Category Archives: Life
Outdoor trips into the backcountry are special for a multitude of reasons. Some of those reasons are for things that are in the wilderness itself—like pristine vistas and contact with primeval nature. Other reasons to go to the wilderness are for what’s not in the backcountry. In the wilderness, the ubiquitous conveniences of modern life are stripped away, and we enjoy for a time a life more rugged and simplified. One of the most impactful conveniences that goes missing in the backcountry, for instance, is Wi-Fi and cell service for our smartphones and internet devices.
Now, in our everyday modern lives in civilization, we get accustomed to having this technology omnipresent, and internet access is only ever a few swipes and clicks away. This access to instant information has changed the way we live and relate to each other. For example, if we have a pondering or a debate with someone over a fact, we can easily whip out our phones and fact-check via the internet. Swipe, click. Information accessed. Case closed.
But in the backcountry, we don’t have this luxury…or, maybe this curse. Without ready access to the internet, countless intellectual debates of ours remain unanswered while on trail in the wilderness. And without on-screen entertainment to control our minds, we find plenty of time to banter with those around us. Quite naturally, a lot of questions will arise and small arguments will develop as to which certain facts are true or not from such conversational chitchat. On the trail, we find ourselves thrust back into the dark ages of when all we had available for the reference of knowledge was our own mere speculation on the subject.
But the speculation is often the funnest part, even more so than finding out the answer. Such speculation forms much of the conversation building among a group, especially in wilderness travel. Without a definite answer available immediately from the inter-webs, we are free to sit around and banter without fear of the subject being put to rest definitively and prematurely. The point, after all, is not to figure out what is the technical difference between a fruit and a vegetable, if water is wet or not, or if ‘funnest’ is actually a word. The point is to use these meandering conversations to build rapport with your fellows.
If you come across a burning question on your backcountry trip, you’ll just have to delay the satisfaction of finding out the answer until later. Delayed gratification in finding out an answer can really build the anticipation of finally knowing. Or, maybe you’ll just forget the question entirely by the time you emerge back into civilization. And just maybe, when you do find out the answer to that question you’ve been wondering about for so long, you will all of a sudden be flooded with nostalgia for the trip and all the conversations that occurred on it.
But then there is the realm of ponderings beyond what the internet can prove to be true or not. These ponderings arise on wilderness trips, but also in civilized life as well. We as a culture have become so accustomed to having our questions answered so quickly and easily by a quick Google search that we take knowing things with certainty for granted. But on some matters, the internet just has no say whatsoever. It remains silent, no matter how much you Google search. Some parts of life’s mysteries just have to remain unanswerable. This is myth. This is folklore. And this stuff is interesting. While on a wilderness trip, or in everyday life, the speculative conversation may turn towards the legendary side of things. This is where tall-tales really take off. Why doesn’t Camp Widjiwagan, for instance, travel to the Sturgeon Narrows anymore? Are they haunted, as some say, or just patrolled by unwelcoming locals? And is Nye Cabin really haunted? Have spooky things happened in that cabin, caused by the lingering ghost of old-timer Bud Nye? Or is it just your imagination? Either way, the internet remains silent.
As much as you’d search and search, the internet will provide no information on the matter. These fables are folklore only. Unprovable, but still growing more magical and mysterious by the speculative banter and hearsay surrounding them. They are the stuff of myth and legend. And I remain very happy that in some parts of life, there are places where the internet can’t touch.
“For when there is a question as to whether a man is good, one does not ask what he believes or what he hopes for, but what he loves.” –St. Augustine
Years ago, when I first moved into an intentional living community, one of our initial get-to-know-you activities was to create what was known as a ‘Loves List,’ a collection of things, experiences, and ideas that each individual described as being among their loves. This exercise was a novel way to get to learn more about my new housemates right away. In the course of everyday conversation with new acquaintances, a lot of the things that people admire don’t frequently get brought up. The Loves List, instead, aims to put all those loves out there in the open right away. It is a way to discuss and learn about the things people love—that is, to say the things and ideas that people value and cherish and esteem. These things are the tiny traces and connections that make up the gestalt of who people are. As philosopher Gideon Strauss put it (who is a mentor to my mentors who taught me the Loves List) “it is in consideration of what we love that we come to know, most deeply, who we are and who we can become.”
