Beyond the Anchor

There is something about ribs on the grill that makes me actually forgive summer for its heat. Maybe it’s the rich ribbon of woodsmoke drifting through the campground before dinner. Maybe it’s the barbecue sauce that inevitably ends up on knuckles, cheeks, and picnic table benches.

Almost a year ago, I sat down at my keyboard. Never once in that moment did I sit down with the intention of writing a book. I was just writing to write.

Between 1825 and the early decades of the twentieth century, more than 800,000 Norwegians made that exact choice. Relative to its population, only Ireland saw a larger portion of its people cross the Atlantic. My own family’s foundation rests upon that mass departure. All four Norwegian branches of my family eventually crossed the ocean. They started new lives that would slowly weave together generations later.

Follow Highway 20 into Washington’s North Cascades, where family memories, hidden roots, small-town history, and the turquoise waters of Diablo Lake come together along one unforgettable road.

Talking to an AI customer service agent is a lot like playing tennis against a wall. Every question comes back in a slightly different shape, wrapped in a scripted apology.

I'll save everyone the trouble of the comment section. Yes, I know there's already a Thor. Yes, he has a hammer and a red cape and a very good publicist. This is not him. This is my Thor, several generations back on my own family line, and I promise you, the resemblance to the movie version is not entirely a coincidence, because the man was built on the same scale as a legend and nobody told him he wasn't allowed to act like one.

People walking their dogs along a paved road through a wooded campground, surrounded by tall evergreen trees.

I grew up in a family where humor wasn't reserved for celebrations. It showed up during our hardest seasons, around hospital beds, kitchen tables, and long road trips when we were exhausted and running on hope.

Many branches of my Norwegian family first arrived there. Some made it their home, others homesteaded to South Dakota, North Dakota, or places further north in Minnesota. Others I've lost track of entirely, scattered into the paper trail the way families do. But before any of that happened, before anyone claimed a homestead or built a barn, they all passed through St. Paul first.

Let me paint you a picture of my mom, since you already have one of my dad. Where he was high-octane and theatrical, filling every room until there was no air left in it, she was crafty, frugal, gentle, and possessed of a patience I still don't fully understand.

This year, as America marks its 250th anniversary, a milestone honoring a nation forged in sacrifice and hope, I cannot think of a more fitting moment to pull back the curtain on what I have been quietly working on behind the scenes.

Nine months ago, this process began at a place called Ohme Gardens, where my son dropped down on one knee in front of the "Moment in Time" waterfall. From that second on, my life has been pure chaos with a sprinkle of joy.

He crossed an ocean, broke prairie sod, dug for water by hand, and built a life on the North Dakota frontier. Meet Albert Buran, the real man behind one of the central characters in The Sunstone Path.

Cape Disappointment earned its name from treacherous waters and hidden sandbars, but for my family it became a place of campfires, history, and memories that found their way into The Unbreakable Anchor.

What exactly is a sunstone, and could Viking sailors really have used one to navigate beneath cloudy skies? The answer lies at the crossroads of history, science, and a story much closer to home.

A quiet reflection on remembrance, sacrifice, and the difference between honoring service and honoring the fallen.

Every family has one. The person who walks into a room and becomes the room. The one whose name alone, when dropped into a sentence, makes everyone lean in a little closer, because whatever comes next is going to be a story.

My grandmother rarely talked about her childhood. What I learned about where my family started in America came from stories overheard at the kitchen table: my dad and uncle trading memories while my grandmother’s musical laughter filled the room and my grandfather’s annoying chewing habits provided the soundtrack. The stories were always the same at their core: The endless drive from Marysville, Washington to Minot, North Dakota. Towering mountains and evergreen forests slowl

Most people have a general picture of military deployment. Phone calls with bad connections. Care packages. Video chats that freeze at the worst moment. They know it's hard. What most people don't know is that there is a corner of the military where none of that exists.

There is a version of RV life that exists on the internet, and then there is the version that actually happens to you.