Re: Annie’s “Feeling alive is where it’s at”
I agree with Annie’s assessment of feeling alive:
Because, I guess, not only do I want some amount of challenge but I want challenges that I choose, not just the random ones that happen.
Self-prescribing challenges—and then meeting those challenges? Yeah, that’s some good stuff. The liquor of empowerment, a sense of efficacy in the world. A feeling that you can, indeed, do hard things.
We had this feeling recently as our 4+ year challenge to devise a 100-day overseas trip finally came to fruition. While daunting, it’s also made us feel a bit more alive. That, yeah, we can pull off some cool shit. That we have choice in this world, and perhaps even in how things play out. We’ve re-inspired ourselves.
I’ve also learned (though I still don’t quite believe) that achievement is not the endgame here. The outcome is unimportant. The benefit comes from the process of tackling the challenge, doing the difficult things it asks of me. It makes me feel alive. It’s exhilarating. And exhilaration is worth pursuing, or at least exploring. Feeling alive is where it’s at. Not feeling good (although that’s nice, too). Feeling alive. Sometimes feeling alive doesn’t feel good. But it’s still good, somehow.
That sorta sums up many of my travel quests. Is it exactly fun flying around the whole damn world just to get to some tiny specks on the globe? Trying to visit every single goddamn county in the US? Nope, not really. Travel often includes significant discomfort, boredom, hardship, anxiety, and unease. Much of the value of one’s travels occurs later, sometimes years later, when those good moments are recalled, or perhaps finally appreciated.
It’s not because of the resulting achievement, though. It’s because you did the thing. You experienced it. You lived it. It was something new, and it changed you. The process of doing, of enduring, of experiencing, of growing…that is, indeed, “where it’s at.”
When I finished my nearly-lifelong quest to visit all 400+ national parks in the US, I expected to feel a tremendous sense of accomplishment. I had made it, completed something very important to me, and also something quite rare. When I followed it up a few months later by being the first person to visit all 490 Treasured Places? You’d imagine that I was over the moon with joy.
Nope, not really. Sure, I was proud of doing all that. But living was being in the middle of it, not having done it. That’s what was exciting, that’s when you felt more alive. Accomplishments were in the past, and being alive…well, that’s in the present.
On This Day in 2015, a stop at Lees Ferry, then a drive up House Rock Valley Road for a short hike on the Arizona Trail, followed by a hike to the Toadstools in Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument, to sunset at Glen Canyon National Recreation Area.
Two windows with a view, from this day in 2015
Palm trees in American Samoa.
I’m on board with Pete Brown’s critique of getting paid to “do” what you love:
it reinforces the pattern of exposing all parts of your life and yourself to the market, insisting the only value anything has the profit that can be made from it.
I’d also add that invariably, much of the this work ends up being stuff you don’t enjoy anyway. A photographer trying to monetize their hobby ends up spending far more time doing stuff like marketing on social media, not taking photographs.
My favorite video spoofing Daylight Savings (err…Saving) time is funny as hell and worth the 2.5 minutes of your time. www.youtube.com/watch
Seven years ago today, I was greatly honored to walk one of my closest friends down the aisle for her wedding at Glacier Point in Yosemite. Funny story—she tagged me in her “My Wedding” album on Facebook, and the algo showed it to many of my less-connected friends, who thought she and I had married.
An absolutely glorious sunset paddle, enjoyed On This Day in 2021.
Here’s the story explaining how I started tailgating with a bunch of band moms at ASU games a decade ago.
On This Day in 2017
Boxers in the rain
So there I was…2am, locked out on my patio, and wearing only boxers, during a hearty rainstorm. No keys. No phone. No internet connected device. No shoes.
Just me and my boxers.
And not many options.
So, after a barefoot walk and half-jog down the suddenly-busy-for-2am Cactus Road, waving at honking vehicles, wading through the flooded greenbelt as a shortcut, and generally feeling like an idiot, I arrived a mile or so later at my dad’s doorstep, letting myself in with his hidden key, and locating the spare key to my apartment that I had stashed there.
My dad was sleeping, of course, the rain had stopped, and I now had the key, so I left without waking him and made my way back to my apartment. But not before I grabbed some old sandals I used for kayaking for the trek home (I kept my kayak and associated gear at this house during my time in that apartment). It started raining again a minute or so later.
And just my luck, the front door of my apartment was locked with the deadbolt that only opens from the inside, a fact I had not considered until the moment I turned the key and tried to push the door open. Sigh…
So it was back to my dad’s house again, still in my boxers, still raining. I woke him up this time, dried off and borrowed an ill-fitting pair of old man shorts and a shirt, and looked for a flashlight and some tools, which we discovered were unexpectedly meager. This time, he drove me back over to my apartment. After several ill-fated attempts at deconstructing the patio doors using any and all available tools—and just one stripped screw away from success—we gave up, soaked with sweat from the humidity and thoroughly annoyed. Sunrise was approaching.
Resigned to staying at his place until the office opened and having to pay the (ridiculous) $250 “lock out” fee, I walked past my living room window—which I had never once used because it was mostly inaccessible behind my TV—to see if I could somehow take it apart and gain access.
To my disbelief, I discovered that it was unlocked, and had apparently been unlocked since the day I moved in. (insert long and deep sigh indicating both frustration and relief)
I climbed through, opened the front door, and said goodnight to my dad.
And that’s the reason I will never lean the wooden dowel up against the bedroom sliding door again when I get up in the middle of the night to check out the thunderstorm and then absentmindedly pull the sliding door closed behind me, allowing the dowel to gracefully fall into place in the railing.
That’s a lesson I learned on this day in 2014. (reposted here from Facebook)
Also On This Day, ten years ago, I encountered this end-of-season incoming haboob while hiking in the Phoenix Mountains.
No kayaking again this week 😫 so here are some shots of some fun clouds from On This Day in 2022.
Longstanding personal tradition every time I’m in Tucson.
Sunset over the Apache Trail, On This Day in 2015.
Stopped by Arizona Wilderness Brewing today to catch up with a friend, and to grab two specific beers: one that supports the campaign to protect the Great Bend of the Gila as a national monument, and another that celebrates the 60th anniversary of the Wilderness Act. 🏞️🍻
El Malpais National Conservation Area, On This Day in 2013.
A quick hike in Canyons of the Ancients National Monument with some conservation colleagues, On This Day in 2008.
The worst part of having your own website is the ridiculous amount of email spam you get from (obviously terrible) web designers, seo experts, and app developers.
Nodding knowingly while reading @patrickrhone’s old post on Sensible Defaults.
I’m a big fan of “default” decisions—making pre-decisions on how I’ll proceed in most normal situations: what I’ll eat for breakfast, what shorts I’ll wear most days, what stuff I’ll bring camping, and so forth.