Reflections and Intentions

Tim Geoffrion January 23, 2022

Dear friends, looking over many of your holiday cards inspired me to reflect on 2021 and revisit my intentions for the new year. Even though it’s no longer the holidays, I wanted to share a little with you about what’s been happening in my world and some of the images I was able to capture this last year (better late than never!).

Thank you for caring. I hope that I’m able to connect in meaningful ways with each of you in 2022.

With love and appreciation,

Tim

*Caption: midnight sunset in Lake Clark National Park*

A Year of Transitions: (1) My National Parks Journey

For the last three years I’ve essentially lived in America’s National Parks. After taking tens of thousands of photos, driving thousands of miles, wearing through multiple pairs of hiking boots, and surviving two near-death experiences – I (nearly) finished my quest to explore and photograph all of America’s 63 National Parks this year. (American Samoa – someday I’ll see you if Covid ever ends…)

Looking back at the moment when I was promoted in the fall of 2018 to a corner office, I never could have imagined that just months later I’d embark on a journey that’d keep my constantly outside for the next 3 years. I feel so grateful that life has been so much bigger than the span of my imagination then. This journey has been one of the most meaningful and transformative experiences of my life.

As I’ve neared its end, I’ve been reflecting a lot on what it’s meant and what I want to take with me to whatever is next. I took a first stab at collecting my thoughts in June when I was asked to give a speech to a group in Minnesota this summer. After multiple emotional meltdowns trying to write my speech, I was finally able to pull something together that made me feel really proud. If you’re curious, here is a link to the transcript and the images I shared.

The speech not only helped me clarify my thinking; it also inspired me to finally start selling some of my photographs. I’ve been so grateful for the outpouring of support since I started doing so. I feel especially proud when I see photos I took up on friend’s walls. If you’re curious about buying one, don’t be shy about reaching out. Or, I list my photos and prices here: Tim’s photographic prints.

This year, I traveled to fewer places than in prior years, but I was able to linger longer at the places I went. Two trips meant the most to me. The first was the week I spent in Sequoia/Kings Canyon National Parks in May. It felt equally sacred to sit beneath the giants and to climb up into so many remote parts of the high Sierras that I know were special to John Muir.

The second was the six weeks I spent in Alaska backcountry backpacking and kayaking in five different National Parks (nearly all it completely off the grid). Three particularly unforgettable moments were:

(1) The three “bonus” days five friends and I got at the end of a five-night wilderness expedition in Lake Clark National Park, when the bush plane that was coming to pick us up couldn’t land due to weather. As we waited in our tents, not knowing whether it’d be hours or days until help came, we attempted to stay dry (and sane), while splitting one granola bar a day. On the plus side, we all got an ascetic mediation retreat with a non-optional fast (for free!).

(2) 8 days-worth of grizzly bear run-ins (and an earthquake to boot!) while exploring the snow-capped peaks and volcanic wasteland of The Valley of 10,000 Smokes in Katmai National Park.

(3) Camping with a small group of fellow adventurers near the face of the John’s Hopkin’s glacier in Glacier Bay National Park. That evening was the culmination of a weeks-long sea kayaking trip, one where just about everything that could go wrong, did. Day one: our drop off boat broke down. Day two: a once in a generation “atmospheric river” dumped driving rain on us. The downpour lasted for days on end. Together, these events forced us to paddle 40 more miles (in fewer days) than originally planned. Day four: we helped rescue a group of other kayakers. Day 5: 6-foot swells nearly capsized our kayak miles from the nearest shore. Despite all the mishaps, of all 60+ parks, the memories from that week are among my most precious. I’ll never forget hearing the rocket-boom of the glacier calving through the night that we slept by her face; touching the giant bergs that washed ashore by our tents each morning; or seeing the 40-foot back of a Humpback emerge silently from the water to take a breath, coming up literally feet from where we were cooking dinner.

After spending so much time in the wilderness these last three years, sometimes it’s hard to feel fully “at home” in civilization anymore. A part of my soul is always longing to be away from the sounds of human society, somewhere deep in the mountains. At the same time, my time in the parks has also taught me better how to seek (and savor) what is beautiful in every moment, no matter where I am. As I move into 2022, I am trying to honor both of these truths at once.

(2) Moving to Austin

While I’m still living in the midst of many questions about the future, some things have become very clear to me this past year — for one, just how much I value my relationship with Morgan. In April, I decided to pack up my few remaining physical belongings, and move down to Austin, Texas to be with her.

Even though it lacks proper mountains, moving to Austin has been a wonderful experience. I never thought I’d be a Texan, but I do relish the fact that I can use the word “y’all” unironically. So, if y’all are ever traveling through, please let us know!

But seriously, Austin is a great city with so many outdoor spaces, young creative people, quirky stores, and cheap(ish) restaurants. Real estate prices are outrageous (half of the Bay Area’s tech millionaires seemed to have moved here in 2021), but despite that we were fortunate to find an apartment with lots of natural light and old trees, and more importantly, it’s near many of our soul-filled friends.

More than the place, I feel so grateful to be able to share my life with someone again in a way that feels “easy”. Sharing life has also been the source of a lot of healing, especially of wounds I didn’t even know I was carrying. For so long, I thought it was my responsibility to take care of my baggage alone. This year together has taught me again and again that so much growth is only possible within a committed and secure relationship.

Another joy of moving to Texas has been becoming a dog-father to two adorable 40-pound pups: Cody and Moon. Most days begin with Moon waking me up by jumping on me, and end with Cody curling up on my lap. The dogs are awkward, adorable, naughty, and playful, and they steal my heart multiple times every day.

(3) Vocation

At the beginning of the year, knowing my parks journey was winding to a close, I felt a lot internal pressure to decide “what’s next” career wise. Initially, I thought it’d make sense to continue seeing coaching clients part-time (like I did in 2020), and then use the extra hours to write a book about the Parks.

Unfortunately, every time I sat down to write a blog post (let alone the book!) I’ve felt stuck. After months of banging my head against the wall, Morgan kindly suggested that I not to be so hard on myself. “Perhaps you need to further integrate what you’ve learned on the journey into your life first” she suggested.

I’m trusting that nudge, both for spiritual reasons, but also for earthlier ones, like, you knowing… paying the bills. Joking aside, as frustrating as my writer’s block has been, it’s also been a blessing, because it created space for me to work on a number of unexpected projects, all of which have been quite meaningful (and healing to wounds that were created in my old career).

Looking back, 2014-2018 were extremely painful years in my work world. By the time I left private equity in early 2019, I felt burnt out, self-doubting, and cynical about the value of anything in finance. I thought the best path forward was to reinvent myself and move on as quickly as possible. My aversion was so strong that for a long time whenever I met a new person, I’d simply refuse to talk about what I used to do. In retrospect, I’m thankful that my rejection of my old identity created the space I needed to explore, play, and grow. However, I now see that it also meant I exiled important parts of who I am too. Thankfully, I was given a chance to re-integrate and honor some parts of myself this year.

It all started serendipitously when a close friend decided to launch a Venture Capital firm last winter (Avalanche VC). Perhaps because Katelyn’s been in a similar, multi-year process of self-discovery and reinvention, it felt safe to engage with her (with all of who I am) when she asked me to help her think through a few issues about starting her business. A few weeks later, one of my coaching clients told me he needed help working through some sticky corporate governance topics at the company he founded.

As I began digging into their situations, fairly quickly I realized four truths. One, I actually learned a lot from my years on Wall Street that’s valuable to small business owners. Two, the coaching work I’ve been doing is a perfect complement to the hard skills I had before in the corporate setting. Three, I love figuring out the nuances of messy business situations. And four, it’s so energizing to work with people who share my values.

Together, these experiences and insights gave me the confidence to seek out other engagements. Throughout the rest of the year, I’ve been lucky to work with companies as different as Juv (a Gen-Z marketing agency and brand consultancy), Grantable (an online marketplace for grant writers and grant applicants), a creator of online content and community for musicians, a gym in Texas, a global children’s product company, and even a high-end fashion brand in Europe. Each situation has looked different, ranging from helping founders work through the practical (and emotional) aspects of shareholder disputes, capital raises, strategic planning, and business sales. However, what’s been the same in each is that I’ve loved the work and the people I’ve gotten to know through it. For the first time in my life I can say in full honesty - I love what I do. (What a difference 3 years can make!)

Concurrently, Morgan (who runs a psychotherapy private practice and trains other therapists) and I started two groups this year. The first is a group for entrepreneurs to be talk through the the emotional and psychological issues impacting their business in a safe community. The second is a group training for executive and life coaches, to help them learn the foundations of Internal Family Systems, Interpersonal Neurobiology, and Non-Violent Communications.

Looking ahead, I don’t know fully know what 2022 will look like. A number of my big corporate client projects are nearing completion. A few others are starting to ramp up. I’d still like to get 2-3 more individual coaching clients. But, rather than try to predict the future, this year taught me to trust the process. If I keep having the right conversations, keep learning new skills, keep offering what I know to others with humility, I know the right opportunities will continue to emerge. If you know anyone that you think would make sense for me to talk to, I always appreciate referrals.

2022: more transitions ahead

2021 was full of big transitions. As I look ahead to important decisions in both my personal and professional life looming, I expect 2022 to be as full of change as 2021.

Whatever happens, today, as I write this, I feel very present to the truth that life does not go on forever. More than ever, I want to only give my attention to the things that really matter — so much of which is relational.

So, I want to end this reflection by saying how much I appreciate each and every one of you. Thank you for caring so deeply about me and my journey through this life. Wherever the path leads in 2022, I feel so thankful knowing I am loved and supported by so many extraordinary people.

With gratitude and love,

Tim G

P.S. below are a few pictures of some the wonderful people who’ve walked beside me through the parks this past year.

Haleakala National Park, Sliding Sands with my father and Morgan

Morgan looking over the lava filled crater in Volcanoes National Park at night

Multi-day backpack with my friend Andrew on the High Sierra Trail in Sequoia National Park

Sally, me, Morgan, Emily, Chelsea, and Jules after we were dropped off by a bush plane in a remote section of Lake Clark for what we thought would be a 5 day trek. Putting together this group was especially meaningful to me as I met all of these people since starting my journey in 2019.

8 days of no showers at the end of our backpack through Katmai National Park: Kristen, Emily, Jules, Matt, Morgan, and me

North of the Arctic Circle on the way to Kobuk Valley National Park with a group of new friends including Brad and Grandma Joy (directly behind Morgan and me). Joy was an incredible 90 year old woman visiting all the parks. She deserves an entire chapter of my book about the parks if I ever get over my writer’s block.

Grandma Joy with her feet on a sand dune in Kobuk Valley National Park, the least visited National Park in America. Shortly before this photo was taken Joy rolled down a sand dune for fun. The video of her roll and her laughter afterward is on my instagram page: https://www.instagram.com/p/CTBAdh8MTnW/

Our unexpected soul family that we kayaked through Glacier Bay with: Danny, Walt, Marcia, David, and Aileen

Speech on My Pilgrimage to All the US National Parks (Transcript + Images)

Tim Geoffrion July 6, 2021

The night before my 35th birthday I had the privilege of giving an hourlong talk on my pilgrimage to all of America’s National Parks. I shared stories about how it started, what it’s been like for me as a solo traveler, the people I met along the way, the lessons I’ve learned, and what’s still ahead.

I hope to give the speech again this fall in Texas, and perhaps elsewhere too. As those details get finalized, I will share them with you.

In the meantime, below are my remarks. Long time readers may recognize some of the stories, but most of what’s in it has never been shared online before, especially parts of the 2nd, 3rd and 5th sections.

I feel nervous and also excited to share so much of my story with you in this way.

As always, feel free to forward this to others or respond directly to me with your thoughts at tim@thiswalkinglife.com.

Warmly,

Your fellow walker, Tim

———

Extended Version of Tim G’s Remarks to a Private Group in Minnesota – June 2021

Tomorrow is my 35th birthday.

If you asked me 3 years ago what I’d be doing on my 35th birthday… Well, let’s just say that speaking to a group of strangers about some of the most intimate details of my life would definitely not have been on my list.

But looking back, nothing about the last three years has matched my expectations.

My journey since January of 2019 has taken me to nearly all of America’s National Parks; connected me to strangers in almost every state, and helped me to rediscover long exiled and forgotten parts of myself.

Tonight, I’m going to tell you 5 stories about that journey.

But before I do, I want to give everyone a little bit of background on our wild places and our National Parks here in America. Here are a few facts:

(1) How many National Parks do we have in America?

There are currently 423 sites protected by the Park Service, 63 of which are designated as National Parks. The other sites include National Memorials, Battlefields, and Monuments.

I’ve been to 59 of the National Parks to date, and have plans in the next few months to visit the last remaining parks I haven’t been to yet.

We have National Parks in every part of our country. From Maine to the Virgin Islands on the east coast; in the midwest and mountain west; on small islands off Los Angeles; north of the Arctic circle in Alaska; in Hawaii; and even in American Samoa, a place closer to New Zealand than any other part of the United States.

(2) What was the first National Park? And how long ago was it created?

When I started this journey, I thought we’d always protected our most beautiful places. But that wasn’t the case.

Yellowstone, our first National Park, was created in 1872. But what did it mean for something to be a National Park? No one knew. As soon as it was established, fights broke out over who should control it, who should have access to it, what should happen to the animals who lived there, etc. It would be decades until congress appropriated funding to maintain it, pass laws that prevent development on it, or even create a ranger service to protect it.

Yellowstone was a prelude. Even today, lawsuits and debate rage over how much protected land is enough, what kind of development on it is okay, and what it means for all of Americans to be equal owners of our last wild places.

How big are the parks? How much land is protected?

The parks encompass 85 million acres (60% of this land is Alaska).

That amount is equivalent to more than 1.5 times the total land in Minnesota.

Parks vary widely in size. The biggest park (Wrangell St. Elias) is 13 million acres, while the smallest (Gateway Arch) is less only 91.

Together, the park service manages roughly 3.5% of all land mass in the United States.

But that’s enough history for now.

Tonight, I’m here to tell you five stories about the Parks — and how my dream of exploring them has changed my life.

Part I: Men in Black … Penguin Suits

My pilgrimage through the National Parks began somewhere markedly not wild: in a condo in downtown Wayzata (Minnesota) in January 2019.

It was a typical January night in Minnesota - pitch black by 5pm and god knows how many degrees below zero.

Inside though we were warm, and me doubly so, as I found myself in the arms of a giant of a man… in a full body penguin suit.

That man was my brother, and we were in my grandmother’s apartment. She was hosting a “great outdoors” themed party and asked us all to come in costume.

My grandmother (Muppa as we in the family called her) loved the great outdoors.

Growing up I remember eating freshly picked berries, learning the names of the dragonflies, listening to warblers sing, and hiking in the forests for hours with her. My grandmother taught me to have a deep reverence for the natural world, and that each of us (no matter how young) had a responsibility to protect it.

Later, as she grew older and she could no longer walk so far, she taught me other lessons too. None more important than if you want to see miracles slow your step to match the rhythms of the wild. It was a lesson I’d often forget and have to relearn in the years that followed.

That night, back in Wayzata we were moving slowly indeed, but I felt very far from either awe or the natural world.

We’d brought my grandmother home from the hospital days before. We knew she only had a few more days to live.

We all felt cut up, but she hated the idea that her final ideas would be only sad. So, she decided we needed some good costume parties.

That night we sat around her bed in our costumes retelling stories, many lived outside. Muppa could barely speak anymore, so we did most of the talking. But she could still say a little, smile, and squeeze our hands to let us know she was still listening.

That’s why toward the end of the night I was so taken back when she looked at me and asked weakly, but clearly:

“Where should we go on our next adventure?”

If I’m honest, part of me wondered whether she was still there at first. But the longer she held my gaze, the more I knew her question held deep meaning. It hadn’t been asked idly.

So much in my life in the weeks leading up to that night had fallen apart. First, there was an acceptance that after more than a year of separation, my marriage to my childhood sweetheart was headed toward divorce. Then, only days later, my job, which I’d moved back to Minnesota for, and which not only consumed all of my time for years, but which had become so central to how I evaluated my worth, had reached a dead-end too.

My grandmother’s simple question touched something raw in me.

“Where should we go on our next adventure?”

At a moment when I felt the weight of rejection in so many of the most important parts of my life, it was a reminder that in other spaces I was still wanted. I want to be with you exactly as you the question said.

The question was also a promise – reminding me that even when she was gone, I would always carry her with me. Whenever I went, she’d be there too.

In the days that followed, after she breathed her last breath, it sometimes felt like winter might never end. I went through the motions – I interviewed for jobs. I did all the self-care I was supposed to do. But in the quiet of my mind, I kept hearing her question – first a whisper, then something much more.

That question became a lifeline, pulling me out of falling back into places I was meant to leave behind.

And it was a permission – to let go of dreams that I’d held onto too long, and in their place begin to imagine into new ones… even if I didn’t yet really understand where they’d lead.

Where should we go on our next adventure?

Somewhere far from here. Somewhere raw and wild. Beyond that, I didn’t know. But I didn’t feel like I had to figure it out exactly anymore before I went.

My grandmother’s passing taught me something else important too. Time is not unlimited. I wanted to get out there, now.

So, a month after my grandmother died, I put my job search on hold, wrote a letter to my professional contacts, and announced to the world I was taking a “sabbatical.”

I promised I’d be back soon, but in the meantime, don’t bother trying to reach me, I was headed west in search of adventure.

Part II: A Day in the Life

When I tell people that I’ve traveled to nearly all of the National Parks since March of 2019, I think they have a lot of misconceptions about who I must have been before I started, and what a day in the life of a solo 30-something traveler might look like.

Let me dispel some of those for you by telling you about my first day on the road.

First, a lot of people imagine me traveling from vista to vista wrapped in a Mexican blanket and living my best #vanlife.

#Vanlife refers to the lifestyle of people who live in Sprinter Vans and go on adventures. For any of you who don’t know what sprinter vans are, they are essentially Fedex trucks, with the insides retrofitted with a bed, cabinets, and a kitchen.

They are an amazing way to explore the outdoors for an extended period without having to deal with the hassle/expense of an RV or roughing it in a tent.

Before I left on my trip I definitely dreamed of living #vanlife.

That’s why when I first had the idea of going off to the west, I rented a sprinter van for two months.

I had to pick it up in Denver, but that was no problem - part of the adventure I told myself!

Then the morning of my flight I received an email letting me know that – “We’re sorry you didn’t rent from us this time! Next time you explore - let us be your wheels! Use this code for 10% off”.

Wait… what? Maybe it was a mistake. I frantically tried to get a hold of someone at the company to confirm everything was okay with my reservation.

I finally got a hold of Dylan. He seemed surprised to hear from me. He informed me that he’d emailed me paperwork a week ago, and since I hadn’t filled it out, he thought I’d bailed.

“I thought I could fill out when I got there - after all we’ve talked like 20 times. I told you I have a plane ticket already. Why didn’t you call or email again?” I pleaded.

He ignored the question. “Sorry dude. People flake all the time in this business. We rented the van to someone else.”

He didn’t have any other vans now. But he could rent me one … in a few weeks, for a week only… for twice the daily rate we talked about before. Was that cool?

No Dylan, that wasn’t cool.

For the next few hours I frantically tried to make other arrangements. In the end, I didn’t find another sprinter van. But, I did end up securing a small SUV using Hertz points built up over a decade+ of work trips.

This moment turned out to be proleptic of so much that was ahead.

Namely, me thinking I’d made plans, those plans not working out, and… it being totally okay.

When I got to Denver, it dawned on me that without a sprinter van, I didn’t have lodging.

Now, this leads to people’s second misconception about me: that I must have been an Eagle Scout or some other type of great outdoorsman.

In truth, I’d never been in a tent before. But, how hard could it be? So, what did I do? I drove to the REI of Denver to get one.

Upon getting to the tent section of the store I quickly realized I had no idea how to pick among them. After trying to figure it out on my own for some time, I swallowed my pride and asked for help. I got good advice, and was ready to move toward the register when the salesman stopped me and asked: “do you know how to set this up?”

Before I could even be tempted to lie, he’d pulled everything out of the bag, and created a clearing for me to do my worst.

The poles weren’t that hard to figure out, but for who knows how long I struggled to determine the difference between the tarp, rainfly, and tent and how to fit the poles into them all at once. Meanwhile, a gaggle of very outdoor-competent looking Coloradans seemed to be growing around me, shaking their heads at the sad scene.

This was indicative of much that was to follow too. Whereas in my old career I was expected to create the appearance of mastery (even when I was a beginner) and hide my ignorance at all costs, here my struggles were on public display. And… It was wasn’t just fine, it opened up my world.

Even though learning “basic” skills as an adult has often been embarrassing, saying yes to looking like an idiot has meant that now I have wonderful memories doing so many types of activities that 3 years ago I assumed I’d never experience: camping, teaching yoga, wilderness backpacking, freediving, scuba diving, and rock climbing among others.

But, before I wax poetic about the joys of beginner's mind for too long let me take you back to that Denver REI.

With my new tent back in the bag and a cart full of other camping gear in toe, I headed to check out.

As the woman at the register scanned my items she casually asked: “Where do you plan to take this nice new tent?”

Awkwardly, before I knew what was coming out of my mouth I responded: “Where do you… think I should take this nice new tent?”

After she gave me the once over and rolled her eyes, she told me her favorite place in all of Colorado was the Great Sand Dunes, a National Park I’d never heard of before.

Several hours later I found myself on the top of the tallest dune in North America, looking out over a landscape that was part Sahara Desert and part Swiss Alps. My socks were full of sand. I was out of breath. My legs throbbed. I was drenched in sweat. And I felt absolutely alive.

That night, I lingered on the top of the dunes until long after the sun had gone down. I didn’t want to miss a second of the glow.

As it grew dark, I packed up my bags to head back down to my car, but as I got ready to go, I looked to the east and noticed something that made no sense. The sky was getting brighter.

Now, I’m no astronomer, but I know enough to know that 30 minutes isn’t enough time for sunset to turn to sunrise.

As I lingered, wondering what was happening, the full moon rose over the mountains, at first a sliver, seconds later a full orb of bone white light, illuminating the dunes in an otherworldly glow – making visible the world below me that had seemed lost in the growing darkness just moments before.

Turning to some strangers nearby, I yelled out – let’s howl at that moon, and we all did.

You can have plans. You can be resourceful. You can read the guidebooks. But more than anything, that first day taught me that sometimes the greatest magic happens in the moments when you put all of that aside, embrace your ignorance, trust the strangers you meet, and linger in unexpected places that speak to your soul.

Part III: Strangers on the Trail

When I left Minnesota, I didn’t know exactly where I was headed or what I’d see, but I knew I wanted to go deep into wild places, just like I did that first night. I imagined in them I’d find all the things I felt were lacking in my life back at home: purpose, adventure, discovery, joy, and magic. And I wanted to do it all alone. Partly to prove to myself I could, and also because I felt so burned and burdened by so many soured friendships and relationships.

I believed my journey would be defined by the views I saw, the places I explored, and the things I learned while standing within them.

What I didn’t expect was that the strangers I met along the trail would be so central to my journey too.

Back on that first day, as I waited for an Uber in Minneapolis to take me to the airport, my mind was lost in dreams of what places I would see.

I barely paid any attention to the driver as I got in the car.

“Did you see that girl I just dropped off before you” my driver asked aggressively, jolting me out of my reverie.

I shrugged, I hadn’t. Besides, the thought of striking up a conversation with a cab driver with 30 minutes to go in the ride seemed high risk. What if I had to talk to him the whole way?

“She’s a lawyer. Beautiful. Too bad you didn’t see her.”

Okay… thanks for sharing, I wanted to say.

“She’s really into Tony Robbins – been reading his books, watching his talks, even signed up to go to one of his big expensive in person events. She said he’s making her see her whole life in a new way.”

I grunted to acknowledge I’d heard him, but I also did my best not to make eye contact. I didn’t care.

“Let me tell you something,” he went on, completely unfazed by my lack of interest. “When you get to be my age, you come to know a lot of things. That doesn’t make you a guru. All of us old guys know a lot of things. We usually just keep it to ourselves. Tony Robbins, he doesn’t keep it to himself. He’s just a shameless old guy with marketing.”

I felt a little panicked. How much longer to the airport I wondered – before realizing we hadn’t even made it to two blocks.

“Anyway, I was just asking because it seems like you might want to get to know her, even if she’s wrong about Tony Robbins. She’s carrying a lot of heavy bags too. Where are you going with all of yours?”

I could see his eyes peering at me through the rearview mirror, a mixture of wisdom and naughtiness glowing within them.

Part of me wanted to tell him to shove it. Who the heck was this guy? What did he know about me? I might be carrying some suitcases, but I was sure that after going to a weeklong yoga retreat I’d left all my heaviest emotional baggage behind. I’d done a lot of crying there, worked things out, and I was definitely on the path to enlightenment now!

And so, I did my best yoga guru impression (not realizing it was an impression), and told him I was headed off on an open-ended journey of self-discovery to the west. I threw in something about doing a lot of meditation too. That’ll shut him up, I thought smugly to myself.

“What’s her name?” he shot back, seemingly ignoring everything I’d just said.

Okay buddy, screw you. Let me out. I don’t care if we are on the highway.

“Do you still love her?”

Before I knew what was coming out of my mouth – I heard myself haltingly saying: “Yes”

“Do you want to make it work?”

I started mumbling: yeses, nos.

