The Wilderness Chronicles - Part I

This is the first in a potentially recurring series of entries regarding the conceptual, philosophical, and spiritual ideals I derive from the wilderness. It's meant to express my feelings, my opinions, and my rationale, exclusively. I've been recently told that I sometimes come across as preachy or judgmental. If that's the case, I'm sorry. I hate it when people act patronizing toward me, especially when I know they don't really understand what they're talking about. I have strong feelings on some subjects, and I think that comes across. But if there's one thing I've learned in this life it's that I don't know jack. The more time I spend in the outdoors, the more I realize about what I don't know. Interestingly, graduate school has taught me exactly the same thing. It's a fascinating paradox to realize that the more you learn, the more your ignorance is exposed. Thus often as we get smarter, we feel decidedly stupider. So I'm not claiming I'm right. I'm not claiming you're wrong. This is just how I see it, and I thought you should know.

Dicey situations are mother nature's way of saying that a particular path/plan is a no-go. I admittedly take a pretty conservative line here. It is a philosophy born out of my experiences and growth from them. It's one that's evolved quite a bit lately. In the past I was much more adventurous/risky. I poo-pooed my ranger parents' and friends' admonishment about how I needed to be more careful. I thought they were being overprotective and keeping me from having fun. I felt that I needed to push it closer to the edge to get what I wanted out of the wilderness. I was ignorant to risks I was taking. And I was lucky as hell to survive it.

After both reflecting more about what I really want out of the wilderness, and having experiences that brought me too close to the edge, I take a different approach. There are survival situations where one needs advanced skill, knowledge, and the ability to push their body to the limit. I support the development of those capabilities in controlled environments with experienced people I trust. There are those carpe diem moments, where we are compelled by some higher order to throw caution to the wind. These moments should be chosen very carefully. As a general rule though, I aim to operate much further from the edge of the envelope. There are two primary reasons for this:

1) When you're pushing it that far, there is no margin for error. Unpredictable events, be they in the form of weather, animals, injury/sickness or whatever have the potential to severely harm or kill you. It's my experience that while such events are rare, when they do occur they do so very quickly with little warning and extreme force. If you're that close to the edge when it happens, you're going over it. While one can never totally avoid these risks, nor should we allow ourselves to be hamstrung by fear of them, operating further below one's limits substantially increases the probability of a favorable outcome should the unthinkable occur.

2) When you're pushing it that far, you're not paying attention to the experience. This is more of a matter of personal taste. Many hike, climb, etc. with what I consider a conquering mentality. The goal is to summit the never-summited mountain, to endure beyond what others were able to endure, in some sense to demonstrate human conquering of nature. While I recognize the appeal of this, and have no issue with people doing so (as long as they don't endanger others and/or screw up the wilderness - which unfortunately is actually quite rare), it's just not my thing. I like to stop and listen, look, absorb along the way. To me the point is to spend that hour watching an animal, studying a plant, listening to the water, exploring a small area in depth. I can't do that if my plan demands 20 miles in a day. I go to the wilderness in large part to remind myself of my insignificance, my inability to control it, and thus to me a conquering mentality is backwards.

It's important to note that the two sentiments are connected. If you're paying attention, you're much more likely not only to notice fun stuff, but also to recognize the signs of danger, to avoid unpredicted events, and to make clear and correct decisions. Again, no amount of caution or preparation can guarantee the absence of risk, and we shouldn't spend so much attention anticipating danger that we don't enjoy ourselves. I'm just saying...if you're gasping for air when the bear shows up - because you decided you really needed to charge that hill - maybe you'd have been better to lay off the gas. And if the trail is so brutal that you feel like you're in survival mode, maybe you should choose a different trail, at least until you're better prepared.

