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When I was about twelve, I traveled with my school chess team to a statewide tournament. On the trip, we stayed overnight at the cabin of one of my teammate’s parents near Allegheny National Forest. I loved chess. But I had a distractingly equal love of being outdoors–some of my earliest memories are crammed in the back of my parent’s truck camper in the Pennsylvania Wilds. On the morning of the competition, I led a group of friends into the woods for what I imagined would be a short walk, armed with unearned authority and the false confidence that comes from a childhood spent outdoors.
We headed into a gorge thick with mountain laurel. Going downhill along with the pull of gravity felt effortless, but I hadn’t considered the return. When it was time to head back, the slope revealed itself, as did the limitations of our young and inexperienced group. What had been an effortless descent became a difficult climb. The undergrowth was dense and the leafy footing was unstable. I suggested abandoning the attempt, and rerouting along the creek that cut through the valley. I felt certain this longer, easier route would intersect the road back to the cabin—fortunately, it did.
But by the time we arrived back, parents were frantic. We had been “missing children.” No one was hurt, but it was clear that taking an unsanctioned, and ultimately lengthy, hike through unfamiliar terrain hadn’t been a wise way to spend the morning. I don’t remember how stern a lecture was given. But I do remember the journey with teammates and friends. And coming home with a 2nd place chess trophy.
At twenty-four, I found myself on another trail, this time in coastal Maine, hiking with my wife and our 11-pound dog—not built for hiking… but spirited. We scrambled up a mountain ridge early in the morning. As we reached the ranger station near the summit, we could see a storm moving in from the ocean. We were now miles from the car, and I knew the trail we had just ascended—smooth granite—would become slippery in the rain. I made the call to try to beat the storm.
The rain came faster than expected. We were still exposed, above the tree line, as stone turned slick beneath our feet. My wife slipped and struck her head just as the trail was getting perilously close to cliff edge. Suddenly, speed was no longer the priority. Survival was. We stopped and huddled against the rock face, waiting for the downpour to pass. For the first time in my life, I hoped for cell signal to figure out how to call for rescue. Eventually though, after a long, cold huddle, the storm eased and grip returned. We made it back to the car soaked and shaken, but safe. We were rewarded with a change into dry clothes and a shared sigh of relief. The dog was rewarded with one of our ham sandwiches.
Both memories share a through line: forward motion felt like leadership—and in both cases, consequences rightly fell on my shoulders. I made reasonable decisions based on partial information, until changing conditions forced a reassessment. The real test wasn’t whether I could push through challenges, but whether I could abandon momentum when it stopped being wise.
That distinction matters deeply to me now. When leading, you set direction with the best information you have, knowing it will never be complete. The path chosen may be right or wrong. Conditions change. People move at different speeds. Sometimes the most responsible thing is pausing and saying out loud: the route we’re on deserves another look.
As I step into the role of leading Landesberg Design, I feel a familiar pull toward forward motion. I feel confident in my instincts and energized by possibility. There is a certain naivety in that impulse—a not-yet-knowing the challenges ahead—that makes stepping forward possible in the first place. I’m reminded that some of the best experiences in my life happened because I was willing to explore without knowing exactly where the trail would lead. And when things go wrong? Well, I’ve navigated slippery slopes before.
I believe in forward movement—determined, curious, attentive, and shared. The kind of movement where we bring the map if we have it but refuse to follow it blindly. The kind of movement that allows room to explore and learn.
So, grab your boots and that backpack filled with fonts. Let’s start walking.
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