Depression

Why am I in Idaho stalking the ghost of Ernest Hemingway? I’m asking myself the same question. I don’t hunt. I don’t fish. I don’t even bullfight. We’re hardly kindred souls, manly man Hemingway and scrawny man me. I’ve found myself drawn to him, though, through place.
Read More »

We walk along the outside porch. Below, the Big Wood River rollicks through tall cottonwood trees, their yellow leaves dropping off and cascading to the dense litter below. A hint of snow from the distant mountains peeks through. Monster homes are scattered along the other side of the bank. This isn’t the view Hemingway...
Read More »

These words may be the greatest clue into why Hemingway killed himself three months later.
Read More »