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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HIGH TIDE HOVERS —— The old village never changes much, but it sure sets a shift in me. I don't haunt Hampton quite so o...
06/14/2026

HIGH TIDE HOVERS —— The old village never changes much, but it sure sets a shift in me. I don't haunt Hampton quite so often as I used to, at least twice weekly in the old days. Now it's more of an old friend occasion. Here I come just checking in on the former you and I. This evening, the west beach holds host to a bonfire crowd, making their run from heatwave weather in the Valley. Nearly every evening up here is cool without fail, so if you like it hot, you're probably living in the wrong place. High tide hovers all deep and dark, silence swallowed in the stillness of waves barely breaking. Wrapping me up in notions of nothing happening. For the few fishers left, this is their place of work. But for most, we come for the joys of a shore too cold to swim.

June 12, 2026
Hampton, Nova Scotia

Year 19, Day 6788 of my daily journal.

SHALLOW SOIL —— Half a week of blistering heat in early June. These are times when I love the sea the most. When it's ei...
06/14/2026

SHALLOW SOIL —— Half a week of blistering heat in early June. These are times when I love the sea the most. When it's either stuck inside to cool off, or sweating in the shade, I come for the cold that Fundy never fully shakes. Set me on the sand still radiating stolen sunshine. Castaway with dead dry seaw**d and driftwood dreams. Wild roses are coming into bloom, thriving in the shallow soil, salty spray, and morning mist. I've learned to take time easy between the days that set me in a rush. I might well the sort who can never stop or can never get going. Living in a way just chaotic enough to not be either has served me well. If I did the same thing daily, I'd be in a stupor. Just let me live a little like the eternal upheaval of the weather.

June 12, 2026
Hampton, Nova Scotia

Year 19, Day 6788 of my daily journal.

Today, I spoke at Victoria Hall in Bass River. It was a lovely, welcoming crowd of folks listening to stories from my la...
06/14/2026

Today, I spoke at Victoria Hall in Bass River. It was a lovely, welcoming crowd of folks listening to stories from my latest book: Outskirts of Ordinary. Meant a lot to see such friendly faces at my furthest talk from home this year. Surely enough to make the six hour round trip worth it.

When I'm on the road, I'm often eating wherever is at hand. Remote rural communities are light on options, so that sometimes means I'm stuck with some low-rent backroad diner — beloved by the locals, but disappointing to me. So you can imagine how happy I am when some little jewel shows itself on the roadside!

Heading back east home through Great Village, I pulled into a place I'd spotted on my way west a couple hours earlier — Payam's Food Corner. Unexpected location in the basement of an old church, a great repurposing of the space. Some fantastic Syrian food I had there, in a room almost to myself. You really should go if you're ever in the area!

THE LAST PERSON —— Men don't like me nearly so much as women. It's a curious fact, but one that's stayed consistent thro...
06/13/2026

THE LAST PERSON —— Men don't like me nearly so much as women. It's a curious fact, but one that's stayed consistent throughout my career. 70% of my online audience is female. The same is true for the folks at my talks — looking over a crowd is a majority feminine experience, every time. I'm not surprised, because the rest of my life has been reflective of this. I spent my youth seeking friendship from the opposite s*x. It let me sidestep the competitiveness of my fellow fellows, focusing on finding the feelings they were afraid to admit. I couldn't stand it around strong arms and weak hearts. Those who claim that boys and girls can't be friends are among my least favourite humans. If that were true, I'd be entirely friendless to this day.

Life must suck when you're always after a mate. Desire is directionless, it's just an urge you feel, but most men I've known are always trying to aim it at someone. It makes sense, animalistically, their primal drive to carry on the species and all that. But I never wanted kids, and of all the women I've kept company with, I was only ever attracted to one. Never could picture wanting someone unless I was already completely in love with them — and that's only ever happened with Susy. We've been married nearly fifteen years now, and I've felt no flicker of an interest in any other.

I've had a certain privilege in being able to freely reject any incoming attraction. When a woman rejects a man, she wonders if he'll be mature about it, insult her, shout at her, or attempt some form of physical harm. He might self-destruct their friendship, having built it only as a bridge to something else. Whenever I chose to keep a woman as friend, I felt no fear of conflict or consequence. They simply started pursuing others, and we stayed the same for however long our friendship survived. I put less expectations on human connections because I'm most of all me. My gender identity is only nominally male, and mainly just because it was the body I was born in. I don't trust anyone overly obsessed with what society says they are. Be who you'd be as the last person on Earth.

June 11, 2026
Wentzells Lake, NS

Year 19, Day 6787 of my daily journal.

ANTIQUES EVEN THEN —— Sometime around about the War of 1812, these cannons were placed as insurance against small-scale ...
06/12/2026

ANTIQUES EVEN THEN —— Sometime around about the War of 1812, these cannons were placed as insurance against small-scale invasion. Seabound citizens of the newly formed United States had formed a habit of raiding their neighbours to the north, so in an effort to prevent plundering, these cannons were placed. There was the Duke of York Battery (Victoria Beach) and Prince Regent Battery (here at Bay View). Each had four guns and a blockhouse, constantly manned and aiming across the mouth of Annapolis Basin. Privateers from down south were just begging to get caught in the crossfire. But those concerns never came to be, and eventually, both blockhouses and cannon carriages rotted away to nothing. All that remains is a whole lot of iron on the forest floor. If I did my calculations right from their markings, they should each weigh in at over 4,500 pounds. They bear the mark of monarch King George II — who died in 1760. Antiques even then.

