About

 Lomond's Peak, Queenstown, New Zealand. 2017.

Lomond's Peak, Queenstown, New Zealand. 2017.

 

PREFACE

 


A Prolonged and Self Deprecating Minnesotan Apology
 

       I'm passive aggressively sorry. I'm Sorry for not writing for the past three years. This is directed to all of my fans that don't exist that I secretly hate for not existing. I'm sorry for all of the profanity that is guaranteed to consume this novel of a diary entry about my trip down Shit River. 

       I am John Scarr. I say my name like it's a question. Most of the time I'm in the midst of some existential crisis breakdown because I am the most disorganized person you will ever meet.

       One time my roommate found my underwear in a frying pan on the stove held down by a coffee press. Like i was anticipating a heavy wind inside the rundown duplex we lived in. One time I got lost in a mountain range in Iceland because I decided to smoke a joint in the dark-- a quarter mile away from my backpack. Without a headlamp. I suck. at life. 

        *smash cut* I'm John Scarr. I've climbed Mount Doom. I've swam with sharks. I've climbed Mount Doom, I've bribed cops in Indonesia, I bicycled Middle Earth in the winter, I've camped with cats in the desert in a heatwave. These are accomplishments that should negate my horrible self esteem and confidence issues.

        I still hate myself. I still hate everything.
          I'm going to attempt to explain why.

       Three years ago my dogs died. Finnegan Red Dog Scarr, and Brutus Bear Scarr. Three years ago my grandmother died. Three years ago my partner left to chase her dream in France. With all the fancy french men who are sexy and hot and le charming. They really are. French men. I get it. hot(t).

       Three years ago was the awesome shitstorm that brought me to leave.

       Everything sucked. Because everything, does indeed, suck. Don't ever question it. Accept the suck of reality.

       That's what it took to push me out the door, into the adventures that I fantasized about. Off to find the wild openness and unbridled me that I dreamt about as a 10 year old. 

       I grew up reading books about young people surviving in the wild against all odds. Boxcar Children, Hatchet, Where the Red Fern Grows, Lord of the Rings, Enders Game, Harry Potter... the list goes on. I was convinced that there was no way in hell that I could ever find the kind of freedom that these fictional characters experienced. I

       What I found was far worse, and exponentially better than anything I had ever dreamed of. That's why I'm writing again. All of the shit. All of the sleepless nights. All of that whole thing where you need money and that's complete horse shit. Because money isn't a real thing beyond what we make it.

       Hungry, poor, and happy. I didn't know it but that's where I wanted to be.

       Year's after diving in head first into a proverbial canoe headed into a meta-proverbial trip down a river filled with blood and tears. I'm still in love with that day dream of walking through some unreal landscape completely alone. Alone. Always and forever.

My most powerful experiences will always be the adventures I experience alone. And that is why I'm writing. It's the only way I can share it the way I want to.

        A thank you is a Minnesotans silent apology. That's our way of saying sorry for not doing it or saying it first ourself. So I'm going to just say sorry like a good Canadian, but Thank you for reading this. That translates to fuck you for caring. Asshole.