My first Loves List was created in 2011. I have since created subsequent versions of my Loves List, some as revisions from past lists, and others created independently. It is an act of self-discovery to look and re-look over past lists to see what made the list and what was left off. My own loves have migrated through time, yet have also stayed fairly consistent too.
The latest version of the Loves List that I have made, stemming from an independent re-evaluation in 2016, has gotten pretty complex. I guess it turns out that I have been growing fond of quite a number of things. For the sake of clarity, I categorized my latest Loves List into different categories, but this is not necessary. I encourage you to try the activity yourself. Take some time to write down a list of what you love, and see what you learn about yourself. Here is my Loves List as an example, or perhaps inspiration for you to try it yourself.
Ty’s Loves List
|Beachcombing for seashells|
|Cold snowy moonlit winter nights|
|Crisp, cold winter days|
|Living in a place with four distinct seasons|
|Plants and trees—of all sorts|
|Quiet walks through a garden or forest|
|The changing seasons|
|The first few crisp nights at the end of summer, signaling fall is on the way|
|The way clouds are colored at sunrise and sunset|
|Warm, humid, breezy nights|
|Watching ants crawl around|
|Watching plants grow|
|Watching thunderstorms roll in—and getting caught in the rain|
|Weeds growing in the cracks of the sidewalk|
|Always trying to learn something new|
|Cuddling up with a good book|
|Eastern philosophy and religious traditions|
|Finding a good podcast unexpectedly on the radio|
|Keeping a journal of my thoughts and activities|
|Learning about geographical differences|
|Making plans/alternative plans|
|Monastic Life and Monastic Communities|
|Personal Reflection Time|
|Public Media (i.e. NPR, PBS, BBC)|
|Reflecting on shared experiences|
|Sitting in quiet contemplation|
|Understanding how things work.|
|Urban Planning and City Design|
|Adopting second hand goods and giving them a good second life|
|Avoiding doing things the easy way|
|Being friendly to people|
|Being tolerant about how others live|
|Encouraging positive growth in others|
|Envisioning possibilities for the future|
|Having well-thought out reasons for even simple decisions|
|Imperfection—loving things with visible flaws that don’t hide behind the veil of artificial perfection.|
|Looking for the good in the situation|
|Reading the directions—and then doing it my own way anyway|
|Sleeping on any important decision I have to make|
|Supporting local communities|
|The Circle of Life|
|The feeling that what I’m doing might make a difference in the world|
|Thinking about things philosophically|
|Throwing myself wholeheartedly into what I do|
|Abandoned objects and places|
|Alternative music (or instrumental/foreign language songs)|
|Aquariums, big and small|
|Brown Road Signs|
|Cacti and Succulents|
|Dr. Bronners Soap|
|Ginger, prepared in all kinds of varieties|
|Independent coffee houses/cafes|
|Locally brewed micro-beers|
|Nalgene Water Bottles|
|Puzzles, of all varieties|
|Browsing used bookstores|
|Buying something used and giving it a second life|
|Finding seaglass on the beach|
|Fixing broken things|
|Growing a garden|
|Making food items from scratch—especially if it’s grown or foraged by me|
|Making music on an instrument—or at least trying to|
|Perusing Thrift Stores|
|Picking up litter|
|Spending time on the water: in kayak, canoe, paddleboard, boat, etc.|
|Staring at maps|
|Swimming—pools, lakes, and oceans|
|An evening at a wilderness campground|
|Being outside in inclement weather|
|Caring about those who are close to me|
|Collecting things—and experiences|
|Creating something one-of-a-kind for myself or someone else|
|Finding coins on the sidewalk|
|Hanging around people who know who you are and are ok with it.|
|Having a discussion after watching a movie with others|
|Indie bands and coffee-shop performances|
|Living communally with others|
|Lying on my back staring up at the sky through the branches of a tree|
|Nighttime walks along the ocean|
|Reducing our impact on mother earth|
|Sharing a home-cooked meal|
|Sharing conversation with friends over a beer|
|Singing in my car or in the shower|
|Trying anything once for the sheer experience of it.|
|Using my hands to perform a skill|
|Waking up before the sun rises|
|Watching campfires burn wood down into embers|
|Watching the sunset|
“Of Love,” by Mary Oliver
I have been in love more times than one,
thank the Lord. Sometimes it was lasting
whether active or not. Sometimes
it was all ephemeral, maybe only
an afternoon, but not less real for that.
