Follow the Leader

Blessed is the influence of one true, loving human soul to another. - George Eliot

Delightful mischief. (That is not the name of this horse.)

The familiar smile looking back at me from the memorial celebration invite pinned to the fridge still looks as bright as when the postman delivered it over a month ago. Her smile doesn’t change at all across my thirty three years of memories that include her, nor has it faded in these last seven months since she passed away. Steady, smiling, warm. The memories of her life that I hold in my mind go further back in time than what my three decades could include. The stories she told color my mind, a vibrant life lived with intention and carefree confidence, with laughter and smiles no matter the ups or downs, a life filled with love freely given.

“She was a wonderful sister,” Lorna says. “She was just wonderful,” clasping my hand with hers. Her hand is cool, smooth, and lovely - just the way her sister’s felt, only less crooked with arthritis. “She shouldnt have had to be that responsible but she took care of me. Only two years were between us, but she was my big sister. She always took care of me.” Lorna’s eyes get bigger as they look into mine, searching for understanding, for acknowledgment, and...almost... for a bit of forgiveness, maybe about having been the younger.

They were only 5 and 7. At first, it was Daddy who led the horse three miles from their Miles City homestead to the school house until the horse learned to make his way alone with the two little girls on his back. The next time she told it, it was Mama. Either way, it was a shame that one parent or the other didn’t take the girls the short distance to school in their car. Corma shouldn’t have had to be responsible - they were babies. But they wanted to go to school and Lorna had Corma, and Corma took care of her. She sat in the saddle leading the horse with Lorna sitting just behind the saddle. Their path crossed a creek where the horse would take the break to drink. It path crossed a meadow where he would snack on tall grasses. There were wolves in those parts of Montana. Why didn’t Daddy or Mama take them to school? “Corma was such a wonderful sister.”

Corma

My mind often sees my grandmother in one particularly cold Montana winter in the early 1940’s when she was a single woman in her late 20’s. She stood at the bus stop in a heavy jacket that covered her well-dressed, shivering figure, its thick fur collar pulled tight around her neck as she tried to stay warm. It was so cold it hurt to breathe. It Hurt. To. Breathe. She had tried to build a life there, had worked her way through business college and found a good job, her family lived nearby, she had good friends who she went with to dances and parties. But was she happy enough to stay in that cold, harsh place? She was smart and intuitive to know when something wasn’t right, when enough was enough, when it was time to let go and move on.

She didn’t wait for anyone else to make life happen for her. In a time without Facebook, pinning, skype, texting, cell phones, her only connections to the family and friends she left behind were limited to handwritten letters, the occasional telegram and the once-in-a-blue-moon visit. She could’ve stayed with the familiar. She could’ve shivered and pouted. Instead, she loaded up her Little Green Hornet with her belongings and drove west, an extra set of retread tires that her Butte employer had given to her as a parting gift in the trunk just in case. If she felt fear, she moved through it. Courageously. She said yes to life. Of all her stories, this is my favorite.

Lorna is 95 and sometimes her memory switches things - was it Daddy or Mama? - and today she shared this story with me many times, each time as if it had never been told before. We aren’t so different - I have shared the story I treasure many times too. Maybe there is a reason we tell the same tales over and over. Despite some discrepancies, some details don't ever change.

Corma was a wonderful sister. Corma was a wonderful grandmother. She lived with courage. She delighted in the new and different, standing tall and proud of herself and her family with graceful confidence.

Lorna’s eyes twinkle while she gently, firmly clasps my hand as she tells me the story again. Behind that beautiful twinkle and in her grip, is such familiar confident pride and gentle caring. Does she know how many similarities she has to my grandmother? When I close my eyes, I see her smile, hear her happy laugh and every now and again, I see a spark of her fire for life in my own heart and mind encouraging me to say “Yes, Go.”

Idaho City

A nugget of summer warmth from the ol'travel log for a cold end-of-winter day...

Pungent, familiar earth and pine fill my nose. The coolness of morning is breaking, a hint at the day’s oncoming heat. Yesterday, temps in this dusty town crept above 100F. It’s only ten in the morning and already pushing the mercury, a far cry from the night before when I closed my eyes under the watchful gaze of a familiar moon and cool mountains a few hundred miles back up the highway.