He asked me a few more questions. I don’t know why, but I answered them all.

He was quiet for a moment, and gave me another once over:

“Maybe your journey is about learning to let go.”

As the car raced onward, we got lost talking – literally. He missed not one, not two, but three turns off I-94.

As we doubled back from St Paul, navigating to the airport on roads I’d never been on before, our conversation turned toward what it was like for him to be a father:

“I wish I’d been on more adventures and made memories before I had my son.” He told me, “It’s hard to explain. But when you’re a dad there’s so much you want to give your kids that you can’t. But stories… what you experienced and learned, the choices you made… sharing that can be greatest gift you can give them.”

When we got to the airport, I felt somewhat panicked that I'd miss my flight, so I got ready to rush out as soon as the car stopped at the curb. But he stopped me again. Reaching into his shirt, he pulled a necklace of prayer beads from around his neck.

Handing them to me, he said with that same mischievous smile on his face again: “Earlier, when you were pretending you were enlightened, you said you meditated. I think you need these more than me. Go have adventures. Go create memories. Be safe brother.”

On my journey, new people like the cab driver came onto my path almost every day. Here are some images of a few of them. There are dozens more I never captured. I could tell you a story about each for hours.

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I’m so thankful for my time with that driver, for so many reasons, but perhaps none more so than for teaching me at the very outset that everyone I was to meet had something profound to teach, if only I’m willing to slow down enough to truly listen.

Part IV: Temptation

I think there’s a point on every journey of self-discovery when the searcher doubts whether they are on the right path, and when they must decide: should I turn around?

My first few months on the road, I traveled untold miles, visited almost 30 National Parks, and felt happier and more purposeful than I could ever remember.

But, when I returned home in June 2019 I wasn’t sure how to talk to people about all I’d just experienced, let alone make sense of how it fit in life not on the road.

Were the first three months of my wanderings pointing me toward a new life direction? Or, were they an extended time of rejuvenation so I could return to my old life refreshed?

“What’s next?”

Every conversation, I’d get asked that question. I’m sure the askers had good intentions, but as someone struggling with decades of self-doubt, those two simple words carried terrible undertones. I wondered whether they were also saying:

“It is so cute that you’ve done your nice little adult outward bound for the last three months. Are you ready to come back to the real world? Which investment firm do you plan to join now?”

And, part of me wondered: are they right?

“The Achievement Path”

While my young childhood had been marked by a lot of struggles physically and academically – years of severe illnesses, learning disabilities, and bullying so bad I had to change schools – by the end of high school I’d figure out how to navigate through it all by sticking closely to what I’d later call “the achievement path”.

That path, which I first defined as academic perfection (but later came to encompass so much more), didn’t lead to popularity in the short term, but I felt sure it would lead to safety, wealth, and social standing in the long term.

I knew there were people who seemed happy (and successful) who hadn’t taken this path, but I didn’t think I'd could be one of them. As a young adult I felt like I had to cling to that path for dear life.

In high school, I eschewed friends in order to get the best grades so I could get into the “best” college. In college, when I learned the “smartest” people ended up on Wall Street. So, I figured out how to get a job there too. Once there, I strategized and executed plans to ensure I got the top possible bonuses, best promotions, and on and on and on.

The achievement path was both hard and easy. It was easy in the sense that the goals were always clear and defined by others. Whenever one was reached, the next was revealed. It was hard in that it required a lot of effort to push on: sacrifice, hard work, repeat. Ad infinitum.

The path gave me a lot and took me places that were exciting: silly money, fancy friends, business associates who made it onto the front page of the WSJ. I have a lot of happy memories from those years. But if I’m honest, I wasn’t staying on it because I really wanted any of those things. I stayed on it because I was terrified of what would happen if I got off it. I wasn’t ignorant of my enormous privilege. It seemed selfish and reckless to throw it all away for an uncertain and probably much poorer future.

Then in January of 2019, the universe unceremoniously kicked me off that path.

And… I was totally fine. The story should have ended there. But even though it felt so, so good to be free of the endless pressure to achieve for the first time in almost 20 years, parts of me began to panic - was this merely the calm before the real pain and loss came? Was I headed toward lifelong regret?

Telling people that I was going on a “sabbatical” felt like a perfect solution. I figured it would help me save face with other achievers, while also giving me enough time to rest and explore.

I was thrilled by my choice. It gave me exactly what I hoped. Those first three months of wandering were the best of my life. I’d never experienced that kind of the freedom, that much time to be fully present to beautiful places, that much space to create, or even that many opportunities to connect deeply with people who weren’t on “the path.”

At the same time, I felt like it had maintained my professional options. When I came home and people asked me “what’s next.” I felt like they were inviting me to rejoin the “straight and narrow”.

I wasn’t so sure that’s what I wanted anymore, but I felt terrified that I’d say the wrong thing and somehow ruin my future.

Trapped between these competing desires, my achiever parts came up with another idea: Sabbatical squared.

What if I told everyone I was going to see ALL the parks?

That would definitely take a long time to accomplish! I reasoned. Plus, I hadn’t done any research about it, but maybe I’d be the first person to do something like this? Maybe I could go on Oprah! All of it sounded awfully impressive to me, and I assumed it would sound impressive others too.

So, after telling the world what I was now up to, I headed north to Alaska and some of the most remote parks in the country.

~~~

Upon reaching Anchorage, I immediately headed off the grid for an 8-day backpacking trip in Wrangell St. Elias National Park, where me and 4 fellow hikers were dropped off in the wilderness by a bush plane, miles and miles from the nearest home, road, or electrical pole, and told we’d be picked up on other side of 7 mountain passes.

I’d never experienced that kind of extended disconnect from society before. Between the prolonged periods of silence, the physical intensity, and the newness of it all - that week challenged me in ways I’d hadn’t yet experienced on my travels.

Coming back to civilization, I remember feeling gratitude that I’d pushed forward with my journey and not stayed back in Minnesota. Maybe my motives to go on had been impure, but this was definitely the right choice.

At the same time, when I got done with that experience I also felt a different tug — I couldn’t sit still. Time was ticking.

What mountain should I climb now? And will it be tall enough for people back home to think it was worth my while?

But… Alaska is a unforgiving teacher. It doesn’t take long before you learn there are many mountains you can’t climb with grit and pluck alone.

One afternoon, after getting to the top of a marked trail that I felt insufficiently challenging, I decided to keep free scrambling toward a summit still several thousands of feet above. I was all alone, and it was raining.

Hours later, after having achieved my goal, on the way down I found myself on a narrow ledge, pressed awkwardly into a boulder, my arms grasping for an edge to hold. Looking down, I knew if I slipped I’d die.

Would anyone even know where to look? Why was I even climbing this mountain at all?

I made it down, thanks to some of the skills I’d learned climbing, but also due to a lot of luck. I remember pulling myself onto a safe spot after what felt like an hour of struggling and wondering whether I’d die.

Once at safety, I remember the sounds most clearly: the howling of the wind and the patter of rain on the rocks. The universe didn’t care if I climbed that mountain. I wasn’t on ESPN or with live audience waiting to erupt into applause. I was just a reckless fool on the side of a mountain, with miles to go — cold, muddy, panting for air, alone, and lucky to be alive.

A few weeks later, as I was still trying to make sense of what had happened on that mountain I found myself in a disagreement with a park ranger in Bettles, Alaska, who bemusedly asked me if I was a “park collector”.

“Wait, other people have done this?” I wanted to ask.

“Have you heard about the guy going to all the parks with his grandma. They were just on Good Morning America.”

The pit dropped out of my stomach. How much time was I putting into accomplishing this goal of seeing all the parks and climbing all these mountains? How much further were my peers back at home getting while I was doing this? How much was I risking to get it done? How much was it costing me? All of it so I can do something that’s been done many times before? And a grandma is doing it - now that’s one hell of a story… so much for Oprah.

Well, even if I wasn’t the first, maybe people would still think it was good enough if I saw all the parks in a year? As August dragged on, and the endless Alaskan summer days became longer and longer nights, I knew I was running out of time. I had to decide:

One -- quit now, enjoy the memories.

Two -- push on with all speed, keep pushing my limits and taking risks. It’d be a blur, but I’d make sure it would be epic enough that it’d get me back on the path

Or three -- finally own my journey. Stop worrying about it’s marketability. Do it on my own terms, at the speed that’s right for me, and without knowing where it’s headed.

In the weeks that followed I waffled between all three.

But in the middle of September, when I left Alaska I’d only seen 5 of its 8 parks my choice had become clear.

Had I given up the idea seeing all the National Parks? No, I still wanted to see all the Parks, but now for very different reasons than those that drove me at the beginning of the summer.

I didn’t want to go because I’d be the first person to do it, because it’d get me onto Oprah, or because it’d indirectly create a bridge back to my achievement path before January 2019.

I wanted to go to them because I’d learned that exploring this country and its parks (slowly) was the best way I knew how to find meaning, healing, and transformation.

I knew that if pushed on, and protected my journey from being anything other than what it needed to be - for me — it had so much more to teach.

Other people might think what I was doing was crazy. Other people might not understand — but if I wanted to make the most of this time, I had to learn for that to be okay.

It was time for me to own my journey. It was my job and my job alone to create, pursue, and protect my dreams.

Part V: Tall Trees and Fast Waters

I doubt many people have ever seen this tree, and yet I think it might be one the most remarkable trees on the planet. Yet there is no plaque at its base. It’s not officially named by the Park Service. There is no trail (paved or otherwise) to where it stands.

It’s probably 200 feet tall, more than 50 feet around, and perhaps as much as 2,000 years old. As amazing as that all is, those figures just make it an average giant in Sequoia National Park.

So why does this tree speak to me so much?

Study the image for a moment. What do you see?

Do you see the blue sky in the middle of its trunk? Starting at more than a 100-feet in the air, this tree is not only hollow, it doesn’t even have a back side. Keep scanning up. Even higher the tree is whole again, and there you’ll see healthy branches growing, full of pines and cones.

When traveling through the parks, I’m always learn about the natural world. Often, these learnings point back toward lessons for the human world.

Nothing I’ve seen the last two years has taught me more about resilience than Sequoia trees.

Coming out of Alaska, I was especially determined to live out the wisdom of that sequoia.

I would stand tall alone. Nothing would blow me down. And I would protect my dream against anything that sought to stop me: whether other people, their expectations of me, or even my own doubts.

And then I met a woman.

Her name was Morgan, and in November 2019 we explored Big Bend National Park together.

This particular picture was taken on our last day in the park.

Immediately after taking the photo, I thought I could take a more stunning picture. So, I asked her to stay still while I found a different angle. But as I was frantically jumping from rock to rock in search of a better view – I sat down onto a cactus.

Now, this wasn’t one of those cacti with a few cute needles – like the kind you’d find in a hip New York City dentist’s office. This was a mean and ugly cholla cactus, which releases dozens of needles (with force) into the skin of anyone foolish enough to get too close.

Now, being Mr. independent, Mr. wannabe sequoia tree, I tried to stifle might yelps as I reached back behind me to pull the needles out.

Morgan had seen the whole thing. As I reached back, she called out. “I wouldn’t do that… If you do they’ll just go deeper into the skin if you press them at all. Then it’ll take you weeks before you get them out.”

Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a pair of tweezers: “Let me help … now drop your pants.”

For the next 15 minutes. I attempted to cover myself by half standing, half crouching, and pressing my front side into a boulder while Morgan, a woman I’d been trying to impress, pulled needle after needle from my legs as I squirmed in pain like a baby praying that no one else would happen upon us and deepen my shame even further.

Our time together exploring the park was unexpectedly meaningful, and even the uncomfortable experiences, like this one, brought us close. But that was the problem… In the days after the trip as we began to talk on the phone I felt myself turning into a bit of cactus. Everything got all confused inside.

The more I felt drawn to her, the more fearful I felt, and the more I felt myself putting up prickly boundaries.

I feared that I’d give away my journey a second time if I let her get too close.

No, I decided, I needed to stand alone and not let anything get in the way of me doing what I’d set out to do – including this woman who saved my butt (literally).

After a series of long and painful conversations, we said goodbye to each and wished each other well on whatever lay ahead.

Of course, even without Morgan in the picture, I found sometimes there are forces in the universe that are a hell of a lot greater and more important than one man’s stubborn desire to have a journey of self-discovery.

Like, you know, a global pandemic. In March of 2020 life came to a grinding halt for everyone. I wasn’t going anywhere. My journey was put on pause.

For the next five months, I lived in lockdown with my parents and brother back in Minnesota.

In July, when it seemed like everyone was headed out to nature, I decided it was time for me to head back on the road too. Once more, I packed up my belongings, and went out on the road alone – determined for nothing to interrupt my dreams again.

I crisscrossed Utah, Nevada, Montana, Idaho, and California – trying to find places I’d never been before. Seeking out new experiences.

One day, I helped change the tire of a woman and her daughter who barely spoke a word of English. Another I had to scare away a bear in the dark. Later, I witnessed firefighters parachute into Lassen Volcanic National Park.

I thought they had the blaze under control, but days later I had to flee when the flames grew wild, the sky turned orange, and air became too thick to breathe.

To escape the inferno, I kept heading north, all the way until I reached Washington State.

It was there that’d I run into Morgan again, and after awkwardly circling each other for a bit, trying to decide whether I wanted meet up or not, we found ourselves together again, beside another one of our country’s beautiful rivers, on the border of the Mt Baker National Forest and North Cascades National Park.

It was getting late in the day and we had miles to go still. So moments after taking this photo we starting putting our things back in our bags. But before we closed them up, part of me wanted to show off some of my new “solo outdoorsman skills” to her.

So, even though I didn’t need water, I told her to wait, because I was going to provide us both with fresh, cold, glacial fed mountain water.

I went to the edge of the river to filter my water, but as I did I slipped and fell.

It was deeper than I expected. My head went under. As I popped back up, the freezing temperatures of water took my breath away. But as shocking as it was, I felt a desire to laugh coming over me. How absurd that my ego had made me look like a fool again I thought.

That is until I realized I was floating down the river.

My back was pointed downstream, and my head faced up to the point where I’d fallen in. I had no idea where the current was pulling me. I tried to stand, but my feet couldn’t catch anything. I was being pulled backward again, now faster.

On the shore, Morgan hadn’t seen what happened at first. But she must have heard the splash, because as I looked to shore I saw her head pop up and stare out in my direction.

I saw something in her eyes I’d never seen before in real life, pure terror.

A dam broke in my brain. No. No! This can’t be how I die. It all happened so fast. This river isn’t that strong or deep. No!

I tried to scream out to her but nothing came out of my mouth.

My arms and legs were thrashing now, trying in vain to grab hold anything they could, but the currents had polished every stone entirely smooth. The current pulled me under again, I popped back up, gasped for air, was pulled under anew.

Morgan ran down the river’s side and toward the edge, reaching her arms toward me. No! It was too far. Then, splash. She was in the river too.

I don’t know how many moments later, but eventually I felt my left hand catch the tiniest ledge. It wasn’t enough to get out, but it was enough to hold myself in place for a moment. As I desperately held on, I prayed to find another edge to get my right hand a place to hold. But as I felt my feet dragging but never catching on the river bed below, I couldn’t find anything at all.

Looking up river, I saw Morgan coming straight at me.

Oh god! I thought. If she hits me, I won’t be able to hold on.

And sure enough, as the river tossed her into me, I felt her grab onto my arm, and both of us flew backward again with nothing to grip onto but each other.

Time does strange things in the moments when you think you might actually die. It feels simultaneously more expansive and more limited.

In the seconds that followed, I'd never thought so much, or so clearly: I could feel the different jets of current, I could see all the shapes of the stones above the water, I even noticed the subtle color shifts on the surface indicating possible rocks below. As my head went under and came back again, my brain somehow knew exactly where to reach underwater. With two fingers, I caught an edge below the surface I couldn’t have seen with my eyes.

For a moment, the two of us dangled there in the water. The water rushed around us. Neither of us dared to move at all as the churning current attempted to pull us back into the flow.

Then, just as suddenly as time had expanded, it narrowed and sped. I remember screaming at Morgan to use my body to crawl out of the water. I didn’t know how much longer I could hold. If only she could escape, that was all I cared about. I remember seeing her pull herself out with her forearms, dragging herself across a rock, her belly scraping the ground -- then thinking to myself, dear god, save me. And yet, in the same thought, Morgan -- don’t turn around, what will I do if you fall in again.

I don’t know how she got me out. But I know somehow, some unknown time later, we were both sitting many feet from the river edge, sopping wet and shaking violently, when it occurred to me I’d still never looked downstream where we were headed.

Turning around, I saw we’d been at the lip of a waterfall, which led to another waterfall, and which led somewhere unknown and deep within a gorge. If we wouldn’t have caught that last rock, I don’t how we would have survived.

In making sense of my life there’s bias that I have, maybe you have it too. When I remember the past, I’m almost always the center of the story, and all the key plot points revolve around me.

In the minutes after our escape, a narrative began to form in my brain that matched this pattern. Both Morgan and I had foolishly fallen in the river out of carelessness, but through a combination of luck, big brain power, and strong forearms I had saved both of us from certain death.

It made sense to me… and it matched my experience, but… it’s not exactly what happened.

It turned out Morgan hadn’t slipped. She’d seen the trouble I was in, ran down river, and then jumped in. She was an open water lifeguard, trained in dangerous rescues. In the split second after seeing me fall in she’d surveyed the river and saw that if she couldn't grab me and get us both to that rock, I was done.

Me, Mr. strong resilient Sequoia, fierce protector of his freedoms, and adventurous hero defying conventional societal norms would have died if it weren’t for her selfless act.

Surviving the river led to a lot of reflection, and a new closeness between Morgan and me. The river showed us that when it really counted, we wanted to choose each other.

Other lessons quickly became clear in my mind too, like: life can change in a moment, sometimes when you least expect it. Truly, no one knows how long they have left to live. Every life, every moment is precious. To treat it in any other way is surely the surest path to regret.

It also gave me a large dose of humility. How strong and self sufficient was I really? And how often did I think I was right, when in reality, I’d read the whole situation wrong?

~~~

In the days that followed, I kept coming back to the river in my mind, trying understanding what else is might mean.

As I did, Morgan and I wandered through old growth groves and ancient rainforests together.

In them, I began to see what had been true for us in the river (and in my journey) was mirrored in deep structures of natural world too.

Firstly, I saw that those giant trees, the resilient towers, they weren’t exactly the models of rugged individualism that I thought they were.

This photo is from a giant redwood forest (Coastal Redwoods are close cousins of the Giant Sequoias). Some trees there were over 370 feet tall and have lived almost 3,000 years.

One might imagine that trees so tall would need roots just as deep. But that’s not the case.

Their roots only go 6 feet into the ground.

How is that possible?

Look again at the photos. Do you see how close the trees are growing next to each other?

One reason these giants grow so tall in a forest is because they interlock their roots. When strong winds blow, the force is distributed through all the trees. A wind that would blow over one tree if it were alone barely sways when it’s living in a healthy forest.

Connected roots enable trees share and support each other in other ways too. The most productive trees literally give their sugars to those nearby to ensure the forest canopy remains in tact and that next generation’s giants are poised to grow when needed.

Redwoods that grow outside of forests can grow faster at first, but they do not grow nearly as tall or live nearly so long. When the winds blow they fall. When the pests come they have no warning. When fire rages and they are damaged and they have no support. In contrast, the tallest, strongest, and oldest trees are the ones most connected to their neighbors.

Morgan had obviously saved my life in the river, but she’d hardly been the only person who’d saved me or supported me on my journey. How often had I noticed? Sometimes, but more often I’d been oblivious. Moreover, how many times had I pushed away support or longer term connection because I thought it’d make me weak and keep from realizing my dreams?

The redwoods and river would laugh.

But that wasn’t all.

This is me standing in front of a fallen giant redwood, long dead. If you scan to the top of the log, you see two saplings.

This is a nurse log.

Next time you walk through a forest look closely at the trees we call dead, and see how full of life they actually are: all the colors of the mosses growing on the “dead” bark, the shapes of the mushrooms, the small insects who live inside and help to decompose the wood, the mammals who burrow inside them, and the birds who visit and find a bounty there to feed their young.

But most remarkably of all to me, look and you may see young trees, saplings who have taken root atop them. There, closer to the sun, elevated off the fiercer competition of the forest floor, and connected to rich nutrients – they begin their life.

In time, the log will be totally decomposed. It will disappear. And where it once lay, those saplings roots will reach down to the soil, and its trunks will grow tall. Perhaps those saplings may even become giants themselves, reach higher into the heavens.

But although you may not be able to see the nurse log anymore when it this happens, it will still be there if you develop eyes that see beyond the obvious forms.

In the forest, life never ends, it just takes on new shapes.

On my journey, even when I thought I was standing tall on my own, I never was alone.

Like a nurse log, my grandmother supported me every step of my adventure. Even when I could no longer see her, she was always there. And even when this journey is over, she will always be here within me, making possible everything I do.

Of course, it’s not just my grandmother. Peel back the layers far enough and you will find the whole universe is inside you too.

What is often so hard to see in the human realm – a place where resources can seem so scarce, where achieving ones dream can feel like blood sport, and where shouting increasingly seems the norm – becomes so much clearer when we look at the trees.

We humans are also all intertwined – with our ancestors, with our friends, with people we’ve never met, and with the lands we roam. Everything is connected. How silly that I set off on this last leg of my journey believing I was alone, determined to find out who I was, and eager to push others away to get there.

As I look back, I have no regrets about pursuing my dreams doggedly. Even now, they remain as important to me as ever.

