Category Archives: Travel
The Green River Part 2: La Barge to Flaming Gorge Dam
Segment Summary—10 Days, 169 Miles. From La Barge, Wyoming, to the Flaming Gorge Dam, Utah.
Overall Summary—15 Days, 236 Miles.
Day 6: A Mousy Interlude—6 Miles
Much to my mortification upon returning to my vehicle after segment one, a mouse had taken up residence in my car and was happily helping himself to my downriver food provisions (as well as relieving himself on my sheets!). A crazed mouse-hunt on my end ensued, culminating in a 90-mile one-way drive to the town of Green River, Wyoming to buy a mousetrap (apparently, as I was told, the only mousetrap in La Barge had been sold less than an hour before my foray). In my single-minded fury, I loaded my car with six traps, baited them with the little mousy’s favorite Hershey’s Peanuts & Pretzels candy bar, and left it up to fate to see who would get the last laugh in this war (read on to see who won in the end). Nevertheless, with the mouse ordeal weighing on my mind, I was happy to put back on the river if nothing but for the pure distraction from the ordeal. It was late and extremely windy in La Barge when I shoved off (I had to chase down some gear blowing away as I loaded up my canoe!), but I forged on anyway. The stress of the mouse drama melted away as I canoed along the muted pink and orange hues of the buttes along La Barge. There wasn’t much time left for paddling, but I made it to a pleasant cow pasture in time to catch the full moonrise be mostly obscured by clouds (but they were really the first clouds of the trip). I was happy to be back on the river in the midst of a perfect autumn in Wyoming.
Day 7: Favorable Winds and a Long Portage—17 Miles
A few miles of river paddling in the cool of morning before the big task for the day arrived—paddling the Fontenelle Reservoir and portaging the dam. I passed by a couple of historic sites on the river—one being Names Hill, where Oregon Trail pioneers who had just crossed the Green inscribed their names in the soft limestone cliffs (most notably the mountain man Jim Bridger)—and the other being a stockpile of rusted-out vintage cars by the riverside. Okay, so maybe only one is actually a state historical site, but the cars were cool nonetheless. The river soon after entered the 13-mile long Fontenelle Reservoir, and I was faced with a change from river paddling to lake paddling. The Fontenelle Reservoir is small as far as the Colorado River Basin Project’s reservoirs are concerned, but the low rolling sagebrush hills of the Wyoming landscape created a lake that is broad and wide. By noon the winds had picked up tremendously on the reservoir, sweeping, as they so often do, over the arid plains of the sagebrush steppe. Fortunately, most of the reservoir is oriented to the east, and I got more of a tailwind than I perhaps bargained for—finishing the last six miles of reservoir paddling in less than an hour and a half—in the midst of 1 to 2 foot swells splashing over the gunnels as well. After my self-congratulatory swim in the reservoir, I began the longest portage of the trip—1.8 miles from take-out to put-in. And I had to do it alone, in three trips. Though I arrived at the dam by mid-afternoon, I didn’t finish portaging until I was under the light of a nearly-full harvest moon. That moon would be my consolation prize for an exhausting portage.
Day 8: A Ribbon of Green in the High Desert—The Seedskadee—18 Miles
If the day before was unduly strenuous, then today was a cakewalk. I put in below the Fontenelle Dam and let the river do most of the work for me. In contrast to the Green upriver of the reservoir, I was finally paddling in feet of water. It seems like the Green has finally upgraded itself to bona fide river status. The vertical drop in the river seemed to lessen and the river seemed to mellow out through this section too. It was a fairly calm and peaceful paddle, as the Green entered the Seedskadee National Wildlife Refuge soon after the dam. The Seedskadee, (the Shoshone word for the river, meaning ‘River of the Sage Grouse’) is a thin ribbon of oasis in an otherwise arid land. Here, the river meanders through relatively flat, wet grassy marshes that foster ideal habitat for birds and other wildlife. The only significant topographical relief in this stretch are the occasional low bluffs abutting a few bends in the river where the cliff swallows build their nests. It is a wildlife paradise at the watering hole. I see deer, antelope, elk, moose, coyotes, skunks, pelicans, cranes, swans, eagles, and more birds than I could possibly name.
Day 9: Birder’s Paradise—28 Miles
Back for more paddling in the Seedskadee today. At 28 miles traveled, today was easily the longest mileage day of the trip—yet with a flowing current it went by imperceptibly easily. The Seedskadee is so flat that it is not landscape scenery; instead, today I tried my hand at wildlife photography. I saw more pelicans than I could shake a stick at. Also more of every type of avian fauna—ducks, swans, pelicans, cranes, eagles, vultures, hawks, swallows, and some more of the Wildlife Refuge’s over 200 species of birds (but, even though the Seedskadee is named for the Sage Grouse, I have yet to see one from the river). Aside from the ample fishermen I passed today (there seems to be an army of fishermen around every large bend here), humans are notably absent in this stretch. It is not remote at all—dirt roads parallel the river closely on both sides—but the river is tucked away nicely and feels a world removed from civilization. Humans once tried to settle here. I stopped by a few ramshackle homesteads long-since abandoned. Even with land on the river, it is near-impossibly demanding to eke out a human existence in such a dry landscape.