Dogs search for nap spots in the shadows from trucks on Main Street. Under a sliver of shade cast by the porch roof, I watch two men across the dirt road hawk raffle tickets to out-of-town passerby in support of some community fund. I can only make out a few words, the rest I learn from a hand-painted butcher paper sign; winner walks away with a hand built table.

Four hundred and fifty eight, give or take a few. That is the total population of once bustling Idaho City, a former mining mecca. Like so many other towns that dot western hillsides, it misplaced its hustle and bustle somewhere along the way morphing into a blink-and-miss-it trinket stop. This map dot now survives on gold from the pockets of accidental tourists who stumble upon it. Candles, knickknacks, quilts, jam. Get yourself a piece history before its fully lost to progress and time. Who but locals and tourists who stop long enough to read placards on buildings remembers what was once a hub? Does anyone ever send a postcard from Idaho City scrawling “Wish you were here!” across the back?

My souvenir is a small burn on my chest from where the sun heated my jacket zipper while sitting on the porch with my coffee. Maritime city girls like me aren’t used to solar heated branding that comes with summertime in the West.

High clouds. Birds chirping. What was it like to be a woman here during the heyday 140 years ago? Sweating in jeans and a tee, I think of the dresses and petticoats women wore and how the heavy fabric would’ve stuck to skin, an unrelenting reminder of gender rules of the day.
A door slams pulling me to the present. At the far end of the porch, a silent group of men in front of Calamity Jayne’s Restaurant collectively endure the heat. Their intimidating presence blocks the way I intended to go. Would it have been this way in the 1860’s too or would I have found stubborn gumption under all those layers of fabric and hard-worn skin to go into that restaurant anyways in search of breakfast?

The heat holds the real power. It’s not quite worth it to get up and move, skin sticking to denim and cotton. Today’s meal will consist of coffee kept warm in my aluminum mug by the blazing morning sun.

This is a town of hard work. The kind you cant wash out of the creases in your hands or from under your fingernails despite suds and hot water. A man at the other end moves through the heat, his shirt clinging to sweaty skin outlining an oh-so-touchable back. That sinew and muscle is more likely from hard labor rather than a desire to simply look strong like some of my city-dwelling man friends.
In my distraction, I didn’t realize that the drips running down my back and between my breasts had turned into a river.

Dusty and quiet. It’s time to hit the road. I pour out my overheated beverage, slide back into my truck, and crank the A/C to full capacity. Idaho City disappears from my rear-view mirror into the quiet silence of its long-ago history.

Five Great Things From Outdoor Retailer Winter Market

Outdoor Research. Debuting our shiny new booth.

The Outdoor Retailer Tradeshow. A reunion of summer camp proportions for folks in all arenas of the outdoor world; suppliers, non-profits, guides and athletes, manufacturers, retailers, PR folks, sales reps, writers, and event organizers interested in all things that relate in every way to skiing, climbing, hiking, running, fishing, yadda yadda. Its the twice yearly opportunity to debut everything shiny and new: innovations to rock our adventure worlds, colors that will make their mark on our future closet palettes, expressions of artistic celebration for the places and adventures we love... The "#ORSHOW" is a four day extravaganza of meetings, education, selling, way too much coffee and way too little sleep.  Each show reveals something that, despite the long hours and sensory overload, sticks in my mind long after the last stretch of red carpet has been rolled up and the final crate of mannequins has been packed away. From the Outdoor Retailer Winter Market 2012 show, here are my top 5 things of 9 (the other four are coming later):

1. The OIWC's Breakfast and Awards Presentation. Powerful words from award winners Karen T'King (Pioneering Woman Award) and Liz Stahura (First Ascent Award), their presenters, Steph Davis and Julia Day and sponsor presenters, Audrey Hicks and Maile Buker were enough to fill the inspiration and motivation buckets, but the bucket filling didnt stop there. To be in a room so jam packed full of strong, motivated, and active women and men who together all support gender equality in the workplace was incredible. Moments like this feel like progress and hope grows for better opportunities for all of us in the future. Karen hit it spot on commenting, "Whether we succeed through rebellion or nurturing, well, that's probably best saved for cocktail conversation". I'd have to say its a little of both, and we could use more of both.