But I can also see the path to them isn’t at all what I thought. The river and the trees showed me a different way. My desire for greater self-actualization won’t be achieved in spite of others, it’ll be reached with (and through) them.

~~~

Post script

It’s been nine months since we escaped that river, and in that time much has continued to shift. Many new chapters of my life have been written. I’ve started a coaching practice. I’m selling photographs. I’m still exploring when I can, working toward seeing all the parks.

But of everything I’ve seen, what’s stirred the most inside me was making pilgrimage to our country’s civil rights sites in the south, none more so than the EJI in Birmingham Alabama. I wrote about my experiences meeting a man named Stanley there in a post on my blog.

Those experiences forced me to ask the questions of the forest again, but in new ways: not just what support has been benefitting me, but what am I doing with that support? And more deeply, how am I tending to the ones I’m connected to? I have much to say about that, but I know I’m running out of time tonight. I hope to share that with you in a future talk.

Meanwhile, what happened to Morgan? you ask.

We are both living in Austin Texas now, and in a relationship. At times, my cactus parts still flare up around her, but we’ve been able to work through it when they do.

And although we've avoided going in any more rivers, our relationship continues to save me, helping me tend wounds I didn’t even realize had been festering, unhealed for years before.

In a few weeks’ time Morgan and I are headed north to Alaska, off to explore the Parks I didn't get to in 2019.

What will we find there? How will the experiences change me? And what’s next when my pilgrimage ends?

Who knows. I can point to places on a map, but as this journey has shown me a hundred times – that predicts little. What I’ll find there will only emerge in its own time. I’m not just okay with that, I’m so grateful for the privilege and the freedom to continue exploring unknown places inside and out.

Looking forward, that’s exactly where I want to stay – connected to and caring for the people I love, while roaming spaces big enough for me to simultaneously lose and find myself anew.

Witnessing the Past -- The Deep South

Tim Geoffrion November 13, 2020

“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” William Faulkner

In the wake of everything that’s happened in 2020, especially the murder of George Floyd, which occurred just miles from my home, I’ve come to see how little I actually understand about race and politics in America. This realization has impelled me east and south this fall in order to see our country’s most famous civil war and civil rights sites with my own eyes: Gettysburg, an Underground Railroad Station, Little Rock Central High, the spot where Rosa Parks refused to stand, The Birmingham Baptist Church, the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, the Ole Miss Lyceum, and the Lorraine Hotel in Memphis where MLK Jr was killed to name a few.

While I knew many of the places I wanted to visit before I left, whenever I travel, I’ll always ask the people I meet along the way for suggestions. And throughout the past few weeks, I’ve frequently been pointed toward a place I’d never heard of before: a museum and memorial created by Bryan Stevenson’s (who wrote Just Mercy), called the National Memorial for Peace and Justice in Montgomery, Alabama.

I finally got to visit yesterday.

As I entered the main building, the voice of a completely bald elderly Black man in tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses and one of those disposable blue masks politely called out to me from fifty feet away: “Hold on a minute young man”.

I stopped, and awkwardly fumbled with my phone as he approached. Of course, he needs to see my tickets, I thought. But no. “I need to take your temperature,” he told me as he pointed a handheld thermometer at my forehead. It beeped. He told me I was good.

As I continued to fumble with my phone he reassured me: “You don’t need tickets here. Only at the memorial” he pointed out of the front door, “across the street.”

However, by then, I’d already pulled my tickets up. I sheepishly asked if he’d be willing to double check them so I wouldn’t have to come back if I’d done something wrong. He tilted his head down, peered over his glasses resting on the end of his nose, and asked me to make my screen bigger.

As we both looked down my eyes caught the name on the back of his badge: Stanley. A moment later, he told me the tickets looked fine.

I thanked Stanley and turned to go, but stopped, not sure why, and haltingly asked: “Wait. There’s nothing worth seeing in here. Is there?”

“Well…” he paused and looked at me. “You’ve already been to the museum this morning. Correct?”

I had. (The memorial is a 5 minute drive from the Legacy Museum in downtown Montgomery and I’d already gone there first).

Stanley went on: “In the theater they play clips you’ve already seen in the museum. So, no need for you to see that. But…” he paused again. “We have ALL the soil from Alabama here.”

I didn’t follow what he meant.

He made a gesture to a wall behind him and started ambling slowly toward it, knowing I’d follow before he even asked.

There, I saw 10 neat rows of clear jars pressed one next to the other, stretching at least 10 feet in the air and many times that across. It seemed like each jar was a slightly different color – dark and light grays, browns, oranges, maroons, and yellows too. Who knew the earth had so many textures and hues? I thought, not yet realizing what was inside.

"These are all just from Alabama" he told me. "296 of them."

Now in front of the wall, I could see in white block letters on each jar were a few words: a name, a location, a date.

"Each jar is filled with soil from the spot of a known lynching."

In rapid fire, he pointed to a series of different jars, "We have individuals, husbands and a wives, father and sons, whole families too.”

“Two hundred and ninety-six lynchings of men, women, and children here in Alabama. And this isn’t even all of them. It’s just the ones we have documentation for.”

I was speechless.

In the void he went on: "After they died their people weren’t allowed to bury them. Sometimes they were burnt to ashes. Sometimes they were left up as a reminder. Don’t step out of line or you know what’ll happen. There are newspaper stories – we have them – they write proudly about how fingers were cut off the people hanging, sometimes while they were still alive, and handed out as souvenirs to crowds.”

There’s a photo at the museum, in it you see thousands of white folks in their Sunday best packed into a town square to watch a lynching. It’d been advertised in the paper for days before. The atmosphere looks carnivalesque. You can see food concessions in the background. A second close-up shows fathers and sons smiling beside a hanging corpse.

"These people were never buried." he repeated, "They never got closure. The idea was to collect the soil where these lynchings happened. To maybe capture some piece of their DNA, or at least the soil it’s in, and bring it here, where they could be honored and remembered. To bring them here, where it’s safe and they can rest in peace, finally."

I didn’t know where to place my eyes. I didn’t know what to say.

Stupidly I grasped for something positive or redemptive, but all I could come up was: "how did lynchings end in the 1940s?"

He arched his eyebrows: “Did they? There were plenty in the 1950s. Lots of civil rights workers murdered in the 1960s. We have an exhibit on that in the front. Did you know there was a lynching in Alabama in 1981? Did you know…?” he went on, but for a moment, I couldn’t hear him anymore. All I could think about was my own city of Minneapolis, far away from the south, and the now famous video of George Floyd: “I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.”

When I came back to awareness, I heard him say: “It’s not the same of course. And it’s also the same. Now they put boys on death row or lock of them away forever."

We stood in silence again for a long time.

"What’s it like to be here … with them?” now it’s my turn to gesture widely, “Every day."

“Somber.” He paused: “Really somber."

Stanley pointed up to a jar with word “unknown” written three times above “Selma, AL”.

"Everyone one of these jars has a story. Everyone one of these jars was a life, sometimes many lives. This one here, this one has been calling to me a lot lately when I come in the morning. Selma is a small town; everyone knows everyone. They couldn’t be unknown unless they were just passing through. Imagine that, you are traveling with your family, and suddenly you are snatched and killed, for god knows what, and no one even writes down your name.”

After another long pause he adds: "I look at these jars and I wonder, are there any remains here of my people? We talk about this all at a high level in schools, but we don’t talk about the belly of the beast. We don’t talk about this." He gestured to the jars again. "So, yea, it's real somber.”

“Is it hard to be here with them every day? How do you take it all in?”

“You can’t take it all in. Especially not at first. I remember going through the museum the first time, and after a point I just had to leave. I couldn’t take any more in. I’ve had to go back many times. I had to force myself. Each time I see something new.”

Again, we stand in silence looking at the wall of lives stolen.

“How’d you find out about this place? How’d you decide to work here?”

“Mr. Stevenson (the founder of the EJI project).”

He turned and looked at me for the first time for more than a second. “Mr. Stevenson saved my life.”

“I was in prison.” Stanley went on, “I had a life sentence. I’d spent years honing my understanding of the law, trying to appeal my case. I even went to the Alabama Supreme Court. When I heard about what Mr. Stevenson was doing with death row inmates I wrote to him and told him life in prison is a death sentence too. He wrote me back. He asked for my files. He sent a lawyer to be with me and help me. He saved my life.”

Again, more silence.

“It’s right that you are the one to watch over this soil” I finally told him. He nodded.

He asked me where I was from. We talked a long time about Minnesota and my reactions to the museum in the morning, before I asked him one last question:

“What do you hope people will take away from seeing this?”

Stanley paused and thought: “I don’t want them to say I’m sorry.”

He looked at me pointedly. “That’s unreasonable. What I really want is for them to know what actually happened. I want them to say aloud what happened. I don’t blame you for what your great-great-grandfather did.” Again, he gestured across the wall of lives. “But his choices live in you. This history lives in us all, even if you didn’t know it before. And --”

Mid-sentence, he was interrupted. Another security guard was calling over to him. A large group of people were waiting at the door. They needed to get their temperatures taken. Now rushed, he ambled away.

When I saw he wouldn’t be able to come back soon, I left, turning over everything he said in my mind again and again as I walked the actual memorial across the street – a massive monument contained in a square pavilion. Hanging from the roof of the structure are row after row of large stones tablets (see two sides of it below). Each stone tablet is engraved with the name of a county, and underneath that are the names and dates of every documented lynching that occurred there during the Jim Crow era. There were tablets from every county in the south and quite a few from the north as well, more than 800 in all.

When you enter you are at eye level with the tablets. You can walk right up to them touch them. There were so many names, thousands, literally.

As you continue you through, the floor slants down while the tablets remain hung up. Before you know it, you are under them, looking up at row after row of hanging tablets.

And that’s when it hits you… it’s not just an orderly memorial to name the victims of racial terror, it’s a simulacrum of lynched bodies.

Below some of the stones were inscriptions with the justifications that were given by locals at the time for committing the lynchings. They felt no compunction about writing these things in papers at the time. Here were just a few:

· Robert Mallard was lynched in Lyons Georgia in 1948 for voting.

· Mack Brown was lynched for kissing a white woman on the hand

· Lacy Mitchell was lynched for testifying against a white man accused of raping black girls

· Elizabeth Lawrence was lynched for reprimanding white children who threw rocks at her

· Henry Bedford, 74-year old former slave, was lynched for talking disrespectfully to young white men

· Mary Turner was lynched with her unborn child for complaining about the recent lynching of her husband.

I stayed in the memorial for quite some time. I walked the entire length of it. I walked around it. I walked inside it all again. I was grasping for something, but I wasn’t sure what, and I certainly couldn’t find it.

Finally, when an employee approached me and asked me if I had any questions, I blurted out: “How do you come back here everyday? Does it ever feel too hard?”

“No.” he said matter-of-factly.

“This is the history of my family. These are the stories my grandmother told me when I was child. She watched her friends get lynched. This is the history I carry in my bones. That this story is finally being told, in this way, it’s important.”

We talked for a long time about the museum, and what I’d seen on my tours of other civil rights sites in the south. He asked: Did you see the slave auction manifests describing the attributes of each person for sale, or the line: “29 year old female mulatto, good for a bachelor.” What did I think that meant he asked?

He asked if I knew how (or when) millions of Blacks had migrated north? Many stayed after the civil war. To understand those movements of people, and how it reshaped the racial make up of both the northern and southern states, you have to understand what they were fleeing from (he gestured at the hanging bodies).

We talked about the horror and the triumph of Selma, how Bloody Sunday galvanized the the passage of the Voting Rights Bill. But also how as a society we don’t talk about what happened next, that when thousands of Blacks registered to vote they were evicted from their homes en masse. These people had to live in a makeshift tent city, some for more than a year, with no electricity, no plumbing, amid multiple disease outbreaks, and frequent nighttime drive-by shootings of klansmen.

Eventually he looped back to my original question. “So, no. It’s not hard to come here every day. None of this was news to me.”

“It’s important work you’re doing here” I told him solemnly.

“I want to come here every morning. I’m here to be part of something bigger than me.” he responded right away, but then he really surprised me: “I’m here because of hope.”

Looking up into far reaching rows of still hanging memorials to the dead, that one word tore me in half – “hope”. To find hope… here.

When I finally exited the memorial, I felt a compulsion to sit with the soil and to find Stanley again. But when I entered the building he was nowhere in sight. A young woman was now taking temperatures.

I went back to the jars of soil, now turning over both all that I’ve learned and also that word “hope,” again and again, as I looked at the remains of so, so many people, murdered without mercy.

Finally, I got up to leave.

But just as I did, I heard Stanley’s voice behind me. I turned around and there he was again by the door, taking the temperature of a couple who’d just entered. As I watched, he led them toward where I was sitting, and briefly told them about the jars like he had for me hours before.

After a time, they left, leaving me alone with Stanley again.

He asked me where I was headed next. I told him I didn’t know. Where I should go? Memphis, where Dr King was shot. He told me. And so I did.

Before I left, I asked if I could take his picture to show my family. “I want to tell them your story.”

“I’m not going to take off my mask,” he told me, his eyes grinning, then added more seriously: “Tell them what you saw here.”

As I waved goodbye, I thanked him, and told him I hoped to see him again.

“I hope so too. Come back soon with your family. I believe the truth will set us free.”

Listening in Isle Royale: One of America's Most Remote National Parks

Tim Geoffrion September 28, 2020

“If what a tree does is lost on you you are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows where you are. You must let it find you.” David Wagoner

I just returned to civilization after spending five days completely off the grid on Isle Royale, the most wild and least visited National Park in the lower 48. It marks the 52nd National park I’ve visited on my journey.

The 45-mile long island is many miles from anything in the middle of Lake Superior. It has no paved roads, no cell reception, and an official census population of ZERO. Even the rangers leave it in the winter. On any given day moose vastly outnumber the humans, of which only 14,000 step ashore each year. The island has a few buildings on both ends of the island, and a few campgrounds with primitive shelters along the coast, but beside that the permanent human imprint on the island is negligible.

In planning my trip, I decided to hike the Greenstone Ridge, which runs the length of the entire island. I figured that’d be the surest way to have the most solitude.

Though I’d never backpacked alone for 5 days before, the idea of hiking, eating, and camping alone over that length of time seemed like an important rite of passage — a way to prove to myself how much I’ve grown on this journey – both in terms of physical and mental self-sufficiency. (After all, when this journey began I’d never even slept in a tent before.)

Well… actually I should be honest, that’s not the only reason I wanted to get off the grid. The truth is after three years of legal back and forth, I signed my divorce papers the morning before I headed north to the park. To say it’s been an ordeal – (for both of us I’m sure) — would be an understatement.

I may have worked for years to get to the point of signing a settlement, but once it arrived, after the signing the documents, I had NO desire to celebrate, let alone even tell anyone about it. I didn’t feel waves of relief. I felt sad, empty, and numb in turn.

When something truly ends, when the fight is over, when all the noise of the arguments no longer matters, sometimes a space opens up that couldn’t before. For me, in that space, it was hard not to remember how it began. By which I don’t just mean how it fell apart. I mean what brought us together before it got hard. What sustained us for years before. In that void I could finally remember truly the contours of the love that was lost. I found that as difficult to face as any of the moments which tore us asunder.

All of which is to say, once that the papers were finally signed, I was in a bit of a state. I felt so ready for this painful chapter of my life to be over and to move on. It’s been too hard, for too long. Let me get to the peace and solitude of nature I thought.

The thing is – to quote the Rolling Stones – you can’t always get what you want — something the universe let me know loud and clear before I even stepped foot in the park.

---

Getting to Isle Royale is a bit of an ordeal under normal circumstances. Given its location in the middle of Lake Superior, roughly 20 miles from Minnesota and 60 from Michigan, the only way to get to the island is by private boat, on a 5 hour one-way ferry ride, or sea plane. I don’t own a boat, and the ferry is closed in 2020. That meant I had to take a sea plane from Grand Marais, 4.5 hours north of Minneapolis.

I’d never been on a small plane before this adventure, but to get around Alaska you have to take them. Up there, I learned on a sunny, non-windy day they are treat. But I’ve also learned in the wind they are a terror. While crashes are rare (roughly 1 crash per 100,000 flight hours) that is 2,058x more likely than when you fly on on a major airline.

So, when I arrived at the airport I felt relieved that it was a beautiful sunny day and the flight was only 30 minutes.

My plane had 3 passengers plus the pilot. After taking off we were scheduled to drop one guy off at Windigo (on the far west side of the island where I’d end up), and then continue on to Rock Harbor (on the far east side of the island).

I sat immediately behind the pilot and next to a guy about my age. He had a mop of curly hair and wild eyes that betrayed no small degree of terror at realizing just how small the plane was once we were abroad. I made small talk with him and tried to reassure him based on my experience on tiny bush planes in Alaska last summer that these planes are great for comfort and views. In truth, those reassurances were for me as much as for him. Since it was a clear, sunny day it’d be a beautiful flight I told him. And sure enough, as we flew over the North Shore before heading out over Lake Superior, we all went slack-jawed seeing the maples and oaks in full peak from above.

Thirty minutes later we began our descent toward Windigo.

I saw the guy next to me tensed. I gave him a smile, a thumbs up, and yelled “we are about to land!”

The pilot had a gentle touch as he eased the plane from on high, down to equal height with the ridge line, then to eyeline with the treetops on the shore, and finally just feet above the water.

Then suddenly – VROOM – he hit some lever sharply, the engines purred, and we were climbing rapidly up again.

Meanwhile, our pilot said nothing. No sign of alarm or explanation whatsoever. Looking out the cockpit window I could see another plane right before us had also aborted its landing. As we climbed again we followed that other plane around the whole west end of the island in a big loop. 10 minutes later we took the same angle toward the bay and began our descent again.

Are we in danger? Is this safe? Should I be bracing myself?

I gave the guy next to me a forced smile. No thumbs up this time.

As we descended again a second time it was just as smooth as the first. Out the front cockpit window I saw the first plane ahead of us land. We eased down toward the water behind them, and then before I knew it we too touched down on the water and began our glide toward the dock.

It was only at this point that the pilot took off his headset, turned back to us, and calmly let us know, “Engine problems. This might be a while.” Then put his headset back on.

Wait, what? Excuse me. Can I ask some questions, sir? What problems? Whose engines? Will we be able to take off again? Do I want to be on the plane when it does?

When we got to shore the guy next to me was out of that plane as soon as the door opened, and once he had his bag, he was off into the woods without so much as a goodbye.

The pilot, now also on the dock, leaned back to the window: “I’m sorry. There’s a problem with the other plane’s engine. You’ll stay warmest if you stay in the plane. I don’t know how long this will take.” He went to the other plane, joined a ranger and the other pilot who were looking under the hood of the other plane, and all three gave up and both disappeared ashore to somewhere unseen.

My first thought was - thank god! At least it wasn’t our plane’s engine that’s broken. But then, in looking at the other plane and realizing it was IDENTICAL to the one I was sitting in I realized I had a lot of important questions. Like, how often do these planes have unexpected engine problems that are only discovered mid-flight?

For almost two hours, Brian and I waited in the tiny plane compartment. So much for solitude, I thought. But soon, I didn’t mind. We had a fascinating conversation about his family’s history, his war service, and the island – which he’d been coming out to his entire life. In fact, I was enjoying it so much I actually felt a little sad when I saw the pilot return.

The pilot was joined by a very smiley middle-aged solo backpacker and also the pilot of the other plane. They checked the knots tying the other plane to dock, and then boarded our plane. I guess they were just going to leave it there broken all night…

As they got in, the backpacker told us: “I drew the lucky straw!”

He went on: “I feel a little bad for those other three guys though. They warn you over and over to bring a few days of extra food in case you get stuck on the island, but those guys were so mad. I don’t think they brought extra provisions.”

Wait, what? How often do people get “stuck” for extra time on the island, I wondered.

Our pilot added, “It’s like people forget we are miles off shore in the wilderness here. Earlier this summer there was a whole week of fog that wouldn’t lift. So, we couldn’t do any flights.” Um… I thought about everything in my pack. I know packed some extra granola bars but definitely not DAYS of extra food.

“How long will they have to wait?” I asked timidly.

The pilot of the other plane, who was now pressed elbow to elbow with me shrugged. “Who knows.”

And without any further explanation, our pilot put his headset back on, started the propeller, pushed us back into the bay, and then up into the air.

---

When we finally landed in Rock Harbor, this time without incident, it was already 630pm.

People had been waiting on the dock to go home for hours. Without cell reception they’d probably had no idea why the plane wasn’t showing up. Once he gave me my bag, our pilot immediately turned his attention to them. I assume he was supposed to give me some sort of orientation or confirmation when he’d pick me up, but he was overwhelmed with the new passengers. So, I just left.

Moreover, when you land on the island you are supposed to go over your itinerary and get a lengthy safety briefing with a ranger. But since it was so late, there were no rangers to be found. They must have all gone home for the day.

To cross the island in just five nights, I knew I would have to start hiking then. I couldn’t wait for the morning to find a ranger. So, I threw on my pack and headed west trying to get as many miles in as possible before it got dark.

Okay, I said to reset myself, nothing bad happened. You are fine. Finally, your feet are on the ground. Now is the time for peace, solitude, and freedom!

Or not…

Literally the moment I left the inhabited part of island, 5 minutes into my walk, I turned a corner, and MOOSE.

Most national park visitors are scared of bears – that’s appropriate – but, moose actually kill more people than bears. If you’ve never been beside one, you probably don’t realize just how big and mean they can be, especially males in the fall when they are literally crazed as they ooze testosterone and prepare for the rut. That said, typically upon hearing a human they run away.

But, after waiting for some time, my antlered moose friend didn’t move. I was less than 100 feet away, now shielded behind a birch trunk. Maybe he doesn’t know I’m here, I wondered. So, still behind my trees, I tried speaking to him.

“Hi Mr. Moose. I’m a human. I’m no danger. Can I cross your path?” In retrospect, I know this wasn’t exactly assertive, but I did want to respect his size. Not surprisingly, he did nothing.

Next, I tried clapping and talking a little more directly, still from behind my tree. “Okay Mr. Moose! Time to move Mr. Moose! Come on now!” Equally ineffective.

So, I gave up, and put my pack down, and just watched.

It was as if the universe was laughing at me thinking I was in charge, that I could rush things at the pace I wanted, “How many times do I need to teach you this? Remember the plane ride? Or how about that divorce?”

When the moose eventually did move several minutes later, it was only half way off the trail, giving me an excellent additional multi-minute view of his just giant rear side before he finally scampered off.

I made it to camp well after dark. After getting settled I decided not to eat. Maybe I’ll need the food later? I reasoned.

---

The next morning I got up before dawn. I had a long way to go, and I felt like I needed to get an early start.

As a consequence, I was pretty groggy. So, it wasn’t until after I’d already fully packed my bag that I realized I was still wearing my long underwear. Even though it was only 40 degrees then, I knew I needed to change or I’d boil while I was hiking later.

So, I put down my bag, took off my pants and long underwear, and went to grab for my regular underwear. Of course, it wasn’t at the top of my bag. So, butt-naked from the waist down, I rummaged through my already packed pack to find something to change into.

At that moment, I heard a rustle in the woods. Oh crap. Another moose? I wondered.

I stood up straight, dropping my pack, my nakedness fully faced at whatever danger might be approaching.

And what do you think it was? It was something much more terrifying than a moose - a tiny, hunched over, white-haired woman lugging her pack.

I yelped for her to leave while I grasped for something to cover myself.

She kept walking toward me. Did she not hear me? I yelled for her to go away again.

Then she scolded me: “Oh, it’s fine. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before!”

---

This wasn’t the last unexpected (or uncomfortable) conversation I had on the island, but it was the only one that happened while I was naked.

That said, most of my time on the island was spent alone.

Unlike the crowded trails of most National Parks, I rarely saw (or heard) any other hikers. When I did see other people, it was usually hours between sightings.

In those vast swaths of time, I saw so much, did so much, thought about so much. I was getting exactly what I hoped for in terms of solitude. But after the third day, as I was taking stock of my trip, I also realized felt surprisingly exhausted and irritable most of the time. I was “enjoying” it, but I was also counting down the miles and time until I could go home.

Why? What was I so mad about? My divorce? Even though I was alone with no phone to distract me, I felt like I’d been so busy, I hadn’t even had time to be bothered by it.

So what was consuming my attention?

Well, for one thing, I was upset to find so many scars to the natural environment from human activity all over the island. I thought its remoteness would mean “pristine wilderness” with no sign of human destruction. Instead, even though it’s been a protected sanctuary since 1940, I discovered polluted pools of water, mining pits from the 1800s, and signs of prior deforestations which appeared to have burnt down ten of thousands of ancient large trees. It was a visual metaphor for me about how much we humans can hurt things, and just how long those scars remain.

It also reminded me how hopeless I feel about our country’s current environmental policies. While congress just passed a bipartisan bill to fund deferred maintenance in the National Parks, the Trump administration has also rolled back over 100 environmental protections and opened up millions of acres of pristine wilderness to mining and logging in the last four years, including in the Tongass National Forest, ANWR, Gates of the Arctic, the Grand Staircase, and parts of northern Minnesota.

I’ve been to nearly all of these places on this journey. They are absolutely stunning and risk being forever destroyed in our lifetimes by these short-term decisions. Of course, I know a vibrant economy and good jobs are important to the health of a nation. I am not a radical. I am a capitalist at my core. Moreover, much of my family legacy is in both timber and paper milling. So, I get the nuance. But if this adventure has taught me anything it’s that a tree doesn’t only have value once you cut it down.

But I couldn’t really blame my entire mood on those political thoughts. I was more bothered by immediate anxieties and discomforts. I felt disappointed about the lack of sunshine the first few days. I was worried about contaminated water. I felt like I wasn’t getting any good pictures. I worried whether the plane would be fixed, and whether that’d create a cascade of delays that’d leave me stuck on the island for days on end. I worried whether my return flight would even be safe. More immediately, every day I feared if I didn’t wake up early enough or walk fast enough, there’d be nowhere “good” for me to sleep at night. It’s hard enough carrying a 45 pound pack so far every day, doing so while speed walking is even more exhausting.

Of course, I see now that I was obsessing on those mental battles for other reasons too. Even though I was alone for days on end, and in one of the wildest places in America, getting locked into those thought loops allowed me (with seeming integrity to myself) to NOT have any space to face the feelings I really didn’t want to face about my divorce — namely, my hurt, regret, shame, and anger. There was no time for it! I was too busy fighting and beating back myriad immediate threats. But I hadn’t realized that yet.

---

So, there I was on that third night, feeling so grumpy, after eating dinner alone, when I went back down to a lake’s edge to fill up my water bottles for the next morning.

There, standing by the shore was another solo backpacker. He was probably in his early 40s, totally bald on top and with a great unkempt beard hanging many inches below his chin. He was the first solo backpacker I’d seen all trip. Everyone else had been with friends or a partner. (Believe me, I noticed).

Immediately, I could feel his nervous energy in the sharp movements of his hands trying to attach his water filter to his CamelBak. Before I could say anything, rather than say hello, he turned to me and asked, “How bad do you think the parasites are in this lake?”

I mean… I wanted to say it’s a barely moving body of water with beaver ponds at both ends, but opted for the simpler: “Probably terrible…”

“Right, right. I’m filtering. But if it was that bad, would they really allow us here? … I mean my hands get wet. Will they get in through my fingers? And the ranger was very clear, very clear -- Purell doesn’t kill parasites.” He went on, “I can deal with a gut parasite, but I don’t want to get a tapeworm in my lungs. It’d be there laying eggs, feeding off me years, and I wouldn’t even know! Can they even get those out?”

I thought: oh ******** do I have a lung parasite already?

Then I remembered, wait, I’ve been super careful. I bought an extra strength filter before the trip, and I even have been adding iodine to my water after I filter as a second layer of defense. If I have a parasite then everyone that comes to island must have one too. That seems unlikely. I’ve done what I can do. Calm down. There’s nothing more to do.

Seeing that gave me compassion for him, and so I tried to calm him down: “Yes, definitely scary. I’m sure we are fine.” (I wasn’t sure we were fine, but what more could we do?"). “I’m Tim by the way.” We bumped elbows (my covid era handshake equivalent of choice), and he seemed to relax a bit..

“And, maybe,” I went on, a bit of mischievousness now kicking in, “we’ll both make other friends out here too, ones we’ll always carry inside us... forever” He groaned.

We talked for a while about what brought us to the island (he’d had a hard year with his family), what we’d hoped to find (solitude and no cell phone access), and what we actually were finding (a lot of beauty AND unexpected stress).

He told me his pack was super heavy from the 3 days of extra food he was carrying. (Did I miss the memo on this?) I told him I didn’t have that much. “Look for me Windigo,” he said, I’m sure I’ll have some to spare. I thanked him in advance. We were both feeling better.

At the end of our conversation Elijah asked where I was headed the next day. I told him. He said, anxiety returning to his voice again like at the start, “Me too, I’ve heard from people it’s very busy. Much busier than here. I should probably get up and get on the path before sunrise so I make sure I get a spot.”

I thought, again, ****** - am I going to have to get up in the darkness to get a spot? Will everyone be rushing in the morning?

Then, I thought, oh my gosh – stop. Seriously, stop. Settle down. If the campsite is full, pitch your tent in the woods 10 feet away. There’s tons of flat ground.

Then, oh **** … this guy, with his consuming fears about danger and not enough is visual representation of what it must look like in my own head. No wonder I’m so grumpy.

And, then, the big blow, oh **** this isn’t just an island problem, is it?

Could I have found a better mirror for my own anxieties than Elijah? Here was the universe saying: “Dude, seriously? Can you not hear me? Remember the plane? The moose? Your divorce? This is what your brain sounds like, about everything, all the time. Do you think this is serving you? Do you want to live like this forever?”

There was no real scarcity issue about tent spots. There’s never been a scarcity issue about good photos, clean water, or enough food. Not here, not back in my life before this journey began.

Before I knew what I was saying, I calmly responded: “I don’t know. I don’t want to sacrifice my hike out of fear anymore.” He nodded, as if I’d said something that touched him.

Despite that, I never saw him again. When I got up in the morning, a bit after sunrise, his campsite was long since cleared out. I made a leisurely breakfast and enjoyed a slow walk. I found a campsite, no problem.

We all have our own paths, even when we follow the same road.

---

For the remainder of the trip my mantra became: “Am I sacrificing my walk?” And if the answer was yes, I stopped, literally, until my mind quieted and I could hear nothing but the wild.

I was just as alone as ever, but for the first time the entire trip I was finally hearing the subtler sounds of the forest: the plunking of acorns tossed to the ground from the treetops by squirrels; the gulping way moose let you know they don’t like you are around (even before you can see them); leaves falling from the branches, catching other leaves, and making pattering sounds like rain on a roof. At night, my body still, my eyes unseeing, I heard owls hooting calls and responses, wolves howling far away, and even what sounded like moose mating one night.

The last day I walked more slowly than ever before, basking in the shade of the hardwood forest -- tall sugar maples and oaks all around. The trees formed a thick canopy above me. Below me the forest floor was colored with fallen leaves and saplings only knee high. Above me the leaves on outstretched branches were still green, but when I looked higher up, way up, sometimes I could see their crowns – shimmering crimson and gold in the sunlight. It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve seen this entire journey.

Despite that, a few times I felt that fears or anger boiling up again. Its causes varied. But this time, when it happened I just stopped, and said to myself: “Yes.”

Yes, that’s it. Yes, I am angry. Yes, that happened. Yes, I am here. Yes, I have many more miles to walk. Yes, these trees are a miracle. Yes, I have a lot of anger. Yes, I am angry at many other people. Yes, I am even angrier at myself. Yes, it’s time to stop pretending and face what’s real in my emotional world. Yes, I have enough. Yes, I am safe. Yes, stop moving. Yes, be still. Yes, listen.

The next day the plane arrived just when it was supposed to. I didn’t have to eat any of my emergency food after all. As we flew back to the mainland, I pressed my forehead against the window, staring down at the waters and trees all afire with autumn splendor far below. We landed safely right on time.

In a certain sense, nothing significant happened during my five days on Isle Royale. My plane didn’t have engine problems. I never got hurt. I had enough food. I didn’t get sick. I got to admire a moose’s butt for many minutes from up close. I flashed an old lady. I met a bearded man who perfectly mirrored my inner anxieties. I heard (A LOT) of animals having sex. I saw beautiful trees.

Yet in a deeper sense, those days were some of the most consequential of my entire 18-month journey – tearing down so many richly adorned veils I’d hung to prevent myself from facing my undesirable feelings.

For the rest of my life I know I will carry so much of what I experienced on Isle Royale… fingers crossed it doesn’t include tapeworms.

It's Okay To Not Be Okay

Tim Geoffrion April 19, 2020

On March 14th I entered into voluntary solo quarantine after discovering I’d been in close proximity with multiple people who might have Covid-19 (the full story about what led up to that moment can be found here).

It might be hard to recall now, but those days were filled with a nearly breathless collective panic. To remind you, here are a few things I scrawled in my journal March 14-17th:

- March 14th: At the grocery store (before I knew I needed to go into quarantine). Many of the cleaning products, dry goods, and frozen food shelves are nearly empty. People are panic buying weeks of food. A clerk told me that the distribution center had stopped returning their calls a few days before. They were supposed to get new supplies but they never came. She thinks the store will be largely cleared out of food tonight if nothing happens.

- March 15th: received a text from a friend. He’d driven past a gun shop. The line had stretched for blocks. He asked if I was prepared if looters attacked my building. Other friends sending videos about preparing for martial law.

- March 16th: the stock market had its single largest drop in history, 12%. My 401k, which is mostly in the stock of my old employer, has nearly halved in value over a few weeks. This afternoon, X (a close friend and hedge fund manager in New York), someone who I’ve long viewed as the model of complete emotional stability, called me out of the blue. He was distraught in a way I’ve never experienced in 15 years. That may have terrified me. I’ve always relied on him to be hyper rational and to calm me down when I get frightened about the direction of society... Tonight, Y called me to tell me Z attempted, and failed, to commit suicide…

- March 17th: W called to tell me she was let go of her job of 18 years without warning. So many friends have lost their jobs this week already.

Throughout those early days, two weeks before our state went into a lockdown, I was locked inside my apartment, unsure whether I was about to get really sick, and afraid that if I went outside I could accidently hurt someone else. I remember often looking out my window and thinking how incomprehensible the whole thing was. Outside the birds were singing as they always did, impervious to our human pandemic. Every morning I was woken up by the sun rising outside my window, and at night as I looked east its fiery reflection lit up the windows of skyscrapers facing west as it had every clear night before.

After a few days of waiting nervously for something, really anything, to happen in my body or on the street below, on March 18th I received another text for CJ. She’d gotten the test results back. She and her family were all positive for Covid-19. I was on the phone with another friend when I got the news. I said I was fine and that it didn’t surprise me. This changed nothing I told her. I was young, healthy, and already quarantined. But within a minute I found my mind completely disengaged from the conversation and I told her I had to go.

Soon thereafter, I lost my appetite, developed excruciating headaches, swollen lymph glands, a sore throat, a mild dry cough, and lungs which felt like they were on fire. Most days, until the late afternoon, I found it hard to breathe deeply. It felt like I had a bag of weights over my chest. I could move them, but only with great effort. I checked my temperature neurotically. But it never got above 98.6. Weirdly, it was typically between 95.5 and 96.9F. I tried to reassure myself that my symptoms were probably either imagined or the result of stress.

Ultimately, since there are still no tests in the US except for patients in the hospital, I don’t know whether I had “it” or not.

