Welcome To My Blog!

So glad you dropped by!  

Road Hog!…Or..Camel?

The Wandering Hippy is a collection of what I like to call suitcase and saddlebag wisdom. But really, just between you and me,  it’s my musings and observations (and the occasional rant) relating to a gaggle of  misadventures I’ve had while tripping about Asia.It’s an ongoing commentary of my struggle to readjust to life. Life after dropping out of the North American rat race and landing in India. Nothing sinister to be had here I’m afraid, no secret agenda or hidden plots, just a tangle of amusing and misguided experiences.  I sincerely hope they make you laugh out loud, ponder life in small doses (mine and yours), and if I’m very lucky, make you piddle in your pants…no, no, no… somehow make you feel better about your day, that’s what I meant.  So, get a coffee, and have a little wander about, and hopefully, you’ll become a regular.

The Easy Way Out

‘Just squeeze the fucking trigger!’  Ken was looking over the barrel of his Smith & Wesson M&P Shield he had levelled at his son.  The arid heat of Arizona’s Sonoran Desert was causing salty sweat to sting his eyes and blur his vision. The voice of his own father filled his head, mocking him. ‘Do it Ken. You know it’s the right thing’.

Read on Macduff…

India’s Killing Fields



I wrote this piece shortly after returning from a grueling 9 hour  journey on my motorcycle. The next day I wrote the second draft softening some of the edges and patting down some of the anger. After re-reading both drafts and after much deliberation and consideration, I have opted to publish my original piece. While it may be confrontational and inflammatory I feel it is more representative of my honest feelings and reflects my present state of mind. I truly believe THAT is what people who follow my work wish to read…


The mentality of Indian motorists is beyond stupidity. It’s insane. There, I’ve said it. I have held my tongue and suffered these fools long enough. The facts are simple, clear and undeniable. India’s roads are killing fields. There is zero regard for human life, no respect for traffic laws and absolutely no accountability for behavior while driving here. Period! To worsen the matter, most Indians seem delusional when confronted with this fact. I recently read a question on Quora asking why Indian drivers are so bad. The query was met with ridicule and abuse. One reply actually said “Indians are the best instinctual driver in the world. The “BEST!” It left me shaking my head in astonishment.  I could write a book on the inadequacy of the drivers here, this isn’t hearsay, perception or fabrication. I have witnessed it firsthand. Every time I take to the roads, I see dozens of reckless acts that endanger someone’s life.

Read on Macduff…

A Change In The Wind, Wanderlust Explained

Hello faithful readers and friends. I fear you may have felt somewhat abandoned over the last several months, what with me tripping all over the Himalayas on my mad motorscooter and neglecting my blog. It’s a disease I’m afraid, wanderlust, one I am helpless to control. A slave to this insatiable craving for freedom and adventure, the inexplicable burn to ride, to wander, to explore.  Please do be assured however several larger projects , a novel of epic intrigue, action and excitement and a collection of  memoirs by a motorcycle madman are well underway.  Arriving sooner yet, some sweet kisses in the dark by way of a short fiction story and a slice of life piece full of fun. Still I worry that those of you who do fancy a word from me on a regular basis are feeling somewhat shunned. I offer you this short but heartfelt explanation…

Read on Macduff…

A Wolf By Any Other Name – Fiction

The snow was falling, each unique paisley crystalline pattern spiraling gently earthward. It had started just after 8:30 pm and was increasing its rate of descent, by morning Essex Vermont would be snuggled under a cold white blanket. This was not an unusual scene in Essex. Annually Essex receives almost 90 inches of snow fall, but this was only the end of October. That was a little out of character. Why, Alder Brook hadn’t even frozen over yet! Diligently, burnt umber and fiery red leaves were still clinging to the towering sugar maple and yellow birch trees that surrounded Vermont’s largest town. They stood, like silent sentinels guarding the sleepy ville from the ever encroaching outside and modern world. Yet despite the best efforts of the dominant hemlock forest, Essex had been changing. A huge Price Chopper grocery store, complete with a Little Caesars Pizzeria and a new Tattoo parlor were evidence of that. But for some, some like Jed Coleman, Essex would forever be a cozy little backwater where one could live their life as it used to be. Where a man could still be a man, where he could earn nine hours pay for an honest nine hours work and return home to rule his castle. Where a man could run his household as he saw fit, without all the bleeding heart liberal bull pucky that seemed to have ingrained itself in “modern society.” Yes, to some, Essex Vermont was a step back in time.

