In Season 1, Episode 1 of Restless Viking Radio, I walk into an REI looking for a pair of boots… and walk out with a lesson I didn’t know I needed.

What starts as a simple shopping trip turns into a conversation about adventure, purpose, and the strange way a good pair of boots can reveal who we really are.

This is a story about drifting, rediscovery, and the moment I realized I’m not just making videos — I’m a storyteller.

If you’ve ever stood in an aisle wondering why a pair of boots suddenly feels like it’s judging your whole life… this one’s for you.

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This is Restless Viking Radio Season 1, Episode 1 I'm Chuck, and for our very first story on this podcast, we're starting exactly where the decision to make a podcast came from. Drifting a little, thinking too much, and then bumping into a kid at rei. He doesn't know it, but he was the tipping point. Let's get into it.

I haven't published a video in two months, and I haven't edited a video in over 20 days. I'd been drifting, drifting for weeks, lazy as a cat in a sunbeam and about as useful as sensible socks on a rooster.

My goals gathered dust while I wandered through coffee shops and bookstores, and anywhere I went I'd corner some unsuspecting stranger, wrap him in an old worn quilt of borrowed wisdom, and ask him something like so tell me, how do you really feel about life? So there I was in rei, staring down a pair of boots like they were holding the secrets of the universe, when a sales associate stepped into my orbit.

Need any help? He asked.

He was a skinny kid, curly black hair bursting loose in every direction, glasses sliding down his nose like they were trying to escape the building, and there was something in his paws, a careful one, as if he carried more than the roll allowed, like he had a reserve of thoughts, just waiting for someone, anyone, to ask a question more interesting than do you have these in my size? I need work boots, I told him, holding one heavy boot like evidence in a trial.

He waited, weighing his words with the kind of precision normally reserved for brain surgeons or people explaining cryptocurrency. Well, we're not really known for work boots.

And then, without thinking, I tossed him the doomed question, what do you think about these boots for someone like me? And it hit the floor like Nietzsche at a high school promise, I surrendered. Size 12, please.

He looked relieved and nodded and disappeared into the back, leaving me with the sudden realization maybe this wasn't about boots at all. Maybe I wandered so far into conversations with strangers because I was looking for something sturdier than leather soles.

He came back with a box balanced on one arm, set it down gently, like it weighed more than the rubber and leather, and stayed standing, watchful, as though the way I handled the tissue paper might reveal who I was. So, I said, loosening the laces with a practiced hand, it seems like the footwear section here is the most labor intensive. Another pause.

This guy paused like he got paid by the second. It was his way of taking a measurement, sorting me into those piles of customers he saw all day.

The casual, impulsive buyer who grabbed and went, the well dressed professional chasing an image, not usefulness, or the pragmatic hiker who cared for only about tread and waterproofing, or even the obsessive type who treated boots like a soulmate. He was trying to decide whether I was worth giving anything more than the standard script.

Finally he said, well, yeah, I guess I'm probably partial though. So then I asked, do you think a person's shoe choice matches their personality? And that one seemed to land a little different.

His eyes kind of sparkled, just barely, like a match struck in a windbreak, the kind of spark you only see if you're looking for it. He wasn't just answering the question.

It seemed like he was deciding whether I deserved the real answer, and it felt like a bit of a standoff, my questions flowing after a month of wandering thought. His response is slow drips, deliberate and careful boots between us, philosophy circling the bench like a cautious wolf. Yeah, he said finally.

You can definitely see their personality in their footwear. He didn't add anything else, and that restraint, that almost casual toss of the comment, told me he already knew where I was going.

I'm impressed, I said, and I paused to let it hang a bit. You choose your words carefully. Not many people do that. He gave me a nod.

I tried to There it was again, his signature pause, shaping the next sentence so it landed right. You have to listen just as carefully, too, he said. Most customers don't say exactly what they need.

You've got to hear what they're really saying if you want to get them in the right shoe. I understand, I told him, threading almost two feet of loose lace through the boot's hooks. The public can be fickle.

He nodded, a man who'd seen things. I tied the knot and stared at the boot in mock disbelief, tempted to fall to my knees at how comfortable it was straight out of the box. Wow, I said.

These are surprisingly comfortable. That's good, he replied. Especially when they're brand new. That means once they break in, they'll be perfect.

So I stepped onto that little fake rock, that miniature mountain size squeezed into 6 square feet of retail flooring. I stomped, kicked, and tested the boot with the force of someone jumping out of a helicopter, and the boots passed.

My intensity evaporated off my shoulders and I looked at him, narrow and deliberate. So what's your story? I asked. Why do you work here? This pause was different. It wasn't guarded.

More like I'd caught him off balance that half second where someone wonders if they should tell you the truth. I used to work at the National Park Service, he said. At the nature center. His voice shifted, almost reverent. I love that job, he said.

Every bit of it. The words flowed like a river picking up speed as he talked about nature, teaching, guiding. Why'd you leave? I asked.

Well, I graduated college and that was the end of the program. Had to find another job. And? I asked. He shrugged, small but heavy. So I got a job here, I thought. Well, REI is all about the outdoors, kind of.

And then his voice thinned out like an admission of defeat. Life's either a daring adventure or nothing at all, I declared, and that quote tumbled out of me like a loose gear in a washing machine.

It sounded less like sagely wisdom and more like something stitched on a cracker barrel pillow. A month of devouring books will do that. Leave you spitting quotes like half chewed sunflower seeds. He said nothing.

