I Was Following a Feeling Before I Had Language for It

From the start, Guide to Wild probably looked like an outdoor gear site in progress.

Honestly, conventional wisdom would’ve said that’s exactly what it should become.

Pick a niche. Build affiliate content. Find keywords. Scale traffic. Stay focused. Don’t get too broad.

And the funny thing is, I knew enough to be dangerous.

I knew if I wanted to build an affiliate site, I probably could have. Spend a little money. Build systems. Let AI crank out content. Optimize rankings. Chase search traffic.

There’s a version of that story that probably works.

But something always felt off.

Guide to Wild always felt bigger.

Not because I had some perfectly mapped-out vision. Not because I had a manifesto sitting in a drawer somewhere waiting to be revealed.

I didn’t.

For a long time, I couldn’t fully explain why I kept pulling GTW in directions that didn’t necessarily make sense. I wanted stories, gear, people, utility, hunting, fishing, trucks, conservation, and campfire conversations. I wanted it to feel broad. I wanted it to feel useful. I wanted it to feel human.

And if I’m being honest, I spent a long time thinking I was building it wrong.

Now I think I finally understand what was actually happening.

I wasn’t building GTW wrong.

I was following a feeling before I had language for it.

Jackman, Maine

There are a few moments in life that seem small while they’re happening and get bigger every year afterward.

For me, one of those moments happened in Jackman, Maine.

Not because Jackman itself is some magical place, and not because this is really a story about one trip.

It matters because I think it was one of the first times I felt something shift.

At the time, I couldn’t have told you exactly what changed. I just remember feeling like things got quieter, clearer, and more real.

Not in some dramatic movie-scene way. Just enough to notice. Enough to feel like a part of me had finally stopped sprinting.

And the weird thing is, I don’t think I understood it. Not really.

I just knew I wanted more of it.

So I did what most people do.

I started following the trail backward.

The experience came first. The obsession came later.

Maybe it was hunting.

Maybe it was camping.

Maybe it was trucks.

Maybe it was gear.

Maybe it was remote places.

Maybe it was mountains.

Maybe it was early mornings.

Maybe it was all of it.

And for a while, I think I convinced myself the activities themselves were the answer.

But eventually something started bothering me.

Because every time I thought I found “the thing,” pieces of that same feeling kept showing up in unexpected places: fishing trips, long drives, quiet mornings, campfires, watching weather move through a valley, standing in a river wearing waders, loading a truck at 4:30 in the morning, or sitting outside after a hunt.

Somehow it kept showing up.

The Activities Weren’t the Destination

And eventually I realized something that feels obvious now.

The activities weren’t the destination.

They were trails.

Hunting, fishing, camping, trucks, gear, and remote places were the trails that got me here.

They’re also far from the only trails that lead somewhere meaningful.

That’s probably why I named this Guide to Wild from the beginning.

Not Guide to Hunting.

Not Guide to Fishing.

Not Guide to Overlanding.

Not Guide to Matt’s hobbies.

Because even early on, before I fully understood why, I think I knew there wasn’t only one way in.

Some people find that feeling in remote sheep country. Some find it waist-deep in a river. Some find it climbing mountains, trail running, photography, hiking with their kids, or cooking outside with friends.

Some find it in places that have absolutely nothing to do with hunting or fishing at all.

I honestly don’t care what the activity is.

Nobody should.

Because I don’t think the activity is the point.

I think the feeling is.

And I think a lot more people are looking for it than they realize.

Something Felt Out of Scale

Modern life is incredible.

It really is.

We’re more connected than we’ve ever been. We have access to information people would’ve killed for twenty years ago. We can work from almost anywhere, build things from laptops, and talk to people across the world instantly.

I’m not anti-technology. I’m not anti-progress.

I’m not interested in pretending the answer is throwing your phone into a river and disappearing into the woods forever.

But I do think modern life quietly creates imbalance.

Not all at once.

Quietly.