There are only three left here now, the fourth having been moved to the Digby waterfront years ago. Not sure what became of those at Victoria Beach, but all are gone now. Parks Canada owns this isolated plot of land, only accessible over ankle-rolling rocks at low tide. It'll remain as an eternal relic, rarely seen, unless the nearby landowner ever allows a path from Bayview Shore Road. You couldn't know what was here or spot it in passing, and I went by for much of my life unknowing, coming and going on the Saint John Ferry. The fact of these cannons having never fired in anger (at least not since arriving here) has an appeal to me that would be less for military historians. I'm fascinated by stories of less significance, and how these hunks of rust have been hiding here for two centuries, sinking lower yearly. They hold an draw that's shaped in the absence of purpose. I think that's every bit as good as self-importance.

June 10, 2026
Bay View, Nova Scotia

Year 19, Day 6786 of my daily journal.

W**D THAT'S WISE —— The mark of King George II, broke out of the cannon cast, then sent across the sea. This gun probabl...
06/12/2026

W**D THAT'S WISE —— The mark of King George II, broke out of the cannon cast, then sent across the sea. This gun probably would've been scrapped generations ago if it weren't so hard to reach. I often think about what it means to be meaningless, and how ordinary stories are more interesting to me than epic ones. It's somewhere in the rush of giving my own life meaning. Directing my existence through little adventures, everyday imagination, inspired in the way of waking and getting out of bed. Don't you start telling me I have to change the world — at least not until I'm capable of changing myself on a whim. I'm a w**d that's wise to the desperation. That's right, find me a crack and I'll prove I can sprout and bloom in it. I believe in things like dappled light and discovering the best conditions for growth. There ain't nothing that isn't a metaphor.

June 10, 2026
Bay View, Nova Scotia

Year 19, Day 6786 of my daily journal.

Catch me on the road in Bass River this Saturday! It's the furthest talk from home that I'll be giving on this tour. Hop...
06/12/2026

Catch me on the road in Bass River this Saturday! It's the furthest talk from home that I'll be giving on this tour. Hope to see you. More chances coming up below:

June 18 (Thursday) – 7:00 PM
2666 Windsor Street, Halifax
Cruikshank's Funeral Home

June 24 (Wednesday) – 7:00 PM
95 Montague Row, Digby
Admiral Digby Museum

July 4 (Saturday) – 7:00 PM
758 Highway 1, Mount Uniacke
Uniacke Estate Museum

July 9 (Thursday) – 7:00 PM
339 Church Hill Road, Sandy Cove
Eldridge Memorial Library

July 13 (Monday) – 7:00 PM
660 Highway 1, Smith's Cove
United Methodist Church

July 18 (Saturday) – 2:00 PM
130 Jubilee Road, Bridgewater
DesBrisay Museum

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

How many of you read my monthly "Wild Abandon" column in the wonderful little magazine Rural Delivery? In every single i...
06/12/2026

How many of you read my monthly "Wild Abandon" column in the wonderful little magazine Rural Delivery? In every single issue since 2021, they've given me a couple pages to tell a story about something derelict in Nova Scotia — be it an abandoned road, cemetery, or structure. Always a pleasure to see my little adventures in print.

RuralLife.ca is a hub for those people who live and work in rural communities in Atlantic Canada. We offer stories, commentary, industry news, profiles and even recipes for those hardworking, hands-in-the-soil people of Atlantic Canada.

SILENCE STOPPED —— Can't stay too long, because of course the blackflies have already found me. They're fighting a race ...
06/11/2026

SILENCE STOPPED —— Can't stay too long, because of course the blackflies have already found me. They're fighting a race against a world that's quickly drying out, and the soon-coming end of their lifespan. I'm sure they're hungry, and maybe it's selfish, but I'd rather keep my blood to myself. My survival seems shaped around attaining a certain meditative quality. Not from some framework of spirituality, but almost the absence of it. Just feeling — sun on my skin, tree trunk between my shoulder blades and running up my spine. Listening to the wind in the leaves, the slow-running water of Round Hill River. Then thinking about those things only, as best as I can. For the first half of my life, I did as I was told, always waiting for some holy message. Endless expectation with no conclusion did my anxiety no good. But I've heard a lot better since silence stopped bugging me. A life without hidden meaning is not a life without meaning, like I was taught to believe.

June 9, 2026
Round Hill, Nova Scotia

Year 19, Day 6785 of my daily journal.

WHO LEFT HIS HEART —— Some of my most-loved waterfalls land like this. A ninety-degree corner of chaos, followed by an i...
06/10/2026

WHO LEFT HIS HEART —— Some of my most-loved waterfalls land like this. A ninety-degree corner of chaos, followed by an immediate sense of calm. There's a sort of shyness suggested on approach, hiding in the brush around the bend. Moore's Brook doesn't have much to offer in the sense of fury. It meanders slowly, mostly out of sight, and dries to a trickle in summer. But when I come here, it often seems that no one does — though the footpaths and prints left suggest otherwise. It's just that visitors are sporadic, and the trail is unmarked, so no one could mistake this place for a popular destination. I come as someone who left his heart here last time. That's how I aim to keep it feeling wherever I wander, making brief encounters in lonesome spaces with who I hope I am. Holding fast to where the world slows down.

June 8, 2026
North Alton, Nova Scotia

Year 19, Day 6784 of my daily journal.

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