2. Hugs. Lots of hugs. Squeezy ones. Tall ones. Short Ones. The kind that sway back and forth. Ones accompanied by giggles. Some that smell of shampoo, clean laundry, or dawn patrol. Hugs that lift you off your feet. Ones that ooze friendship and love. They are good. All of them. Every single one is unique. Every single one feels wonderful. And if you are in any sort of hug deficit, the tradeshow is the ideal place to fill up your reserves. The show can be tough. Nonstop meetings start at 7am, followed by dinners that revolve around work and then post dinner events that end late that are also mostly about work. Coffee is one way to get through it all. But the real secret? Hugs. Nothing refills my stores of happy and energy faster or better than all the hugs. This is the absolute best part of the show, hands down. More, please.

Gelato. A great lunch option. Just bring a friend. 

3. Men With Appetites. Now, don't get the wrong idea. I like food, but alas, my food shelves fill quickly. Even my ice cream shelf. Sigh. Its such a shame to waste tasty morsels of culinary goodness, especially a two-egg-with-bacon breakfast. Luckily, in this industry heavily weighted towards the male gender, its pretty much an absolute that meals will be had with men who double as skiers, alpinists, ice climbers, etc. and who require copious amounts of food to sustain their fuel stores for those sports. Its so great because I can order whatever I want. They order what they want, (and maybe they even order an extra waffle for the table - awesome). I eat a little of what I order, grab a bite of what they have - sharing is caring! - and then leave the rest for them to consume in preparation for whatever adventure they've planned next. Its great. Very rarely does a plate get cleared that isn't fully cleaned of the last crumb even though I dont have to do the cleaning.

4. You too can be a save-the-world scientist. Before an unfortunate experience with a chemistry class in college, I entertained the idea of being a park ranger, veterinarian, or environmental biologist. Alas, it was both my first and last chemistry class. Luckily, Adventurers and Scientists for Conservation can provide me or you the opportunity to contribute to scientific research that effects the places we love to play and the species who inhabit those places even if we dont have the letters P, H, and D at the end of our names. The organization is built on the brilliant idea of providing opportunities for the average hiker, climber, and bird watcher to tap into their inner field researcher by collecting samples while out hiking/climbing/calling to birds. The samples are provided to researchers matched with the hiker/climber/birder who are doing specific studies and need an inexpensive way to gather data. Not that I ever really need an excuse to get out there, but the idea of my adventures having a value beyond my own personal satisfaction and enjoyment makes it all that more meaningful.

Yes, please.

5. Boots. They are the one girly impulse I cant help. Ariat Boots sprung into my life a couple years ago at the show. Speed walking from one corner of the convention center to another, I was stopped dead in my tracks by beautiful creations of leather, wood, rubber, and color. Holy smokes, sister, brother. Since, the Little Green House has acquired two pairs, and I'm not ashamed to admit a third pair are now on their way to join the party. The most comfortable post-climbing footwear and the only things that didn't make my feet hurt standing day after day at the show. Their upcoming fall selection is no exception, with gorgeous new styles to satiate your inner cowgirl, city girl, English countryside girl, or climber girl. Call this a shameless product plug, but you'll probably also call me to dish how much your feet love you after you get a pair.

Where the Streets Have No Pavement: A Colorado Retrospective

Right. Take note.

Flying from Denver to Montrose, there was no sudden lightening bolt realization. It was simply understood from the get-go. This is a place like no other. The tarmac and flat plains east of Denver fell away to ridges, rock faces, sharp peaks, and rippling black-green trees as we ascended higher into the sky. The dual explosion of me out of my seat and amazed expletives from my mouth were unavoidable when the Black Canyon drifted by my window. WHAT IS THAT!?! I was so dazzled with the spectacle below, I hardly had time to freak out about the teeny plane I was trapped in or whether or not this visually non-aerodynamic beast would be able to land on the frozen ground. The thought did cross my mind that I was happy I wore my biggest belt buckle and pink cowboy boots.