Notifications. Schedules. Algorithms. Screens. Meetings. Optimization. Speed. Noise.

Little by little.

And after enough years, I think a lot of people start feeling something they can’t fully explain.

Not burnout exactly.

Not unhappiness.

Just distance.

Like something is slightly out of alignment.

I remember coming home from Montana in 2022 and sitting in traffic outside Boston feeling weirdly disconnected from everything around me.

It wasn’t depression, and it wasn’t some anti-city or anti-career realization.

Things just felt off.

I remember walking into a grocery store later that day and feeling it again. I remember thinking: this isn’t how we’re supposed to live.

I’ve replayed that thought a lot over the years because I don’t think what I meant was cities bad.

I think I meant something simpler: after enough time outside, certain parts of modern life suddenly start feeling a little out of scale.

Somewhere along the way, I realized I wasn’t just making time for the outdoors anymore.

I was depending on it.

I think that’s part of why so many people are reaching for things that feel more real.

Maybe that’s part of why the outdoor aesthetic exploded.

I don’t think people suddenly became obsessed with rooftop tents, cowboy hats, waxed jackets, trail runners, and moving to Montana for no reason.

I think people are reaching for something quieter, slower, and a little more human.

The image can be an invitation.

I actually think that’s fine.

Everyone starts somewhere.

Maybe someone buys hiking boots because they looked cool and eventually starts hiking.

Maybe someone buys a fly rod because they liked the idea of it and ends up obsessed.

Maybe somebody starts with aesthetics and ends with something real.

The problem isn’t the image.

The problem is stopping there.

Because eventually the gear gets dirty or it doesn’t.

Eventually the truck leaves pavement or it doesn’t.

Eventually the thing becomes real—or it stays aesthetic.

The Best Things Still Charge an Entrance Fee

The best things in life still tend to charge an entrance fee.

Not money.

Something else: cold mornings, early alarms, failure, discomfort, learning, being bad at something, and showing up before you feel ready.

And I think that’s part of why the outdoors changes people.

Because unlike a lot of modern life, it still asks something from you.

Not punishment.

Participation.

It asks you to actually be there.

And I think that matters.

Keep Trying Trails

Somewhere in all of this, I started understanding what Guide to Wild was supposed to be.

Guide to Wild exists to help people find their thing the way I found mine.

And even if they don’t find it here, help make them a little more prepared to go try.

Because sometimes people don’t need inspiration.

Sometimes they just need someone to say: bring this, expect this, here’s what I wish I knew sooner.

Because I don’t think people always know what they’re looking for.

I know I didn’t.

I think sometimes you just keep trying trails until something clicks.

Until you recognize a feeling.

Until you accidentally find a version of yourself that feels more present, grounded, connected, and alive.

The trails that got me here happened to be hunting, fishing, camping, gear, trucks, and remote places.

Those are the ones I know.

But they’re not the whole map.

And they never were.

Different people find different things.

Different trails work for different people.

No one person experiences the entire map.

That’s why this was never supposed to be one voice pretending to have every answer.

Because there are people farther down trails I’ve never even walked.

Maybe one day their stories become part of this too.

Not because GTW needs more content.

Because people need more doors.

More possibilities.

More invitations.

Pull Up a Chair

Nobody figures this out alone.

Somebody helped you.

Someone farther down the trail turned around.

They didn’t carry you. They just pointed, shared lessons, lowered friction, and made things feel a little less intimidating.

Maybe that’s all GTW is supposed to do.

Not tell people who they should become.

Not prescribe a path.

Just turn around.

Point.

Pull up another chair.

Share what we’ve learned.

Help people keep walking.

And if hunting is your trail, great.

If it’s fishing, photography, hiking, skiing, conservation, cooking outside, climbing, or something none of us have even thought about yet—great.

I honestly don’t care.

I just hope you keep trying trails until something clicks.

Because I think that feeling is out there.

And maybe more than anything, I found something that changed me.

I want more people to experience their version of it.

Pull up a chair.

Maybe something here helps.