They stay in my mind, these beautiful people,
or anyway beautiful people to me, of which
there are so many. You, and you, and you,
whom I had the fortune to meet, or maybe
missed. Love, love, love, it was the
core of my life, from which, of course, comes
the word for the heart. And, oh, have I mentioned
that some of them were men and some were women
and some—now carry my revelation with you—
were trees. Or places. Or music flying above
the names of their makers. Or clouds, or the sun
which was the first, and the best, the most
loyal for certain, who looked so faithfully into
my eyes every morning. So I imagine
such love of the world—its fervency, its shining, its
innocence and hunger to give of itself—I imagine
this is how it all began.
There are people who are talented orators, who can weave a fine yarn out of any small thing that’s happened to them. There are also those folks who can continually fill the air with chatter, cracking jokes and making small talk out of anything. These folks always seem to have something interesting to say, a charismatic way to attain an audience with even the slightest bit of substance. When they speak, they themselves seem interesting.
But I’m neither of those types of speakers. I’m more of a matter-of-fact kind of orator. When I do tell stories of my experiences, they tend to be dry and straightforward; a distillation of the story into the most important parts and facts. I don’t possess much flair for the dramatic, but stay firmly grounded in the brief reality of what happened. And mostly, when I think of things to say, I often chose not to actually say them because they seem to me so uninteresting.
So, with my limited capacity to pique people’s attention through sensational storytelling and my absence of readily making small talk, I seek to have an arsenal of things to chat about that are inherently intriguing to the listener. If the oration can’t gain people’s interest, then at least the content should. And I do want to be seen as an interesting person; I want to be the type of person with many different and unique experiences to share with others. For me, traveling around and trying out different ways of life has greatly added to that arsenal of small talk subjects (though that is an externality of what I have done, and not a primary motivation for it; my inherent curiosity of trying new things and seeking new experiences are done for intrinsic reasons alone). With my tendency to talk about things that have actually happened to me, I can now use as conversation starters (for example) my months in Australia living out of a van and picking fruit, or what its like to serve as a deckhand aboard a historic sailing vessel, or what it’s like to complete a 19-day, 1,200-mile bike ride. I can easily ramble on about all the trips I’ve taken in the outdoors and all the places I’ve gone and the things I’ve seen. To a lot of people, I’d assume, this stuff would be interesting. And I, in turn, would appear to be an interesting person for doing it.
However, eventually all this stuff too begins to seem mundane. After all, I’ve done it all and experienced it already, so it can’t be too extraordinary. Let’s talk about something even more interesting, that is to say, something I haven’t done yet. The things other people have done still seem even more interesting than myself.
And so goes the cycle. The past experiences I’ve had have been retold enough times by me that all the novelty and the inherent interest they have to me has worn off. This even includes experiences that people would describe as ‘once in a lifetime,’ such as my fruit-picking foray in Australia or the five months I spent on a western American road trip. To me, in retrospect, those experiences have become such a commonplace occurrence in my personal narrative that they cease to be extraordinary. Do I commonly forget that others still might think of these things as interesting? Perhaps. But no matter how much stuff I do that others would find fascinating, I never feel like it’s enough. I never think that I am yet that pinnacle achievement of an interesting person. So I continually seek to do more interesting stuff and become an even more inherently interesting person.
I’d like to think of myself as an interesting person who others would like to converse with, but my reserved nature often limits my inclination to engage. Trying to make myself more interesting, to have more cannon fodder to chat about, seems to be a coping mechanism to be more pro-social. I love conversing with people, and I can be quite gregarious at times as well, but small talk has always been something I have struggled with. I know that presentation is important, and a lot of great ideas and stories get overlooked because they are not presented in the most engaging sales pitch. But my standard is that I want the content to speak for itself. My philosophy is that if people are going to listen to me, it’s going to be because I have interesting things to say, not because I merely say mundane things in a charismatic way. It’s the stories I have to share that are the things to be treasured, not merely the way I present them.
