M Bardamu
Born in the shadows of New England’s mill towns, M. Bardamu has worn many hats—chef, artist, writer, musician, wanderer—all of them weathered, none of them a perfect fit. He’s walked deserts, climbed mountains, and followed the whispers of the sea, chasing horizons that vanish as soon as they’re found. He’s a nobody, but not in the way people think—more a ghost of the in-between, slipping through cracks where life gets real. He eats books like meals, hums songs that never end, and wears the dust of countless roads like a second skin. His grip is always packed, ready for the next story, the next mile, the next something. Open to creative mischief, strange roads, and whatever comes next.
Posts
Which Tells of the Second Sally, The Ferryman’s Transit, and the First Logbook
Spring arrived at Amicalola, and so did I. Let the history books mark this first day—now at hand, I thought, stepping into the hush of the morning
Of the Dubious Gear Chosen by Our Wanderer, and How Confidence Proved a Worthy Substitute for Wisdom
The path was laid before me. The trail was set. The reckoning had come. The Appalachian Trail, now in its hundredth year, awaited my arrival—but
In Which the Narrative of Our Hiker Stumbles, and What Comes Next
The final wind that swept across the desert floor that evening was the exhale of a sigh—heavy with the weight of a collapsing body—conspiring in the
Which Summons the First Sally, and the Errant Thru-Hiker Who Once Tested the Trail
"In the middle of the journey of my life, I came to myself, in a dark wood, where the direct way was lost." That’s how Dante put it,
That Concerns the Character and Adventures of the Renowned Hiker from Lands Unnamed
O Calliope, Muse of the grand tale, Guide this errant wanderer’s quill and flame, Through hollows deep and ridgelines high, through wind-whipped