May 14, 2019
The Process
Since I got back from the North Pole... OK, not back from the North Pole per se, but back from the debacle that was this year's North Pole 'Last Degree' season and my (way too extended) stay in Longyearbyen, I have been eyeing the Slate River in Crested Butte. While I may spend most of my professional life on snow and ice, I actually grew up in a canoe and love paddling on both flat and moving water. I also really like random adventures that have no other reason than simply being outside.
Long story short, I convinced Maria (who had never pack rafted before) to join me on a trip down the Slate River from Crested Butte to the confluence with the East River and then on to the Roaring Judy Fish Hatchery. I thought the paddle might be a bit mundane so I also suggested we road bike from the fish hatchery to our put in on the Slate just outside 'downtown' Crested Butte. We could start right after we dropped the kids off at school.
Maria has told me that people often ask her if she ever joins me on expeditions. The short answer is 'no'. While she loves camping and is incredibly athletic, cold weather sufferfests aren't really her 'thing'. Needless to say, I was somewhat surprised when she accepted my invitation. But I was also really happy. Most days, Maria and I are in full-on parent mode so to have some time to together while discovering some new areas in our own backyard would be a welcome change.
The bike was great. Sunny and warm riding up to CB. No big surprise there - Maria and I spend all summer nearly every day on our bikes. The packraft was also great, but probably a bit too much white water (read: a lot) for a beginner, but that's a story for another time. Which (finally) brings me to the whole point of this way too long post. The process. (At least what I'm calling it right now.)
About half way through our paddle down the Slate (and East) I watched Maria get hung up on a gravel bar. She tried to shimmy over to a small island but was totally grounded - so much so that she had to pull her spray skirt off, get out of the packraft, then walk farther down to deeper water. Then, she got back into the packraft, but couldn't get the spray skirt on. She was just above a class III drop and would need the skirt to avoid swamping. I could see her frustration and despair growing. After nearly 10 minutes of struggle, she decided to get back out of the raft, take off her PDF and spray skirt. Then, without being in the raft, put the spray skirt back on, then squeeze into the raft through the small (top) opening of the spray skirt, put her PFD back on and then shove off. It was an arduous ordeal but she (eventually) found a solution to her problem and managed to continue downstream. I gave her a huge thumbs up when we she cleared the drop. I was proud of both her perseverance and ingenuity.
Later, I mentioned that what she just went through - the whole series of events - was exactly what most days are like on big expeditions. It goes like this: You are going along fine. Then, unwittingly, you run headlong into a problem. Broken gear, route finding, physical problem with a team mate, whatever. Sometimes, a small fix works but most often it doesn't. As the problem continues, there is a growing feeling of anxiety and stress. The problem seems like it could be expedition ending. The world feels like it's closing in. Then, you take a step back and a deep breath. Formulate a new plan taking extra pains to be both careful and thorough. And so on... until a solution.
It doesn't seem like much. These little problems. But they add another layer to big expeditions that often times is hard to define as well as explain. The effect is exponential and can break you. In Antarctica this past winter, I struggled with making any decent mileage due to soft snow conditions. I spent parts of several days modifying and then taking off my ski skins while never finding any real solution. But I kept going. At least until I couldn't any more.
'Effort and more effort' is the (made up) aphorism one of my prior Last Degree clients used to describe my work. And that is expedition life in a very clear and very concise nutshell.
The nature of our world is moving toward comfort and convenience so to actively pursue a path to the contrary is incomprehensible to most. Even Maria - who knows more than anyone the struggles that I go through to plan, prepare and execute big expeditions - has a hard time relating to this process. But that is the path that I have chosen and like Maria getting hung up on the gravel bar, I will eventually get my spray skirt on, climb in through the small opening on the top, zip up my PFD and keep paddling down stream.
Until the next obstacle.
Where I will repeat the process again; and once sorted (again), continue down stream.
Image: Maria on her first (ever) pack rafting adventure
Long story short, I convinced Maria (who had never pack rafted before) to join me on a trip down the Slate River from Crested Butte to the confluence with the East River and then on to the Roaring Judy Fish Hatchery. I thought the paddle might be a bit mundane so I also suggested we road bike from the fish hatchery to our put in on the Slate just outside 'downtown' Crested Butte. We could start right after we dropped the kids off at school.
Maria has told me that people often ask her if she ever joins me on expeditions. The short answer is 'no'. While she loves camping and is incredibly athletic, cold weather sufferfests aren't really her 'thing'. Needless to say, I was somewhat surprised when she accepted my invitation. But I was also really happy. Most days, Maria and I are in full-on parent mode so to have some time to together while discovering some new areas in our own backyard would be a welcome change.
The bike was great. Sunny and warm riding up to CB. No big surprise there - Maria and I spend all summer nearly every day on our bikes. The packraft was also great, but probably a bit too much white water (read: a lot) for a beginner, but that's a story for another time. Which (finally) brings me to the whole point of this way too long post. The process. (At least what I'm calling it right now.)
About half way through our paddle down the Slate (and East) I watched Maria get hung up on a gravel bar. She tried to shimmy over to a small island but was totally grounded - so much so that she had to pull her spray skirt off, get out of the packraft, then walk farther down to deeper water. Then, she got back into the packraft, but couldn't get the spray skirt on. She was just above a class III drop and would need the skirt to avoid swamping. I could see her frustration and despair growing. After nearly 10 minutes of struggle, she decided to get back out of the raft, take off her PDF and spray skirt. Then, without being in the raft, put the spray skirt back on, then squeeze into the raft through the small (top) opening of the spray skirt, put her PFD back on and then shove off. It was an arduous ordeal but she (eventually) found a solution to her problem and managed to continue downstream. I gave her a huge thumbs up when we she cleared the drop. I was proud of both her perseverance and ingenuity.
Later, I mentioned that what she just went through - the whole series of events - was exactly what most days are like on big expeditions. It goes like this: You are going along fine. Then, unwittingly, you run headlong into a problem. Broken gear, route finding, physical problem with a team mate, whatever. Sometimes, a small fix works but most often it doesn't. As the problem continues, there is a growing feeling of anxiety and stress. The problem seems like it could be expedition ending. The world feels like it's closing in. Then, you take a step back and a deep breath. Formulate a new plan taking extra pains to be both careful and thorough. And so on... until a solution.
It doesn't seem like much. These little problems. But they add another layer to big expeditions that often times is hard to define as well as explain. The effect is exponential and can break you. In Antarctica this past winter, I struggled with making any decent mileage due to soft snow conditions. I spent parts of several days modifying and then taking off my ski skins while never finding any real solution. But I kept going. At least until I couldn't any more.
'Effort and more effort' is the (made up) aphorism one of my prior Last Degree clients used to describe my work. And that is expedition life in a very clear and very concise nutshell.
The nature of our world is moving toward comfort and convenience so to actively pursue a path to the contrary is incomprehensible to most. Even Maria - who knows more than anyone the struggles that I go through to plan, prepare and execute big expeditions - has a hard time relating to this process. But that is the path that I have chosen and like Maria getting hung up on the gravel bar, I will eventually get my spray skirt on, climb in through the small opening on the top, zip up my PFD and keep paddling down stream.
Until the next obstacle.
Where I will repeat the process again; and once sorted (again), continue down stream.
Image: Maria on her first (ever) pack rafting adventure