Even though small talk and engaging in conversations is difficult for me, there comes a point in some conversations where I reach a state of flow, when conversing and sharing details becomes not only easy but also enjoyable. It is in these moments when I’m not on the outside trying to appear as an interesting person; it is when the subject of discussion itself becomes the uniting factor between the conversers. Discussing things, even mundane things, in-depth seems to be more of my forte. I find it extremely enjoyable when my conversation partners, instead of just hearing the sensational part of the story, stick around to ask deeper, more probing questions about the experience. The conversation grows from there. I can dig through the archives of my past lived experiences, and can readily list off a bevy of facts and details to share about things that I am interested in. My conversation partner, interested in the same subject, will happily engage in the listening and conversing process. My theory is that as long as there are people who are interested in the same things I am passionate about, who are active and courageous listeners, then I will always have a supply of people with whom to be conversation partners. That doesn’t mean that I always have to talk about things that are inherently interesting, or to present things in a nauseatingly engaging manner. Sometimes it can be the subject, or the art of conversation itself, that speaks for itself through you.
In my room, hidden way back in a drawer behind some inconspicuous items of clothing, I keep a few shoeboxes full of a spattering of mementos: old ticket stubs, tattered maps, random photographs, past letters, and much of the standard sentimental bric-a-brac. It’s a collection of worthless trinkets and scraps of paper, mostly. The contents of my box are all items I have collected here and there over time, relating to things I have done or places I have visited. I keep them because they remind me of all the inputs that have gone into my personal development.
This habit of mine was started earnestly in college, as I was beginning to collect all these new ideas and experiences through the course of my formal education. I desired a way to keep track of what I had been part of, and thus the genesis of the shoebox receptacle. Summer internships followed college semesters, and my collection continued to grow. Graduate school saw the start of my second shoebox. Souvenirs from rambling travels and post-graduate jobs are now filling up a third.
It’s not often I go back and look through these shoeboxes. Mostly they just wait in silence, ignored by their own creator. But sometimes I do go back. Sometimes I remember something small—a scrap or a brochure—that I stowed away in there and will rummage around in search of it. Oftentimes in the search I will get sidetracked, mesmerized by little tokens I had once set aside and had since forgotten. I’ll sit and reminisce for a spell. These little tokens in the box help remind me about what has shaped me.
I feel much the same way about my journals as I do my shoeboxes. I have kept a semi-regular journaling habit ever since graduating from high school, an anthology of thoughts and words instead of a collection of paper bits. Often I don’t look back at what I had written either. Most of it no longer concerns me. But I still cherish my journals dearly, and would feel deeply grieved if they were lost. And, when I do look back into the archives of my old entries, I am able to see myself at a different stage in life. It’s a personal historical record found nowhere else. It is often helpful to remind ourselves of who we once were in order to see who we are becoming.
I think of my shoeboxes full of keepsakes and my journal compilations collectively as my ‘paper trail.’ They are the acquired evidence of the life I have lived. While in other aspects of my life I tend to be reserved and cloistered out of a penchant for privacy, I have been very intentional about maintaining my paper trail evidence. However, I don’t show anyone my paper trail—at least I haven’t yet. They exist for my own perusal only. Though it is a collection of intentionally kept evidence, it is evidence that is not ready to be released to inquisitive eyes.
Yet, I don’t anticipate this always being the case. Call it conceited, but I live with the background imagination running through my mind of being important enough that a biographer will one day write the story of my life. From what I have read about the lives of my personal heroes, most of them left a lot of traces of their passing in life—even the most enigmatic of the bunch. I want to be kind to my future biographer by leaving them this paper trail, this life-long collection of scraps that leads them to discover insights about who I was as a person and how I got to be there.
My shoeboxes slowly continue to fill and my completed journals gradually pile up. My secretive paper trail gets cumulatively larger as I build this life for myself. I am quite fond of my paper trail. Do you have one of your own?
i keep asking God why, but he just laughs
Am I standing on Holy Ground?