The 38th state in our fine country, Colorado shares borders with 7 other states. Seven! (an amazing thing for a Seattleite who’s state borders only 2). While none are marked with any natural boundaries, the 104,000+ square miles of its territory are pretty jam packed with natural wonders. Like the San Juans. The view of which is infectious and enhanced even more with a full moon while I’m soaking in a 104degree outdoor hot springs nestled at the base of 12,000’+ peaks. But as I mentioned above, the natural treasures of the Centennial State really were no surprise. However here are 6 unexpected fascinating wonders I discovered in Colorado mountain towns that you wont find anywhere else, maybe. (or maybe you will, how do I know?)

1. Tornado shelters in the airports.

Dirt road.

WHAT?! I’m equipped with an avi beacon, a SPOT, a sharp knife for cutting stuck rope, prusiks or fending off wild bears, breathable, wicking, insulating clothing, a large thermos and various other outdoor mountain sport accouterments. I’m not prepared for tornadoes and hope to be near an airport if one strikes since the clear signage in the airports will direct me where to go. Otherwise I’ll be that ridiculous person you read about in the paper running down the street with her arms flailing above her head who gets picked up over here and dropped over there when one strikes. I did not know Colorado was tornado territory.

2. Night time driving speeds.

I know about Montana’s “suggested” speed limits. I’ve experienced the Hawaiian tendency to drive 10-15mph below posted limits. But different speeds for the night time on black signs with white sparkly, reflective writing? Elk, bear, and rabbit can be heard rejoicing from curve to sketchy curve of the Million Dollar Highway. Which brings me to...

Honesty policy. Order the NY Times and
it just shows up in this bin. And
no one will snitch it. 

3. The Million Dollar Highway

Connecting Ouray and Silverton, US HWY 550 is one of the most beautiful and terrifyingly white-knuckle stretches of highway that runs past Bear, Battleship, and Sultan Peaks not to mention over Red Mountain Pass. Drive it some day, you’ll be happy you did and will come away with pics your friends will drool over. If you happen to drive it with a local ski guide, you’ll also come away with a list of potential descents that may take a lifetime to tick off. I don’t know if its so dangerous because of the potential avalanche hazards (56 avi paths in 25 miles) or if its because the views are so gorgeous, you’re liable to get distracted ogling and photographing them and in the process drive right off the road plunging into the gorge below. Its wise to go as a passenger in the car of an experienced MDH driver.

4. Bruises. You cant avoid them, so toughen up, buddy.

While yes, this part of Colorado includes some pretty classic Western towns, you probably wont get into a bar fight unless you’re a real jerk and deserve it. Everyone here is so nice they’re more likely than to help you keep to your feet while walking on an icy sidewalk after last call. However, the name of the game here includes ice, snow, dirt, or rock. And its steep, anyway you take your play. If I didn’t come home with bruises that are just as purple and yellow a week after acquiring them, I would consider this a very unsuccessful trip. Shins, knees, thighs, arms - even the fingers on my right hand are swollen and bruised from accidentally punching the ice while desperately looking for a solid stick.

Everyone has chainsaw bears

Everything out there is extreme and requires commitment: elevation, sustained difficulty of ice/rock/ski route, swiftness of changing weather, heartiness of fellow adventure partners, effort of heart to pump blood fast enough. From the moment you step out the door, your faced with endless options. The hardest part of your day will be picking which activity to do first.

5. Dirt roads. One block off of main street.

I’ve been on plenty of dirt roads. Most hikes and many approach trails are found at the end of dirt roads. A few of my favorite hot springs require bumpy dirt road travel to get to the soaking. In most of the mountain towns I’ve been in, the dirt starts about 5 miles out of town. But dusty, gravelly, mixed-with-ice dirt roads on either side of Main Street aka the highway? That is new. Being in a town with only one paved road and the rest au natural felt like a step into some entirely new, stress-free, back-to-nature-ish alternate world. I liked it. Pavement didnt matter, it was all about the mountains, about the play, about sitting down to have a conversation with the one other person occupying the coffee house, bar, or chocolate shop. My kind of place.

Historic "trash" left from mining days.

