Steve Skafte

Steve Skafte Ardent explorer of misplaced memories, uninterrupted daily journal since 2007. All copies of my books are personally signed and packaged by me.

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SteveSkafte.substack.com I've lived just outside of Bridgetown, Nova Scotia ever since I was born in 1987. By the summer of 2007, nearly everyone I grew up with had moved away, out west or to the city. I left too, taking my bicycle across New Brunswick and Maine, wandering around for weeks in the countryside. I c

ame home that fall, and realized I hardly even knew what I was leaving behind. That's when I started a daily photo-journal that I've created and shared ever since, a combination of photos, prose, and poems. It began as an excuse to get me out driving and hiking the backroads of Annapolis County, and to finally explore every inch of home. But it's ended up following me through everything and everywhere since, beyond Nova Scotia, from Greece to Chicago, on the day my grandfather died, and on my wedding day – everything is remembered. It recaptured the sense of adventure I always felt as a kid, when every backyard and tiny stream seemed endless and full of wonder. I come from a blue collar background, and a family without much interest in art. So I learned to be a storyteller, to try and reach people on an ordinary level, but sneak in something deeper on the inside. I spend nearly all of my time alone, and what I've learned in these years is how isolation can be a powerful creative force. What you can achieve with aloneness is time to think, how to handle your thoughts with no one else to listen. We all just speak the way we were raised, but writing is tool to shape a language within a language, a style of expression you invented for yourself. I don't care for complex conversations, but words in text offer a depth that comes with forethought. I’ve always mumbled and stuttered, tripping on my own tongue, so slowing down did a lot for me. I have an overwhelming anxiety, but writing holds back the nervous energy until it’s something worthwhile. Poetry, prose, and photography are like a barrier and a door, cage and key, restraint and escape. The hikes I take down forgotten roads and the explorations of abandoned buildings are mirrors of my need to be noticed, and most of all, useful. There’s nothing better than letting someone know that it’s okay to be a dreamer. I’ve self-published many books of photography/prose, poetry, and even a couple guidebooks – all available here:

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08/16/2026

Want to be part of helping my daily journal survive? Consider supporting my work for as little as $1/month:

Get more from Steve Skafte on Patreon. Sharing my daily journal, uninterrupted adventures since 2007.. Support Steve Skafte and get exclusive access to their work.

OUT THE HEART —— Deep in the woods, west of Phinney Mountain and north of Upper Cross Road, signs of an old homestead st...
08/15/2026

OUT THE HEART —— Deep in the woods, west of Phinney Mountain and north of Upper Cross Road, signs of an old homestead still linger. It might have been the Jackson family who first cleared this overgrown field, piled rocks at its margins, and discovered the spring that saved them the effort of digging a well. Cellar walls of their homestead remain to be seen nearby. A number of trees suggest former human habitation, like this one, out of place among the natural flora. From here, it's hard to guess what led to such a supine position, bent almost bowing to the earth. But around back looks like the sign of some long-ago lightning strike, hollowing out the heart and redirecting what life remained. There's new green in those branches every summer still. These open clearing hold host to a natural congregation, every creature craving space in a young growth forest, tangled with the leavings of clearcutters. Seems ironic that the most untouched places are often those we've inhabited long ago. Walk me under that welcoming alcove, like the door to some secret garden, and let wonder when I am on the other side.

August 13, 2026
Phinney's Cove, Nova Scotia

Year 19, Day 6850 of my daily journal.

LAST NIGHT'S SLEEP —— Every hollow tree is a chance to get a grip on how it feels for life and death to get into each ot...
08/15/2026

LAST NIGHT'S SLEEP —— Every hollow tree is a chance to get a grip on how it feels for life and death to get into each other. We might be the only species that sees loosing part of ourselves as a possible reason to surrender. Most things just get on with the business of living. Pain and disability slow them down, but never stop. Lately, I've been speaking to an elderly audience at least once a week. You can see shortly into the conversation the difference between who's going strong and who's giving up. The bright bunch aren't always who you'd think. Some stand stiff and look sharply, others seem shy and sit at peace. I wonder what I'll be like when I'm almost late. Obviously, I've got the same hope as most — to be mostly independent till my last night's sleep. But if I chance to lose a lot of me on the way, I aim to not surrender. Artistic intent has a way of focusing your mind. Something to say or share gives the hours their only meaning. There's a wide gulf between a hollow tree and a rotten one.

August 13, 2026
Phinney's Cove, Nova Scotia

Year 19, Day 6850 of my daily journal.

08/15/2026

I've just finished my spring/summer tour promoting "Outskirts of Ordinary" and I want to thank, quite profusely, the 20 lovely venues that hosted me. This includes an array of museums, community halls, historical societies, local businesses, and libraries across western/central Nova Scotia.

*** Special Mention of my 5 favourites on this tour! ***
High Tides Arts & Community Centre
Bass River Community Victoria Hall
Admiral Digby Museum
Eldridge Memorial Library Sandy Cove
DesBrisay Museum

That being said, I want to take a short moment to make a plea for professionalism from some venues on this tour (NOT the ones mentioned, which were flawless). I won't name any specifically, because this isn't designed to call them out. I realize that they're largely volunteer-run, and as such, can have trouble keeping track of details. But when I show up to discover that clearly-discussed and agreed-upon requirements are not fulfilled, it adds a certain degree of unnecessary stress.

