As book review editor of Appalachia, America’s longest-running journal of mountaineering and conservation, I get to read a multitude of tales describing white-knuckle climbs up remote peaks and harrowing paddles down treacherous rivers, as well as countless guides and how-to manuals covering everything from wilderness medicine to surviving avalanches, blizzards and other hazards in the forest primeval.
These volumes are mixed among numerous narratives detailing authors’ personal connections to the outdoors, Thoreauvian rhapsodies and spiritual observations made on the trail, coming-of-age and coming-to-terms essay collections – everybody, it seems, has something to say about nature and adventure.
I’ve done a fair share of scribbling, of course, about my own experiences in the wild, and it occurs to me that in a well-trampled field of outdoor literature there is one topic about which I can discourse authoritatively: How poor judgment and reckless behavior can create a truly memorable, if miserable outing.
Here are some excerpts from a humble tome in progress I have given the working title, “Screwing Up in the Wilderness: The Fagin Guide to Misadventure.”
Chapter I: Planning Your Trip
Preparing painstakingly for any excursion is the quickest way to destroy spontaneity, the carpe diem spirit of adventure. Only those with obsessive-compulsive disorders tend to such details as exact destination, duration and appropriate food/gear/clothing. My advice: Head out the door and savor nature without being bogged down by excessive preparations.
Chapter II: Navigation
First of all, maps, compasses and global positioning systems are way overrated. All those squiggly lines, spinning needles and buttons to push – who needs them, when all you have to do is follow your instincts. If a little voice inside tells you a particular unmarked trail will take you to the campsite instead of to a sudden drop-off, briar thicket, grizzly den or mosquito-infested marsh, you must take that route. I’ve also abided by what I call the Blanche DuBois school of navigation: I come to rely on the kindness of strangers. When in doubt, ask anybody you see how to find your way – chances are he or she will know.
Chapter III: Gear
The corporate greedheads at Eastern Mountain Sports, REI and L.L. Bean would have you think wilderness adventurers must spend thousands of dollars on sophisticated camping equipment. Look at all the people in cities who sleep under bridges. You don’t see them inflating Therm-a-Rest air mattresses, unrolling Western Mountaineering goose down sleeping bags and assembling Sierra Design tents when they settle in for the night. Why should you? A cardboard box, sheet of plastic – pleasant dreams!
Chapter IV: Pushing the envelope
You never really know your limits until you have exceeded them. Another 5,000 feet to the summit? C’mon, you can do it! One foot in front of the other, onward and upward, rock and roll. Those are my mantras. Class V rapids? Just go with the flow; eventually you’ll pop out into a calm pool. Too many so-called adventurers give up too easily, missing out on opportunities to test their mettle, prove their expertise and display their derring-do.
Chapter V: Failure justification
Occasionally you will be tested beyond your capacity and be forced to turn back from your goal. Of course, if you never really had a goal in the first place you wouldn’t have to admit defeat, but that’s a whole separate issue. Anyway, here are some phrases to use when explaining to friends and family why your arduous, painful and ultimately flawed expedition was nonetheless worthwhile:
“The point was just to get out there and experience the elements.”
“Success is such a Western concept. I had embarked on a spiritual journey and finally found myself.”
“The important thing: I lived to climb another day.”
Well, that covers the basic outline, but I’m always grateful for suggestions. Anybody have other chapter ideas?