Read on Macduff…

Two Nights On Witch Mountain

When was the last time you were scared? Not startled, like rounding a corner and someone is standing there. Or being cuddled up to your significant other while a Hollywood movie monster wreaks havoc on your TV screen. But  scared? Let me rephrase, when was the last time you were terrified? I’m not sure we feel that level of intense fear too often in our lifetime, but when we do, it’s memorable and it can be an exhilarating experience. May 19, 2017 for me, coincidentally my mother’s birthday,  fitting as I was thinking about her quite a bit that night. That night, I was huddled in a cheaply made  tent on the side of a mountain. High in the Chanshal Pass to be exact, hovering above the Shimla district in Himachal Pradesh, India. At 14,830 ft above sea level, I was buried deep inside my sleeping bag and covered with a thick woolen blanket,  beautifully woven in the style of the Himalayan Sherpas, and I was positive I was going to die.

Read on Macduff…

Bear Island

Burial On Bear Island – Fiction

Mac took off his spectacles and the world around him became an impressionist painting, blurry yet somewhat recognizable. He tilted his head back. It was raining and he let the cold drizzle pelt his weathered face. It stung him a little, but  felt good. Mac squeezed his eyes shut, knitting his thick gray eyebrows together and stood motionless letting the water purify him.  Breathing in and out he allowed the salt air of Kingfisher Bay to fill his lungs. The distant cry of two gulls cut through the patter of the droplets on the pier as they argued over the ownership of a scrap of discarded fish bait. He returned his specs to the tip of his nose and flexed his arthritic hands. A sharp pain shot up his arm to his shoulder. Like an electric shock it cleared his mind and signaled him now was the  time for action.  The old man looked at the large burlap bag on the dock, his black Wellington boots straddling the object. Rainwater was soaking into the absorbent material, it was collecting and pooling in the crevices. The sack would be heavy. He stared, willing it to move itself. Mac swallowed hard as tears welled up in the corner of his eyes. If he permitted, they would roll down his cheeks and mix in his beard with the rain. A quick shake of his head cured that. He could not spare the moment to indulge in emotion. There was a job that needed doing.

Read on Macduff…

Rajasthan – Riding The Sands of Time

Beginning in 1500 BC, Alwar’s history has been woven into a colorful Rajasthani tapestry. It glitters as the princely state of Rajput, adorned with Delhi Sultans and garnished the Rulers of Jaipur. Throughout its history, Alwar has always sparkled like a deep blue sapphire in the red Rajasthan desert and today, the city of is full of hustle and bustle and features some fascinating destination locations. But for me it’s a portal back in time and therefore, a perfect place for riding and wandering.

Read on Macduff…

There Ain’t No Code, Only Open Road

First published in,

The Collective Voice Magazine

There is nowhere to hide on the open road. It’s just you, your bike and all your dirty little secrets. Long rides leave you completely exposed. They strip away all the superficial nonsense, all your polite societal veneer. If you ride long enough, every last one of your character flaws will get poured onto the pavement for inspection. Eventually, you will have to examine who you really are, like it or not. If you’re riding in a group, they’ll get to see who you really are too. Truthfully, it’s as simple as that. That does sound a little harsh, perhaps you don’t believe it? Do you find my ideas  a  bit too bombastic for biker talk, or are you chuckling at the ramblings of some antiquated folklore or worn out biker code? Then maybe, just maybe you’re not a biker after all…because the truth is, there ain’t no code, only open road.

Read on Macduff…