Day 10: Paddling through Metropolis—25 Miles
Woke up in my cottonwood-cow pasture campsite to an unexpectedly mild morning—the mornings have been getting noticeably warmer as I’ve been dropping in elevation. Off to an early start on the river, and what do I see within a minute but a bull moose swimming across the river. It was a great start to what would be a great day. The Green meandered its way ever so slowly towards the city of Green River, Wyoming. At a population of over 12,000 people, Green River is the largest metropolis on the Green. But you wouldn’t be able to tell approaching it by river. Aside from a building here or there, the river is still undeveloped. Here, the river meanders cut through a lot of bluffs to expose platy limestone on the undercuts. This is all limestone material laid down by an inland sea 50 million years ago. And, as a factor that initially sparked my interest in spending time on the Green, the limestone is full of fish fossils. I stopped frequently to poke around for the iconic Knightia eocaena fish fossils of Sweetwater County. For fifty-million years of deposition, you would think there’d have been more fish who died in the sea. But sadly, for all my amateur paleontology, the fossils remained elusive (though I love the hunt!). I crossed a major mark of civilization today—the Interstate 80 Bridge, and was immediately ushered into the town of Green River. The original transcontinental railway passes through town, and this was the initial launching point of Major John Wesley Powell’s 1869 exploratory expedition down the river. The town of Green River exists in a fantastic landscape, tucked between massive red-orange cliffs and buttes—most iconically Tollgate Rock and the Palisades. Upon stopping in Green River for a tourist jaunt, I learned some more about another trip down the Green that left a few weeks ahead of me (read about their anthropological voyage here). I got some whitewater practice in by running the three small dams through the city limits, and gawked at the awkward glances I got from bystanders pondering that wacko in the canoe. I left Green River’s city limits to enter the Flaming Gorge National Recreation Area. And the stars and Milky Way were absolutely amazing at night!
Day 11: A Monumental Landscape…—16 Miles
Today was a transition back into more lake paddling as the Green flowed into the Flaming Gorge Reservoir. Leaving Green River, there are many high buttes, small mountains, and rock outcroppings. It is a monumental landscape. Though fully on the reservoir today, it still very much looked like a river. The current is gone now, and the riverine reservoir has widened so much that paddling anywhere seems to take ages. The morning was still, and it got incredibly hot today (unseasonably hot, is what I’d learn later). Nearing exhaustion from the heat and the stillness, I took what would be the first (of many) dips in the reservoir. The cold water quickly revived me. Though I wasn’t a fan of the dull stillness, I was even less of a fan of the afternoon wind that whipped up and effaced me whichever direction I turned. Though it felt like I didn’t actually paddle anywhere, I still put in 16 miles today.
Day 12: …with Monumental Distance—15 Miles
More lake paddling today. And equally as still as the day before, though this time with some decent cloud cover to break up the heat. Today’s section of the Flaming Gorge Reservoir took me through a wide-open expanse of lake. The Uinta mountains lay far off to the south in the distance, but here it is markedly flat and arid. You keep paddling here, but the distances across the water are so vast you feel like you’re paddling in place for hours. Mind games ensue…
Day 13: Windbound—8 Miles
Days of paddling through calm weather finally caught up to me. In three hours of calm paddling, I made 8 miles before the southerly breeze picked up out of nowhere and soundly blew me back to shore. For the first time on the trip, I had to call it a day early because of the weather. Turbid swells crashed upon my beach for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. I passed the time by reading about John Wesley Powell’s 1869 expedition down this stretch of the Green. I was envious when I learned that just downriver of this point the untamed Green was so swift that the expedition once made twelve miles in an hour. Now that same river is flooded under 400 feet of water, and I’m lucky to even make it twelve miles in a day.
Day 14: Above the Shadow of John Wesley Powell—18 Miles
A welcome start to October. New month, new state—Utah. I awoke early and was on the water well before sunrise to cover the last expanses of open reservoir before the afternoon winds picked up. Turns out I didn’t need to—it was calm and pleasant all day long. As I paddled south in the brightening morning, the Uinta Range, which had been beckoning me for days now, grew ever so much closer. I crossed the Wyoming-Utah border on the water. The change from Wyoming to Utah is drastic, and almost unbelievably immediate. Whereas Wyoming is flat, dry, sagebrush and limestone country, across the border in Utah it is a bright white and red sandstone bedrock, uplifted and contorted by tectonic forces, and dotted with the dark green of Juniper trees. The Green River enters the Uinta mountains almost in a secret passageway. As you paddle closer, you could almost convince yourself that you’re headed to a dead end—and then at the last moment, a passage opens up and you get your first glimpse of the shining red rocks of the namesake Flaming Gorge itself. That moment alone is enough to make up for days of inane paddling on the upper reservoir. As you paddle deeper into the gorge, you’ll pass through the bright white sandstone of Horseshoe Canyon. The deeper in you travel in the gorge, the more spectacular it keeps getting. I camp for the night at the Kingfisher Island Boat Camp. I am the only one in the campground, and I haven’t seen anyone face-to-face since my stop in Green River, though over the past few days I saw the occasional motorboat from a distance. The campsite overlooks a wide red amphitheater of the Flaming Gorge. It is easily the best public campground I have ever stayed at. I can only imagine the flabbergasted awe the Powell expedition must have had felt upon running these canyons, especially when the canyons were 500 feet deeper.