~~~

Though the physical symptoms of whatever I had were scary, the psychological impacts of the disease have hit me much harder.

That surprised me. For the last 12+ months, I’ve been without direction except what I make up. I’ve regularly been alone or in the wilderness away from society for extended periods. I didn’t have a job before. I still don’t. I went to countless hours of meditation and yoga workshops. It’s hard to imagine a regime that could have theoretically better prepared me for an extended solo quarantine.

And much of the time, it seemed to work to buoy my spirits. I limited my news consumption. I’ve put my attention on the unique opportunities of the moment. I’ve wrote pages and pages of journal entries about all the things I feel grateful for.

And yet, on other days, I’ve felt beaten down, and angry for feeling that way. After all, I scolded myself, you have so much to be thankful for and are in a better position than so many others!

When this first began to happen, my discomfort manifested as a generalized sense of fear.

I’ve learned a lot about fear this year, and I tried to apply my learnings and energy to overcome it.

Firstly, I’ve learned that when I get frightened by one specific thing (a drugged-out man approaching my car, a bear in the wild, a hard conversation with someone angry at me), I can tip from a state of general confidence, to general fear. Suddenly, everything around me and every interaction seems like something that could lead to loss.

While shut in, I tried to apply this learning by reminding myself not to take rash actions, that I’d had this kind of reaction before, and that I probably wasn’t in nearly as much danger as I thought. Then, rather than fighting all the fears at once, I focused on examining each one. And indeed, one by one, I saw my fears were greater than the actual immediate danger I faced.

After doing the work of speaking to and examining my fears (rather than reacting to them) I felt much better… sometimes… and for a few hours, or perhaps a whole day, even as my body was still weak, I’d feel great – full of gratitude, optimistic about the future, and focused on helping others (even if only digitally).

But… then for no particular reason, at some seemingly random moment, I’d feel myself fall to pieces again. I couldn’t understand why, and it made so me angry at myself for being so weak.

Which brings me to my second learning about fear – sometimes when I enter into a consuming state of depression and generalized fear – it’s a sign that something deeper is happening. Yes, my fears are real, but they can also simultaneously be a self-generated smoke screen protecting me from having to face deeper feelings.

In retrospect, it’s interesting in re-reading my journals from those first days in quarantine. On the one hand, I did so many of the “yoga” and “mindfulness” things I learned this year to manage periods of tumult and anxiety. I cut out negative stimuli from my life. I put my attention on my gratitudes and opportunities. I had tons and tons of phone calls with friends. I even started a mediation group, in which I led meditations for friends and strangers alike. When I went to bed I turned on positive podcasts and audio books which I fell asleep to.

I also notice what I wasn’t doing. Even though I was locked at home alone, I wasn’t meditating myself. I wasn’t reflecting deeply in my journaling; mostly I was capturing the “facts.” I wasn’t saying no when friends wanted to talk. In sum, I wasn’t creating any space for silence or stillness.

~~~

Perhaps that surprises you? After all, I’ve written a lot about stillness and my desire for it in this blog.

In one post this summer, I wrote about my first extended wilderness backpack. Midway through, my guide told how she views consciousness as a ship crossing a lake. Most of the time winds and currents are whipping up the surface. We think we only have enough energy to fight to stay afloat. When we look out at the violent sea, and mistakenly believe that all water is waves.

In the wilderness, something strange happened. Cut off from the external stimuli of the normal world, and forced to sit with my thoughts without distraction for days on end, it at first felt as though the storm has become a hurricane. And yet, in time, I found the winds lost their hold and suddenly the surface became still. I realized not only just how much energy I was spending just to stay afloat, but that I had made most of the winds! Then, looking down at the still surface of the water, I saw into the deeps, and discovered I floating on a thing far vaster and more beautiful than I ever imagined when I was only fighting the waves.

In that moment, the metaphor and experience, filled me so much joy and hope. I vowed to carry the wilderness inside me and return to still waters of my mind whenever I found myself feeling like I’d entered a storm not of my own creating.

And yet, despite this experience just months ago, faced with new category 5 hurricane outside, is this what I did? No, not at all, I tried to fight the storm with every weapon in my arsenal. Until I gave out – not out of wisdom, but exhaustion.

I reached that point a week after my physical symptoms began to subside. I was feeling okay that day, but I was tired of being cooped up. So, I decided what I needed was fresh air. Thankfully, I live in a pretty quiet neighborhood, and in the middle of the day I thought I could go for a walk without risking coming into contact with anyone.

My walk was going fine until I saw someone else coming toward me. As I saw him look at me, I froze. I thought I saw fear in his eyes. Without waiting for him to react further, I scurried to other side of the street, cast my eyes down, and hurried home.

Even though I never got within 50 feet of him, I wondered, was I careful enough? What if he ended up getting sick and died? Why was I so selfish? Did I really need to be outside? When would this ever end? A vaccine is 2 years away, maybe. In the meantime, I’m unemployed, unsure of my future, and have failed so many people these last few years. Honestly, what value am I even providing to society? Holed up in my apartment, I’m adding nothing to anyone. I’m just consuming resources, and anytime I go out, I’m risking the safety of others. That man had seen the truth – in my blood and breath I carry brokenness and a certainty of suffering for anyone who gets too close.

I knew these thoughts were melodramatic. I felt like a drama queen, and yet in deeper sense as I looked at them, they felt both absurd and also true.

When I got back home, I curled up on my couch. I was supposed to have a zoom call that afternoon with a group of friends. Then, I did something I never do. I bailed. At first I said nothing. Then, 15 minutes later, I sent a text saying, “sorry… something came up.” I rolled back onto my side, and began to scroll through my social media feeds. Then, I stopped even doing that.

~~~

Shame. Regret. Fear. Despair. How could a simple, innocent glance from a stranger trigger so much and send me spiraling?

I imagine many of you may have experienced similar moments the last few weeks. Perhaps you feel fine, having found a new groove despite it all, and then suddenly, you are brought to your knees and you find yourself face-to-face with your oldest insecurities and regrets.

In that moment, I saw I had so many unhealed wounds, and I despaired. I had no energy to constructively journal. I didn’t want to talk with friends. I just sank deeper and deeper in self-loathing.

But then something strange happened. The longer I sat in stillness, I found that it wasn’t shame and despair which were at the bottom of the lake. There were feelings deeper still.

At first it was anger. I felt angry I was locked inside. I felt anger that it seemed like our politicians have no idea what they are doing. I felt angry this could go on for years. I felt fury at the people who I wronged and misunderstood me in 2017 and 2018 prior to me going on my travels. I felt rage at myself, for the stupidity of many of the choices I’ve made during my life.

My anger burned through me, literally consuming me in the silence, until I felt like I’d been transformed to mere ash. Then I found exhaustion. I had no more energy to curse politicians, the people who hurt me, or even myself. I had no energy to fight my fears, to support others, to transform my negative feelings into purpose, or even to censor myself for feeling bad for feeling bad because of all the privilege I enjoy.

Then, completely spent, I began to feel the pull of sadness. I wanted to cry, and I couldn’t understand why. In the stillness of that afternoon I felt wave after wave of sadness that I was too tired to resist. I felt sadness for my failed marriage, for my part in it, and all the love that was so good but which is now forever lost. I felt sadness for all the sacrifices I made to pursue a job I knew I never should never have taken, and which didn’t turn out. I felt sadness for so many of my friends now in such distress, and who I knew I couldn’t help. I felt sadness for the plans I’d painstakingly made, but which in a week had now become impossible to live out.

When I had no more tears to cry, I found stillness. By this, I don’t mean I found happiness or healing. I still felt a general sense of melancholy. My wounds were still there. But the vibrating anxiety and need to do SOMETHING that had been ever present since the quarantine started had gone away.

And as I looked out at myself with my brokenness, and out at the sick world with its indefinite lockdowns stretching into the seeming infinity, I realized all my fighting was getting me nowhere. No, I wasn’t giving up. On the contrary, I felt a new sense of resolve to turn my attention away from the mountains I couldn’t climb and the people I couldn’t save, and instead toward the healing myself.

And in that moment, I saw too that I needed to start not with action, but surrender. I needed to give myself permission in the midst of the storm to sit in stillness, to not be okay, to not know what to do, and to not try to immediately fix it. I needed to let myself be with myself as I am, not as I want to be, and find acceptance even there.

Since then… well, to be honest, it’s been a work in progress. And I’m trying to be kind to myself about that too.

~~~

Whoever you are, and wherever you find yourself today – alone in your apartment, a month since you’ve touched anyone, or living with many others – know that you are not alone. In this time of global pandemic, we are all connected. We are all transforming. We are all fighting great battles: some shared, some deeply personal.

And when you are struggling, and when you lose heart, I hope you remember it’s not only okay, but important, to give yourself permission to not be okay.

A Man, A Plan, and A Pandemic

Tim Geoffrion March 27, 2020

In a time long, long ago, before “social distancing” was a thing, and when hugs were still how the woke said hello, I headed back on the road. I was excited. After months of debating “what’s next,” I had a plan: the time for endless thinking inside was over.

According to the Gregorian calendar that was March 4th, 2020, roughly 3 weeks ago, though it sure feels like a decade ago now, right?

As I headed out on the road I wondered what this chapter of my journey would be like. What would I see that I didn’t expect? What new things would I discover inside myself? What common themes would emerge?

Quickly, one answer seemed to be forming: (re)connection. Everywhere I went (with little or no advanced planning) I saw friends who I’d only met in the last 12 months.

*Caption: yoga teacher training friends*

During just 9 days I hiked, skied, ate, and stayed with 9 different friends and families.

*Caption: my friends Faria, Ziad and Amani who I met in December*

Each interaction was unique, profound, deep, vulnerable, and lasted hours. None of them overlapped. So, I barely had a minute to myself except when I was driving. I didn’t care. These various and very different people – spanning ages 2 to 72 – absolutely filled me up. Though our conversations often treaded into weighty topics, in the end, every one of them lifted me up and made me feel abundant in spirit.

*Caption: My cousin Jason and his daughter Coraleigh*

One particularly sweet moment occurred after spending two days with my friend CJ (who attended my yoga teacher trainings) and her family. As I was standing in their family’s driveway getting ready to leave her youngest son (about six) turned to me and asked: “When are you coming back?”

I told him, “I don’t know, but I hope soon.”

“How about tomorrow?” He suggested excitedly.

“No not tomorrow…” I laughed awkwardly, not sure how to reply. I was tongue-tied and deeply touched.

As I drove the 3+ hours out of the mountains to my next stop I felt aglow. There’s nothing quite like someone telling you how they want you around, even if that someone is a child you just met.

Hours later I looked at my phone. I’d received three texts, all from CJ.

Did she have more messages about how much her children missed me? I wondered excitedly.

Not exactly.

Here is the first text, a simple image:

Wait? What? I don’t get it… I thought. Was she trying to send me a picture of her dog?

A second text: “You might need this.” I looked at the image again - oh **** my suitcase! It can’t be…

The third text – a crazed faced emoji.

And so, the next afternoon, after spending all morning and the prior night until 3am talking with my cousin and his wife, I turned around and drove the 3 hours back to pick up my suitcase.

Sadly, I didn’t get stay long. Something told me I needed to get back to Minnesota with everything happening around Corona. Surely this mass hysteria would blow over quickly. It wouldn’t be long until I could get back on the road and back to my carefully thought out plans.

Upon returning home, out of an abundance of caution, one morning I decided to go to the grocery store and get some frozen food – just in case. As I was checking out I received another text from CJ. Fingers crossed it’d be message affirming how much her family all missed me? I thought.

And … no.

“I am coughing.”

Then: “Dr thinks it’s the virus… quarantine.”

I felt a sinking feeling in my gut. Should I leave the food and walk away? What’s the protocol for this? I’d already put my items on the conveyer belt. I looked at the cashier. I saw he was wearing gloves. Am I supposed to tell him about the text I received? I still felt fine… Not knowing what to do, I tried to stand as far away as possible and not speak in his direction. “You should change your gloves…”

Once my food was bagged I drove straight home.

After kicking my brother out of our apartment (for his protection…)

*Caption: my bother waving me goodbye from 6+ feet away*

I lay in bed and waited…

What was happening inside me? I still felt fine, but… was I about to get sick any minute? I was alone. What then? Had I infected others without realizing it? What was happening in the world? I tried to channel my inner positivity and yoga practices. Mind over matter. Don’t catastrophize this.

More texts from CJ. Her fever was spiking.

I dialed up everyone I’d seen in Colorado since I’d been with CJ: “I feel fine, but I just wanted to let you know…”

Once done, I crawled back into bed and drew the curtains even though it was the middle of the afternoon.

Stay calm… I reassured myself as I took my temperature for the 4th time in 2 hours.

To be continued… later this weekend.

Stay tuned and sign up below or on my home page to make sure you receive future post directly to your inbox.

Story Telling in a Time of Pandemic

Tim Geoffrion March 16, 2020

I have an idea for this Wednesday night… this email is quite short (a miracle for me, I know), so hear me out.

I’ve found myself re-reading a number of old books on historical plagues the last few days. One in particular has been speaking to me: Boccaccio’s Decameron.

The Decameron is set during an epidemic that ravaged Florence 650 years ago. Within a larger frame, it’s a collection of 100 stories told by 10 young people who are taking refuge in a country villa outside of Florence during an outbreak of the Black Death. Over their 2 weeks of self-quarantine (sound familiar?), the group takes turns telling stories on different topics not related to the plague (1 topic per night for 10 of the 14 nights). Some tales are tragic, some quite bawdy, some profound, others quite silly.

As we all grapple with the new reality of not being able to leave our homes for some time, of being bombarded by frightening news, of so much uncertainty and scary decisions (that we have to make or are being made to us), all while we are disconnected from each other physically – I’ve been meditating on what we can do to stay connected, purposeful, full of life, and hopeful despite it all.

My modest proposal: a 21st century Decameron.

But how can we do that when we are all trapped in different homes you ask? Why over the internet of course!

So, I am creating a virtual fireplace for anyone who wants to gather together with fellow humans around the globe – to distract, to listen, to share, and to connect over stories which have absolutely nothing to do with the hard things happening the world right now. We all need a few moments of respite, and I believe those are better shared than spent alone.

If you’d like to join (either Wednesday or future nights) – please fill out this brief form and I’ll send you the details Wednesday morning.

In the meantime, I hope everyone is staying safe,

With love,

Tim

What's Next?

Tim Geoffrion March 4, 2020

Anniversaries can bring up intense emotions, especially when you are least expecting it. And this week (the one year anniversary of the beginning of my solo wanderings) was no exception.

I remember the moment when is began so clearly. I was in Sedona, Arizona. That morning, I finished my week long Baptiste training. I felt empowered, but at the same time, I didn’t want to go out entirely on my own, so I’d arranged to spend my first “solo travel day” exploring the mountains with two friends. We spent the day hiking, eating, and talking. But by dinner, as I knew the two were about to leave me for some romantic time between themselves, I still had no plan of what was next. Maybe I’d just stay in town and crash their adventures again the next day? Perhaps, but where would I sleep that night? I hadn’t yet booked a place to stay.

Not wanting to be rude and use my phone in front of them, I went to the bathroom of the restaurant and scrolled through options on hotels.com. But I was appalled how expensive everything that came up was. Sure, I could afford it, but it wasn’t consistent with my values or budget. I couldn’t stomach the idea of spending two hundred dollars on a hotel for myself when I was unemployed. But after a few minutes of searching, and feeling that I’d been in the bathroom too long, I decided to put my phone away and go back to the table still without a plan.

When we got the check, my friend Kat asked, “where are you staying?” to which I shrugged, and admitted, “I don’t know.”

After hugging them goodbye, I got into my car, turned on the ignition and I felt a moment of panic. What should I punch into the GPS? And then, what am I doing with my life? How could I not have a plan or place to sleep at 8pm at night? I decided to just start driving north. There must be tons of cheap motels nearby I reasoned. (You know the roadside ones that look seedy, with one of those red flashing “vacancy” signs? I’d never been in one, but I assumed they couldn’t cost that much. Right?) Soon I found those motels, but instead of “vacancy” they all also flashed “No”. As I kept driving through the dark, the buildings became scarcer, and the road started to climb, at first gradually then sharply in rapid switchbacks. Without warning, thirty minutes up the mountain, it began to snow, hard (yes in Arizona!). I couldn’t go more than 10 miles an hour. I had no idea if things were about to get worse.

What was I doing driving up a mountain road to nowhere in the dark in a snowstorm? I wanted pull to the side of road and study the map, but not only did I have no signal - it felt unsafe to get near the edge in the dark. Should I go back? No… Not to mention the impossibility of turning around on the steep slippery roads, I was now an hour outside of a town where I knew there was nothing affordable. Go forward? What choice did I have?

Several hour later, after 11pm, I finally found the kind of motel I was looking for near the south rim of the Grand Canyon. There was no going back to see my friends the next day. I was now definitely on on my own, and still without a plan.

~~~

One year ago… how strange a thing time is. That night feels like a different lifetime. I’ve tasted so much more of life this year than I had in my entire adulthood before. For all of it, I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude. This year has opened up so much for me: so much of it unexpected, so much of it unplanned.

After a decade of meticulous plotting, carefully crafted choices meant to demonstrate my cunning, and which I thought would please all the right people, but which culminated in serious of spectacularly stupid mistakes, I felt beyond saving. As I thought about the future, on the one hand, I was too tired to plan. On the other hand, I intuited that putting myself into a situation without any of the old guardrails might help me discover how limited my old views of the world had been, and in so doing offer me a possibility for fuller life beyond my current comprehension.

So much of that has turned out to be true. The road has been a constant, if not always gentle teacher. I am not the same person who set off from Sedona a year ago; I hope and believe that has been mostly for the better.

