Dear Readers of Next Adventure:
When I started writing this letter to you, the air was cold. It was October 9th at 9:43 AM in Underhill, Vermont, the thermometer outside my kitchen window read 34°F, and I was wearing four layers of clothing. I had yet to turn on the heat or stoke the wood stove.
I’m thoroughly distracted by choosing a spot to hunt this afternoon; that distraction will follow me (or I will follow it) through mid-December. At that point, beginning when hunting season ends, the preoccupation continues with whatever activity draws me in…predictably, an outdoor activity like skiing or firewood.
My compulsion is to give in to these impulses; sometimes that’s good, other times, not so much. Typing on a keyboard on a day like today, as the seasons change, and there’s deer to chase, is difficult. A lot of the time, I’m blessed to pursue deer or whatever other pursuit “distracts” me.
I’m writing these words with a pen on paper. I transcribed them onto the screen you’re reading. For some reason, perhaps kinetic, if I try to type directly, there’s no flow.
The compulsion for the outdoors, for a kinetic existence, is irresistible; rich or poor, better or worse. There’s a passion in there, and there’s also a struggle. Through passion and struggle, I strive to share words that provide you, the reader, with something valuable: Purpose? Meaning? Entertainment? In any case, I view this as a shared exploration between writer and reader.
Next Adventure is pivoting. Not in subject matter, but form. I will no longer publish strictly on Thursdays; the helpfulness of this cadence has waned and become arbitrary. Instead, I will publish essays when they’re ready and worthy of your limited attention; likely two to four essays per month. The other change is that there will be an occasional paywall in some essays.
I have spent the past few weeks thinking about how to make this newsletter work for me and you. With widespread sophistication and use of AI, I’ve paused some essays to consider a path forward that I enjoy exploring as well as one you, the reader, will enjoy traveling down.
There’s seamless access to abundant content, much of which is very good. I myself struggle with where to focus my reading attention. As a writer, the natural question becomes: how do I distinguish myself? How much do I compromise my voice for “likes,” subscriptions, and followers? How will I gauge reader interest?
My personal choice is not to gameify or compromise in the direction of the social media elements of
. I find social media draining and unfulfilling. I do not intend this sentiment to offend those who value social media or the like; I see the value of these tools in building connections, but for me, they tend to counterproductive in every way, an attention-draining kryptonite.Ideas and issues we care about are often complex. Superficially reducing them, oversimplifying, does little to further dialogue or understanding.
In the same sense that I am compelled to go outside and split firewood or hike, I’m equally compelled to write about topics that matter in a longer format. Tweeting about a topic (aka: Susbtack Notes) typically brings me nothing but stress, frustration, and disappointment.
Next Adventure will continue to be built around these themes:
Place [outdoors, hunting, environment]
Kinship [parenting, fatherhood]
Resilience [mindset, skills, gear]
The best part of this newsletter is you, the reader. The word “community” is overused, but I think it’s appropriate here. We are an open-minded community that’s grown exponentially this past year. It’s a group that’s open to adventures, new ideas, provocative questioning, and critical thought.
Lately, it’s been tempting to bend in the direction of “likes,” short punchy sentences, and self-help, get-rich content; it’s the content that’s threatening to overwhelm the Substack space. There’s plenty of that content out there if you’re looking for that type of quick read about making money online. And there appear to be a lot of people who are very good at it (i.e., writing about it, that is). I’m not very good at that type of writing (or making money, for that matter), and when I try, I end up hating the writing process itself.
If you’re reading this and expecting that type of material, consider unsubscribing because you will be disappointed.
For those who remain: Please know how much I value your readership. In this “attention economy,” I appreciate how much other stuff there is to read, but you choose Next Adventure. For paid subscribers, know that paid support keeps me inspired, motivated, and dedicated to writing about place, kinship, and resilience. I believe the reader-writer synergy can uphold long-form and meaningful content, preventing all newsletters from becoming bullet point writing that primarily focuses on selling something and scrollability.
Please consider reaching out to me with your thoughts on an interesting topic you’d like to see written about, collaborations, or questions.
Thank you for your attention, readership, and support.
Jesse
Underhill, Vermont
10.14.2025
I've spent the last couple of weeks thinking many of these thoughts, and—per usual—you've expressed them more beautifully than I could articulate myself. Not only do I completely support this shift and will continue to welcome you into my inbox whenever you hit the 'publish' button, but I'm grateful for it. Less noise. More value. Living fully. I'm continually grateful for the example you set to focus on what truly matters most, Jesse.
I fully support the direction you are going and I’m interested to see where it leads. For a while now I’ve considered detaching from the weekly posting schedule. It can feel overwhelming at times. I haven’t done that yet because I do think it holds me accountable to writing, when I might otherwise put it off. I’m looking forward to your future essays!