In recent years, quite a few strangers have greeted me like a long-lost uncle. I get big handshakes. Even the occasional hug and kiss. These chance meetings often bring forth reminiscing. Unprompted tales of ridges scrambled and gorges followed, not to mention epic descents, busted gear and campsite shenanigans. The common thread is a devotion to being in the wilds, plus a surprising allegiance to a magazine that’s been giving those experiences a voice for twoscore years.

During the last quarter of this stretch, I’ve been in exile on Kangaroo Island. Far from a life of seclusion, this time has become more public than any decade that went before. Among the upshots of guiding at a lighthouse has been a string of accidental encounters, including with a number of Wild followers.

As an erstwhile contributor, the