Amidst the corn stubble, dusted in snow, sits an antiquated country church. Abandoned to both time and the elements. Forgotten. Little more than a weather-beaten beacon of unexamined scenery lost in the agrarian milieu.
For only God knows what reasons it remains empty. Or, if some humans do, they are not around to speak of it. What has come of them?
The solitude and decadence of this scene now seems ungodly. Was this place ever holy? Does this sacred gathering place now lie forsaken?
Ages past, the faithful once congregated here. This was a gathering place. A space for worship and community, a living, breathing fellowship. The Bible says that ‘where two or three gather in my name, I am there also’ (Matthew 18:20). But no one gathers here anymore. Or, if they do it is surely not in the name of God. It is in the name of vandalism, or a dare taken. The name of rural teenaged angst looking for a secret reprieve, perhaps. Is anyone who happens by seeking God in this place?
I came myself in the name of curiosity, beckoningly lured by the mélange of sacred and profane. I am a seeker of sorts, a seeker of understanding, but with many questions left unanswered. I peer into the broken windows at the peeling paint, the debris scattered on the floor. I am inquisitive of the story of this place. What has transpired here that this building now rests irreverent and forlorn?
Can God still be found in this place? If you ask directly, no reply is received—at least not one that you can understand. Maybe the rustle of the wind through the cornstalks or the occasionally passing car calls out for your attention. Was this God’s answer, or just his laugh?
keep asking why, and maybe someday you will understand
Given my parent’s penchant for bestowing gifts on each other during the Christmas season, it came as quite a surprise to me, upon arriving home for the holidays, that this year they would refrain from buying gifts for one another.
And to learn that after I had wrapped up all my holiday shopping, buying all my gifts on my drive home through Canada. I even thought I had outdone myself this year with thoughtful, unique presents. Now, no gifts at Christmas?
In the end, it wasn’t a giftless Christmas at the Bleeker household after all. Instead, the reduction on presents was targeted at mandatory giving—the kind of gifting one does because one feels obliged to at least buy something for another. My parents, after years and years of buying similar items for each other every Christmas (shirts, kitchen gadgets, gift cards, cashews), finally decided it was time to put an end to the convention. During the rest of the year, they could just as easily buy anything they needed for themselves or each other. And, the pattern of gifts given at Christmas had become standard and predictable. No need, then, to buy and consume more just because the culture around the holidays dictates it. This year, no to the stress of shopping crowds, no to obligatory gift-giving, and no to mandatory consumerism.
Except that for me, I had already purchased all my gifts. Darn.
As much as my parents’ new perspective on gift-giving surprised me, I was delighted by the change in practice. I for one actively decry materialism and bemoan consumerism. I have, at more than one Christmas, broken the heart of my well-intentioned mother by rejecting gifts and returning them instead. I can be a quite the difficult gift-receiver. Though I do love the joy and surprise at receiving a gift, the holidays are held in a strange tension for me because I don’t really like owning that much stuff. Is there a way to practice the meaningful expression of gift-giving while avoiding the downfalls of becoming bogged down in excess material extravagance?
Reflecting on the gifts I gave this past Christmas, I think that’s where my own shopping tendencies have been taking me. Seventy-five percent of what I bought was food or drink items—things that can easily be wrapped up and handled, but magically disappear after a few months. Consumable items like these provide the benefit of the gift, but one without the long-term conundrum of storing more stuff for perpetuity.
What’s more, behind the gifts I gave, there was something more I wanted to say with them. I had done all my holiday shopping while traveling by myself for three weeks in Canada, visiting some pretty spectacular places along the way. When I purchased each present, it was a way of saying to the intended receiver ‘I wish you could have been here with me.’ The bottle of cider I gave to my sister was a way of saying ‘it would have been fun sharing in the taste-tasting at the cider mill with you.’ The maple sugar candies from Quebec which I gave my friends were small tokens of physically sharing my trip with them too. In the absence of actually traveling and spending time with each other, sometimes a small gift with meaning behind it can say ‘I wish we could have done this together.’