Day 15: The Mountains are Gorges—18 Miles
Crawled out of my tent to be greeted by a moon halo. It was a harbinger of the spectacles to come today. Another calm morning, and I enjoyed the pristine reflections of Kingfisher Canyon. Soon the river-like reservoir entered Red Canyon—steep, rocky, forested and colored a deep red. One more final dip in the cool, rejuvenating waters of the Flaming Gorge Reservoir. The further I paddled, the more in awe of the landscape I became. But it was time enough to call this segment of the river a wrap. Storm clouds began rolling in by early afternoon and the October skies turned ominous. I made it to my take-out at Cedar Springs Marina a few hours before the rains started. A happy ending to a ten-day stretch of river that really couldn’t have gone any better. Except there was one unhappy ending to tell—my mouse pal. Upon entering my car, I smelled the tell-tale sign that I was the victor of the war. But he did mock my success even in death by being nearly melded with the plastic in my trunk. But you take the good with the bad.
The Green River Part 1: Headwaters to La Barge
Segment Summary—5 Days, 67 Miles. From Huston Boat Launch to La Barge, Wyoming, with an additional 7 miles downstream of Green River Lakes.
Overall Summary—5 Days, 67 Miles.
Day 1: A Rocky Start and Shifting Plans—7 Miles
After a cold frosty morning, me and my Segment 1 canoeing buddy Jon have a bit of fun in the background of the Wind River Range as we launch at Green River Lakes in the Bridger-Teton National Forest of Wyoming. Easy paddling on the lake quickly turns into stretches of the Green River being only inches deep and the accompanying drag of our loaded canoe over the rocks. After six miles of alternate paddling and walking, the river dropped suddenly into a long channel of rapids. Low water in the fall made the rapids nearly impassable. After a mile of pulling the canoe through the rapids, the canoe swamps with water and me and Jon reevaluate our starting point. And, with it raining down ash all day from the nearby Roosevelt fire, we thought better of being in the forest.
Day 2: Barely Scraping Along—12 Miles
After watching the blaze from the Roosevelt fire seem eerily close at night from our camp at Warren Bridge, me and Jon venture downriver looking for a suitable, ideally rock-free launch site. We launch the canoe at Huston Boat Access 70 miles downstream of where we left off the day before. The water was only 4 to 6 inches deep along most of the cobbled bed, and in a loaded canoe, this meant a lot of getting stuck on the bottom. We meandered down the river, took a good afternoon fishing break at Sommer’s Bridge, and then camped in a patch of cottonwoods along the bank. Though the Green River flows through primarily private land along this stretch, there are few signs of humans or development. The little river channel seems quite isolated. Me and Jon spot ample bald eagles and a few moose along the banks.
Day 3: Meandering Along—14 Miles
Finally waking up on the river! And, being Wyoming in the fall, it is chilly in the morning (below freezing at night), but warms up quite nicely with the sun. The river keeps things interesting for us. No time to nap and float along. Me and Jon keep navigating the twists and turns in the little river and we are kept on our toes by the small drops in the river every few hundred feet. The Green drops in elevation gradually, but substantially, keeping a steady flow and constant drops. Less dragging on the river bottom today. Me and Jon see more cows than people on the river.
Day 4: Going Deeper—18 Miles
The Green nearly doubles in size after the New Fork River joins the flow, but unfortunately all the extra water contributes more to the width than to the depth. More cattle lands, moose, eagles, and lack of people along the river. And, in comparison to other days, less continually dragging along the bottom—the river’s getting deeper, if ever so slightly. In the landscape above the river, red eroded buttes start to rise from the landscape. Compared to our earlier days of warm, easy paddling, today had a cold headwind.
Day 5: And We’re Out—16 Miles
The last day on the river for Jon. We wake up to frozen water bottles and our campsite surrounded by four moose on the beach. A hearty breakfast of eggs and potatoes fuels us all the way back to our car shuttle in La Barge. By now we are paddling pros, and the river is swifter and deeper. Jon still has to make good on his promise of a trout dinner—we head back up river to where the fishing was better. And Jon delivers a spectacular trout dinner during the sunset to finish off the first segment of the trip.
Experiences of a Lifetime
Snapshots from a few ‘Experiences of a Lifetime’ I’ve already had, as determined by others.
Here I find myself about to embark on what many people would describe as an ‘experience of a lifetime.’
And, true, canoeing 700-miles down a wild, western river is an experience. Perhaps an experience of a lifetime for many.
But by my estimates, in my one lifetime, I’ve already had at least five ‘experiences of a lifetime’ as determined by other folks. Most of those experiences have been trips I’ve taken. Some of them have even been paying jobs.
There is a typical conversation I’ll have with strangers who ask what I’m up to. This conversation goes like this:
Stranger: “What kind of trip are you doing?”
Me: “I’m canoeing the length of the Green River, through Wyoming, Colorado, and Utah. It’ll be about 700 miles and take 35 days.”
Stranger: “Wow…that sounds like an experience of a lifetime.”
When people learn about another person’s epic trip, it does seem to warrant a response of an appropriate scale. But often confounded about relevant things to say, these people will frequently fall back upon the old ‘experiences of a lifetime’ cliché. They mean well in saying it, though, as a way to be simultaneously wowed and encouraging.
But every time I get the old ‘experience of a lifetime’ line, I think privately to myself ‘but I don’t want this to the experience of my lifetime!’ After all, I just want this trip to be an experience, not the experience.
When I think about past trips that I have been on, it would be disappointing for me to look forward and to know that I have already had my singular experience of a lifetime. And, if I’ve already had my one experience, then what more do I have to look forward to in life? None of my future endeavors could ever be as good. All I would be able to do is look back at my experience of a lifetime instead of looking forward to more adventures to come.