And yet, so much that I hoped the road would teach me still has felt out of reach, especially: “What’s next?”

~~~

I know other people in my life are also aware it’s been a year. Over the past few weeks I’ve been getting an increasing number of oblique (and sometimes not so oblique) questions like, “So… how much longer are you planning to travel?” or “No pressure, but have you given any thought to what’s next?” or my favorite, “How much longer do you plan for this to go on?”

Sometime it feels as if the questioners fear that I’ve gone crazy, and without an intervention (right now!) I might slide into such an intractable resistance to ever re-joining the conventional working world that it’s only a matter of time until I go full Christopher McCandless and die in the Alaskan wilderness or become a full-time hobo riding the rails.

I joke. Sort of. I know these questions come in part from a place of love. I know too, they cut so deep because they give voice to my own doubts. I struggle with these same questions internally, ALL THE TIME:

“Am I doing the right thing? Does this still make sense? Has the journey taught me all it’s meant to? Am I fully taking advantage of this unique opportunity or am I wasting it? What would it mean for me to finish this well? What would ensure this period of my life really meant something?”

Sometimes, I can get so worked up by these questions that I withdraw from the world to think alone for hours on end. I imagine choosing one path, then obsess over all the ways that choice could be wrong. So, I switch, and I imagine taking a different one, but then I find I cannot help but obsess on how option two will keep me from some other goal I think I should be pursuing too. Inevitably, I make no thoughtful decisions, and feel completely overwhelmed. Sometimes, like that first night, I get lucky. Other times, I shut down and turn to “productively” spending my time by watching prestige TV, reading in depth stories about the pervasive corruption in the Trump’s universe, texting friends, or scrolling for hours on end through Instagram.

Of course, deep down, I know when I do this I’m being avoidant, and that I’m actually caught up in a shame cycle. It’s not lost on me how unique of a gift it is to have the resources and freedom to be able to go on an adventure like this. Sometimes, I feel shame for having used this privilege and still not fully figured out my life. And then in thinking that I can feel fear that the whole thing was actually a careless, hedonistic, and reckless thing to do. Others much more worthy than me would kill for the opportunities I had and threw away. Moreover, it’s not infrequent as of late for me to find out about some former colleague and acquaintance who’s since been promoted or made a small fortune while I was “finding myself.” Will I wake up one day to find I sabotaged my future?

I feel like perhaps I’m being over-dramatic. It’s not like I’m stuck in these doubts all the time. Sometimes, I feel completely at peace about this ambiguity. Such are the mysteries of the mind. Moreover, in the last two months, I’ve done quite a bit. I’ve explored six National Parks, made several new soul friends, connected with many family members in profound ways, learned new skills, and felt many moments of wonder and peace. But more and more, my self-doubts about “what’s next” have been leading me to feel adrift, write less, and hide myself emotionally from the people I expect will be disappointed in me.

This week after yet another night spent endlessly debating alone in my mind, “what’s next?” I found no answers. So, having no better idea, I put away my phone, sat on the floor, closed my eyes, and tried to meditate without any app or script.

At first, my mind refused to be still. I felt awash in my questions, overwhelmed by my indecision. But then, from nowhere, and for no discernible reason, I found myself seeing my fears as though they were people, and I was looking at them from afar. In a voice that was my own I heard myself say: “Oh, hello shame” then: “Oh, hi fear. I see you’ve decided to visit too.”

I felt a momentary clenching in my chest, but just as quickly as it came on it released. I was smiling. Then I was laughing to the empty room. How silly! Looking around my mind, I found they were not alone. Parts of my personality I hadn’t even noticed were missing began to emerge – the part that dreams, that part that plays, that part that laughs, the part that stares at the stars in wonder, and the part that loves to play with puzzles even before I know an answer can be found.

Had I gone crazy? Perhaps.

But what I saw in that moment was it hasn’t been reason, but fear and shame which have been setting the terms on the possible solutions I’ve explored. And in only consulting with them, I’ve been cutting myself off from so many other parts of myself (like creativity and trust) which might have helped me find different ways to go.

In this, I’m not saying that fear is bad and should always be overcome. Fear can protect me from many dangers and reckless selfish decisions; but it alone cannot be a source of creativity, imagination, or connection. Healthy expressions of those are only possible when fear is but one (and not the only) of the perspectives which I consult.

So, did this moment of laughter and epiphany immediately solve all of my questions? Of course not. I still feel very much in the work, but with my vision freed I do see it a new light:

“Am I doing the right thing? Has the journey taught me all it’s meant to? Am I fully taking advantage of the unique opportunities before me? What would it mean for me to finish this well? What would ensure this period of my life really meant something?”

These are not just question about my “sabbatical” (or walkabout as I’m now thinking about it)– these are the fundamental questions of what it means to live a good life.

Perhaps that insight should have made the contemplation of them weightier, but instead, I’m finding freedom in it. I know there is no perfect life or way to navigate it. Why did I think it’d be different for this journey? Seeing this, I feel freed to move back into action knowing that my choices will be imperfect. Moreover, I’m seeing it as a gift: a chance to provisionally answer the big life questions by testing hypotheses about them in this context. In this light, the more mistakes I make, the more I can learn, and the greater my chance of living a life I feel satisfied with when it’s done. The only wrong paths are those which will give me no new data, like choosing to stay in my head, treading old paths that brought me misery, or drifting along without intention.

Seeing the remainder of my journey this way (as a metaphor for life itself) has also freed me to feel more at peace with its eventual end. The question for me now isn’t should I fear what’s next, or can I stretch it out forever, but rather, knowing it will end, how do I want to spend my energy in the time I have left?

And here is my provisional answer: with intention in all I do, a heart full of gratitude, prioritizing my creativity, willingness to make and learn from my mistakes, space to experience new things, surrounded by beauty, and connected in love to others as they are (not as I want them to be).

What does this have to do with my walkabout, and what might it look like specifically, you ask?

For now, I’ve decided it means publicly affirming my goal of seeing ALL 62 US national parks. I do not believe that checking each park off the list is what will make the journey worthwhile, but I do believe that the organizing frame of it will bring me to places I wouldn’t otherwise explore, and that it creates a container in which I can live out the values I’m trying to embody in novel ways. It also means I’m setting a deadline on myself to complete this work by summer’s end. By limiting the amount of time I’m giving myself, I believe it will encourage me to get out of the drift, and be more intentional in how I use this time. Once I’ve seen them all, I will write a book about the journey and sell my photographs. And lastly, while I plan to continue to invest in businesses for myself (as my former jobs trained me to do), I plan shift my vocational focus toward helping others grow, most likely by first pursuing a graduate degree in psychology or holistic counseling.

Will this be exactly how my future plays out? Of course not. Already in the week since this plan began to coalesce I see how the corona virus’ spread could make it potentially impossible for me to see many of my remaining parks in my desired time frame. But who knows what next week will bring.

So what’s next? Stepping into that uncertainty, with conviction about my principles, and assurance that things won’t play out exactly as I imagine … that’s what’s next.

Note: all images in this post are from Saguaro National Park in Tucson, Arizona and were taken in January of 2020.

Talking to Strangers - a Vignette

Tim Geoffrion February 18, 2020

“Young man! Young man!”

It was 9am, and I was in a motel in the middle of nowhere New Mexico. I was exhausted and lost in my thoughts, but the woman’s voice – so insistent and unexpected – made me come to. What did she say? I thought. I looked around the room, and realized I was the only person there except for a single woman many tables away. She was un-mistakeably speaking to me. I looked at her more closely. She looked like a normal enough retiree, the kind of person I’m used to seeing anytime I stop at a motel or diner in the middle of nowhere. She wore long gray hair (neatly combed), had deep wrinkles across her forehead and neck (from many years in the sun), held her weight over a pair of broad shoulders, and was wearing a completely forgettable outfit that you might expect to see on the cover of some AAA or AARP magazine.

“Young man.” She said again, now more softly that she’d caught my eye.

Before I could say a word, she got up, walked to me, and sat down in a chair right at the table next to me asked: “Would you help me with a little thing?”

I had a six-hour drive ahead of me to meet my high school friend Andrew outside of Tucson, and I was already running late. I wanted to get going, but figured this would only set me back a few seconds, so I said: “Of course.”

“Oh, bless your heart. Thank you. You see, I need to set up an email account, and I just don’t even know.”

“Wait, what?”

“I just don’t understand technology. It’s complicated.”

I must have been staring at her blankly, dumbly.

She went on: “I need to get home and feed my dogs.”

Excuse me? What did she want again, I tried to remember.

A second went by, she kept looking at me. I couldn’t see the connection.

“Oh!” I said, eureka, “there’s a number for taxis by the front desk. I saw it there last night. You should go over there and call them.”

Problem solved! I thought.

“But I don’t have any money.”

“Do you have a credit card?”

“Oh yes – but you know how it is here. Cabs just take cash here. I don’t have any”

I thought about reaching into my wallet to give her some so I could get away.

“The woman at the desk told me I can call a cab with my phone, but I need an email, and well, you know, technology, this world is so complicated these days, I can’t figure it out at all. I can’t figure out email. So I don’t have one.”

“You don’t have one?”

I looked at her closely. A series of uncharitable thoughts flew through my mind. Was she homeless and looking for money? No, I looked at her clothes. They were clean, ready for that AARP shoot. I looked at her teeth -- all intact. I smelled for signs of alcohol. None. I looked into her eyes – they didn’t look dilated.

Maybe she’s just a clueless old woman, I thought. But how do you survive today without an email address? She must really need help. “Can I see your phone?” I asked. She handed me her Android.

I opened up the browser “Let’s try to google it together.” I suggested.

“What’s that?”

I looked at her again. Is she joking?

I said out loud as I typed it into Google, “How -- do – you -- set up – an – email -- account,” She didn’t seem particularly interested despite my live narration of my internet actions. “Click the top link.” “This is Gmail.” “Follow the link to ‘set-up an account.’”

I finally got her to a page where she had to put in her personal information. “I think you’ve got it from here.” I said cheerily.

I handed the phone back to her and tried again to finish my breakfast. I was relieved when I saw her typing and thought perhaps the conversation was nearing an end, but a moment later I heard her huffing: “Why does it want to know my age?”

“It’s okay” I assured her. “It just wants to know you aren’t a minor. You can put in something fake if you want, but only if you’ll remember it.” She took the phone back. I was shocked to see input a date that suggested she was in her late 50s.

A moment later more huffing: “It says my password won’t work! Can you do it for me?”

I looked over her shoulder and saw her name was “Linda”, and that Google wanted her to make a more complicated password.

“Just type it in again, and add some numbers on the end.” I suggested.

“Oh I can’t think of anything complicated.” She signed loudly as if home from a long day.

“Maybe put your dog’s names plus a number?” I suggested

“Oh, thank you! Bless your heart.”

I went back to my waffle.

A moment passed, she was still staring at the screen, then I saw her pressing the screen over and over: “It won’t let me confirm my password!”

I looked over her shoulder. “Maybe you typed it in wrong the second time.”

“The second time?”

Instead of entering her password a second time, she was pressing place where she being prompted to “confirm password” over and over.

“Um… why don’t you try typing your password in there.”

“Oh my! Sometimes I think I’m just not meant for this world.” she sighed.

When the confirmation page loaded, she yipped. “Oh! It worked! I have an email now! Thank you! I can get home now.”

“Okay, well now you should be set. Just go ahead and order your uber.” I waved as if to signal, good luck, I’m done here. I tried, again, to turn my full attention back to my half eaten, and increasingly cold waffle.

“How do I do that?” she asked the top of my head.

I signed, pushed away my waffle and grabbed the phone back. Of course, there was no Uber App on her phone. How had she known she needed an email? I wondered. But I didn’t care. I just wanted to see this thing through now. I went her app store and tried to download it, but when I did I saw it required her to first log in to her google account.

I handed the phone back to her and said, “Almost there! Just need to re-input your username and password that we just created”

She looked at me, and back at the phone, “Oh no, I don’t know if I remember!”

Are you freaking kidding me? I wanted to yell. But instead, I kept my cool, and said in my most zen like voice: “Hmm, remember it’s your dog’s name?”

“Oh yes!” she called out. But despite repeated attempts to type in her dog’s name. It didn’t work.

I grabbed the phone back and began the process to recover her password.

“Can I ask you a question.” She suddenly asked.

“Umm… sure…”

She looked down at my hand, and pointed to a dark raised dot on the crease between my right thumb and pointer finger. “How did you get that?”

I looked. The truth was I’d seen it for the first time after I’d woken up while camping in the desert two nights before. I had no idea how it got there. “I don’t know actually.”

She looked at me conspiratorially

“Would you think I was strange if I told you something?”

Too late… I thought.

“I got them once too! And I also had no idea where I got them from. You and I are so alike.”

Wait, what?

“It was a few years ago, when I was still with my ex-husband. He was in the air force. Lots of weird things happen with the air force here in New Meixco, you know...” she trailed off. “Well, one day, I was out in my garden in the middle of the day, and then next thing I knew I was inside and it was dark. I don’t know how. And it was at least 4 hours later. That time was just gone. I wasn’t drinking or anything. It was just like I time traveled. So, I went to the bathroom, and I looked in the mirror and I had those same black dots on me just where yours is!”

What is the right and polite thing to say here, I wondered.

While I was contemplating that, she went on: “So, I went to my reiki guru, and you know what she told me?”

“No…?”

“Aliens!”

“Right… that makes sense.”

“I know! Right? There’s a lot of weird things out here the desert.”

“You don’t say…”

Once we were armed with her new username and password, I went to download Uber, only to discover the internet signal was so, so slow that I soon realized there was going to be no quick escape

My waffle was now most definitely cold. Do I still eat it I wondered? Should I just throw it away?

“Oh my goodness. Where are my manners?” ‘Linda’ jumped in: “I never introduced myself. I’m Dionne.”

Wait, what? I wanted to say. I gave her my hand and may have mumbled: “good to meet you.”

She went on: “Who are you? Where are you from?”

Should I answer those questions? I wondered. But something in my Midwest upbringing compelled me forward, and before I knew it I was stammering out, quietly, almost in a whisper: “Tim … from Minnesota.”

“Oh my goodness!” she excitedly yelped, seemingly oblivious to my body language. “I once dated the quarterback of the Minnesota Vikings when I lived in San Antonio!”

I looked at the phone – Uber was less than 10% downloaded.

“It was a long time ago, when Red McCombs owned the team and so the players used to come down and visit Texas all the time. I didn’t know he was the quarterback of course.”

I probably cocked my head. I actually knew that was true, and it was surprisingly specific. Was she telling the truth?

“He was a gentleman.”

I couldn’t help myself: “Hmm, that’s not a word I think of that often when I think about professional football players. But I guess you never really know what people are like from afar...”

“I know, but he wasn’t like that. He was so handsome and kind. I worked in a nice restaurant then. But this was so long ago, back when I was beautiful. Like my daughter looks now.

“He kept coming back to my restaurant. Never pushy or handsy, but we used to talk all the time. We never even kissed or anything. One day, the other girls pulled me aside and said, ‘Do you even know he is? How come he likes you when you don’t even care about sports! He’s a star.’ But of course, I didn’t know who he was. Actually, when I found it out, that made me scared.”

“Scared?”

“Next time I saw him, I asked him straight up, ‘Do you have a wife?’ And he didn’t deny it. He was real calm, and just said ‘yes.’

“Oh no!” I imagined what it must have been like for her. “Men... So, he just wanted a second girlfriend while he was away?”

“No. He told me he wanted to be with me not her.”

I almost choked, wait, what? I had so many questions I wanted to ask, but I held my tongue.

She went on: “I told him I wasn’t interested. But he didn’t give up. He came back, with a dozen roses and a credit card. I told him I didn’t want anything. I threw the card at him.”

I looked at her silently, imagining her 30 years ago, the excitement of the attention, the dreams she must have had, the way they’d been pulled away from her. How much did that gesture mean to her now? When she thought of him, what did she first see? When she thought of his face, was it the look of when he wooed her or when she threw the card away?

“He got that card off the ground and tried to put it in my hand. He told me to keep it. I told him to leave. He said I didn’t owe him anything. Just keep it.”

“I didn’t want his money.”

She trailed off into thought. I’d forgotten I was supposed to be installing her Uber.

Many, many minutes later – when we’d finally got her app up and running, after I’d input her credit card information and found the card contained a third name, neither Linda or Dionne, I asked her to tell me the address of where she wanted to go.

“Oh, can’t I just tell the driver?” she asked.

“No, you need to input it here. Maybe you want to put in your home address?”

“Just have them take me downtown.”

I wanted to ask about her dogs, but decided better not.

“Where downtown? I need an address.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Anywhere on Main Street.”

“I need an intersection at least… please”

“Well there’s an artist gallery there I really like.”

And so it went…

When I finally got called the Uber from her phone, and got her to the lobby door, it was almost 10am. I never got to finish that waffle.

As we stood there, I watched two obviously homeless men walk through the parking lot, their clothes full of holes, their hair turning to dreads, their look wild. I looked back at Linda, or Dionne, or whoever she might be in her neat clothes and combed hair. The world is strange I thought.

It was then that I also first noticed she didn’t have anything with her except her purse. No suitcases, no toiletries. I almost laughed. Why was she at the motel in the middle of nowhere? How did she look so clean and put together without any things to get ready in the morning? How had she even gotten there in the first place? What was her name, actually? Who was this woman!?

When the driver arrived in a Toyota Camry, I looked at the plates and told her it was her ride. She turned, looked back at me, and gave me a smile. “Goodbye, Tim from Minnesota. I need a new phone. Thank you.” She gave me a hug, and got in the car.

As she closed the door, I saw her lean toward the driver and heard her say:

“Hello young man! Can I ask you something?”

Honoring the Dead

Tim Geoffrion January 27, 2020

Today is the one year anniversary of my grandmother’s passing.

I was alone all day, exploring the desert. I wondered: what am I supposed to be feeling? Am I feeling that? What is the right way to honor someone’s memory who gave you so much?

As I lay down to bed, I felt so unsatisfied with my day and my “grief”. I wanted to force myself to do it right.

But then, just as I found myself growing angry, a voice came to me and whispered: “Stop. Just write her what you feel.”

Below is what I wrote.

P.s. If you knew her and loved her too — it would mean a great deal to me if you’d be willing to share a memory or what she meant to you. If you didn’t know her, how did your grandmothers’ love shape who you are today?

~~~

Muppa,

It was one year ago today that we lost you.

Today, I feel your absence so acutely. Today, I feel your presence as if you were still alive.

Many times, people have asked me, “Do you believe you will see her when you die?” Perhaps. I hope. But if I’m honest, I do not know. I am no theologian. But I do know that here on earth matter cannot be destroyed; it merely changes shape. And so, this year I’ve looked for you everywhere I go. I searched for you in the flowering meadows. I listened for your voice in the songbird’s joyful tunes. I drove for days to find the Northern Lights, and wondered if in their dancing I might see your spirit pirouetting across the heavens.

But I did not need to travel so far to find you. When I see strangers like you saw me, I find I can see you too. When I listen to others like you listened to me, I find your wisdom. When I love others like you loved me, you fill my heart anew.

In looking for you, I’ve found so much I did not expect. In looking for you, I’ve learned so much I could not yet see while you were still alive. I am so grateful for what your love continues to open up for me. And yet, all the same, I wish I could have you in old form too.

Muppa, it’s been a year. What a year it’s been. Now, after it all, I know you’ll never leave me. But I miss you terribly all the same.

Driving A Real Jeep

Tim Geoffrion January 24, 2020

My most hardcore outdoorsy friends all fantasize about owning Jeeps. They don’t want a sprinter van or an SUV – no, they want a real Jeep. You know the ones I’m talking about? The ones all jacked up with super high clearance and with the spare tire hung outside the back door like a trophy. The ones with tops that looks like you could peel them off if you decided to go on safari. The ones that, if they could, would bully other cars by asking them: “What’s it like? I honestly don’t know how I could be happy if I couldn’t drive across the sand.”

Me… well I want to be able to go anywhere, but… maybe I could say I aspire to aspiring to it? It’s just I haven’t exactly had a lot of luck with them to date. For instance, when I was in Texas, desiring to no longer be limited in my adventures in any automotive way, I rented one. But even before I was able to take it off road, hours into the endless nothingness of West Texas I thought I was about to die. My real Jeep, going 80mph on the highway, began to shake so violently without warning that I thought either ALL of my tires had blown out simultaneously or the suspension might be literally detaching from the undercarriage. Miraculously, the shaking stopped as I slowed down, only to start again an hour later. When I called Hertz to complain and demand a new car, the kid on the line suggested, “Weird, I don’t know… with Jeeps, well… I mean, you have to know how to handle them.” Clearly I didn’t.

I’m sure an SUV can get me everywhere I want to go, I tried to assure myself.

So, when my mother and I were planning our trip to the Virgin Islands National Park, and I found out there was only one rental car company with availability still, and it had only one kind of car remaining (a real Jeep, obviously) I was … not happy… but determined to make the best of it. Maybe Texas had been a fluke? Maybe I’d be able to prove I knew how to handle them after all?

~~~

Mom and I arrived in the US Virgin Islands in the middle of the night after a series of delays resulting from a combination of de-icing problems, an overheated passenger who had to deplane, a missing baggage handling crew, airline union rules that required a new crew to be found after our initial delay, unclear issues that required us to get a new plane, one of the new pilots going AWOL for 2 hours, and a broken jet bridge. Despite it all, we congratulated ourselves for being in such good spirits when we landed.

“It’s part of the adventure!” Mom kept saying along the way.

Thankfully, while en route we found out we’d still be able to pick up our Jeep when we got there. And Jennifer, the woman who managed the house we were renting, was still available to show us the way. “I’ll pick you up at the ferry! I don’t want you to worry about a thing.”

Our trip wasn’t quite over. After landing in St. Thomas, we had to take a 40 min cab to the ferry, and then take a boat about 20 minutes to St John. On the way we texted Jennifer our arrival time and she promised again to pick us up. But once ashore, there was no sign of her. We called her. She didn’t answer. 5 minutes passed – finally she called us back: “Sorry, sorry! I’ll be right there. Such crazy traffic.” I looked up the road, there were about 5 cars. “Island time,” I thought, and shrugged.

“Part of the adventure!” added mom.

When Jennifer finally did arrive and we got in her pick-up, and she asked us if we were: “Ready to for our adventure in paradise?” I chuckled.

60 seconds later we arrived at the rental car company, two blocks from the ferry.

The rental car man was all business. “No Amex, insurance highly recommended.” After signing the paperwork, he showed us our Jeep. It was giant, and mustard colored. (Seriously, who would order a mustard colored car?). Walking us around the beast he spoke to a dozen tiny scratches on the doors and bumper, sometimes without even looking at them. “I know every inch of my cars,” he told us proudly. My mom was impressed. “Don’t forget,” he told us as we got into the car, “Drive on the left side of the road.”

And off we went…. and immediately had issues, starting with our first turn. Despite the fact that I was making a left-hand turn into the left-hand lane, the turn radius of our Jeep was so wide that I literally had to cross the entire left lane and swing through oncoming traffic on the far side of the road in the right lane before getting back to the correct lane.

Once in the correct lane, Jennifer pulled in front of us, and led us out of town onto an empty mountain road. It wasn’t long before we were driving in the dark except for our headlights and the moon, all other manmade lights were long behind us. Meanwhile, the road had substantially narrowed and its grade reached up to 20 degrees. “Thank goodness for this hardcore Jeep!” I thought.

Then weirdly, and seemingly out the blue Jennifer stopped in the middle of the road. She got out of her car and came to talk to us. “Follow me. Turn here. I’ll stop just past your driveway.”

“Where?” I thought. I didn’t see any turnoff.

But to our right was a small, single lane that turned sharply up and disappeared into the thick brush. It was steeper than any road I’d ever seen in my life. I shifted into 4WD. “Part of the adventure!” I said with a chuckle before hearing the bottom of the Jeep seem to scrape the ground as we turned up the hill. The back wheels spun, slipped, and finally caught – propelling us up, up, up.

More winding in the dark. Then again, Jennifer stopped and got out of her car. She approached my window, “Okay you go down here.” I could see the house far below us. Mom and I both got of our car to look at the narrow spur leading straight down to the house at an angle even steeper than what we’d just driven up.

“Isn’t it nice that’s it’s paved after the dirt section?” Jennifer asked cheerily.

We said nothing. Our eyes still not sure we were seeing this thing correctly.

Trying to fill the silence, she went on: “It looks scary, but it’s not so bad! I sometime turn around up here, you know, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop” she swung her arms as if she was having so much fun imagining the 5-point turn, “and then I reverse straight back down. You might have to work up that though. Probably not the first time.”

Meanwhile, another car had pulled up behind us, an aqua blue Jeep. We needed to move or we’d be blocking their way I thought.

Jennifer threw in: “Oh it might look scary. But it’s okay – there’s no cliff you have to worry about.”

I looked down, that wasn’t true. I looked back her.

“Well,” Jennifer added, “Not a steep one. It’s set back from the edge a bit. It’s not like you’d die immediately if you went too far.”

Those were the magic words for Mom. And with that, she took off down the hill on foot. “Jill! Don’t do that. It’s very steep and slippery.” Jennifer called out after her.

As she shimmied down the hill perpendicularly like a crab, Mom yelled out over her shoulder: “I fell off a cliff once. I’d prefer to walk.”

Turning to me, in a whisper, Jennifer asked: “Did she say she fell off a cliff?”

I shrugged. I didn’t want to get into it. I waited to make sure mom got to the bottom and got back into the Jeep.

Pulling up to the edge and peering over the steering wheel, I literally couldn’t see the driveway in front of me the hill was so steep. As I inched the Jeep forward I felt the front of the car tip forward. A rush of adrenaline. Still nothing to see but the hood and trees above the home, then tip, tip, tip … the roof of the house, my mother at the bottom the hill, the driveway before me. Slowly, slowly I eased down the rest of the hill.

That night as I laid in bed, channeling my inner gangster, I feted myself: “I handled those crazy steep roads in the dark in a freaking hardcore 4x4 with mothering F’ing aplomb. Who says I can’t handle a Jeep?”

I knew I’d have to turn the Jeep around in the tight circular area at the base of the hill in the morning, but thanks to my new swagger, I wasn’t worried, even if it was hard, it’d just be “part of the adventure”.

In the morning as we loaded the car up with gear for the day, I looked up the hill and noticed the blue jeep hadn’t moved from where it’d been the night before. I guess we weren’t blocking them? I wondered. A mother and son got in and drove away.

But soon I forgot about them. Surveying the area in which I’d need to enact my own 180 degree turn, I imagined how it’d go. I saw it clearly in my brain: pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, easy, just like Jennifer said.

We got in, I shifted it into reverse, and.. almost backed into a wall of rocks. I’d been expecting a beep to warn me. But there was no back-up camera or sensors like in my car at home. My mom was a little rattled, but I shook it off: “You got this gangster,” I told myself, “Old school skills time.”

I shifted into forward, turned the wheel hard, tapped the gas, and … barely turned the car at all. So, I put it back in reserve and inched back. Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop I went – but after completing my 5-point turn – I realized I hadn’t even made it a 10th of the way there.

So, Mom volunteered to get out of the car and help direct me. She scurried forward and backward, side to side, directing me to go: “3 more meet, 1 more foot, a few more inches, stop, stop!” over and over.

After 10 turns, I no longer felt this was a part any adventure I was interested in. But, finally, finally, we got the car facing up the hill.

“Okay, maybe not so Gangster,” I said to myself as I tried to breathe deeply and regain my composure. Looking down at my watch I noticed my heart rate had spiked.

Later, when we returned from exploring the island and before heading back down the driveway, we found the spot where the Blue Jeep parked the night before. We realized it wasn’t blocking traffic because it had been tucked into a small pullout immediately in front of a hidden staircase going to another home. The spot was just barely big enough for one car. We looked for other pullouts along the road, but found none.

We had to go down again. And so, we did. Which, to my surprise wasn’t so bad. In fact, the dropping down over the hill onto the unseen pavement gave me a thrill. I felt bold, daring, even inspired. As I inched down I even thought maybe my turning problems early had been solely due to the angle at which I started. I’d tried pulling up to the opposite side of the turnaround area. Getting out, I yelled up to mom, who was still crab walking down the hill “I’m getting the hang of this!”

But no, as I’d learn 30 minutes later, I wasn’t actually getting the hang of it.

This time, despite my mother’s direction from the outset, after 10 turns I found myself incomprehensibly a tad past perpendicular, with the passenger side tires a foot above the driver’s side, and the front of the car slightly pointing down the hill. It was then that I first learned about reversing a Jeep while it wants to roll downhill. Tap the accelerator too slowly or too softly, no gas will make its way to the engine, and the car will roll dangerously forward until you can jam the break again. Tap too hard and you’ll shoot back quite a bit – in this case, straight into a rock wall.

A breathed deeply, focused hard, and somehow over the course of many, many turns, managed to damage the landscaping quite a bit, but also avoid both the cliff and rock wall. Once on the road to dinner, Mom went to give me a high five: “Nice job! What an adventure!”

I tried see it that way and re-summon up my gangster swagger, or to see this as part of the adventure -- but my positive attitude had long since left the island. I was mad at the car for being so big and poor at turning. I was mad at the rental company for only having a real Jeep. I was mad at the islanders for making such narrow roads. I was mad at the home’s owner for making this nonsensical driveway. I was mad at the other guests on VRBO for not writing in their reviews about the death trap driveway. I was mad at the island for being so hilly!

I knew blame wouldn’t change anything. I knew on a deeper level I was angry at myself. I felt shame that I couldn’t handle the Jeep. I felt shame that I couldn’t maintain a positive attitude. And I feared that I’d have to park and un-park so many more times during the week — getting stuck, or doing real damage, seemed inevitable — and thinking about it all felt paralyzing.

But I didn’t want to talk about that. That all seemed like weakness. Both my complaints and my fears. Better to fight it, right? My words are my world. I thought to myself.

So, I just clenched my jaw, breathed deeply, and tried to exude “Zen” to my mother – “This was our special trip together – stay present to that!” I scolded myself. But I wasn’t. As I drove away I silently imagined what unparking it again in the morning would be like.