4 of the venues did not have the requested projector/laptop setup prepared when I arrived, despite being repeatedly reminded and clearly acknowledging those reminders. This led to a late start of at least 20 minutes in each case.

1 of the venues promoted an entirely different starting time to the talk than was agreed upon, despite never informing me of this change.

1 of the venues did not agree on who was to arrive first to unlock the door, only arriving 10 minutes before I was set to start speaking.

I don't say any of this to complain, but rather, as friendly advice so that our small local venues can remember that their continued success relies on a positive experience of the performers/speakers/audience they wish to involve. Audiences have been great across the board, and I'd gladly return to anywhere that would have me again. I genuinely love showing up in some tiny town or village and telling tales to a welcoming crowd. The human connection never goes amiss.

Hold fast.

I was 16 years into my career (2007-2023) before my first real success/recognition as a writer. Those early years often ...
08/15/2026

I was 16 years into my career (2007-2023) before my first real success/recognition as a writer. Those early years often found me thinking how it'd feel to die a failure — most writers do. From my poetry paperback Long Time, No Sea (2014). Grab a signed copy 50% off here: etsy.com/shop/SteveSkafte

TELL MYSELF —— What fascinates me most about a sudden stop is how final that moment might be. All the clear chaos when t...
08/14/2026

TELL MYSELF —— What fascinates me most about a sudden stop is how final that moment might be. All the clear chaos when this wreck was pushed off a breathless embankment, before a couple big rocks followed, and the rest was left to rust and rot. Any future change is coming slow. The very long wait to disappear has started, and it won't rush past like some magician's trick. Fales River is just below here, flowing in a line that'll be little different when this rusty body is as absent as mine. All the thinking I've been doing can take me traveling any time. The engine of imagination is driving me forward, the push and pleasure of stories I tell myself. I won't always be able to visit the furthest reaches, scale the hardest slopes, or endure the worst terrain. I might lose interest in the brutality of bugs and the bitterest of cold and heat. But the depth of my mind insists on this at least — that I'll never find the bottom, no matter how far I seek.

August 12, 2026
East Tremont, Nova Scotia

Year 19, Day 6849 of my daily journal.

OBVIOUS ANSWER —— I've disliked nostalgia in all its manifestations, ever since I grew old and wary enough to detect its...
08/14/2026

OBVIOUS ANSWER —— I've disliked nostalgia in all its manifestations, ever since I grew old and wary enough to detect its presence. People assign notions of past perfection to almost any object, event, or collection of memories, rather than admitting that the biggest change for the worse has been themselves. "Remember when?" is the lead-in question to some commercial experience, the toys, movies, video games, or TV shows from their childhood. Nostalgia abusers never feel that anything modern is superior. When they're done extolling the virtues of product placement, they start talking about things they could still do — like watching Saturday morning cartoons in their pajamas, riding bikes around the neighbourhood, or playing in the sprinkler. If you want to act like a kid, who's stopping you? If the obvious answer is yourself, than you've hit upon the problem. Because I hike and explore for a living, I rarely feel like the present can't live up to my expectations. The next adventure is the one that excites me, making certain that I don't place what was any higher than what is and what will be. What good does it do anyone, least of all me, if I can't fall in love every morning?

August 12, 2026
East Tremont, Nova Scotia

Year 19, Day 6849 of my daily journal.

08/14/2026

I'll be telling tales from my latest book "Outskirts of Ordinary" this weekend in Tupperville. Heartfelt and harrowing stories of survival from Annapolis Valley, Nova Scotia. Hope to see you if you're around!

August 15 (Saturday) – 2:00 PM
2663 Highway 201, Tupperville
Tupperville Museum

08/14/2026

Here’s my top 10 restaurants in western Nova Scotia, in alphabetical order. If you’d like to share your favourites in this part of the world, please do! All I ask is that you don’t waste time telling us what you don’t like.

Beach Pea (Lunenburg)
Dickie-Baxter Taproom (Canning)
Edelweiss (Mount Hanley)
Hole in the Wall (Windsor)
The Indian Masala House (Bridgetown)
JEJU (Wolfville)
La Cuisine Robicheau (Saulnierville)
Main & Mersey (Liverpool)
Thai Memory (Aylesford)
Troy (Wolfville)

WAKE AND WONDERa lower power told me:"you better sober down and walkthat straight and narrow line"I sense her presencean...
08/13/2026

WAKE AND WONDER

a lower power told me:
"you better sober down and walk
that straight and narrow line"
I sense her presence
and I send her presents
in my footprints left behind
I am a drunk dreamer
a schemer of slept-in silence
lying with a lover who offers
whatever's the opposite of violence
a game of tackle and touch
to hurt your heart
it don't take much
a thousand times
I wake and wonder
why I feel concussed
a lust for life
her head is pounding
for a trip to take a tan
lie in the sun
and bury your loved one
up to his neck in sand
I've been woken wondering
why the waves are slow to rise
I'm in love with her
up to my eyes

~ ~ ~

August 11, 2026
Westfield, Nova Scotia

Year 19, Day 6848 of my daily journal.

Address

Bridgetown, NS

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