In the end, the notion that gifts have to be material and given primarily at Christmastime misses a lot of the larger points behind gift-giving. For me, the best gifts I have received have often been immaterial and have come at many different times of the year, often unexpectedly. At Christmas, gifts of experiences are often the best gifts you’ll receive. Spending time with those you love in a shared activity can beat any pair of socks.
It’s challenging to wrap up a Christmas gift of experience in a box. Until then, I’ll keep wrapping up small tokens of my experience as my gifts.
I’ve been in a bad habit recently of staying up late. I’m not a night owl, and I don’t even need to stay awake either. I’ve just been finding it difficult to get to bed early because I just don’t want each day to end. I am simply too enamored of daily life and all the activities it brings to want to put each day to an early close.
My term for this behavior is lingering. Its symptoms include wanting to stay in the present moment. Yearning to eke the most out of every hour. Not desiring to move on to the next thing until the present experience is fully consummated. When afflicted with lingering, it can be difficult to switch activities or to call it a day.
I find myself lingering quite frequently, and not just late at night. If I get my mind on something I like, then I’ll keep working at it until I fully accomplish it to my liking. Maybe I’ve got a project to fix, and I keep chipping away at it, irresistibly beginning the next stages of my project until its completion. Or maybe I’m reading a book and want to continue on, just a few more pages at a time, until I’m finished. Though I’m great at making schedules, I’m also great at willfully, consciously, breaking them. It’s easy to give myself just five more minutes at a task. I can easily justify that. And then I can just as easily justify five minutes more. And again. And again. And again. Lingering.
Naturally, with this tendency towards lingering, things tend to take longer than planned. And, little irks me more than feeling in a rush; my preferred modus operandi is giving each thing its due time needed to complete it fully and completely. In terms of time schedules and to-do lists, I’m always quite constantly behind. But on the flipside, what I do accomplish I can be very satisfied with.
Lingering is quite applicable to spending time with people too. As an introvert, I don’t frequently visit with other people. But the time I do spend, I spend as someone who is fully present, immersed in the moments as they happen one by one. I don’t tend to leave early, and if I do, I am quite conscious of what I may be missing out on in my absence. No, I’d rather linger on in the moments more, until the peak of socialization has all but wrapped up. I feel more complete leaving a place when all the fraternity has naturally come to a close. And I’ll usually stay on to linger for just a little longer.
At its core, I believe this notion of lingering is rooted in the human propensity to settle down. To put down roots. If a place, if a situation is good, then it compels one to stay for a bit more. No need to rush off to try something new. No overwhelming urge to discover something different. Just keep on doing what you’ve been doing. The more you desire to linger on, the less easy it becomes to realize how much time is going by. Nights of lingering turn into weeks of lingering, and yet you always find more to do while you’re in the present. One can never really leave a place without experiencing it to the fullest of its myriad possibilities. To do so, you need to linger on a bit longer, and in lingering on you discover just a bit more to do, again and again…
Though I like to linger on in the present places and moments, I realize this tendency can also lead to stagnation and prohibit future discoveries elsewhere. It is true that with a creative mind, one will continually find new inspiration in a single place, and equally true that getting to know somewhere or someone can never be fully exhausted. But there are just so many other things to try out there. As philosopher Henry David Thoreau once reckoned about leaving his Walden shack after two years—a place he thoroughly enjoyed to linger—“perhaps it seemed to me that I had several more lives to live, and could not spare any more time for that one. It is remarkable how easily and insensibly we fall into a particular route, and make a beaten track for ourselves.” Thoreau knew how to linger. But, he also knew that sometimes one has to move on as well.
Ultimately it is the external pressure of a change in my life history that halts the lingering and compels me to move on. I’ve lived in many places and have worked many jobs. If each job I’ve held was indefinite, I could have easily imagined myself staying on longer with each one. Doing so would be a tendency for lingering on a larger life-scale. But outside forces oblige me to move on, and though I’m often sad that I have had to leave the present situation, leaving also makes way for the new. You can’t linger on continually into the night; eventually you’ll have to go to sleep and wake up fresh with a new morning.
But in the meantime, enjoy lingering in the moment…especially this holiday season.