Fortunately enough, I have found it possible to have more than one ‘experience of a lifetime.’ And I’ve even got more in the works. Why do we so often limit ourselves to the thinking that we can only have a few adventures in life? Why not be able to make it a lifestyle? Why not collect ‘experiences of a lifetime?’
So that’s what I’m up to right now. Making a few experiences of a lifetime for myself…first by canoeing the Green River in September and October, and then by working as a dogsled musher in northern Minnesota afterward in the winter (and although mushing will be a way to pay the bills, people would still often consider that an ‘experience of a lifetime’ as well).
So I’m happy to have you join along on one of my (hopefully many) experiences of a lifetime, a scenic adventure paddle down the magnificent Green River. And I’m happy to live vicariously through your experiences of a lifetime too. Who says you can only have just one? And by sharing our adventures, we can experience so many more journeys—some in person, some vicariously.
I will (ideally) post pictures and updates of the journey as I progress along the river. But, as you know, digital technology and wilderness are often not found in the same place.
Bon Voyage!
All packed and ready to go on another adventure where the road ends. Might even come back with some more stickers to showcase on the ‘experiences of a lifetime’ hatchback.
Deep Places
The sun begins to set on the smooth rocks of the Tombolo (or Point) of Grand Marais
Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Where are you? Do you feel connected to the place you find yourself in this current moment? Do you feel an encompassing sense of belonging here?
There are some places that give you that special feeling. Places that feel qualitatively different to the individual. Places that feel alive and electric, a kind of synchronicity between person and place. Places that are energy-giving. Magical, almost.
I like to refer to these locations as ‘deep places.’ The adjective deep is used to describe the immensity of the feeling the individual has towards the place. It is something felt on a higher level, different from one’s experience of everyday locales. These deep places may be spots you already know, or the feelings may arise the first time you step foot into a new environment. If you’ve ever experienced these magical feelings, then you have discovered a deep place for you.
The City of Grand Marais from the mountains lining the North Shore
The North Shore of Minnesota, along the edge of Lake Superior, has been one of those deep places for me. Starting in Duluth and heading northeast towards Thunder Bay, the north shore follows a rocky, rugged, forested line for more than one hundred and fifty miles. Along the coast it is a vast forestland wilderness, punctuated only by small settlements and scattered tourist outposts. It is a place where land meets water, where human meets wild. It is a deep place for me.
My first real venture to the North Shore came in May of 2016, entering Duluth from the south just past sundown, being greeted to the sweeping vistas of the big lake in the fading daylight. The northern drive to Grand Marais that night was illuminated by the blood-red full moon rising to its own reflection on the calm surface of Superior. That night was crisp and cool. The moon was out. The stars were shining brightly. The scent of the boreal forests and the water encompassed my nostrils. It was an entirely magical entrance to the place known as the North Shore.
Sailboats finding refuge from Lake Superior in Grand Marais Harbor
Could the magic of my first experience on the North Shore ever be repeated? I have since returned to the North Shore many times, and have found that the magic was not a one-off experience. The feelings I have towards the region have not been diminished through growing familiarity. Every time I return to the North Shore, I am still astonishingly impressed by the astounding physical beauty of the environment. Jutting rusty-color basalt outcroppings, small rivers torrenting their way through deep overlooked canyons, pocket beaches cobbled with a mélange of surf-smoothed rocks. The cultural resources too—lighthouses, cabin complexes, mining history. There is so much to do here—and to keep coming back for more. Every time I would grow claustrophobic from my land-locked residence in inland Minnesota, even a short visit to the shore—to the great lake vistas—would always be the cure I didn’t even realize I needed. My deep place has also served as a restorative space.
The North Shore, for me, is one of those places where I always find more to discover—and upon discovering, find it imperative to come back and revisit again later. Even before I began to explore the region, I had this convincing sentiment that the North Shore would be a special area to me. It is a psychological wonder, how, even upon a first glance at a place, one can feel the initial intimations of inherent belonging and connection to that place. The newly entered deep place is a landscape ever so tantalizingly unknown and discoverable, yet undeniably comfortably welcoming. It’s a place that beckons you to linger on in its space. This sense of fitting into the place is preordained, not earned. You don’t grow to love deep places through familiarity, though they will become increasingly familiar with time. Instead, there is an instinctual, primitive gut feeling that you are part of the place; that you already know and love the area though you have recently arrived.
Gooseberry Falls, where water tumbles through basalt canyons from the highlands to Lake Superior
Everyone has, or should have, a deep place of their own. Maybe you know where it is. Maybe you have one but don’t know that you know it yet. Maybe you’ve revisited your place multiple times, or have even come to live there. Maybe you’ve only ever visited once. Even if physical visits are infrequent, even just thinking about those deep places can still conjure those magical feelings inside of you.
It is possible to have multiple deep places too. How many places exist out there in the world where you would feel this distinct connection if only you could visit? Though the North Shore of Minnesota is perhaps my most apparent deep place and the one I’ve revisited the most, I have others places where I have experienced similar sentiments—the Owens Valley of California, or the island of Tasmania, Australia, for example.
The remarkable thing is that while some deep places are shared with others, a deep place isn’t universal. Everyone will find a different space or landscape that speaks to them so clearly. These spaces are simultaneously yours alone and are shared by a community of others. But no matter how many people claim the same deep space, it always feels unique, as if the area were speaking directly to you.