~~~

That night when we came home I refused to go down the driveway.

“I’m parking up here.” I told my mother angrily.

“But this is blue jeep’s spot. They don’t have a driveway, remember?” My mom reminded me softly.

“I don’t see a sign!” I snapped back, then trying to be more reasonable, I added “It’s late and they aren’t back. Maybe they aren’t coming back?”

My mom looked incredulous.

I felt that anger welling up again: “If they want to park there, they can wake us up and I’ll move it in the night!”

No one woke us up. But when I woke up in the morning I kept looking up the hill nervously, anticipating their arrival any moment. I called the rental company. “Do you have anything smaller?” I asked them. “No. All booked out.” “Please? Are you sure? What about tomorrow?” Nothing.

While I was increasingly agitated Mom seemed cheery and ready for adventure as we ate breakfast. “What do you want to do today?” she asked. With an exaggerated yawn, I replied “How about enjoying this incredible view? Maybe we can just read, relax, and unwind here?”

I’m sure she saw through me, but she agreed, until finally around 4pm we decided we had to get out. We decided to go to the beach. “Should we bring our clothes for dinner so we can go straight from there to town?” I asked.

“I don’t think there are showers there. Shouldn’t we come home and rinse off?”

“Hmm… let’s just be ready in case?”

Two hours later we went to dinner sandy and salty.

That night my heart jumped as we approached the driveway and I saw the blue Jeep still had not returned. “Maybe they’ll never come back!” I imagined dreamily.

The next day I again resisted making “unnecessary trips” to and from the house. I pleaded with the rental company (on the phone and in person) for a new car to no avail. Whether at home, driving, or out hiking, part of me was always dreaming about that driveway, fearing what it would be like if the blue Jeep returned.

I knew my constant fear was impacting my experience of the island, but how could it not? I vacillated between absolute confidence that disaster was near, and a counter belief that with enough willpower I could avoid it. Back and forth it went in my mind as I went on hikes, ate dinners with mom, and tried to relax in the water.

The next morning, while eating breakfast, Jennifer re-appeared out of nowhere: “I hope I’m not bothering you. Just here to make sure you’re having a great adventure!”

“Yes, thanks. So good.”

After some pleasantries, she added nonchalantly, “I see you parked up on top of the hill”

“Yes.”

“You should park down in the driveway, you know. It gets easier.”

“Oh…”

Seeing I wasn’t going to help her, she tried to be more direct: “That’s the neighbor’s spot.”

“Hmm. Is that right?”

“Yes, you can’t park there,”

“I guess... it seems like they’re gone.”

She turned to me, trying a different tact, whispering conspiratorially, “There is a family there, but the dad… He’s unpleasant. Very unpleasant. He’s a real grouch. Other people have had problems…” she trailed off and resumed her forced smile. “Anyway, you need to park in the driveway. I promise, it’s gets better.”

“Well gosh, thanks for letting us know!”

When she left… I didn’t move the car.

~~~

Late that afternoon I dipped into the rental house’s small plunge pool for the first time, luxuriating as I floated in the water and listened to the sound of the ocean far below. In the water I began to forget about the stupid Jeep

But then vroom vroom... Looking up the hill, I saw it, “Blue Jeep!”

I jumped out of the pool, grabbed the keys, and ran up the hill barefoot. Getting to the top I looked into the car window and saw a gray-haired man’s form still behind the driver’s wheel. He didn’t seem to notice me.

I jumped into my Jeep, turned on the ignition, and sped down the hill. Looking in my rearview mirror, I saw the man had gotten out of his car. He was standing at the driveways’ edge, looking down at me. “Oh God,” I thought, and imagined what a real grouch would do.

My mom ran up to the car and tapped the glass, “Come on! Get out of the car. He wants to talk to us!”

I waved at her angrily, “I can’t, I can’t – I’m trying to turn around!” as if that made any sense as an excuse. But then having said it, I felt I had to make it true. And turn around I tried to do as she walked up the hill to talk to the man alone. I turned, and turned, and turned until I’d gotten myself into a worse position than ever before. Like last time I was down below, I gotten the jeep entirely perpendicular to the driveway. But this time all four wheels were on the steep hill. Suddenly, I had flashbacks to Qatar and the feeling of a Jeep before it seems like it might tip over.

I turned the wheel hard, shifted into reserve, lifted my foot off the break, tapped the gas, and kept rolling. I hadn’t pressed hard enough. The front of my car rolled into a large wooden plank propping up a tree. I saw it pop out from the trunk. In a panic, I now really hit the gas, I shot back and … CRUNCH. I felt the rock wall behind. Oh god! I shifted forward. Then slammed the breaks again.

Looking out the passenger window I saw both Mom and the man staring in disbelief at what was happening below. Mom had kicked one leg into the air and outstretched both of her hands straight in front of her as if to ward away an approaching evil spirit.

“I can’t stop now!” I thought. Back, forward, back, forward, back, forward I went.

I don’t know how long it took. But somehow, somehow, I got it turned around.

As I looked up I saw the man was now gone and mom was slowly sideling down the driveway. “Well,” she started, trying to be positive, “He says you did better than some of the other guests. Others have gotten stuck entirely.”

She walked past, shaking her head, “He also said his wife and son are gone for the week, so we can park up in their spot at the top of the hill the rest of the week.”

She disappeared into the house, but not before adding disappointedly: “Why didn’t you just go and talk to him?”

I sat in the car for another minute. Kind of shell shocked. Finally, I got out of the car and inspected the damage. I’d hit a tree – but it was still standing. I reattached the support beam. I discovered I’d run over a few LED lights. But they all could be popped back into their casings. There were deep tread marks on the dirt. But most consequentially, the back bumper was badly scratched and dented.

Without even closing my eyes, I could see the rental car man’s face and hear him saying: “I know every inch of my cars.” This was going to be expensive…

I felt enveloped in a growing cloud of shame: “You are such an idiot. Why didn’t you just talk to him? Why couldn’t you do this? Why can’t you drive a real man’s car? Why do you always fail when it counts most?”

I stood in that for a while. My head slumping lower and lower.

But then, over the din of my internal critics, I also became aware of the sound of the ocean. The rhythmic crashing far below—completely unchanging and unaffected by the petty dramas or triumphs in my life. I felt the warmth of the sun on my face. I looked around. Everything was so lush. “How absurdly lucky am I to be here?” I thought: “This is paradise. I’m alive in paradise. How unfair and wonderful.”

Suddenly, I also felt a huge weight of anxiety lifting. All the uncertainty about whether I’d damage the car was gone. I had! And I saw it was just a bumper. No one was hurt; no one’s life would be forever altered. Of course, I knew it’d cost something to fix. That’d be annoying, but I had the insurance and savings to deal with it. Plus, from a cost side -- I no longer needed to fear damaging the bumper again. I reasoned they’d charge me for a whole new bumper whether I put 1 or 6 dents in it. That idea, gave me the confidence to drive with complete lack of fear about dinging it again the rest of the week. I felt so much freer, and as consequence, I actually became much more skilled at driving.

Over the next few days, I still felt somewhat anxious about what the rental car company would say, and how much they would try to charge us for the damage, but I also realized it was out of my hands. With time, I stopped thinking about the car at all except with gratitude for the way it helped us get up the steeper portions of the island safely.

The last morning, when we went back to the rental agency, mom and I took a bet on how much he’d try to charge us. We held our breaths as the agent who “knew every inch of his cars” carefully inspected the damages and shook his head. He poked at the dent. He seemed to grab the whole bumper with his hand as if to pull it all off, but it didn’t budge.

He looked at us, and then said, how about $100?

Was he joking I thought? It was only then that we realized that while we couldn’t fix the special real Jeep bumper, he probably had some way to pop it back into shape with ease. There was no need for a whole new bumper as there would be on any car other than a real Jeep.

As we walked the two blocks from the agency to the ferry (no 60 second Jennifer shuttle this time), we shook our heads and laughed.

$100. I let the fear of paying $100 consume my thoughts, keep me from exploring as much as I could have, and damage the quality of my conversations with Mom over many days for what turned out to be $100. How silly! And how strange that if I had never crashed then my fear of crashing would have been a contributing and limiting factor to our whole time on the island (not just several days). Instead, by confronting my fear due to my desire to avoid it, I actually found freedom from its weight.

Of course, this is not the first time I’ve fallen into this dynamic in my life. I can think of so many times that amorphous fears of discomforts (of things which actually weren’t that bad) kept me from having conversations I should I had, changing behaviors I knew didn’t serve me, and taking risks that could have helped me grow. But as with the bumper, so what? It does not help to obsess on counterfactuals. The bumper is dented now. I must live with the consequences of that.

But that’s not bad. It’s a gift! This moment and this insight is an invitation for to me to step back and ask with clear eyes: what (small) fears are controlling me even now? How and where am I hiding from them? And how can I move from insight to action in facing them today?

To Everything (Turn, Turn, Turn)

Tim Geoffrion January 5, 2020

The Galapagos Islands, Ecuador

The Galapagos are a chain of volcanic islands (still being formed by active lava flows) 600 miles off the coast of Ecuador. The landscape is harsh, and being so far from the continent, the creatures who made it there had to adapt in special ways in order to survive. Adaptations have been both genetic (e.g. unique beak shapes) and behavioral (one type of Darwin Finch learned to peck larger birds until they bleed in a non-lethal way so that they have a source of liquid to survive the rainless months).

The islands are also special because there are no natural land predators on them, which means the birds and reptiles do not fear humans. This allows a traveler to get extremely close to the wildlife.

For instance, I was able to see Albatross, Oyster Catcher, Flightless Cormorant, Brown Noodie, and Nazca Boobie chicks (and eggs!) still under their mothers’ wings.

I watched blue footed boobies hiss, dance, and show off their feet as part of their courtship rituals.

I saw a sea lion bull chase his rival (and my parents too) up a steep rocky outcropping. Moments later, a third bull emerged from the water and climbed the rocks himself to make sure the first two bulls (and my parents) weren’t coming back the way they came.

I free dove 10 meters down to the ocean floor, where I found a dozen giant sea turtles sleeping on the sandy bottom.

I had a sea lion swim within an inch of my face.

I saw plants and cacti taking root on recently cooled lava fields, only cracks in the rock and the scantest grains of dirt in which to lay their roots.

I sat beside giant ancient tortoises, who can live at least 180 years (no one knows how long for sure).

And I witnessed a Galapagos Hawk pull the insides of a Red-billed Tropicbird’s intestines apart, getting both its guts and feathers stuck in her beak.

From the playing of cutest sea lion pup to the macabre spectacle of the hawk’s eating what it killed – all of it is Life, writ large. Playing, flirting, mating, birthing, mothering, sleeping, hunting, eating, and even dying — each phase of these creature’s lives is necessary for themselves, their offspring, and the ecosystem in which they live.

Seeing it all (so close and all at once) made me present to the differences, necessities, and possibilities inherent in each season of life, including my own.

For instance, when I think about my life it’s easy for me to disproportionately value the later seasons that are yet to come. When I look at people in their 50s, 60s, and 70s who seem to have all the wisdom, money, and success that I desire — I’ve often tried to closely emulate them even though I’m decades younger. I meet the founder of some business, who is confident and proud of what he’s built, generous with his time and resources, and I try to copy the way he spends his time, carries himself, and how he commands a room. Or I observe an old retired man with his grandchildren, delighting in their silliness, slow to anger, brimming with pride– and I think, “Yes, he has it figured it out. I will try to let go off all striving and the importance of work. Why not jump ahead and be just like him now?”

Yet in seeing the way boobies dance, or hearing the excited squeals of children who just met as they play tag, or witnessing a mother Noddie shield her young though leaves her exposed, or seeing a human mother’s face change shape from hard to proud when she’s told “It’s clear how much you love your son”, or delighting in the play of sea lions, or even in observing how once that hawk had her fill several mockingbirds finished the last remains so not a morsel went to waste – I realize that there is both purpose, sweetness, and possibility in every season of life, even death, if we adjust the aperture.

As I reflect further, both on what I saw in the Galapagos, and what I’ve experienced throughout 2019, I’m present to the thought that each season builds upon the one which came before. I don’t just mean that we are the product of history, or that there is much wisdom to learn in studying the past. All of that is true. But, what I’m getting at is experiential. Growth requires both reflection and action. And action is rooted in the now.

For a young albatross, it is a matter of life and death. After it has been nursed to full size by its mother it must learn to fly in order to survive. Due its size and shape it cannot simply take off from the ground like a sparrow. It must stand on a cliff’s edge and jump off. Observing other flyers is important, but there is no substitute for taking the leap itself. If it doesn’t jump, it will die of starvation. If it doesn’t soar, it will die on impact below. To live the bird must move beyond reflection, leap into the unknown, and trust nature has provided it the tools to catch the wind beneath its wings now. Once aloft, the birds are some of the best flyers on the planet. Certain adult albatrosses can stay airborne for a staggering 46 days at a time, during which time they can literally fly up to 10,000 miles, all without setting a foot down on the land.

In adolescence, other birds benefit from harnessing the creativity and resilience they learned while playing as chicks once they begin to try courting a mate. Some birds which struggle for months to learn to fish for themselves when they are young, ultimately become so adept they can provide enough food for both themselves, their mates, and their young once they reach sexual maturity. For us humans, it’s no different - the struggles of youth can uniquely prepare us for the greater trails of aging. And having the world not conform to our dreams can endow us with the capacity to empathize and create.

So what does all this reflection about the seasons of life mean to me right now as I look forward in 2020?

Firstly, it makes me reflect on the seasons I’ve lived through before. I feel thankful for the peacefulness, predictability, and privledge which helped me to accumulate so many teachers, ideas, and resources as a child and young adult. There’s much in these seasons that I feel proud about, even as there also much for which I feel ashamed.

Another thing that jumps out is that it feels strange to me that certain jobs, schools, and relationships which I poured so much of myself into, and which I tied so much of my identity and external worth in, are no longer a part of this season! Of course, internally I know each one shaped me and prepared me for this moment. And I hope to always carry the best part of them inside me. But I also know in looking at the birds that it will not do to hold on forever to that which is past. I must keep moving forward and stay in action with the world around me today.

So, what about now? What does this season hold?

This season has been one of experimentation and re-invention. Enabled by the good fortune of having so much youth, health, time, resources, and lack of fixed commitments like children — I can do things physically and practically that I couldn’t when I was younger and probably won’t be able to do when I older. By taking action on these opportunities now it has given me the means to try out countless ideas, activities, and ways of being which did not make sense to play at before.

Of course not all has gone according to plan, and I’ve made some truly stupid choices this year. But I’ve also made some really good choices. And both have taught me things I could not have learned in staying rooted in reflection and reading. Moreover, both the good and bad choices have given me access to feelings and experiences I never would have had if I simply stayed on my old path of trying emulate the wise old men I admire. I feel so grateful for this.

So, am I ready to settle down and give up experimenting with who I am? No, absolutely not. This season is not yet over. Some day it will end, either by my choice or due to factors outside my control. That is natural and that is okay. When it does, I should move on to whatever is next without attachment. But until it does, I remain committed to taking the actions that this season requires, and trusting that by doing so, just like it was for the albatross, I am preparing myself for a future I have not lived and which I cannot yet imagine, but for which I’ll be uniquely built.

Questions for Reflection

What season of life I am in? Are my choices consistent with the season I find myself in today?

2. Past seasons: what do I want to take with me? What am holding onto that prevents me from taking action in my life today?

3. Looking to others: can I give up trying to be someone that I am not? Who can teach me how to live this season of my life in new ways?

4. Looking out — what cliffs do I avoid? What cliffs must I jump off if I want to learn to fly?

5. Am I creating space to savor the present, not just learn from it?

Being Seen

Tim Geoffrion December 21, 2019

Bob, my grandfather, was a bit of mystery to me growing up. Part of it was how few times I’d seen him. Unlike my grandmother, who lived next door, Bob lived on the other side of the country, and trips to see each other only seemed to happen every few years.

I remember him visiting once when I was in high school. One morning I came downstairs, hair amess, teeth unbrushed, still in my pajamas to find him sitting in perfect stillness staring out the windows. He was neatly dressed in khakis and cashmere, his gaze so steady I wondered if something momentous was happening out there. But as I peeked over his shoulder I only saw the waves lapping.

His focus made me to sit too. Wordlessly we watched the water for some time. What was he thinking? I wondered. Somehow it seemed wrong to ask. Bob rarely asked questions. He had perfect manners, but he rarely initiated conversations or offered free information at our family meals. At parties, he often sat alone not talking to anyone at all. To my child’s mind, I wondered if he cared, and whether he might prefer not to be known.

~~~

As an adult I’ve seen him a few times, once every few years. We talked on the phone many a Christmas. He sometimes sent me a birthday card. I loved him, but I hadn’t spent much energy trying to let him know me or really getting to know him.

So, it’s not surprising that this winter, after my grandmother died and I’d left my job, that I didn’t consult with Bob on what I should do next. It wouldn’t have occurred to me to ask for advice.

But when I set up my blog he was the first to subscribe. When I began posting, he always sends me a short email letting me know he’s read it. And when I began snaking my way up the Pacific coast in the spring, he told me I needed to come Seattle. We had a lot to discuss over a beer, he said. I didn’t know he drank beer.

The first night I was there, we sat in his living room. He didn’t turn on the lights even as it was getting dark. We said a little, but smiled often. The next day he took me to his writing club, which consisted of a few men about his age, who met every week in the lobby of a local mall. Later, we flipped through all of his photo albums. In his garden, he told me how how he struggled with many of the same doubts and fears that I write about. Over dinner he told me what he was most proud of in his life, and what he most regretted. We traded beer for harder spirits. He told me how proud he was of what I was doing. When I left, he told me to come back soon.

Caption: Bob (my grandfather) and his wife Nancy

This week, five months later, I received a package from him. In it I found a bound book of my images and his poems. They poem were all about my journey based on the stories and images I’ve been sharing on my blog. [I’ve included several of my favorites at the end of this post]

Bob’s poems are one of the most precious gifts I’ve ever received.

I’m so touched by the time he put into creating them, the period of time over which they were written, and the way he saw beyond the surface of what I shared to deeper truths I hoped to express.

His words also make me feel connected to him in new ways, across different planes of both time and memory. Reading him recounting stories I lived somehow makes them feel more real. But so too in reading through them do I feel like I’m treading both paths he crossed before, and paths he always wished he could reach.

I love the words of his poems, but even if I didn’t, it wouldn’t matter. I’d still be so moved by his gift.

Why? Because Bob’s gift has reminded me that the mere act of truly seeing and letting yourself be seen can be one of the greatest forms of love, even (or perhaps especially) if you’ve been silent or hiding for a long time.

*Caption: my grandma Lucy and me two nights before she passed away*

THREE OF MY FAVORITE POEMS FROM BOB ARE INCLUDED BELOW

~~~~

Northern Lights (image by Tim, poem by Bob)

The land of ice and snow

Where the northern lights

Dance heel and toe

As sun’s wild storms

Rage through the night

Called me to this place

I promised I would go

To add another moment of connection

To a lifetime of dear memories

~~~

What Do You Do? (image by Tim, poem by Bob)

That’s a simple question

That conjures up

A myriad of answers,

But the only one that counts

Is the one you believe

Deeply in your heart

And can state

With pride in your voice

Masks (image by Tim, poem by Bob)

The Greeks wore masks to show emotions

Many of us wear masks to conceal emotions

Perhaps knowing that we’ve

Made mistakes in our lives

Have been messy and broken,

We put on a mask to hide

Our persistent fear of being discovered.

It’s then we need to trust

Those we love will still love us

As we lift our masks and

Become who they know we really are

Hearing Nothing

Tim Geoffrion November 20, 2019

I saw the body flying through the air. I didn’t realize it was a body at first. I didn’t know what it was. It all happened so fast. But as it fell, I saw clearly it was a man. And I saw his back, then the head, hit pavement. Bodies aren’t supposed to make that sound. I knew immediately, even before I saw the pool of blood, he was dead.

That night, even before I went to sleep, I saw the man – I saw his clothes, the tattoos on his arms, his face. In my dreams it was there again. Who was he? Why was he there? Why didn’t the driver on the other side of the road stop before he hit him?

I had to drive south the next morning. The first hour was pouring rain. I clenched the steering wheel so hard my forearms hurt. I-35 in Texas felt like a nightmare. No shoulders. Construction everywhere. Electronic flashing signs every few miles: “Don’t be a statistic. Deaths on Texas roads this year: 2,871.” Thanks for the real time update Texas - Fuck you. Nothing makes people safer than reminding them to be fearful.

