My Yorka

Dear Chewey,

Well, little buddy… it’s over.

My great American and European adventure.

My “Where am I? And why does it smell like someone made bad choices on this mattress before me?” adventure.

Nine months of movement via planes, trains, ferries, rental cars, questionable buses, and sleeping on one or two couches that should probably be condemned by the health department. Nine months of waking up in places where I sometimes needed a second to remember which country, state, or reality I was in. Nine months of chasing something I couldn’t quite name.

And now, while sitting in an airplane making my way back, having just left Mallorca (phonetically pronounced “My Yorka”) I’m trying to figure out how to summarize what all of this meant.

Spoiler: I can’t.

Not in one post, not in ten. This is the chapter of a book I haven’t written yet.

But I can tell you what I got out of it.

And maybe, in the process, what I was looking for in the first place.

As you know, this whole thing started on February 7th, when I stepped onto an Amtrak train like a man who thought he was signing up for a charming Wes Anderson subplot, only to discover that long-distance Amtrak travel is actually a spiritual test disguised as transportation. Chicago blurred into New York. New York blurred into Niagara Falls. Niagara Falls blurred into Denver. And at some point the concept of a normal bed became a myth, like Bigfoot or “efficient government.”

Then I flew to Portland for Tony’s 50th birthday, a weekend that reminded me of everything we’ve survived, bad decisions, and early-2000s fashion trends. Then back to New Mexico. Then to Vegas for my annual March Madness guys trip, which is really just an excuse for grown men to act like we’re 23 again without the metabolism to support such behavior.

Then back home.

Then onto the road to pick up Avery.

And that, honestly, was one of the best stretches of the entire year.

Father and daughter crossing the country…national parks, road snacks that could be considered hazardous materials, New Orleans humidity, Pensacola sunsets, Navy friendships, and that long, slow unraveling of time that happens when you have miles and miles of highway to talk about anything and everything… or nothing at all.

Then I sent her back to Denver and spent the next six weeks in Virginia with my friend Kirk, where evenings at Molly’s somehow turned into therapy sessions disguised as happy hour.

From there, I took the world’s longest scenic route home, through the Carolinas, Savannah, Mississippi, Chicago again (because apparently Chicago had visitation rights), Minneapolis, Mount Rushmore, Denver, New Mexico, Vegas, Reno, and finally to my home state of Oregon for the summer.

And then, at long last, Europe.

Copenhagen to Ireland to Scotland to Germany to Czechia to Croatia to Bosnia and Herzegovina to Montenegro to Holland…and finally this tiny Mediterranean island I’d never thought much about but which somehow ended up being the place where everything seemed to click.

Which brings me to Yorka.

And why Mallorca became My Yorka.

In the tiny South American country of Suriname, the Winti religion teaches that a person is made of many spiritual parts, but the Yorka is the one that carries the imprint, the echo, of your life. A kind of spiritual résumé. The Yorka holds your experiences, your choices, your mistakes, your lessons. If your life has been lived with purpose, warmth, growth, and connection, your Yorka passes peacefully into the afterlife. If your life has been chaotic, unresolved, or weighed down by a lack of accountability, the Yorka lingers in unrest.

When I read that, I felt it.

Deeply.

Because on the day my ex-wife and I finalized our divorce, she sent me an email with a line that has never left me:

“I sense within you that you are unanchored; that you lack accountability.”

She wasn’t angry when she wrote it.

She wasn’t cruel.

She was simply honest.

And she wasn’t wrong.

The divorce, the accident, the recovery, the addiction, the years after…it all fed this fear that I’d become exactly what she described: unanchored, drifting, unreliable even to myself. I started to believe that if I had a Yorka, it would be… well… not great. The kind of Yorka that would need a support group, or some seriously strong medication.

But this year, this chaotic, beautiful, exhausting year on the move…well, it did something to me. Somewhere between the road trips, the cross-country trains, the quiet moments with Avery, the porch nights in Virginia, the laughter with old friends, and the long walks through strange European streets where nobody knew my name, let alone my language, something shifted.

I realized my Yorka wasn’t damaged.

It wasn’t cursed.

It wasn’t doomed.

It was simply unfinished.

And then Mallorca came along—My Yorka—and reminded me, in the most gentle and unexpected way, that my life has been full of beauty too. Full of connection. Full of presence. Full of second chances. And full of reasons to be grateful, not guilty.

I am still here.

Which, four years ago, was not guaranteed.

So when people ask me what I wanted to get out of this trip, I guess the truth is simple:

I wanted an anchor.

Not a heavy one that drags you to the bottom, but the kind that steadies you in the storm.

The kind that tells you who you are when the waves start whispering lies.

And I found it.

It doesn’t look like a traditional anchor.

It’s not tied to a job, a relationship, or a location.

It’s something smaller. Something stronger. Something quieter.

It’s me.

My anchor.

Mallorca.

My Yorka.

And Chewey…

I think it’s all going to be okay.  And hey, I get to see you soon!

Love you buddy,

Dad