From the journal
Feb. 2026
We all have a favorite t-shirt. Mine was first my grandfather’s favorite t-shirt. Grandad wasn’t one to own graphic tees – my memories of him always have him donning a light blue button down and khakis – so you can imagine my surprise when my mother and I were moving him into a nursing home and I stumbled across one of the most beautiful shirts I had ever seen.
On the back was a gorgeous painting of the silty Colorado River flowing through the vermillion cliffs of the Grand Canyon, and I later learned that my grandfather had purchased it on a trip to Grand Canyon National Park in the 90’s. I held it up for my mom to appreciate as well, my mouth agape, and she mouthed “take it.” After some petty larceny, Grandad’s favorite t-shirt became mine.
Over the next four years I took it, and with it a piece of him, on every adventure I went on. Road trips through American deserts and Canadian grasslands, onto alpine trails and beside Pacific shores. While the great outdoors is likely my greatest love, Grandad loved people first and foremost, and so, every time I wore his shirt, I made sure to invite a friend and enjoy the company as much as the campsite. I was wearing the shirt on a road trip through southwestern Utah in 2023 when I received the call from my mother that Grandad had passed away. The moment I realized a reproduction might be possible, my brain started churning. How could I possibly imbue even an ounce of the spirit held by the original into a reprint? There was only one way I could think of that might come close: I had to go back to the source.
I’ve had a Rim to Rim to Rim run at the Grand Canyon on my bucket list for years. Maybe this was the perfect opportunity to take Grandad’s shirt home and check this objective off my list.
It didn’t take long for the universe to let me know I was missing the point. The Dragon Bravo Fire was lit by a lightning strike on July 4th, and over the next few months, it scorched over 140,000 acres on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, closing the trails north of the Colorado River for the year and razing the historic Grand Canyon Lodge to the ground. Any Rim to Rim to Rim attempt was off the table.
I got the message loud and clear, and called up Chloë, my best friend from high school and the woman who introduced me to the wonderful world of hiking and trail running years ago. Serendipitously, she had a wedding to attend in Moab, Utah in October, and we began planning a trip to the canyon in hopes the smoke would clear, followed by an adventure through Utah.
Then, another stroke of luck. While catching up with my other long-time adventure companion, Elisabeth, she expressed the need for a reset, and happened to be free that same week in October. Before I knew it, Elisabeth and I were back on the road and headed east from Los Angeles towards Joshua Tree National Park with a car full of gear and two very special shirts along for the ride.
“How could I possibly imbue even an ounce of the spirit held by the original into a reprint? There was only one way I could think of that might come close: I had to go back to the source. “
If you’ve never been to the Grand Canyon and have asked a friend to describe it, you’ve probably been disappointed. It is, after all, indescribable. How can you put words to the cascading cliffs that reveal themselves layer after layer as you slowly descend through 2 billion years of geologic time? How do you frame the distortion of perspective you feel when looking over your shoulder to try and decipher which distant ledge was the one where the trail began? How can you illustrate the sensation of flowing over the winding trails like water in search of the Colorado River?
Finally we reached the bottom and the Colorado spread out before us. It was time. I delicately peeled Grandad’s threadbare shirt off my back, all the worse for wear after 8 miles beneath a running vest, and brought it to the brown waters of the river.
Why do we impart such meaning on mere objects? In my hands was woven cotton and silkscreen print, but as the silty river soaked into the fabric, I felt in my hands the carpool karaoke sessions, the rain on my tent flaps, my Grandfather’s hand on my shoulder, and heard his last words to me, “ We’ve shared so many wonderful memories together.”
That’s the pang we feel when our favorite ceramic shatters, when our car breaks down for good, when our shirt finally fades away. We breathe a semblance of animacy into the inanimate through the moments we share with them, grafting on their surfaces and into their fibers all of the feelings and frustrations of our lives. We lose a little piece of ourselves when we are forced to let them go.
Over my shoulder, Chloë’s voice broke through my haze, “Let’s see the new one!” Pulling it out from my pack, I chuckled in acknowledgement that I had once again missed the point. Here in my hand was a chance to do it all over, to go on adventure after adventure with friend after friend until the graphic faded and the holes started to appear, to stain the fabric with stories and soak it in memories.
And so I dipped the new shirt in the river, and a new chapter began.
“ Here in my hand was a chance to do it all over, to go on adventure after adventure with friend after friend until the graphic faded and the holes started to appear, to stain the fabric with stories and soak it in memories.”
Driving away from the Grand Canyon, it felt like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I had spent so much time stressing about the project of the trip that I hadn’t been able to embrace the adventure of it all. With me were two of my best friends as we navigated some of the most beautiful spaces in America. You never know how many of those moments you’ll get in life.
So adventure we did. Roadside frybread in Arizona eaten off paper plates on the hood of my Jeep. Cliffside trail runs in Zion National Park. Golden hour cruises through Bryce. Late-night searches for dispersed campsites in Grand Staircase-Escalante. The highs of Navajo Knobs overlook in Capitol Reef, the lows of 60 mph gusts blowing down our tents at 1 a.m. outside of Moab.
Looking back now, I remember the sounds: singing Waste by Smash Mouth (of all songs) at the top of our lungs, the rustling gentle breezes through high-altitude aspen groves whose fall colors were so stunning we had to pull over, the silence you only hear on a windless night deep in the desert.
But mostly I remember the feeling: that someone was looking down over me with his trademark grin, happy I was remembering what this life was all about.