It was late on a Thursday evening, high up in Tuolumne Meadows in the Californian Sierras. I had just returned from an hours-long hike up to Mono Pass in Yosemite National Park. With the August daylight fading earlier each day, I rapidly got to my post-hike business of cooking a hot meal of gnocchi and red sauce over my camp stove. Already a couple of months into an extended road-trip in the great American West, I had gotten the dirtbag lifestyle of camping and living out of a vehicle down to a science.
Yosemite National Park, with its sweeping vistas and monumental scenery, attracts millions of visitors each year, with visitation peaking in the summer months. Up high in Tuolumne Meadows, though, it was quiet. I was the only person at the trailhead, and few cars even drove by on their way to the Tioga Pass. For nearly a week I had been hanging around the park, just biding my time for the coveted lottery permit to climb the iconic Half Dome to fall. In the meantime, I had spent my time exploring the far reaches of Yosemite. Just a day before, though, I had found out my lottery results came back positive: I had secured a permit to climb Half Dome on Friday. Tonight was the night before the big climb.
As Yosemite’s popularity makes it nearly impossible to find camping in the park in the summertime, I had settled for a camp spot in the Stanislaus National Forest land just outside the park. There, the camping was plentiful, but had the drawback of a long commute. From my perch up in Tuolumne Meadows, it would be a two-hour drive back, along the curving Tioga road, gradually descending 7,000 feet to the valleys below.
I appreciated driving at night in Yosemite, since the park was generally free of the heavy tourist traffic that plagues the daytime. I got in my sedan and pulled out of the trailhead lot onto the main road and began my drive. Even though the road was empty of traffic, a car immediately appeared out of nowhere and followed closely behind.
“Oh joy,” I mumbled audibly to myself.
I have always hated vehicles driving right behind me, especially at night. Their presence always meant another factor to consider in safe driving. Their headlights, too, continually glare from the rear-view mirror, providing a constant reminder that—as I always tend to believe—someone thinks you’re in their way. This car joined my tail right from the start, and since the road would approach no intersections for over an hour’s drive, there was little chance that they would be changing directions anytime soon. With it nearly impossible to find a safe turn-out in the dark to allow the other driver to pass, we were going to be together for a long while.
However, the car behind me patiently followed along. Though they made no indications of dissatisfaction with their slower counterpart, I couldn’t help but to project my own feelings of annoyance whenever I get stuck behind a leisurely driver. Most likely, I told myself, they wanted to pass me. They were probably very familiar with the road and just looking to get home as quickly as they could. I too had driven this road a few times already. Its curves had begun to feel familiar. The long, slow drive could easily become monotonous.
With a boosted confidence by my previous experience of the road, I increased my speed to 50 mph. Though the speed limit was 45 mph and a fairly generous speed for the road during the day, at night that rate of travel seemed, in my better judgment, just a bit too much. Nonetheless, I thought optimistically, that if I could just increase my speed a little, then my follower would slowly get left behind in my wake. No such luck. The car behind me matched my speed perfectly. I gained absolutely no distance.
Now convinced that the driver behind me must be annoyed at my slow speed, I began to feel the frustration that I imagined they must have. “If they can match my speed, then they must know the roads pretty well,” I conjectured. “Or, maybe they are in a hurry to be someone else?” My speculations ran rampant. Without much else besides driving to occupy my attention, my mind came up with all kinds of ideas of what this other person must be thinking about me. “What if they think I’m a lame driver?” “What if they think I’m not skilled at handling these mountain roads?”
My mind was pre-occupied with all these assumptions this other driver was making about my personal character.
And then it happened:
I lost control.
Traveling around a corner I had rounded multiple times before, I hit a rough patch of pavement. My car skidded and began to careen further down along the road at 50 mph. I corrected left and began to fish-tail out of control. My fate was no longer in my hands.
What transpired next seemed to take an eternity. The situation became unreal; my windshield turning into a virtual reality screen. I careened down the road for what seemed an impossibly long time, my car shuddering and bouncing up and down like a sickly realistic rollercoaster ride. Suddenly, a huge abrupt jerk and I was off the road. The windshield cinema played out a thicket of Manzanita shrubs flowing past. I was rolling right down a ravine.
And then it was over.