Find your deep place.
The North Shore’s standout cultural landmark, Split Rock Lighthouse
You Cannot Stay on the Summit Forever
Pinnacle Mountain, Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness, Montana
“You cannot stay on the summit forever; you have to come down again. So why bother in the first place? Just this: What is above knows what is below, but what is below does not know what is above. One climbs, one sees. One descends, one sees no longer, but one has seen. There is an art of conducting oneself in the lower regions by the memory of what one saw higher up. When one can no longer see, one can at least still know.”
—René Daumal
You cannot stay on the summit forever. You cannot live in the wilderness eternally. So why even venture off into wild places to begin with? Why put forth the effort, go through the hassle, and willingly subject yourself to hardships, privations, and lack of modern amenities? The reason is simple—what is gained from the experience changes you. The wilderness, though it physically surrounds you only for a fleeting moment, influences your character persistently.
This summer has been one of wilderness travel for me. From the canoe country of the Boundary Waters and the Quetico, to the backpackers’ paradise of the Rocky Mountains, I have spent countless hours leading others through wild places. Each trip I led, though some of them were lengthy, had to come back eventually. We couldn’t stay out there forever. Food, shelter, medicine, modern conveniences, human connections, and societal obligations all dictated that we must ultimately return. We live lives incontrovertibly connected to the civilized world. We are now dependent on technology and society to meet our daily needs. Though wild places may sustain us spiritually, mentally, and emotionally, few of us are truly prepared to have the wilderness provide all our physical needs.
The Milky Way above Lake Burntside, near the Boundary Waters Canoe Area
But it is the non-physical lessons we learn in the wilderness that might be the most powerful. Wilderness travel lies in contrast to our otherwise ordinary lives in the front-country. The wilderness is a place to break out of our comfort zones, a setting where we are forced by necessity to be different, more capable human beings. Out in the wild, you survive on your own wits, or with the companionship of traveling partners. You learn to make do with what you have, or you learn to do without. You begin to realize that small things can lead to big consequences—and, instead of procrastinating, you learn to check problems before they become too big to handle. You become more organized in your daily life, more resourceful with what you have on hand, and you become adept at recognizing cause and effect. You become better at planning ahead. You are forced to live in the moment; foul weather can either foil your prior plans or fine weather can just as much beckon you to linger on. You learn to embrace and deal with the uncertainty of changing plans. And the people you travel with—whether you chose them or not, you will learn to entrust your life with those people, and you will take risks and grow close to them too.
Sunset over Rose Lake, Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness
All of these things are lessons we can learn and take away from experiences in the wilderness; because, we cannot take the wilderness itself with us—we can only take the memories of our time spent in the wilds. And all of these lessons transfer quite readily to life in civilization, because, you don’t necessarily even need the wilderness to learn these lessons in the first place. But in venturing out into the wilderness, you learn these lessons quickly, and you learn these lessons more thoroughly. Every time you venture out again into the wilds, you are reminding yourself of what you’ve already learned. Though you cannot bring the summit with you, the knowledge and skill of being the person the wilderness made you out to be is something you can carry with you indefinitely. This is the art of living that Daumal was referring to. But you needed that summit first to get there.
And what better place to learn these important life lessons than the wilderness. In wild lands, where nature lies stark and beautiful, “where the earth and its community of life are untrammeled by man, where man himself is a visitor who does not remain (1).” Beauty in the wilderness is intrinsic, and the feeling of remoteness is simultaneously intimidating and enlivening. Endless summit vistas and labyrinth-like waterways have an inherent value of their own. It is worth visiting these wild places regardless of any life lessons gained there. But critically important is the knowledge of who we can be that we take away from wilderness experiences. It took the summit to get there, and once there we could not stay forever. But we can keep the memory of the summit, and we are better people for having gone.
Happy Summiting.
(1) Wilderness Act of 1964
Jordan Mountain, Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness, Montana
Travel Fast, Travel Far
“If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together” —Traditional Proverb
It used to be that when I read this old adage, I would favor and emphasize the going fast part of it. Though it may appear otherwise, the proverb doesn’t really offer up going fast and going far as two equal options to be chosen from; in the context it is most often used, there is an open bias towards uplifting as correct the latter as opposed to the former. But the choice is included in the proverb nonetheless, and fair being fair, one could, like me, focus on the benefits of going fast alone versus going far with others.
Most often I think of this proverb in its relation to travel. More specifically, recreational travel. My travel history is one of mostly solo ventures. I used to prefer it this way. I valued the independence of making my own choices. I valued the efficiency of being the only person to coordinate. I didn’t like having other people around to be forced to compromise with, as that might have infringed upon my personal travel desires. In that old perspective, traveling with other people either slowed me down unnecessarily, or forced me to participate in things which I didn’t really care about.
Even though I did favor the ‘fast’ side of the adage, I was never really a fast traveler on my own accord. At least in regards to speed. On my own personal trips, I usually, and predictably, fell further and further behind schedule. I like to take my time, though out of thoroughness and not out of leisure. Thus, I realized that I am a bit slower taking in the places I travel to, but I prefer the relaxed pace nonetheless. When traveling alone, I had the freedom to take all the time in the world to visit a place and not feel pressured to leave earlier because the people I was with got bored and wanted to move on (very true for visiting museums with me). Maybe the proverb should be changed to “if you want to go thoroughly, go alone.”