I called my friend who’d seen it too. She told me she’d wept that morning when she got into her car.

~~~

It’s been two weeks since I saw that unknown man die. In time, I stopped seeing the body. Often, I forget it happened. I wonder, is it because I never saw him alive? Is it because I only saw it all through my windshield? Or perhaps it’s because I’ve stayed so busy.

Since, I’ve spent a lot of time with some of my dearest friends. I’ve gotten far away from the highways deep into the Chihuahuan Desert, Chisos Mountains, and the Guadeloupe Range. I’ve been with people nonstop. I’ve stayed up into the night to photograph the moon rise over the desert. I’ve spent full days climbing arid peaks. I’ve had so many of the things that life has to offer, solitude and silence being two key exceptions.

But I’m alone again. And this morning I found myself buried 750 feet below the New Mexico desert in the Carlsbad Caverns National Park.

Carlsbad is a strange place for North America’s largest accessible cave system. There is nothing above the ground that would indicate to a non-scientific eye that there should be countless miles of passageways below. From above, the top of the butte gently swells and rolls to the north and west. The ground seems more than solid underfoot. There are not legions of dark holes into which one might climb. To the east and south an immense vista of flatness stretches to the horizon -- dirt, rubble, cholla, yucca, other cacti, and a solitary highway as far as the eye can see. If you squint you can see the fires coming from the fracking wells. Other truths lie on the landscape too - invisible to the human eye. They say we used to test nuclear bombs just 30 miles from here. Does radiation still cling unseen to the rocks in the parks?

But, I didn’t come here for what’s above the surface. It’s that huge fissure in the earth that drew me. And as I approached it, my eyes looked down into the hole - switchbacks that disappeared into the below.

As I descended, I wondered what madness possessed the first explorers more than 100 years ago, before walkie talkies, electric lights, and automatic pulleys to climb miles and miles into unknown, unlit chambers below the earth. Looking at the rock, its grade, its wetness, its shape – I imagined what it’d be like climb before there were trails. How easy it must have been to fall to places unseen, how easy to become lost. And if you did – what horrors then? What would it be like to starve to death in the pitch black?

I walked briskly until I’d gone so far down I could no longer see any of the natural light above. I was not afraid. I wanted to be still. Absolutely still. There was no sound, save the drip, drip, drip of unseen water into unseen pools.

There were faint noises further up toward the entrance of the cave. Probably the six school buses of children I saw on my drive in. Better keep moving. But I couldn’t go fast. I took a step, then stopped, lingering to look at the ornate details, like filigree on the columns of stalagmites that stretched from the cave’s ceiling to its floor. Then I’d take another step only to linger more before a vein of sparkling calcite. I forgot about hurrying.

They began to catch up. I expected a horde, but instead at first I saw only a teacher and 10 middle school aged girls. Further back, I could hear more of them. But this first group was quiet-ish. When they spoke and giggled, they did so in respectful, hushed whispers. I let them pass. But a few minutes later I caught up, and passed them again.

I wondered if I should rush ahead to stay ahead of the noise. I was so enjoying the stillness before they came. It nourished me in ways I didn’t understand. I wanted more. I so dreaded the others who I knew followed behind them.

I tried this for a while - trying to rush toward stillness.

But then I paused. A huge cavern had opened up before me. It looked as though the ceiling were a hundred feet above my head. I set up my tripod. I fiddled with the settings.

I heard them before I saw them. It wasn’t words, but one voice, whimpering. I imagined what the girl must be feeling as she climbed ever deeper into the earth, away from the surface and the natural light. I heard her sniffle. I turned, and watched them come toward me. I saw the crying girl. One of her classmates was holding her hand, a second one had her in a loose embrace.

“It’ll be okay, Justice” one said. “Don’t cry,” said a second.

As they walked by me, other girls pressed close too. The whole group stopped, and surrounded the girl in a large embrace.

They made loving sounds. A few girls began to giggle, one called out: “Oh Justice - there’s nothing to cry about!” Another laughing: “We can’t take you anywhere!” A third: “Oh Justice, we love you.”

The teacher wordlessly caught my eye, and smiled, her face saying: “Do you see? How could I not be happy in a world that has this?”

They walked on, disappearing around a corner, echoes of loving whispers and warm laughter still reaching back to me from the darkness.

But my reverie was short lived. At first it was a titter, then an indistinct din, a cacophony of many voices echoing through the chamber – unmistakably teenage boys. As they got closer I could hear specific conversations - perhaps something about Batman, football, definitely girls, a few pretend farts, machismo claims about their lack of fear - shushing every now and then as well.

I wondered why couldn’t they be quiet, like the others? Why don’t the teachers control them? Why it so hard for so many people to be quiet? Is it play, or a deflection for their fears? If so, of what? Of monsters in the dark? Of silence? Does the darkness, and these depths, make them think of dying, or the dead? Or perhaps, is it the monsters lurking in their minds, images that only surface when no one speaks, that they are trying to keep at bay behind their idle chatter?

Of course now it’s so obvious - the questions were as much directed at me as them. But in that moment, I didn’t see that yet.

Groups of 10 began to pass me one by one. I tried to ignore them, to focus on my photography. But the path was too narrow. Kids kept bumping into my tripod. I gave up and walked slowly, close to edge, so they could pass. How long would this go on? Six school buses hold a lot of noise and hormones.

I tried to enjoy the majesty of the caves, but I saw nothing, my mouth may not have moved, but my mind was racing as I walked up. First it was consumed with the boys, then the impeachment hearing, later other frustrations happening above the surface. I saw a sign and stopped to read it. It said that in the 1920s the Caverns first became a national attraction. Then, there were no elevators or paved paths. Tours used to take 5 hours but today they’ve cut the time in half! (Yes, there was an exclamation point on the sign). Is that a good thing? I wondered.

I kept walking toward the great room. Suddenly I realized I was alone. All of them must have passed. It was silent again. I hadn’t even noticed. How long had it been still? This was very thing I’d said I wanted to run to – what took me so long to notice it’d arrived?

I stood motionless and held my breath. I wanted to hear nothing. But instead of nothing I heard the blood pulsing through my veins.

I breathed again, and found my eyes had filled with tears. My throat tighten. It was hard to breathe deeply. For the first time in a long time. I saw the body. Yes, that had happened. It wasn’t a dream.

Even as I saw him, I felt held by caves and within the silence. Here I’d found a place both contained and also more expansive than I could imagine.

I realized what the whimpering girl must have known - that there was 750 feet of heavy rock above my head and miles trail I’d have to climb to get back to the surface. If the walls shook I would certainly die. Still I did not feel afraid.

I’m not sure how long I sat there. I know many other people walked by. The children looped back at one point but it was as if they were far away. I knew they were there but I didn’t hear their words anymore.

Slowly I found both the sadness and the image of the man began to fade from my mind, in its place I found a chasm had opened up inside me, and I felt the cave all around rushing it.

The silence said: do not be afraid, you are alive, give thanks.

Looking within, I found the darkness had begun to take shape and color — deep reservoirs of gratitude abounding where sadness and resentment had prevailed only a moment before.

I felt gratitude for the absurdity of being able to stand 750 feet below the earth. Gratitude that I’m a citizen of a country which chose to preserve so many of its most beautiful places before I was born. Gratitude for the other worldly beauty of the caves. Gratitude for my health and the ability to walk through them on my own legs. Gratitude to learn from the noise of those boys – and realize how my mind is often just as loud. Gratitude to witness the tenderness of those girls for their friend. Gratitude to be free and able to go on this journey. Gratitude for the strangers who I’ve met on this journey, many of whom have changed my life. Gratitude for the friends and family who’ve supported me when I was afraid. And too, gratitude for the air in my lungs and the blood still pumping through my veins.

Hearing nothing in the cave but the beating of my heart, I felt so fiercely the truth of my pulse. There is always much to mourn; but as long as I breathe, I must also give thanks.

It is a most strange, unfair, beautiful, and miraculous thing to be alive.

Smile, It's Just Yoga

Tim Geoffrion November 11, 2019

Earlier this week I found myself running down the stairs of my apartment building, barefooted and still in pajamas. I was frantically trying to find any building employee who might be able to stop the fire department from rushing to the building. Back in my unit, the alarms were screaming “Fire! Fire! Evacuate!”

But don’t worry dear readers there was no fire, just a lot of haze -- the result of perhaps too much oil left cooking in a pan for too long, in wait of eggs which I forgot to ever put into said pan. The alarms eventually turned off on their own with the aid of a fan and fresh air. Crisis averted.

As you can probably tell -- I’ve never been especially talented at cooking. But it’s something I’ve been working on this year (in baby steps). And progress has been significant – though to be fair it’s off of a low bar. I’m still limited to making mostly bland breakfasts and lunches. (Trust me when I say you don’t want to eat anything I prepare for dinner that involves more than heating it up). But I should be kind to myself. Afterall, I am the same person who, when asked by a friend a few years ago to cut up a tomato for some sandwiches, immaculately carved the tomato into 8 equal wedges as if it were an apple.

Learning new skills is hard, especially as an adult. And while I haven’t actually tried particularly hard to become a great chef this year– I have spent a lot of time learning more about yoga. And there, I feel like I have made more progress.

Especially coming out of my Baptiste Training in February, I felt absolutely lit up for anything yoga related. It was more than just how it made my body feel. For me, the physical movement (asana) was only one (and arguably the least transformative) part of the practice. What really shook me were the underlying philosophies, the meditation, and the inquiry work. At that moment in my life, when I felt equal parts victim and irredeemable idiot, it was exactly what I needed to begin my healing journey. Yoga helped me see that if I wanted to change my life, I couldn’t wait around for someone else to save me -- I had to do that work, let go of what I must, and be a yes for making hard changes. I never thought this work would be easy – but even knowing there was a path forward filled me with a sense of possibility and power I’m not sure I’ve ever felt before.

Since then, I’ve given yoga the serious attention I thought something that has life changing powers deserves. I’ve practiced my asana nearly every day whether I was at home, traveling to another city, or on a multi-week back-packing trip in the wilderness. I’ve mediated diligently. I’ve interrogated myself and my stories every night through my journal, my blog, and conversations with friends. I even added the word “yogi” to my byline on Instagram, to publicly identify the practice as central to my new identity.

Committing to these routines has had powerful results in my life. Most profoundly, it gave me the courage to enter into this journey on my own terms – and once there experience it from a place of new physical vitality, emotional awareness, and interconnected with others. Even off the road, several key relationships in my life have been transformed thanks to the insights and actions coming from my yoga practice.

Of course, it’s not like everything in my life is “solved”. As many of you that regularly read these blogs probably intuited, this fall has been equally full of profound discoveries and new connections, AS WELL as moments of intense pain and crippling fear too. I’m still dealing with broken relationships. I’m still trying to grapple the meaning of nearly dying (more than once) during my two months in Alaska. And perhaps more than anything, I’ve been weighed down by a growing unease about “what’s next?”

All of which is a long way of saying, despite feeling empowered in new ways, I’ve also felt lost. And the last time I’d felt this lost, the thing that helped me more than anything was the community and intensity of completing a Baptiste weeklong seminar. So, several weeks ago, I decided last minute to return to the desert and complete another week of Baptiste training.

I’m not ready yet to write about that second week I spent in Sedona. Too much happened. Too much shifted – almost entirely in life giving ways. No doubt, in the end it will all end up in my writings in one form another.

But most concretely for the course of my journey, is what’s happened since that I want to share. Specifically, the day I returned home, the owner at UpYoga in South Minneapolis asked me to teach two classes, to realnon-yoga teacher people, at the studio.

Initially I was fill with excitement and pride. But as the day got closer, I also felt increasingly nervous. I imagined what class would be like over and over, and I had trouble sleeping despite the intense outpouring of support from friends and family.

On the actual day -- I had no idea what was ahead. In the hours leading up to it, I felt wave after wave of fear. Did I have anything to offer? Would everyone think I was a fraud? Would this all just prove again I’m not really good at anything of substance?

But the truth was – none of that mattered – at all. When I actually did the thing, and got into the studio and saw my students, all those fears about me disappeared. There was no space for my obsessive “me centered” concerns. There were people in front of me who I cared about – even the ones I’d only just met – and from the center of my being, I wanted to share with them this thing, yoga, that’s so changed my life. And so, I did that, in all my imperfectness, using the tools I’ve been learning the best I could.

The classes hardly matched my mental models. And there are things I wish I could have said and done differently. But both days the sixty minutes flew by in the best possible way. It was humbling, empowering, and thrilling all at the same time.

When I think back on them, there is one moment that sticks out most. As the students were holding “chair pose” the second class, I looked at the room, and saw many of their faces were grimaced, full of exertion and intensity. I get it. That’s been me. Experience and conventional wisdom taught me that nothing good comes from doing things without seriousness and maximum effort; but in that moment I also saw the absurdity of that belief too. Without thinking, the words, “Smile, it’s just yoga” came tumbling out of my mouth. I saw eyes around the room lighten up. Faces relaxed. Many people audibly laughed. And then, many people, without any suggestion from me, sank lower into the posture. Ease, and forgetting the seriousness of their exertion, gave them access to something new.

I left the studio both days absolutely charged up – so thankful, connected, and eager to learn more so I can offer more in the future too.

So, have I figured out “What’s next”?

In some ways yes! And while I don’t envision my entire future being defined just by teaching yoga, for the first time on this journey I’ve found something I know I want to bring with wherever I go next. And that’s most definitely worth smiling about.

Putting on Masks - Why Blog?

Tim Geoffrion November 1, 2019

On the way to pick up my mother for dinner tonight, I passed a group of elementary schoolers and their parents wearing masks. One was a gorilla. Another was a scary clown (shame on the parents!). The kids were jumping around and running in circles, swinging their plastic pumpkins (no doubt filled with candy) excitedly.

It can be so much fun to put on a costume. Even as an adult some of my favorite parties have been masques. There is so much freedom when I’m behind a mask. I can move and dance in silly ways without fear of being judged. In a mask, the barriers and differences between people melt. History can be erased. New personalities can be tried on. Everyone, no matter who, can lose themselves in joy-filled connection with strangers, former foes, and friends alike.

But costumes aren’t just for fun, they’re important – I remember learning in school how play-acting is a critical part of childhood development. Children need to play with fantasy and try on new personas so they can grow up. It’s an important part of how they figure out who they want to become. With a child – that is easy to understand. We expect children to change constantly. We’d be scared if they didn’t. But with adults – change can seem disturbing. We as a society are not always supportive of people changing and trying on new personas — though we give lip service to it.

And so, it can be scary to to publicly try on a new costume while we are still unsure exactly who we want to become. What will people think? Will they think it’s a sign you are weak, have poor judgment, or are deserving of pity? If the new costume means you don’t participate in the same activities as before, will people feel hurt, or think you now believe yourself superior to them? Will people think you are selfish? After all, most relationships are held in stasis at a dynamic equilibrium - if one variable changes, many other variables shift too, whether they like it or not. So if you put on that new costume, will you inadvertently force others to change too in ways they don’t want to? And if so, will they resent you for it?

What a pain! Given all of that, it’s easy imagine why I sometimes look at masks (those potential tools of joy and transformation) and see them as offering another possibility — a way to hide my shame, to avoid conflict, to feel protected, to avoid facing what I fear, and ultimately to attempt to keep everything just as it is.

~~~

Looking back on the last year, I see how much positive change has occurred. I attribute much of that to my decision to spend this year on the road, in new places, and meeting strangers. In that I was free to put on and discard so many costumes. Not only was this fun, it helped me explore who I wanted to become! Moreover, I could do this without guilt or fear. Being on the road away from everyone I knew meant I could experiment widely and freely without having to worry that doing so would invite judgment from (or hurt the feelings of) my closest friends and family.

And what costumes did I want to try on? Particularly, and especially coming out of my Baptiste training in February, I wanted to learn to embody confidence, openness, positivity, and joy. At the time, I had limited lived experience of what that actually meant! As I’ve tried to figure that out, I’ve made all sorts of missteps. But now, eight months later, what started as amorphous concepts (confidence, joy, openness, etc) have begun to take on definite shapes.

And yet, the constant moving and play has a flip side – if I’m only surrounded by people who never knew me before — who will say the hard things that only a friend of many years can say? Who will hold me accountable? How can someone call me out if they don’t know anything about me except what they are seeing in that moment?

It’s not that I haven’t been in contact with people from my old life who could have called me out. Obviously this blog has been a tangible way I’ve kept many of you in the loop with many of the large movements of this journey! Moreover, it’s not like I avoid feedback. I’ve long prided myself on taking in and implementing feedback (particularly at work). But sometimes, I fell into the trap of only sharing (and writing about) the new costumes I was putting on that I intuited would be universally approved. Meanwhile, I was continuing to cling to others masks I’ve long used to hide parts of my life that I either can’t (or was not ready to) yet change.

I need look no further than this blog to see that.

A lot has happened this year, and I’ve shared a lot of it here – some of it quite raw. It’s all been true. But a lot has also happened that I haven’t shared. Or at others times, I’ve framed my stories in certain ways to conceal key facts, which have been central to my journey. I have all sorts of excuses for that, many of which I convinced myself were highly sophisticated and wise (e.g. privacy, prudence, and respect for your time), but if I’m honest, truly honest, at the core of nearly all the hiding has been my persistent fear that if you (my family, my friends, and my readers) knew the “whole truth” – you’d think less of me. And in the extreme, if you thought you loved me, maybe you’d see that actually I didn’t deserve that love after all.

Saying that feels like a great defeat. After all, it was also in my Baptiste Training that I realized my old way of being was creating a reality where I believed “I didn’t deserve to be loved.” I have been doing so much work to recognize when that old story was showing up and distorting my behavior. I know I’ve made great progress. And yet… here it is again.

Now, I don’t want to overstate things. This blog, which I created to try to embody transparency – has often played an important role in enacting my new ways of being. It’s kept me connected to you while I’m on the road. It’s helped me process some very difficult experiences. It’s led me to be open about a number of things I definitely would have hidden in the past. I’m proud of that. However, at times I’ve also used it as a tool to attempt to elegantly conceal what I didn’t want you to see. For instance, I’ve never written about the various forms of privilege that have enabled me to go on this journey in the first place. Instead, I’ve tried to play up my frugality, or imply I’m just an average guy from an average middle class family. That’s silly - as many of you know, or probably easily read between the lines. Or even more profoundly, I have not written, even in coded reference until now, about my two year-long and ongoing divorce process. It, as much as my grandmother’s death, is a significant reason I’m on the road this year. I will continue not discuss the specifics of it in this medium. I believe concealing that from the internet is appropriate. But not even mentioning that it’s happening, or sharing how it’s emotionally impacting me makes no sense if I want this medium to convey to you what’s happening on my emotional journey.

At the end of the day, I have to decide, what is the purpose of this blog. Is it to amuse you? Is it to gain and keep admirers? It is to get a book contract? Is it to be known? Is it to form and keep community who can hold me accountable and help me grow even as I try on new costumes?

Of course, I know the “right” answer – but it’d be disingenuous for me to say that now that I have laid the choice out in those terms, the lesson is forever learned. This has been a battle for decades now. So, I expect this to be an ongoing front for some time still before the war is won for good. But in putting it out here, I’m asking you all to help me, and trusting that if I actually want to change, I need to trust that the people who truly care about me will continue to do that even when I’m messy, broken, and have made mistakes.

After all, how will I ever be able to take in and accept love (or even simple support) if I feel it’s based on a lie?

I don’t say this in the hopes that you tell me - “you are great as you are!” No, I say this in the hopes that if you truly care about me, as I know so many of you do, you’ll see me as I am, and be a stand for me as I change. [For instance, as it relates to this blog, I’m giving you all permission to call BS if you feel I’m shifting toward inauthenticity or people pleasing.]

And so - here I admit publicly that I’ve loved masks for the wrong reasons. I’ve used them as tools of hiding for too long. I see that this way of being no longer serves me. I want to change that, and I need your help to hold me accountable as I do.

I know that saying this, and living this, will mean I may actually be seen more now — all of me — even the parts I want to hide. And although it’s scary, right now in writing this, and sharing it with you, I also feel so much hope for everything that future can now become.

Happy Halloween.

Park Collectors

Tim Geoffrion October 12, 2019

When people find out I’m traveling all year to see our National Parks and wild places, I’m almost always asked: “What’s your favorite park? ... the best hike? ... the most beautiful view? Wanting the “best” answers, and to have a journey that is sufficiently “epic” to justify taking a sabbatical, at some point this spring I decided I needed to see ALL the parks. And as of this week, having just been through Grand Teton and Yellowstone, I’m now up to 35.

But over the last month, my attitude has shifted. And much of that shift I trace back to a conversation I had in Bettles, Alaska in August.

Bettles is a re-fueling spot for bush planes going into the most remote parks of Alaska (Gates of the Arctic, ANWR, and Kobuk Valley) which are inaccessible to cars and commercial jets. The full-time population is somewhere between 12 and 20, depending on which local you ask.

I was switching planes on my way back to Fairbanks, after coming out of 12 days backpacking the Arrigetch and paddling down the Atlanta River with a group of 8 other people, including my best friend in Minnesota Matt.

It was there that I met a 19 year veteran park ranger, who, while eavesdropping on my conversation with one of my companions about how I thought it was ridiculous that the St Louis Arch is now a National Park, butted into our conversation said, “That’s how park collectors always feel about it.”

Excuse me, I wanted to say, “Park collectors? There are other people who are doing this? I thought I was special. Also, I can’t be categorized in two words. I’m on journey of personal transformation!”

I may not have showered in 12 days, and probably was a little crazier than usual, but at least I had enough wits to hold that one back. So instead I said, trying to be good humored: “Park collectors? I’ve never heard that before. But wait, come on, The Arch? You think that’s legitimate? Seriously?”

“Sure. I mean we park rangers don’t care. It was already under federal protection. We do this because we care about preserving both historical buildings and landscape. We don’t care how it’s categorized.”

I nodded and asked her for the stamp for my National Parks Passport that’d prove I’d been to the Gates of the Arctic.

“Oh, is this your last park?” she asked brightly, “That and Kobuk are usually people’s last park. Well that or American Somoa. What number park is this for you?”

I was now doubly annoyed. Am I that much of a cliché? I tried to laugh and said, “Not even close.”

She went on. “You aren’t with the group that’s doing a flyover of all the parks this afternoon are you”

“No. We just backpacked 12 day!” I said proudly, “Are they really just flying over? Are not even hiking?”

“No, flyovers are the most common way to see the parks up here.”

“Did they ask for stamps?”

“Of course.”

How is that legitimate? I wanted to say. See, further proof my journey is special!

She could see I was skeptical, “If people want to say they’ve been here, I don’t care. I’m just glad they think it’s important to say they’ve been to the parks. It’s why places like this stay protected.”

She went on, now chuckling to herself, “If you don’t like that. How about this? Almost every week I get emails from people asking me to stamp a piece of paper with the various park stamps, and then mail it to them.” She paused, “I’m happy to do it. I’m here to serve the American people, but you wouldn’t believe the excuses people give. It’s all unnecessary, but why lie?” She continued laughing to herself. “My favorite, which I get more than you’d expect, is ‘we drove by the ranger station but you were closed.’” I looked at her blankly.

Seeing I was slow on the uptake she reminded me, “There’s no road to Bettles!”

We both laughed at these nameless people’s banal vanity.

But as we did so, I eyed her stamp pad and saw the stamp for Kobuk Valley. Kobuk is the least visited and hardest park to get to in the US. In my quest to see every park this year, just an hour before I’d chatted up a bush pilot and asked him how much he’d charge to take me there. “$3,000”. I was shocked, “For how long?” It’s a long ways there - about two hours, that price would get you an hour on the ground.”

I tried to play it cool, but in my mind I was thinking “$3,000?! That’s insane, for an hour… but then again, if I don’t do it now, my next chance won’t be until next summer. Am I really willing to let my epic quest of seeing all the parks in a year die in this moment when I could still make it happen? … Maybe I could find a sponsor?”

I’d still been turning that all over in my mind when I went into the ranger station. But now, with the stamp before me, and with this story of widespread fraud by other “park collectors” (of whom I had just found out I was one), I wondered what does it really matter? Why not just ask for the stamp, save the $3,000, say I’d been there, and then find a much cheaper way there some future year. Who would know the difference anyway?

As I continued to eye the stamp, Aurelia, a German surgeon, who like me had left her job this spring to take up a nomadic life piped in, “Who cares about checking parks off a list. Who cares whether you saw them or not. Will that matter when you die? Travel should be about creating meaningful memories, about places transforming you. Some people are so dumb.” She could be blunt, but she was always wise.

I flushed, and put away my passport.