6. Hot springs.

I admit, I’ve been spoiled. The mountain towns I’ve spent a lot of time in happen to be in Idaho and they have great, convenient access to hot springs. Quite honestly, I didnt think other places existed that are as great as those Idaho mountain towns. Was I ever wrong. Not only did these Colorado towns have spectacular mountains and access to them, they also had superb hot springs worthy of a day or two of total laziness. You really wouldn’t even need a day. Go play from sunrise til you burn out and then they are so dang close to town, you can spend the afternoon soaking without much effort. How to get there? Turn off Main Street onto that dirt road, walk about 10 steps and BAM! you’re there. Easy like a Sunday morning.

Perhaps I should’ve kept knowledge of these 6 wonders to myself. Why the whole world doesn’t live in a town like Ouray, Silverton or Ridgeway is a mystery (of course, I dont live there either so who am I to talk). But the kindness of the locals, beauty a stone’s throw from the back porch, and access to every kind of amazing outdoor playground made it awfully tough to head home.

Eleven Lessons from '11

Yes.

The results of my unofficial, undocumented, and totally unscientific poll report that twenty-eleven was a tough year for a lot of folks and is one not worth repeating. Not to sound completely depressing, I certainly had moments of incredible fun and time with friends and family that I wouldn't trade for anything, my sides still ache from laughing so hard over scrabble games and funny dogs and ridiculous mishaps. Opportunities abounded to learn through those good parts and all that muck and yuck too. 


While looking forward to 2012 feels good and right, here is a little review of what I figured out throughout the last twelve months.

* Its not failure if you haven't stopped trying. The expiration date might have come and passed but everything lasts longer than the blue numbers stamped on the package (you can sometimes even rub that stamp until it disappears completely and then just write in a new date in the old one's place!). Trust me on this, I've only ever had really bad food poisoning once and it was from a brand new container of tofu, and really, thats not all that surprising from gelatinous soy and doesn't prove anything about anything. I had one big goal 2011 that I didn't reach. There were a few moments of frustration over being so far from where I wanted to be, but if I had pushed it, I may not have had opportunities for unexpectedly incredible times with great friends. Those were not to be missed and neither are the plans I still have for things like climbing. So I think I'll write in that new expiration date and just conveniently forget to leave off the year. Maybe 2012 is the year of the big-for-me-climbs and maybe its not, but here's looking at you, 5.9.

If I dont fly, I wont get to see mountains from this viewpoint

* Spend time with the parents and ask them for a story. They are fascinating, wonderful people who have spent the last twenty or thirty years listening to the stories of their offspring. But in those last twenty or thirty years they've done quite a lot of story-worthy stuff themselves. And its pretty awesome having the chance to hear those tales.

* Graffiti is a fascinating universal language. Spain, Iceland, Tennessee, Seattle - all fairly different places, all home to awesome street art. Museums can be specatcular but sometimes taking the time to stroll random, unfamiliar roads provides the best art show imaginable. Dont forget to look up.

* No matter how toasty the day is and how refreshing that dirty river looks do NOT soak hot feet in a contaminated river. Never, ever.

Icelandic Art

* It is ok to let the tears fall when others are around (what is this, rocket science? you ask. apparently so, since this one has taken 33 years to figure out). It is ok to lay on the floor in the fetal position alongside a very full glass of red wine and a bowl of peanut m&m's while friends move around to brew tea, bring pints of ice cream, make laughter through tears and hand over the roll of TP when those tears and the accompanying snot are just too proliferous. This is the recipe for Heal Your Heart soup.

* Fried pickles are as good as everyone says. Sweet tea? Not so much.

* Dogs dont care about the water temperature. So take a bubble bath BEFORE washing the stinky dog. Its hard to wash off soapy bubbles with freezing cold water.

Desperation makes random
food a great snack surprise

*  Sometimes wonderful things are lost, and we wont ever get over them. It's ok. In fact, don't recover, just don't do it! Because when you don't get over it, you wont have a chance to forget, and all those times you think of what you lost gives you an opportunity to think back on a great memory and then to smile, maybe even chuckle to yourself a little too loud until the guy across the train looks up and over at you because you just couldn't contain it. And those smiles and chuckles are good things. So think of what you lost, think of them a lot. Think and smile and keep that smile on your face because its beautiful and radiates goodness to everyone you meet, everyone you pass by and say hello to and it radiates back inside of you, too. It'll light you up, that memory and that smile. So keep it on. Even if sometimes its watered down with a few tears that fall into your vanilla ice cream.