The Manzanita bushes in my windshield became still. My car had stopped moving. I sat soberly in the driver’s seat, unable to react. Just viscerally processing what had just transpired.
My sedan was still running. I turned the ignition off. At the steep angle my car was tilted, I couldn’t open the door to get out, so I rolled down the window to make my egress. I scrambled hands and knees up the embankment.
A man was running towards me, exclaiming “we thought you was dead!”
Dead I was not. Very much alert and alive, fortunately. My Good Samaritan rescuer, Mike, had been driving with his son in the oncoming lane when he saw from a distance my headlights swerve and disappear down into the ravine. Fearing the worst in the situation, Mike’s retired firefighter instincts kicked in as he rushed to assistance. As Mike’s son called for help, Mike assessed me for injuries. Physically, I emerged unscathed. Psychologically, though, it was a shock.
The aftermath ended up making a long night for all of us. Mike stayed with me until the much-delayed rangers came, then the rangers stayed with me until the tow-truck finally arrived. I was questioned in detail about what had caused the accident, and to my surprise, the rangers were very sympathetic to my situation. They knew exactly where the rough patch that caused the accident was. They even gave me a Gatorade to boost my stamina. The tow truck driver managed to pull my battered sedan out of the ravine back onto the road. Aside from one large dent to the passenger-side bumper, it was little worse for wear. To turn tragedy into jubilation even more, my car started easily and the tow truck driver had forgotten his payment binder and thus couldn’t charge me for the service.
Eventually all issues from the incident were resolved. The rangers, the tow truck driver, and I parted ways. I drove myself back to my campsite. It was a fitful night for me, trying to chase elusive rest as I dozed in the driver’s seat. My mind kept racing around all of the horrible things that could have happened, but didn’t. What good stroke of fortune did I hit in order to avoid tragedy?
The next morning, I traveled back to the very spot where my accident had occurred. It was true that I needed to retrieve some pieces of undercarriage flashing which had been torn out from my wheel-wells by the brush, but more importantly I needed to piece together in my mind what exactly had happened the night before. Looking back at the scene in daylight, I tried to recount where everything had transpired. The very exact spot where my car had left the road, there was a short shoulder made of soft red dirt. My feet sunk easily in when I stepped in it. This was not really a shoulder, per se. Could it have just been a patch of dirt left over from nearby road construction? Whatever reason for its existence, it must have slowed down my car significantly before I veered down the ravine. And of all the spots, that was the exact one where I had gone off the road. Just up the road in the westbound lane, there was a long roadcut of exposed Yosemite granite. I just as easily could have smashed into that. Along the eastbound lane, there was a sharp drop-off into the forest. I could have easily gone off into that direction as well. And then, there was the spot where my car landed as well. It was all Manzanita. The trees were around, for sure, but incredibly not where I had landed. There were several large trees straight ahead if my car had continued to travel forward, and one tree had been inches away from the passenger side. But miraculously I had avoided everything.
And then I thought back to the reason I had lost control in the first place. To think that I was driving too fast for the conditions just because I was so pre-occupied with what a complete stranger thought about my driving speed. Ridiculous! What could have easily turned into a lethal accident was based primarily on imagined conceptions!
My near-catastrophe was a product of me being overly concerned about what another person thought of me. Though this was an extreme example, there are so many ways our own decisions in life are made based on the judgments and expectations of others. We tend to go through our lives so disproportionately concerned about what others think of us, even people who are complete strangers. I, as you could probably surmise, am quite prone to doing this! What trivial things do we do just to keep up appearances for others! What interests do we either pursue or not pursue based on what other people would think appropriate for our personal archetypes? What do I say and how do I act, in order to fulfill some social role that I think others expect me to act? Oh how we let ourselves be so inhibited from true expression of our inmost being! What words do I say or not say? What books do I read or not read? What food choices do I make in the grocery store just based on what the check-out clerk might think of me? How can so many of our simple, everyday choices be so influenced not by ourselves, but by the perceptions of those around us?
The day after my accident, fatigued and emotionally drained from the night before, I made a successful summit of my prized Half Dome.
And what about the car that was following me the whole time down that mountain road?
They never even stopped.