Aurelia and I left the ranger station. A few hours later we got on our plane back to Fairbanks from Bettles. I never contacted the bush pilot.

~~~

I think back to that afternoon often — both what the ranger and Aurelia said, and also how right it was to walk away. And although it was undoubtedly right, that day has had consequences that I’m still trying to work through. Most obviously, by doing so I gave up my chance to see all the parks this year (both actually and fraudulently).

So what? Well, now that I know I can’t reach my “epic goal”, I’m not sure exactly what constraints to use to structure my time for with the remainder of this year. Do I go on and try to see all the parks except 1? Do I extend this quest through next summer? Do I shift gears entirely? I don’t have an answer to this yet.

One truth that’s emerged for me is that I no longer want to do anything just to check it off the list. There are times in life when I’ll have to push ahead and get things done. This isn’t one of them. So instead, I want to commit to slowing down and really opening myself up to the experiences and people that come onto my path.

Practically, this means the last month I’ve been spending more time in each place I go. Moreover, although I still have quite a bit of alone time, when I go somewhere I’ve also been focus on creating memories with other people rather than just cultivating internal insights. This has led to some of the most joyful and profound moments of the last six months, some of which I hope to write about in the future. Without getting into any specific stories, since leaving Alaska I backpacked and climbed with 2 friends in Glacier National Park for 8 days, I spent 8 days with my family in Wyoming, I extended a trip home to Minnesota to work through a meaningful project with the orchestra, I went to an innovation conference in Chicago (as I wrote about in my last post), and I spent a week in New York following up on some of the things that opened up for me in Chicago, attending a wedding, and sharing many, many long meals with new and old friends.

Equally important, Bettles gave me a healthy booster shot of humility. I may be changing a lot this year, but there’s so much more personal work yet to do. Most obviously, I’m embarrassed I even considered lying and getting the stamp. I don’t want to be that person anymore. Of course I like being affirmed, but sacrificing my values to theoretically get validated in the future for “collecting all the parks in a year” just isn’t consistent with the person I’m striving to become. It’s time to let that go.

More subtly, even if I had figured out a way to get the money and went to Kobuk, keeping the dream alive, what was my true motivation for doing so? I think it was because I continue to hold onto the idea that I need to justify this sabbatical to other people. The insight has come home to me since I left Alaska, as I’ve noticed how often I’ve felt embarrassed (like in Chicago) when I didn’t have “a hook” to explain the purpose of my travel this year — at least not one that translates into a specific accomplishment.

But really, even assuming I no longer am tempted to lie, if I am using this time to transform myself, and I am happy about it, what does it matter if my life choices don’t please others? Should I care if other people don’t think this sabbatical makes sense?

No, of course not.

So now, as I’m still figuring out how to use this time, and I’m letting go of my need to collect the parks in just a year, I realizing it’s an awfully good time to let go of my need to collect other’s validation for my sabbatical too.

What Do You Do?

Tim Geoffrion September 23, 2019

“What do you do?” a gray-haired man in a blue blazer asked me.

I watched his eyes drift from my face to my name card. Looking closely at it, he squinted. I imagined he must be confused, not at my name, but at the fact that under my name there was no company association or title like there was on every other tag I had seen that evening.

In the National Parks, I tell people I’m on a year-long adventure through our country’s wild places. There, the answer is usually met with excitement. But here, it felt too embarrassing to say aloud. I was in Chicago, mingling with business executives, entrepreneurs, tech investors, and distinguished professors – surely he’d think I was a joke if I said “I’m on a journey”. So, instead I froze.

This freezing compounded my feelings of shame. It’s not like I should have been surprised to get the question. It’s basic small talk in the business world, but for me the question (though not actually intended that way) had the result of feeling accusatory – with the result that even before I spoke I felt put on trial, proven guilty, and sentenced to irrelevance.

But taking a step back, why was I away from the wild this week, talking to a man in business attire in downtown Chicago? Because I was at the Twin Global annual conference for global leaders in innovation. Hmm… that probably still doesn’t answer the question does it. In fact, it’s probably just confused you more. After all, as you all know, I am not a global leader, nor do I know much about innovation. I’ve never even worked in tech. And while I may have gone to MIT for graduate school – the last time I conducted an experiment in a science lab was as a junior in high school.

So why was I there? I was there as a guest of a dear friend, Ralph, who (unlike me) is an extraordinary visionary, and who generously invited me to join him as his guest for the conference. He was certain it would be an important part of my journey. “You are going to love it. It’s going to open up a lot for you,” he told me, “And when we are there you should just go do your thing. We don’t need to do things together. We can catch up when it’s over.”

I didn’t immediately see the connection to my journey, but something deep inside me told me to say yes – to him and to the experience – and so I did.

However, in the days leading up to the conference I began feel a nagging fear – was “saying yes” a mistake? Afterall, I have no experiences or insights to offer the other attendees about innovation. Moreover, I probably won’t even understand the subject matter. I don’t know anything about AI, blockchain, CRISPR, or moonshots beyond the buzz words. Given that, I’d hate for my friend to waste his generosity on me; or even worse, for me to embarrass him.

And so, with all of these fears swirling in my mind, I fumbled to answer the business man’s simple question, “What do you do?” by casually invoking my old “prestigious” job title and role, as if the mere incantation of those words held secret power to let someone rich and powerful like him know, “I deserve to be here.”

But it immediately backfired. Not only did I feel small as I said it, but I saw instantly he was rightly unimpressed. It turned out he worked in my old industry, but was much, much more senior in it than I ever was. In my old role, I would have been a peon to him. We made some more small talk and then headed separate ways. I felt ashamed. I was a total impostor.

As people milled out, I isolated myself at a standing cocktail table, not even trying to engage with others – hiding behind a look of rapt intensity as I scrolled through my Instagram feed like a banker working through his inbox.

Of course, the first day of the conference had many positive moments too – a profound and beautiful conversation with my friend Ralph, several fascinating speakers, a few moments of connection with strangers which didn’t revolve around work, but the moment when I was asked, “what do you do?” was all I could think about as I walked home.

The following morning, as I got up and dressed in my nice slacks and suit coat, I felt deflated. I tried to cheer myself up by reminding myself of how much I had to be grateful for, that good things often happen at unexpected times, and that challenging moments are an opportunity to learn about the world and yourself. But as I looked into the mirror, I felt embarrassed at what I saw. I felt like a child play-acting in adult clothes. This same uniform used to give me so much swagger, but looking at myself now I saw clearly that none of it fit anymore. The pants seemed to balloon around my waist. The jacket was too tight in certain places, and too loose elsewhere.

Throughout this journey people often have asked me, “What are you going to do when it’s over?” Despite what I’ve written previously, when I’m most scared it’s easy for me to think: “What I did before.” Though I wanted to use this time to explore new ideas, in my deepest heart I sometimes wonder if my time away from “real life”, will merely help me re-enter “real life” as a version 1.02 of my old self. Metaphorically, I’ll put my old uniform in the closet for a year; do a bunch of working out; and then when the time comes to put it back on, I will; and though it’s the same suit, at least I’ll look better than ever before after so much exercise.

But this week, the absurdity of that notion stared comically at me as I looked into the mirror. As my Matrix referencing, Buddhist cab driver told me on the very first day of the journey, “You can’t take the red pill and expect to come back the same.” This year is not a vacation from real life. This year is real life! At times, it feels more real than the life I lived before. And now having lived it, I can never view my old world and cares the same. Of course, I don’t fit into my old suit anymore!

And with that, I began to laugh at myself, literally. I took off my old “work” clothes, and instead put on a plaid shirt and a pair of jeans. This felt right. This is who I’ve become. And so, when I re-entered the auditorium, I saw the sea of blazers, and thought if people were looking at me wondering, “what is he doing here?” I don’t care.

Walking in that day I felt the weight of needing to prove myself lifted. I realized I was there not because of my degrees or my old job; I was there solely because of my friend’s generosity and care for me. Whether deserved or not, I belonged because he invited me. Those were the rules. That may not make sense, but it is the system. Given that, the best thing I could do is honor his generosity, show up as I am, be fully present, respect the people I meet, and open myself to whatever truths emerge.

And that is what I did. Now inhabiting my own skin, I felt at ease introducing myself to strangers as an interloper, a wanderer, a writer, and a young man in casual clothes on an emerging journey. Yes, I had a career before and that shapes who I am, but it is not the defining attribute of who I am now, nor is it central to who I am becoming.

Sure, when I said this, some people rolled their eyes and quickly moved on. But more often than not, I found myself deep in conversations after doing so. At times, the conversations veered into the philosophical implications of the days’ panels – how can Hegel help us understand our historical moment, what does it mean to be human as the line between man and machine is becoming blurred, and what ethical responsibilities do inventors have for their creations – but more often our connections quickly become personal.

And it was there, in those personal conversations, when I gave up the need to prove myself, when I showed up as I am, and when I led with vulnerability that many of these brilliant innovators opened up to me as well – sharing stories about their own unexpected job transitions, failed businesses, and unanswered questions. I even discovered many other “sabbatical-ers” who were in the midst of their own wanderings. In discovering these fellow searchers, I felt so buoyed up.

When the conference was over I ran around the hall looking for all the people I had met. As I saw them, many of us made plans to see each again -- not because we had urgent business to do, but because we knew we had more life to share. And as we said goodbye, there were no firm hand shakes, only hugs.

As we drove to the airport I felt so energized. True, I still cannot tell you what my professional identity will be a year from now. But despite that, Ralph was right – being at TWIN was an important step in my journey, and so much has opened up for me. I have new ideas to wrestle with, I met new people who inspired and comforted me, I gained new insights into who I am becoming, and I feel renewed conviction about the path I’m on.

So now, on the other side of TWIN, I can’t help but ask myself again: “What do you do?”

To which I proudly and publicly answer: I wander freely, I am vulnerable with strangers, I easily make new friends, I read widely, I grapple with new ideas, I write about my experiences, I photograph the places I see in order to inspire others to conserve our wild lands, and I hug people I just met at business conferences… it may not sound like much, and it won’t get me onto any Forbes 40 under 40 lists, but you know what? For the first time in my adult life, I feel pretty darn happy about what I do and who I am becoming.

(Not) Seeing the Northern Lights

Tim Geoffrion September 3, 2019

I convulsed, lurching up. A pandemonium of sounds and light. Where was I? What is happening? I couldn’t understand anything. My head was panning back and forth without seeing anything. But before anything clicked back into focus, it was over. The wild blaring of the semi-truck’s horn, the roar of its engine, the whooshing of the recent rain on the road as it was swallowed up and spit out by its tires – all of it indistinct and terrible – all of it soon gone. Then silence and blackness. There were no streetlights here.

My head throbbed, and my back ached. I looked out into the darkness and wanted to curse. It was the middle of the night. My chest hurt and all I wanted to do was lose consciousness again. What was I doing out here? As I laid down flat again, no pad or pillow, in the back of my SUV, it slowly came back to me. I was an hour north of Healy, Alaska. Following the tip of a bartender earlier that night who said there might be Northern Lights later, I eagerly awaited them from my motel window. But as the darkness gathered, it was clear they’d never come there -- all I could see was clouds.

I was exhausted. Coming out of 12 days of backpacking the Arctic, I’d hoped to rejuvenate once I got to Denali, but in the four nights since returning to electricity, running water, and cell phone service I’d found myself sleeping less than I had in the wilderness. I felt ill at ease back in civilization with all its noises, energies, and expectations. And yet, that night, I finally felt tired enough to close my eyes and sleep despite it all.

But, then again, what about the northern lights… Afterall, wasn’t the dream of seeing those lights dancing across the sky, and the words I spoke to my grandmother on her deathbed (“Where will we go on our next adventure? ... To see the northern lights.”) what set me off on the road in the first place? If they were out, I needed to find a way to see them.

So, despite my weariness, I felt giddy with excitement. I eagerly drove north for over an hour until I found a clear patch of sky. I pulled off the highway onto a large shoulder area and got out of the car. Looking up, I could see faint stars amid the darkening sky. “Was the blackness tinted green?” I wondered aloud, “Or is that my desire painting the sky?” It was nearly 11pm, and green or no, I saw no dancing lights. Give it time, I thought, if it is what I hope, later it will only grow more brilliant. I resolutely decided to wait it out. But I didn’t make it long. After crawling into the back of my car for what was supposed to be a 5-minute nap, I fell hard into a dream-filled sleep.

Now, after 1am, surrounded by the stillness again, I knew from looking out the back window the lights were still not out. Post nap, the darkness looked only black, not green. This wasn’t safe. I needed to get back to the bed I’d already paid far. I crawled out of the back hatch and despite knowing what I’d see, I looked hopefully up into the sky as I walked back to the driver’s side door. Some stars, wisps of gray, whitely lit clouds (the moon perhaps?), but still no dancing lights.

Driving south, my mind whirred, but rarely forward, just in loops, asking the same questions over and over – the delusions of a man near dreams, but who imagines himself on the cusp of profound insight. “Wasn’t I owed this? It’s all been so cinematic these last six months. The way people appear. The way I always survive. The vistas which have opened up. Isn’t this the part where the thing I want comes into being simply because I want it? Come on now. I’m owed this…” of course, upon reaching the motel, the sky was unchanged.

The following day a waitress asked me: “Did you see the northern lights last night?” I wanted to laugh. Was she joking? Had I slept through them? Or were they merely the still, “moonlit” clouds? Had doctored photos and Hollywood lies become so grand that after seeing so much of the fake fantastic images, the real thing is now doomed to feel like anti-climax?

“No, I didn’t.” I responded with a shrug. Maybe it simply wasn’t my time.

All week I’d been agonizing how long to stay in Alaska. So much has happened, and yet, things were starting to echo and repeat. Maybe this was the sign that it was time to say goodbye. Not wanting to wait any longer, I grabbed my laptop, logged onto the restaurant’s wifi and bought a one-way ticket home in a week’s time.

Since then, I’d heard rumors that there might be one more solar storm coming. But I didn’t want to get my hopes up too much. Afterall, maybe when they did, it’d be a rainy night. Or perhaps I’d already seen all the lights had to offer?

All week, I watched the forecasts. Knowing last night would be my last chance to see them on this trip, I eagerly refreshed the weather all week to see where (if anywhere) I might be able to go to see them. But as I feared, the forecasts called for clouds. Everywhere I looked -- from Seward, to Anchorage, to Willow, to Cantwell, to Denali, to Fairbanks – all of my apps said 80+% cloud cover. The further north, the higher the probability of cloud cover.

What was I to do? Realizing it’d probably be a repeat of the week before I felt crestfallen, but also felt unwilling to give up. Acknowledging it’d probably be a waste of time, I decided to take a chance and simply start driving north away from the city lights, hoping beyond hope that even if the night was predominately cloudy, perhaps a patch of open sky might blow across the sky at a pivotal moment.

That afternoon, I heard about mountain pass about an hour and half north of Anchorage (Hatchers Pass). Perhaps there I thought -- better than the side of another highway. And so, not knowing more than its name. I began to drive toward it in the gathering darkness.

The pass is a 20-mile dirt road, switch-backing through the mountains. At its highest point, the road reaches 3,885 feet above sea level. Its far outside of cell service, and for the last few miles there are no street lights to guide the way. So, as I approached I simply drove blindly on, stopping at each pull out to look up into the sky, and see how much of the horizon was still obscured by mountain tops. Finally, upon reaching the actual pass, and not wanting to go any further, I pulled my car to the side of the road and waited for something to happen.

But, just like before, nothing happened — not once my eyes adjusted to the darkness; not after the last of the gloaming had faded from the west; and not after an hour, or two, or three.

And just like before, by 1am, I’d given up. I hadn’t even taken a single photo or seen anything that remotely resembled what I’d heard the northern lights were supposed to be. Was it happening below the mountain ridges? Behind the clouds? Was the solar radiation not actually as strong as they predicted?

Trying to put on a brave face about the whole thing, and not to let the whole night be a waste again, I decided to at least take a few photos of the stars between the clouds. Opening the door to my car, I tripped its alarm. The headlights sprung on, flashing rhythmically, the horn blared on and off, on and off, on and off. I fumbled for my keys. I pressed buttons at random. I sheepishly looked to the left and saw the vague outline of a woman in a car next to me glaring at me. Then looking right, I saw four people in a pick-up truck also angrily staring. I started the engine. I pressed more buttons. Finally, it stopped.

Getting out of my car, I grabbed my equipment, turned on my flashlight and started walking away from the cars into the darkness as quickly as I could. It was cold, the stars looked dim, and there were certainly no lights. After a minute of walking I saw another headlamp approaching. A man and woman, carrying sleeping bags and pillows – frustrated and cold looks on their faces. They stumbled back toward the cars as I set up my tripod.

I took a few pictures. They were awful. All of them. So, I began packing up to head back to find a warm place to sleep. No one could say I didn’t try I told myself.

I’m not sure why, but in that moment, a little voice whispered to me. “Take a picture of the darkness to your left. Sometimes the camera can see things the eye can’t yet perceive.”

Why not. I have nothing else to lose I thought. I re-opened my bag. Set the tripod up again, and released the shutter.

It was then, before the shutter had even closed, as if the act of faith alone called them into being, that I first saw them. At first it was just a lightness, no color behind the mountain. Then greenish. And finally rippling, dancing waves of green light, visible only in a small pocket of the sky above the mountains and below low-lying clouds. I have no analogy for it, but to say it felt like watching a cosmic ballet - the movements writ so large, silent and elegant. Divine and fleeting. How is it that a thing can seem both so shapely and weightless? The light seemed to expand from nothing, taking on form, swelling, pirouetting, twirling, folding into nearly nothing then swelling again before disappearing altogether into blackness.

The dancing brilliance lasted only a few minutes before disappearing behind the clouds again. Though those dancing, glistening, beams of beauty never returned, in their place a pale green glow began to surround the mountain ridges. For two more hours, I stood there, hopping up and down to keep my toes from going numb. Seeing my light, an Indian couple living in San Jose joined me for bit. Later, one of the men from the pick-up stumbled out and asked to see my pictures, pronouncing them “dope.”

By 3am, I felt delirious – tired, full of wonder, but also a bit choked up. I stumbled back to my car. There were almost a dozen cars pulled over around me but no one (except the 3 people I mentioned) had left their cars at all. Had they all been looking through the glass? As quietly as I could, hoping not to trip the alarm again and wake anyone who might be sleeping, I slipped my equipment into the passenger’s side door and gently closed it. Then, opening the driver’s door and turning back for one last look, I peered back out toward the ridge. In so doing I realized that from this angle, the gap in the clouds where I had been the dancing light was impossible to see. All of these people, who drove up to this obscure place, and were sleeping in their cars, had seen nothing at all. And yet, had they only walked a few feet away, they’d have seen it all.

I’m sure I could philosophize about that – fate, luck, providence, the nature of adventure, and the like -- but for now as I pack my things and prepare to leave Alaska tomorrow after almost 2 months, I have no desire for that. I want only to sit and admire these feelings of gratitude dancing around my mind like aurora -- gratitude for the miracles I saw in the sky last night, for the absurd gift of having this time to explore when I’m so young, for the sublime shapes of wilderness, for the ways it’s tried to break me, and most surprisingly to me, for the dozens of people – fellow travelers, guides, bus drivers, yoga instructors, waiters, fishermen, and a hitchhiker - who I will forever carry with me as I leave this place and make my way south once again.

Grizzly Man

Tim Geoffrion August 29, 2019

On my fourth day in the Wrangell’s wilderness, I unzipped my tent to discover a fog so thick that I could barely make out the outline of my guide’s tent just a few dozen feet away.

When we’d gone to bed it was a cloudless night. To the right, left, and behind us were towering walls of stone. Before us was several miles of green valley which descended into a glacier at least a mile wide. But in the morning, we couldn’t see any of that. And, with the visibility so low, it was impossible to move ahead. All we could do was sit in camp and wait. And so, for over an hour after we finished breakfast we sat around our campsite and waited, trading stories and trying to put a good face on things.

In time the mist seemed to lift a bit, but only from the mountains to our left. Everywhere else the view was gray.

Then, as if noting an ant near his feet, Yoav, one of my 3 traveling companions, asked aloud, “Is that a bear?”

I jumped up. My eyes scanned in all directions. I didn’t see anything.

“There.” He pointed, now a big smile on his face.

What on earth is wrong with him? I wondered. Why is he smiling? I looked up the mountain side where he was pointing, but still saw nothing.

“There! I see it.” David, the other traveler with us said. A big smile was on his face too. He pointed, and this time I saw it. A blob near the top ridge probably 1,000 vertical feet above us.

Instinctively, I went to my knees. “Where’s my damned bear spray?” I cursed aloud angrily as I rifled through my coat and then my bag.

Standing up I saw the blob was no longer moving along the top of the ridge, but now seemed to be bounding down the mountainside at an astonishing pace directly in our direction.

*Caption: a grizzly bear seen this past week while I was hiking in Denali National Park*

“Pack up all the food!” our previously unflappable guide barked at us. “In the bear cans, everything, now!”

Back to my knees I went, my gaze darting back and forth from the bear as it flew down the mountain to the ground where I’d mindlessly strewn my things a moment before when I’d overturned my whole bag. I jammed everything smelly I could find – food, tooth paste, sun screen, old socks – into the can. I fumbled to twist the lid shut.

*Caption: a black bear in the Kenai Fjords National Park seen while canoeing*

The bear had traversed the entire visible mountainside in seconds. Then it disappeared into a thick section of alder that rose above the top of a hill which climbed from our camp site and obscured the bottom of the mountainside to our left. If he kept to his track down through the alder, up the backside of the near hill, he’d soon appear just a few hundred feet above us.

David and Yoav had lost their initial excitement. We were now all standing shoulder to shoulder with our guide. I was clutching my bear spray like a talisman.

*Caption: fresh grizzly bear tracks in Gates of the Arctic National Park*

The fog seemed to re-thicken, and the mountain top was shrouded again. The wind must have been blowing still, but I didn’t feel it. I strained to hear anything – a rustle in the branches, a roar, I don’t even know what – but all I could hear was the water below us, undying, rushing over the rocks.

We couldn’t see anything where we were standing. “I‘m going to the hill top to get a better view” my guide finally said, “Stay here”. We did. I’ve rarely felt so impotent. No feints even at male chivalry or heroism by me, David, or Yoav. Without a word, we let her go to stand watch. In my mind, I saw the bear emerging from the mist and dragging her away.

Time seemed to grind to a halt. I don’t know how long we waited there — us at the bottom of the hill, stupidly holding our bear spray, eyes aloft to our guide on the hill —but eventually when the bear still hadn’t emerged, our guide finally looked down at us, and yelled for us to go back to our tents and pack up as quickly as possible.

Caption: My guide’s tent shortly after we’d seen the bear and once the fog had begun to lift. The bear’s path went from the top of the ridge line above to a patch of alder to the right out of the frame.

Thank god I thought. We need to get out of here. But once I had my pack on my back, and we were about to leave, the pit of my stomach dropped when I realized our path was up toward the exact same path the bear had sprinted down. Climbing the mountainside took us almost 15 minutes. All the while, I kept thinking how in its descent the bear had made the distance look only a trifle.

Then, turning from our uphill climb, our guide led us directly into the patch of alders that the bear had disappeared into. My mouth went dry.

For those of you who have hiked in the backcountry in Alaska, you know there is nothing more painful to traverse than alder. Alder groves are often taller than humans, and so thickly grown you have to push away branches simultaneously at knee, chest, and head level; and if that weren’t enough in especially thick sections of alder, the ground below your feet seems swallowed up by a mat of exposed roots. In my experience, it’s not uncommon for alders to grow so thick on steep portions of mountainside that those sections become literally impassable without making long detours.

*Caption: my friend Matt emerging from a bushwhack through alders in Gates of the Arctic - the look on his face says it all.*

So, what is the solution? Often it’s to look for game trails (i.e. routes that animals cut through the alders over and over). Or said another way, you have to use the “bear super highway” if you want to pass.

Surely, there must be a better way I thought as we stepped onto the path, the trees closing in above our heads like a tunnel. If we run into it here, what will it do?

But onward we went. And although the bears had packed down the ground into a trail (something we hadn’t enjoyed in the days prior), my feet kept giving out from under me. I fell to ground at least three times. My pants were caked in mud. Still not wanting to show fear, I tried to channel my anxiety into making noise so we wouldn’t startle any bears. Together David and I sang various verses of many Beatles songs, particularly relishing yelling “Hey Jude” into the trees over and over and over. I didn’t think we sounded half bad, but then again I wouldn’t be surprised if someone told me my voice had been cracking the entire time either.

After an hour, when the alders finally cleared away and opened up to an unobstructed view of the glacier, we finally took a break. Throughout our walk the trail had been covered in bear scat, old and new. But we hadn’t seen any bears in person. Where were they, I wondered?

Looking around, I suddenly realized we were now in a patch of blue berry bushes. Everywhere I looked the berries were on the branches. This would certainly be where I’d hang out if I was bear I thought.

The others seemed to have grown emboldened by having made it through the path. In contrast, I felt a shell of my normal self. I was weak and tired. My mind kept playing on repeat various scenarios of how the bear could have (or still would) eat us. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. While the others picked and ate berries, I huddled on a rock alone. What madness, I thought. Eating their food. We need to get out of here.

~~~

In retrospect, this whole encounter, which occurred during my first week in Alaska seems surreal to me. At the end of the trip, our guide asked us all what the highlight of our time in the Wrangells was. David said walking the bear trail was his top memory. For me it was my nightmare.

But the truth was we were never in danger. Though I’d constructed a narrative in my mind that the bear was out for human flesh, that was never the case. Despite what movies like The Edge or The Revenant might suggest, there are very few instances of human attacks in the wild in Alaska. Unhabituated to humans or our food, grizzly bears are rarely a risk unless you startle them.

But knowing a thing and believing a thing are two different things entirely. To get over my fears, I knew I needed to spend more time with bears. So, a few weeks later I took a trip to the shores of Lake Clark National Park with a group of people in search of grizzly bears.

It was that morning that everything shifted for me. After an hour of walking the beach, in the distance, I saw a mother and her cub approaching us. We had nowhere to go, so we stood our ground, let them know of our presence by making noise, and waited as they moved up the shoreline toward us.

Bears are magnificent creatures, fierce, deadly, and huge (growing up to 600 pounds). You have to respect them as they can kill you in a moment if they want to. But in watching the cub frolic about the beach, chasing gulls, running in circles around his mother, making splashes in the water for no other seeming purpose other than he seemed to enjoy making splashes, and copying his mom as she dug up for clams I felt so much joy.

No longer consumed by fear, I was free to see the bears as they are (not just as I imagined them). And in that, I saw both the size and sharpness of their claws (and the ease with which they shoved aside large boulders); but also the bond between mother and cub, and how alike and silly a cub and child are in their play. I left that morning not only respecting the brute power of grizzlies in new way, but also feeling a strange kinship with them too.

Now, six weeks into my time in Alaska, I haven’t lost my respect for bears ability to tear me limb from limb. When I hike, I always carry bear spray. I make lots of noise on the trails. If possible, I hike in groups. But I’m no longer so consumed with fear that I irrationally believe that bears are stalking me; nor do I cower in my room and avoid trails if I can’t find a companion to hike with.

Moreover, I’ve done my best to copy what I most love about these bears. Whenever I see a patch of wild blueberries, I gorge myself. Whenever I see a pool of water, I jump in it. When I’m in the tundra, I’m not shy about taking naps. When I’m afraid, I stand my ground.

And perhaps that’s why today I was so pleased when I was hiking a mountain trail and I passed an old man. After exchanging pleasantries, in broken English he pointed at my bear spray and asked, “Bears – seen today?”

“No, not today,” I responded matter-of-factly.

“No,” he said with a big grin, and waved his finger at me. “Not true. I see you. You are a bear friend.”