That's it. That's all. Not much of a story, in fact this really isnt a story at all, just some ramblings from the last year before jumping with two feet into this year. Wishing a good 2012 all around with plenty of moments for creating great stories.

Dinosaurs

These gals know whats going on. I'd trust 'em.

Except on a rare one or two occasions when I've been lucky enough to fall asleep before we pull away from the gate, I’ve always been inclined to watch the attendants give their pre-takeoff safety talk. In part, I pay attention because theirs is a thankless job and it’s a small attempt to show appreciation for their efforts to make me comfortable. Perhaps I pay attention because I had good teachers at school and home who taught me to be respectful by listening. And maybe I pay attention because on my first flight as a wide eyed 6th grader, I found these women of the skies a little glamorous and fascinating.

It’s also a most definite possibility that my attention comes from the deeply rooted and highly functioning Dinosaur Brain nestled between my ears that does not, cannot!, and despite all engineering and scientific evidence, refuses to understand how planes stay in the sky. This bajillion ton metal beast is going to float in the air?!!? Bullshit, says Dinosaur Brain, and just keeps on talking….Oh gawd…. The pilot just came on the intercom, and he sounds so gravelly. Did he have enough coffee, is his eyesight still good despite sounding anciently old, did he get enough sleep? If a plane were to crash would you feel pain or would you just black out? Will my head implode or explode suddenly if the cabin pressure makes a dramatic change!?!? AAACK!! WHY AM I HEEEEEERE?!?

I have always counteracted my alarm-happy Dinosaur Brain with the observational evidence that if the flight attendants are calm, collected and pleasant, it means that all systems must be working as they should. So keep an eye on those gals/guys for changes in demeanor. If ever an attendant were to panic and lose her/his shit, well, that would be a different set of evidence and Dinosaur Brain would win.

Why some of us are more “in tune” with the D-Brain or less, I don't know. Is it a gender thing? A result of our upbringing and the activities our parents did/did not allow us to do and how we followed orders or rebelled? Birth order? Job title? Astrological sign? Whether we prefer Mozart or Rage Against the Machine? Does it matter?

Mine is a highly active D-Brain. Here I sit on my flight to Atlanta, four hours and five minutes long trying to rationalize my Dinosaur back into its cave (Dinosaurs are like Dragons and fire breathing Dragons live in caves, right? Right. )

Not unlike climbing unprotectable off-widths, entering a steep chute of deep pow on skis that are too long, cross-country hiking without map or compass, driving home at 2am just as the frat-packed bar down the street closes or going on a first – or third - date, while flying D-Brain just won’t shut the hell up. Chatterbox. And sometimes I just like to sweetness of silence, the space of quiet. I have no problem riding in a car or sitting next to someone on the couch in silence, reading a book, looking out the window, mining belly button lint.

There have been a lot of good posts and conversations lately about the great output of D-Brain’s efforts: fear. Getting over it, supporting one another in it, how to manage and deal. They’ve been helpful to read, I’ve learned, felt camaraderie, been reassured.

But maybe we are (read: I am) thinking too hard. The D-brain is there for a reason after all; to keep us from diving face first into a mesmerizing, warm campfire on a frozen night, or launching off the top of a peak to fly with the birds without so much as a wingsuit to catch our fall.

Why not let the D-Brain be there without putting incessant pressure on ourselves to ditch it? Maybe the D-brain just wants to be invited to the party, to be included and to belong. Maybe it will shut up already, if we acknowledge its voice and presence. Maybe that’s why it keeps yapping so freaking loud. What would be the worst that would happen anyways, if we invited it to the crag, into the backcountry or to sit in the empty seat next ours on this jumbo, way-bigger-than-the-little-green-house jet?

