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.