As a result of these preferences, I took many long trips by myself attempting to see it all, and to see it all thoroughly. I wanted the freedom and independence of travel to be able to follow my own whims instead of making compromises with the desires of other people. My little solo travels gradually got longer and longer until they culminated in my six months spent dirtbagging down under. Australia was a solo venture, and even though in Australian backpacking culture solo travelers frequently coalesce together, the longest time I ever traveled with someone was four days. And I was glad to be rid of him by the time we parted.
But during that time in Australia, my outlook on long solo travels began to change. On the whole, because I was traveling primarily by myself, I don’t think I got as much out of the entire Australian experience as I could, or even should, have. Sure, I did end up seeing more places than the average Aussie backpacker. But in reality, that additional travel looked similar to this: drive alone to a cool place on the map; get out of the van; walk around said cool place; think about all the cool stuff you could be doing in said cool place; do nothing because you have no one to do cool stuff with; repeat. In addition, I just eventually reached a mental space where I began to feel a little bored of keeping myself company all the time.
I began to realize that my preferred style of travel—solo—may have been leaving me short of the deeper gains of journeying. The going ‘far’ part. Reflecting on the most memorable trips I’ve ever taken, I realize that all of them were with people. And on my solo travels, encounters with other people—you know, those really-inefficient, freedom-compromising, dissimilar-interest kind of other people—were usually the most memorable moments.
But it is still hard to deny the benefits of traveling alone—speed and efficiency. I mean, much of my solo travels have been done simply because making solo travel plans is so quick and easy. On solo travels, you only have to consult with yourself. And you don’t have to see if your schedules align with other peoples’, or check in about travel styles or activity preferences. For solo travel you don’t have to wait to find other people to join you either. Seriously, I feel like half the stuff I’ve done in my life I wouldn’t have gotten to do if I had been waiting for people to join me. So, in some respects I have done a great amount of solo traveling and exploring simply because it is so efficient. But, the most memorable trips have always been with people when the inefficiencies and mishaps abound.
Traveling with others, as I’ve found, is a much richer experience. Since other people are just different from you, naturally, they will bring you to unexpected places and force you to do things that you wouldn’t have otherwise chosen for yourself. And, surprisingly, you will appreciate it. For the diversity. For the different perspective. For the opportunity to try something new. Because, traveling with other people is a surefire way to get exposed to a lot more cool stuff than you would have found on your own. Not to mention, you’ll have those memories and experiences to process and reflect on together.
With my increasing value on group travel, I’ve got a whole slew of upcoming adventures planned, all with people. A 300-mile bike trip along Lake Superior’s North Shore with a friend from college. A 700-mile canoe trip on the Green River with a spattering of friends and family along the way. And not to mention a whole summer of guiding canoe and backpack trips for summer campers.
When I think about my change in perspective concerning the different modes of travel, what often comes to mind is the scene near the culmination of the film Into the Wild, where Christopher McCandless sits emaciated and alone in his bus in the Alaskan bush, reflecting on his solo venture of surviving in the Alaskan wilds while coming to the sad realization that happiness is only real when shared, and that he will (SPOILER ALERT!) slowly starve to death by himself in an abandoned bus. It’s a true story with a heartbreaking ending about an idealistic young man who valued extreme independence in adventure a little too highly. And all at once but much too late young McCandless realized that real happiness lay with sharing the journey with others. Fortunately I’m not as extreme as McCandless. Some lessons I can learn second-hand.
So perhaps we should change the proverb. “If you want to see a lot of stuff thoroughly, travel alone. If you want to create a memorable and fulfilling experience, travel together.” But, that doesn’t quite roll off the tongue as easily.
Barns Across the Continent
On a recent spring break journey, I drove 3,200 miles across the top the US and Canada—and all I did was take pictures of barns! But the rural country landscape does fascinate me, and I find it particularly compelling to photograph. As I drove across the land, the aesthetics of the structures changed with the landscape. Here is a photographic escapade of the rural journey and what I saw: barns, grain elevators, abandoned homesteads, and more.
And here was the route:
Breaking Ground, Leaving Tracks
There is nothing like stepping away from the road and heading into a new part of the watershed…. “Off the trail” is another name for the Way, and sauntering off the trail is the practice of the wild…. But we need paths and trails and will always be maintaining them. You first must be on the path, before you can turn and walk into the wild.
—Gary Snyder, The Practice of the Wild
The explorer sets foot into deeply drifted snow. His foot sinks in drastically. Step after strenuous step, disappearing into the piled white drift. He has been breaking ground for miles. No human traffic has ever plodded this course before, it appears to him. No tracks lead the way, no trail is to be found. He is a pioneer, a trailblazer. The explorer pauses and glances behind him. A meandering line of post-hole marks reveal the way he has traveled. He has broken new ground, leaving tracks for future others to follow. But at this moment he is profoundly isolated, deeply embossed in the awareness of his lonesome situation. No human has trod here before. It is a spiritually awakening experience.
Except that this is not the real story of our explorer. The deep snow covers over the facts of the situation. Our intrepid voyager is not actually far from civilization, nor is he navigating somewhere no one else has been before. In reality, he is on a well-used path, a popular trail. His feelings of solitude and accomplishment are the result of the recent snowfall across the landscape, which has erased all marks of this path being a well-traveled route. Though he may not be as much of a trailblazer as he imagines himself to be, the sentiment which the situation has produced is what’s truly significant. He mythologizes his status as an explorer in his psyche.
