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“You have made yourself an outcast from the unity of nature—you were born part of it, but now you have cut yourself off. Yet, here lies the paradox—that it is open to you to rejoin the unity.”
—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations
The Alaska Range, 1983
On the evening of our third day on the glaciers, Rick Wyatt, Evelyn Lees, Kelley McKean and myself, stood on the cornices guarding Kahiltna Pass. Below us stretched the Peters Glacier, the passageway to the north side of Denali. Until now we had been traveling in the company of other parties bound for the West Buttress, the most popular route up the mountain. But our hope was to make the second ascent of the Canadian Route on the Wickersham Wall, a route located on Denali’s north side, and then for Rick to make the first ski descent of the face. In 1983 it had been a decade since anyone had attempted the Wickersham, and from Kahiltna Pass there was no trail to follow… no one to ask the way.
In three days of skiing to this high threshold between the known and the unknown, my companions and I had come to a place where the primeval world still stood whole and unbroken. A world admittedly harsher and more unforgiving than our own, yet at the same time more ancient and ordered, more honest, and steeped in radiance.
To participate in a wilderness adventure in a place like the Alaska Range is to feel, as the French novelist Andre¢ Malraux once wrote, that “now I am in a story,” and when we live in a story, life becomes mythic.
What does that mean?
Life becomes mythic when it shines with an unambiguous sense of purpose, like a lamp glows with light. Life becomes mythic when it is distilled down to its essence. When I have only one thing to do in a day, and I know right away whether I have done it well. Living mythically is looking forward with joyful anticipation to the new day and the challenges it brings, rather than dreading another day filled with pointless tasks. It is the feeling that we dwell in a conscious universe, where every action, no matter how small, resonates in some higher realm. It is the belief that we have control over our own destiny and the power to make things better.
This focused sense of meaning and purpose is what life on an expedition, where everyone is united in one goal (to climb a mountain; run a river; sail the Drake Passage) can provide. Perhaps because it offers a bridge back to our original life, those long millennia when humanity was nothing more than small groups wandering a global wilderness, and the only chance of success (survival) lay in working together to accomplish clearly defined goals, such as protecting and feeding the tribe.
As Yosemite climbing pioneer, and founder of Patagonia, Yvon Chouinard has written, “Going back to a simpler life based on living by sufficiency rather than excess is not a step backward; rather, returning to a simpler way allows us to regain our dignity, puts us in touch with the land, and makes us value human contact again.” (from Let My People Go Surfing: The Education of a Reluctant Businessman, Patagonia Books)
Today we are taught that the more we own, and the busier we are, the richer we will be. But true wealth is the opposite. It is slowing down, making do with less, and focusing on one thing at a time. It is pouring our hearts into those pursuits that bring us joy: spending time with community; engagement with nature; creating beauty, etc.—not the endless acquisition materialism demands.
And we are also taught that to label something a myth means that it’s imaginary or untrue.
But from a deeper perspective, myths are always and eternally true. They tell the story not of individuals, but of the human spirit—not in one particular time and place—but in an eternal present that exists everywhere and nowhere save the human heart.
In Greek mythology the Sirens were female monsters who lured sailors to their deaths by singing irresistible songs. During his long journey, Odysseus certainly longed for home and family, but even so, his curiosity wouldn’t allow him to pass the Sirens safely by. With his crew’s ears safely plugged with wax, Odysseus commanded that he be tied to the mast, so that he alone could hear their song.
And the price of hearing the Sirens sing is to be haunted forever after. For the adventurer, it means never being satisfied by the things civilized people value most—safety, comfort, and ease—but to be always drawn to what is chancy and remote, lying just beyond the horizon of the known.
Today, adventure is not literally about discovering buried treasure, slaying dragons, or marrying a prince or princess. It’s about discovering the treasure hidden within our own hearts; it’s about slaying the dragon of our own fears; it’s about marrying the beauty that slumbers within each one of us.
And the way to that enchanted realm is not hard to find. As I learned in Alaska, all one has to do is rise each morning before the sun finds the tent, when the frost is a white fur covering sleeping bags and nylon walls. Light the stove with fingers stiff and swollen from the cold. Crawl outside and empty the night’s pee bottle. Stretch and gaze in awe as the light rises over a sea of white mountains. Whether one has experienced it or not, it is a dance remembered, a rhythm recalled…
(To be continued)
Thank you for this Chris!!
This is absolutely one of the best pieces that I have read on adventure.
A meditation in words on what we do & what we strive for in a life of adventure big or small!! FNA
Cheers!!