Sneak Peek of Eventually A Sequoia

Pre-Order my new book

Greetings traveler,

I couldn’t be more pleased to announce the pre-order of my new book, Eventually a Sequoia: Stories of Art, Adventure & The Wisdom of Giants as well as an accompanying Special Edition. The stories in this book are about heroes, but not in a Marvel way. It’s about normal people who run towards the edge not only to see what’s there but how they can help by utilizing creativity and story-telling. “Eventually” is part adventure narrative, part personal gut-check as I ask the question “how can art help amidst the chaos of the world?” It’s full of drawings, doubt, and whatever light’s left after the fire burns out.

But don’t take my word for it-

Eventually a Sequoia could’ve been just another book about climbing mountains and chasing remote landscapes. But it’s not. It’s about the harder, deeper thing: letting those places—and the people in them—change you.

As a Native person and a Midwesterner, I see the shape of that journey. I was that kid too—curious, restless, trying to understand the world beyond where I came from. I’ve walked in some of these same places Jeremy writes about. And still, this book pulled me in. Not with spectacle, but with sincerity. With the honest work of showing up, listening, paying attention.

Jeremy doesn’t pretend to be the hero. He puts his ego down and picks up a pen. What comes through is a kind of reverence—for people, for story, for the slow work of transformation. This book blends art, field notes, and lived experience into something rare: a guide to living with intention, humility, and wonder.

I wish I had this book when I was younger.

But I’m glad it’s in the world now.

~ Dr Len Necefer, Founder & CEO of Native Outdoors

Sample Writing from Chapter 5: The Ring of Fire

(the scene: an early morning in the forest)

My alarm woke me at three o’clock in the morning. With perfect springtime conditions, I was sleeping in the open under the pines with a clear sky at a brisk 40 degrees Fahrenheit. I rolled out and grabbed my pack. As Anthony brewed coffee nearby under the glow of his headlamp, Wendy reminded us why we were up so early. “We are trying to measure how stressed our study trees are by collecting foliage samples,” she said. “We collect them when they are the least stressed, right before the sun comes up, after they’ve had the evening to recover, and then again at midday when the sun is at its highest. We compare these timepoints to assess how stressed a tree is. The foliage is under tension, and when we clip our samples, the water column retracts back into the stem. We use an instrument called a pressure chamber to force the water back out of the stem, and the amount of pressure this requires is equal to the tension the foliage was under.”

I nodded quietly, trying to fully understand the process, and did some light stretching before hiking back to tree #104. We passed through the silent grove, and I found the rope (fortunately) still dangling in the dark. A maze of branches were silhouetted against a dark indigo sky splattered with stars. I attached my ascenders and rose into the darkness. At the top of the 75 meter tall tree, I again took samples and placed them in a bag attached to my harness. I clipped into my descending device and checked my system for safety. But then I stopped. Why was I in a hurry to get down? Instead, I sat on a limb and breathed quietly as sunrise crept over the northern Sierra.

I was that floppy-haired kid in the sycamore again. I wasn’t afraid anymore, but I still felt a need for moments of hiding from the chaos of the world. Up there was a place to leave it all behind—much like what rock climbing offered me. Being off the ground introduced a radical departure from the y-axis and had felt as normal as walking to me for as long as I could remember. It was not just the trees that offered a place of safety; it was also the rhythm of leaving the earth for a moment. Birds started to chirp, and the sun rose as beautifully as a Philip Glass song—sunlight hitting every little thing like strokes on piano keys all around me.

I was just another limb of the forest.