Perceiving oneself as a trailblazer is an elevating experience, giving a sense of one’s own agency and accomplishment in navigating this world. Wilderness travel frequently produces this mentality in individuals. The wilderness, or even merely unmanicured nature, is a setting where the marks of modern civilization are absent, or at the very least harder to notice. To spend time out in the wilds is to put yourself into a situation where you are disjoined from your routine life, a place where the tracks of any forbearer’s presence goes unobserved. You go there to be pushed out of your normal element, to challenge yourself and come back a different person. You go there to break new ground.
The wildlands of America have tracks and trails abounding. Our wilderness is a well-traveled place. Yet millions of users visit these lands every year, and still leave them without revealing a trace as to their passing. Sharing a responsible use ethic of wild lands is what preserves the illusion of isolation and pioneering for future travelers. It is near impossible to say that you have encountered a place where no human has ever stepped foot before, and quite debatable if there remains any place on earth untouched by human presence. But whether you are the first to visit or the millionth, these wild places leave you with the feeling that you are perhaps the first. The wilderness setting invokes a sort of primeval satisfaction deep within you that you alone are independent, that you are indeed a trailblazer.
This is one of the feelings that keeps bringing me back to wild places. I am not the first to pass this way. I know that. But out in the backcountry, out in the forests, out on the rivers, out in the mountains, out in the deep snow it sure seems like I am the first.
L’Acadie
L’Acadie, or The Acadia
To an American, the term Acadia (or in French, Acadie) will likely conjure up notions of an extraordinary national park in eastern Maine, but will prompt little more significance otherwise. However, the term Acadia is much greater than that, referring to a vast and rich cultural region beginning in the south with Maine and extending northeast to the Atlantic Provinces of Canada. But Acadia is more than just a region—it is its own strongly identified culture. From the earliest French colonists in Port Royal on Nova Scotia in 1604, a distinct culture began to develop that is undeniable to the modern traveler today. The Acadians are a people hewn from their landscape of gentle agricultural valleys isolated by rough coastal waters. Their way of life is largely pastoral, tied to the land. Their self-reliance has also produced a culture of folk artists and craftspeople who produced goods for their communities. Indeed, Acadia is a region with its own distinct identity, and traveling around the region one will not fail to notice the abundance of Acadian Flags or hear the French language being spoken.
The region traditionally described as Acadia
The name ‘Acadia’ derives from the Greek word Arcadia which was applied as a place name to maps of the Atlantic coastline by early European explorers. The early French settlers adopted the name Arcadia for themselves, as in Greek it meant “refuge” or “idyllic place.” As they were far from their native lands and seeking a better life in the New World, these French settlers were able to turn the Atlantic coastline into both their refuge and an idyllic agrarian society for themselves. The letter ‘r’ was gradually lost from the name Arcadia to become what we now refer to as Acadia. The French, relying strongly on the traditional knowledge of the native Mi’kmaq peoples likely adjusted the name of their region to align with the Mi’kmaq suffix -akadie, meaning ‘place of abundance.’ Indeed, the pastoral villages soon became prosperous.
Many of the original settlers to Acadia had been peasants in Europe, seeking a better life in the New World. In the absence of the rigid European social hierarchy, these settlers were able to use to own skills and talents to determine their rank in society. With little material support coming from France, the Acadians had to produce most of their own goods, and the skills and talents of the settlers became the basis of their culture of craftsmanship. Imperial France also showed negligible interest in governing their North American colonies. As a result, Acadian government was a system of village self-rule, where the communities were governed as a society of equals. The isolation of the Acadian villages, along with their essential independence from Imperial France, contributed to an independent spirit and a wariness about outsiders. However, the Acadians relied strongly on the native Mi’kmaq peoples to survive and prosper, using their traditional knowledge, intermarrying, and adopting many of their customs. In time, the population of the Acadians grew rapidly through high fertility rates and agricultural prosperity. Outside travelers to the Acadia region remarked on how tall, strong, and robust the Acadians were, with darker complexions and longer hair symbolizing their biological and cultural inter-connections with the native peoples.
The prosperity and independent spirit of the Acadians, along with their population explosion, soon was viewed as a threat by Imperial Britain. Territorial conflicts marked most of the history of Acadia, and the roots of this conflict stemmed from the long-held rivalry between the French and English, as it was played out in the New World. As early as 1613, a mere nine years after the founding of Acadia’s first permanent settlement, the British sacked and burned Port Royal in a territorial conquest. Decades of conflict would ensue, with the British militarily taking territory and the Acadians attempting to reclaim their lands. The last debate in the matter was the French and Indian war, which ended with the Treaty of Paris in 1763; that resolution ceded the last French strongholds in Acadia and French Canada to British control. As the British gained control of more and more Acadian territory, they began a program of expelling the Acadians to neutralize any military threat. The Acadians knew this era as Le Grand Dérangement, or the great expulsion. Acadians, who had long since been settled and identified with their landscape, were forcibly deported to places like French Louisiana, the 13 colonies, Britain, or France. However, with their knowledge of the land, many Acadians evaded deportation by seeking refuge in the wilderness. When the culture war on the Acadians gradually faded, the Acadians came out from hiding and some eventually returned to Acadia, creating their own small Acadian communities. Their cultural identity and ties to their land could not be abolished.