His paws told me he didn't need the lecture. And then he surprised me. You said I choose my words carefully. Another pause, but this one was a little different.

It wasn't him measuring me this time. It seemed like he was measuring his own honesty, deciding whether to put the thought into the air. I do, he said at last.

Because you can never tell which category of customer you're dealing with.

I thought a job here would expose me to the outdoors, and he let that hang for a breath, a small, thoughtful hesitation, like he'd stepped right up to the truth and was deciding whether to cross the line. But most customers just shop here like it's Walmart, and that admission seemed to soften him.

He seemed a little defeated, a little relieved to finally say it, and then I leaned back on the bench. Funny, isn't it? I said. People spend more time building adventure rigs than having adventures.

Tens of thousands of dollars in lifts, in rooftop tents, and they park them at breweries with rubber ducks lined up on the dash. I shook my head. They're boat builders. Afraid to sail. He didn't move, didn't react. He just waited.

They're boat builders, I said quietly, as if I'd just realized. Not sea captains. He nodded slowly, like he already knew. I thought when I came here I'd learn from my customers, he said.

Hear about the Great Wall of China, Patagonia, Nepal. But most of them, they just shop like Walmart.

He let the disappointment breathe for a bit, but every now and then he said, someone tells me where they're going, where they've been, what they're planning. That's the part I like. That's the part I'm passionate about. I let the silence do the talking. It weighed more than anything I could have said.

Then I tapped the toe of the boot. These boots. I hope they're going to touch the Arctic Ocean within a year, I told him. Maybe with polar bears on the horizon.

Or maybe just wading out at Moose Factory with some Cree friends where the Moose river spills into the bay. And if you're still here afterward, I promise I'll come tell you about it. He nodded slowly, and his smile widened with a hint of warmth.

Then reality snapped back in for me. He hadn't exactly asked for an old guy to wander into his morning and unload half a memoir on him. Small smiles started tugging on both our faces.

I apologize, but he waved me off. No need, he said. This is probably the best conversation I've had here. Well, thanks, I told him. And good luck.

I stuffed the boots back into the box, tissue paper flailing around like it was trying to escape, and walked to the counter. I wasn't buying boots. I was buying the next step. The next promise, the next reason to stop drifting.

That was a month ago, and I actually think I'll go back next year. Not for the boots, but to tell the story. Because drift doesn't end with a revelation or a sunrise or someone handing you a map.

Drift ends the moment you take a step, even a small one, toward meaning again. And sometimes that step is just a promise you make to a stranger in an REI store. Here's the funny thing about wandering.

People love to trot out that old line not all who wander are lost. It shows up on bumper stickers and throw pillows and every third inspirational Instagram post. And sure, it's true. But it's also a little too tidy.

Because real wandering, it's messier. Less like a wise old hobbit on a quest and more like a grown man in REI questioning his life choices while holding a boot the size of a small dog.

I wasn't lost these past months, but I wasn't exactly marching with purpose, either. I didn't have to relearn wander. I had to finally embrace it. And yeah, there was a twinge of guilt attached to it.

When you stopped creating, stop producing, stop feeding the machine, the guilt creature creeps in. But being older and maybe a little wiser, I knew I needed a break. Because the truth is, my form of expression wasn't what it used to be.

We were spending hours, sometimes days, slogging through videos and editing them from long journeys. Not always to say what we wanted to say, but what we thought the audience wanted to hear.

Somewhere along the way, especially after Iceland Poppins, and I realized we were memorizing what we had to say at every stop. Like actors chasing perfect takes. And that's not exploring. That's not authentic travel. That's stress. And hiking boots.

And here's the thing nobody tells you. When you're focused on capturing everything on camera, you miss the things a camera can't catch. The beautiful stuff.

The reactions, the conversations, the quiet moments on a ferry dock, the way the wind hits you when you first see a place you've dreamed of. The thoughts, the feelings, the whole internal journey. We couldn't tell the whole story anymore, not the story that mattered.

And I think that's why the moment in REI hit harder than a pair of boots ever could.

There I was, talking with this young guy who used to work for the National Park Service, someone who came to REI hoping to be surrounded by adventure, by the people who lived it. And instead, he got endless returns and shoppers hunting for coupons, people buying the idea of adventure without ever taking the steps.

And standing there with him, listening to the disappointment in his voice, the. The hope still flickering underneath it. That's when it clicked. I'm not a YouTuber. I'm a storyteller. That's what I am.

And that's what I drifted away from when I told him those boots would touch the Arctic Ocean, that I'd come back and tell him about it. You could see it. You could feel it. He didn't care about the boots. He cared about the story. Because story are what reminds us.

The world is bigger than the aisles we're standing in. And in that moment, between the boots, the bench, and the fake mountain rock, I remembered something simpler but important. Wandering isn't a flaw.

It's preparation. It's the slow turning of the compass before you choose the next direction. It's what great storytellers do. With wander. They realize the meaning.

Steinbeck, Hemingway, Twain. And when you wander with intention, even if you don't fully understand it, you're not drifting.

You're gathering the pieces you need for the next chapter. And that's what this podcast is. Not polished episodes or perfect takes. Not what the algorithm wants, not what we think we're supposed to make.

Just stories. The kind that breathe, the kind you tell because they matter. The kind that makes someone's day behind a retail counter feel a little less ordinary.

So, yeah, not all who wander are lost. But the real truth. Not all who wander are finished. Wandering either. And that's okay.

Sometimes you wander right into a story that reminds you who you are.