. Somewhere in the conversation, we started talking about what could be done about it. At the same time, I had finished another article about how disappointed I am in the whole political system. I left the computer that morning and realized that I have been writing about our broken politics for nearly three years now, and the reality has set in that no amount of my writing or word-smithing is going to change Washington. That town is a leviathan unto itself, and standing on the sidelines yelling about it isn’t going to persuade Lindsey Graham or Chuck Schumer to change anything. It feels like wasted energy and a fool’s errand.

So, as we sat there thinking about what we could do, we both said that we should tell the stories of the people in America who are on the uptick. Those who, despite the odds, are working every day to make hats, or jeans, or write music, or advocate for cleaning up rivers. We should be showcasing the people who, in spite of the government’s relentless and insatiable drive to manage everything, are succeeding.

So that is what this publication is all about. We want to make sure that people who are trying their hands at things are getting their stories told. There is plenty of doom in the world, and that inevitable degradation is going to happen whether or not I am yelling like an old man angry at the clouds or not. So, on the Uptick is going to be about the great stories of this land, which still has deep in its DNA, the desire to be a place for the bold and brave.

I want to tell the stories of friends of mine like Joe Buckner, who rose from the dark places of prison and a predetermined destiny with a life of ruin, to build his own Boxing Gym where he claims, “Fighting solves everything.”

I want to talk about my friend Chris Freeman, whom I met last year, who is making absolutely beautiful fly fishing bags in his shop in Fort Collins, Colorado.

If we tell the story of one American at a time, doing their thing to make this country a better place, I think we can find a lot more optimism about our neighbors and have much more grace to set down our differences about who they voted for. I hope we bring you original content about great people who are changing the country one day at the sewing machine, or the clay wheel, or at their River Alliance board meeting.

My friend wrote this as we left our meeting with the objective of putting some focus on Uptick.

On The Uptick — Brand Story

Tagline: America Still Works.

America has always been a place where ordinary people do extraordinary things. Where an idea sketched on a napkin becomes a livelihood… a dream becomes a business… and determination becomes legacy. But somewhere along the way, that story got drowned out. The headlines got louder than the heroes. The challenges overshadowed the builders.

On The Uptick exists to change that.

We’re here to tell the American entrepreneur story—the real one. The story of men and women who roll up their sleeves, take risks, bet on themselves, and create something out of nothing. The story that proves America still works not because it’s easy, but because people still choose to rise, to build, to innovate, and to try again when things fall apart.

We spotlight the founders in small towns and big cities. The first-generation dreamers. The side-hustle warriors. The garage start-ups. The family businesses. The makers, the builders, the creatives, the scrappy optimists, and the relentless problem-solvers.

These are the people moving America upward—one idea, one product, one risk, one leap at a time.

These are the stories that remind us that progress isn’t abstract—it’s personal.

On The Uptick is more than content.

It’s a movement to restore belief in the American dream by showing it in motion.

It’s a platform dedicated to documenting the grit, the grind, the failures, the breakthroughs, and the quiet wins that define entrepreneurship today.

It’s a reminder that opportunity isn’t dead—it just needs a microphone.

Whether through documentaries, interviews, written profiles, podcasts, or short-form storytelling, we exist to inspire the next wave of builders by celebrating the current one.

Because despite the noise…

Despite the headlines…

Despite the doubt…

America still works.

And the proof is in the people who refuse to quit.

I hope you will join us in this. Tell us about people in your town who are making it all work. Tell us about your neighbor who is doing an amazing thing in his garage. Tell us about the amazing woman you know who bakes the most incredible sourdough or beautiful cakes. Tell us about the teacher or the coach who is changing the trajectory for our kids. That is where the real America is. The citadel of crap in Washington can be what it is, as long as the rest of us spend our time working to make the places we live better.

Please subscribe - we think you will not be disappointed.

Aaron and Scott