The same applies to people whom you choose to explore the wilderness with. For a casual stroll through a city park, or a car-camping trip to the local state forest, the odds of this being relevant are reduced. But in truth, serious situations can happen any time, and the further out you go, the more extreme the adventure, the more trust and confidence you should have in your partners. It may sound melodramatic, but when the business goes down, your life depends upon these people, their capabilities, and the decisions they make. Your collective well-being will often hinge on the lowest common denominator...the weakest link...you get the idea. A friend whom you like having dinner and watching a game with may not be the same friend you want next to you when an avalanche occurs. There's a delicate balance between the additional safety and additional risk afforded by numbers, and thus whether someone is an asset or a liability in the outdoors. Control to the extreme case. Ask yourself if that's somebody you want holding the rope when you're dangling over a cliff. Answer honestly, and choose your companions wisely.

Related to #1, nature is very good at lulling people into a false sense of security. 99% of the time, nothing happens, and no cost is paid for underpreparation, overestimation of capabilities, or "living on the edge." People come back saying "it's no big deal," having done so are anointed experts, and a vicious cycle ensues. Further, we live in a culture that celebrates such risk in the name of volumetric reward. "Peak bagging," "seven summiting," and in general the checking-off of extreme "has-dones" from a list get clout. And basically, most of the time the novice can get away with it. Technology aids and abets. Until the day the 1% comes around, and somebody gets killed. I think together this pushes people to do stupid things that put themselves and others in unnecessary danger. I take issue with that, I think largely because of the stories I heard growing up.

My step-father, a BLM ranger, would come home from work at night, and at the dinner table share stories of some predicament an overambitious (my word, his word = "idiot") outdoor enthusiast got themselves into, and how the situation was resolved. Usually the resolution involved much time, effort, and risk on the part of people other than the enthusiast. While I recognize someone's right to risk their own well-being, it's funny how when those brave adventurers get themselves into trouble, it's other people (like rangers and search and rescue) who have to put themselves on the line to save them. That's not cool. For those who say "they signed up for it," or "that's their job," I point out that while a fireman's job is to put out fires, that doesn't condone arson, or playing with matches. Outdoor adventurers are responsible for knowing their limits and behaving accordingly. There's a time, place, and person suited for the more extreme outdoor experience. Most people, certainly including myself, do not fall in that category, yet many (for various reasons) try. They shouldn't.

I think part of the "problem" (as I see it) are constraints of the modern world. People like John Muir did extreme things, but they did so through the course of very long periods of acclimatization. He might go 50 miles deep into the wilderness, but he was out there for a few months - observing, learning, training, and resting along the way. There wasn't a car, airplane, or helicopter to take him to base camp. He had to walk there, and if something went wrong, he was staying there. He prepared accordingly. People today value getting that far off the grid, but only have a weekend to do it. So they take off on a crazy, grueling expedition, because that's what it takes to get that deep (or cover that much ground) in that little time. Again, to me that usually presents unnecessary risk and waters down the experience. The answer is not that people shouldn't experience these places. In fact I wish more people would. But I believe that if one truly values getting that deep, they must find a way to devote more time, more energy, and accept related compromises. Again, this is just a personal point of view, one that's evolving, and one I recognize is not the prevailing paradigm.

I'm still trying to figure out exactly where I draw the line for myself. RVing in the Winnebago is clearly too far to one end, and Denali/Everest are clearly too far on the other. I value working hard and smart enough to get to places others can't or aren't willing to go. I value expanding my physical and mental fitness and my skillset to be adept in a wider operational envelope. But like many other forms of training, I believe it's best done systematically, progressively, and under control. I push the limits in the weight room and in the swimming pool, not on a mountain or in the ocean. I have little desire to suffer pain, misery, or take on great risk for the sake of saying I've been atop a certain rock, navigated a certain stream, or ridden a certain wave. I'd like my superlative statistics to increase, but never at the expense of the journey... a long journey I'd like to continue for many years.

In nature, when you find yourself asking yourself, "self, should I be doing this?" or wondering whether a particular plan is a good idea, that's your indication that the answer is likely "no" or that particular plan is not. This is an expression of our inherent self-preservative survival sense, which like so many other senses has been dulled by our species' chronic detachment from the wilderness. Be aware of this sentiment, listen for it, and trust it.

Aloha a hui hou.