Ok, fine, D-Brain, hello, yes I heard you, welcome to flight 2951. Here we are at 20,000feet, crap that would be a long ways to tumble if we trip, so let’s keep our feet steady. I could use a hand to hold right about now, maybe I can hold yours? Then I wouldn’t have to dig my fingers into this shoddy armrest. Is this a Boeing plane? Gotta support the home team. Gawd I hate turbulence, you too? We have so much in common. Sorry for squeezing so tight. But I feel better, how about you?

Off The Beaten, Well-traveled Track

His email exploded with enthusiasm. And I believe in him, that he meant every word to the core of his soul.

     “This is what makes this trip different to the 100's of other emails you probably get; I'm 
     looking for a real adventure, something pure and truly "off the beaten track".

An off-the-beaten-path taken from a highway.

There is a lot of truth in his statement.

His trip is different – can adventures ever really be duplicated even if you follow a fairly well traveled path. The weather, the people met along that path, the food, the way our perception takes it all in, will never duplicate exactly what another has, even what we have, experienced in the past.


Real adventure, that’s the pure essence of what we go searching for. To do something atypical, to have to work a bit for it, to get greater reward than what we put in, to get the shit scared out of us just a little. And to come home with a story worthy of the rapt attention of everyone around the campfire, so focused on our every word that they forget to sip the beer slowly warming in their hands.

Purity. Free of the hassles and clutter most of the rest of the world bring with them when they travel. Like the lady at airport security who turned back to check her bag when she was told her three quart-sized baggies of mini bottles of shampoos and lotions and important salves of some sort or another was over the one-baggie limit rather than lose them even if it meant being late to the gate where her flight was departing. The simplicity of letting go of our comforts and embracing what another place and culture has to offer. It’s a beautiful way to travel, to get outside ourselves.

It’s also true, that I get hundreds of emails requesting sponsorship for people’s amazing and life changing adventure plans. Its part of my job, and I find it fairly entertaining, if not only a way to feel productive by sending massive “no’s” out and in a big lump, emptying out my inbox.

But going “off the beaten track” and being different from the 100’s of other ideas that are out there? In this world where community is global, where people in the most remote places have access to cell phones and internet, where for the right amount of cash you can go anywhere – is there really any place truly off the beaten track at this point? Or is off the beaten track simply a blanket description for places your friends and parents never have and may never want to travel to? And when it comes down to it, the likelihood that no one has come up with your “unique” free flying, low budget, no-guidebook idea is pretty unlikely – someone probably set out with that same travel itinterary yesterday. You’ve been scooped.

But it doesn’t really matter. What is it behind our incessant need to be the first, be different, push the boundaries past the guy who did it last time, find the new thing/people/place, have the experience NO ONE else has had? Your trip to the local farmers market could be just as entertaining and interesting as that guy over there who’s telling a story of narrowly escaping attacks by wild monkeys throwing green bananas. Are we trying so damn hard to be different simply because we cant tell a good story about what’s already around us without the extremes found off the beaten path? Am I trying so goddamn hard to climb as hard as I can simply to tell a good story around the kitchen table, when in reality, the story I want to tell is about the 5.2 I followed with a good friend in a beautiful place? A place that we accessed by well beaten trail (most of the way) and by shuttle boat ride that to arrange required we talk to at least 3 people, in our own language, without having to mime what we wanted in a goofy game of charades that we would’ve had to play in a truly exotic place where there is no book on how to learn the local language and for $15 allowed us to skip a grueling “character-making” bit of trail?

When is the last time you read a book or heard a story (not on TV) that grabbed you at the core, left you breathless with anticipation, and made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end? That made you laugh so hard that you started hyperventilating and could barely muster enough body control to grab hold of your aching sides to keep them from splitting wide open? That moved you so much that you wanted to reach across a table or into the book to touch the hand of the storyteller, give it a squeeze, offer a tissue with hand that would then wipe away your own tears.

I’m not saying we should stay on the couch forever doing nothing because its ALL been done before, so whats the point of anything. But maybe… Maybe its not so much about being needing to be different, to be extreme to be recognized and to have people want to hear our stories, but to be able to tell a good story about whatever, wherever and whomever is important to us; a walk in the park or a walk on the wild side.