Today, Acadia is a peaceful land once again, returning more in-line with its idyllic agrarian beginnings. Acadians still live fruitfully and independently off the land, cultivating their crops and producing their crafts. The region is a mix of cultures—Acadian, English, Native, and others. So too is the Acadian landscape one of contrasts. From the rough rugged shores of Nova Scotia where hardy fisherman eke out a living, to the gentle pastoral landscape of Prince Edward Island where the soils are fertile and the climate is mild. I was fortunate enough to be able to spend a few weeks touring around Acadia taking in the sites. Though my focus was on the landscape and not the people, they are a people intricately connected to their land.
Hover Over Image for Caption, or Click to Enlarge:
Living Vicariously: A Summer Journey through Letters
I biked across the country this past summer.
No, I didn’t actually bike across the country this summer. But it felt like I was there. A friend of mine, a close pen-pal, was the one doing the biking. Every once in a while I would receive updates from a letter describing the places my friend had biked to and her thoughts on the adventure. If I was on the biking journey this summer, it was only vicariously, through her letters.
It wasn’t necessary to receive these letters in order to learn updates about my friend’s biking adventure. After all, she openly posted photos and statuses about her journey regularly through the democratic medium of Facebook. I followed along closely the progress of her and her partner’s trek. Add in electronic communication through email and text messaging, and I had all the modes of contact I could possibly need to stay in touch right at my fingertips. Why then go through the archaic effort of writing letters, especially when I’d be mailing them to a moving target?
In defense of the waning art of letter-writing, there is something incredibly personal and amicable about receiving a hand-written letter. There is something transcendent about it that quick and easy electronic communication can never replicate. A letter is a physical token, something tangible that puts weight in your hand. Even though far apart, the letter is something that both friends have touched and felt and handled; it’s an object that you both have shared in, that bonds you together. The scrawled handwriting on the pages is unique—artistic forms that can never be duplicated, stemming from the very hand of your friend themselves. Though the physical letter has little extrinsic value in itself, the intrinsic value it delivers is priceless.
Each letter received is a gift. Though you can anticipate a letter’s coming, you can never know exactly when it will arrive. Daily you may check the mail, waiting for the surprise delivered by the postman which brings with it a kind of fraternal pleasure. This hand-written letter, addressed exclusively to you, is a conversation between you and your friend alone. Unlike social media posts which have an extensive audience and beg for viewership, the personal letter has become subversive in our culture. It pronounces that some correspondences are meant to be kept private; some conversations are not meant to be laid out open for the wide world to see. And there is something incredibly special about a friend choosing words to write just to you, personally. Even though the content of my letters is nothing incriminating, nothing risqué, it nevertheless feels like they must be kept private to save the mysterious allure of the written conversation. The bulk of my mail correspondences are of absolutely no interest to the general public. But I like that. I like having people write to me and include in their curation of all the possible topics to write about, those things that they thought would interest me. It is their selection—for me.
I have a handful of pen-pals with whom I keep a semi-regular correspondence. Not all of them bike across the country. In fact, most of the time they are doing quite unimpressive stuff—the ins-and-outs of daily life: discussions of work duties, of visiting friends and of making food, of trifling hopes and dreams, of random thoughts. Though their correspondences may not regularly tell of events on the impressive scale of a cross-country bicycle journey, the content they write is nonetheless the fodder of an impressive life-journey lived by every one of my friends. No matter how quotidian the content of the letters may be, I still live vicariously through those words. My friends may benefit from hearing about my own journey which has taken me to many different places and through many different jobs (and I get a lot of feedback that people wish they were doing the things I’m doing). Still, the reverse is also true: my friends who are more settled, though they may not travel as much as me, are nevertheless leading lives that are incredibly interesting to me. They write about things that I too would love to be doing, if only I had the benefit of a stable household: beer-brewing, wine-making, gardening, home improvement projects, community formation. There are many different lives to lead, but not enough time to live them all. My friends are out living some of those lives, and I am out living others. With each letter I receive from my friends, I feel a bit more like I’m there alongside them sharing in the experience of all those different lifestyles, lifestyles that I too wish I could participate in.
Because I travel around as a transient, I don’t get to see a lot of my closest friends in person. Sending and receiving letters through the mail is one small way that we can physically interact via a shared object, something more physically expressive than mere words alone. And since my postal address changes every few months, those who put forth the effort into tracking me down and sending me a piece of mail are truly great friends. The thought and time put forth into writing each letter, despite the inconveniences, makes me value them all the more greatly.
So this summer, I got to experience a cross-country bicycle trip. I was there for the high hopes and growing pains at the start on the Olympic Peninsula. I felt the anguish and the subsequent relief after climbing up and over those grueling snow-covered mountain passes in the northern Rockies. I met good-hearted and welcoming families in our nation’s plains states. I was there through the forests and lakes and mosquitos of the Midwest. I felt the pressure of the trip through the monotonous crossing of flat Ontario, and then knew the relief at seeing mountains once again in the Adirondacks. Eventually, I got to experience the joy of reaching Maine and seeing the bicycle trip to completion. And I did all this without ever leaving Massachusetts.
You see, I value my friendships and still seek to deepen them even when we are apart. Perhaps I may never get to bike across the United States, or perhaps I never will live permanently in a place of my own. That’s OK. Through my friends, and our letter-writing experiences, I feel like a part of me has been along for the experience of it all.
In All Directions 