"Masterful"

A few months ago over the summer at Cottonwood Campground, I was walking back through camp to my tent when I heard a strange, soft rumbling. I paid no attention to it at first thinking it was the construction down at Three Mile, until I heard yelps and hollers. I looked behind me and saw a herd of cattle kicking up a cloud of looming dust rolling sideways off the breeze, hazing the actual scene. At first I was unnerved as livestock on the Crow reservation have a nasty reputation of being "free range" and tampering with whatever they choose. But my worries were off set as I observed the group of natives on horse back, of all ages, moving the group with great care and skill up towards the highway. It was an interesting few minuets as I watched old knowledge and mastery and culture come alive. Though yes, it wasn't "true" culture as natives wouldn't be wearing cowboy garment and herding cattle, but it was enough to remind me that I wasn't in Minnesota anymore. The horses seemed more like extensions of the rider's body, moving and working seamlessly with the rider's split second reactions. In simple terms, I was impressed- not to think I could do the same nearly as perfectly- but I was impressed with the fact that a western tradition was still alive and not commercialized, this was an actual cattle drive-not just a rodeo. Impressed that the true essence of hard work and teamwork have not been skewed too far from their prime example. Impressed that there were even young boys and old men out riding, melding generations and experience to ensure that, maybe not so much the long life of the tradition survives, but the appreciation of ethics and value of hard work and teamwork are passed on into the future. To ensure strong life lessons learned together. This emphasis perfectly emulates what we all need to do: work hard and masterfully.

Last winter, before I skied off into the BWCA with a group of peers for a week of winter camping, my instructor from college, Mark, told us to act "masterfully." To not only practice the winter camping skills and group dynamics, but to master them. We shouldn't be content with just mediocrity, or just getting the job done or gripping a fake smile when dealing with unfavorable people. We should truly learn to deal and solve and strive for the best! My mom has also always told me to do my best. This past summer, I took it to heart and have worked with unfavorable people and long, hard hours, and mastered many skills I once didn't have. I could probably mow any lawn in the world and fix any mower out there (if you have a challenge-bring it on! I charge $15 an hour!)

But more importantly, becoming a master means learning and accepting that you're not already one. And that's a lesson I and everyone can truly never stop learning enough. To be humble is hard these days, but it can come with the best rewards. People are always forced into competitions, whether they realize it or not- to have a higher GPA than your peers, to speed and get in front of a stranger to make a green light, to crowd and intimidate fellow anglers if they're in a good spot. Basking in our own self-indulgence and minor accomplishments is revered in this society. But what I came to understand at Cottonwood that day is that greatness can be found in the whole, self can be defined with the many. When a young boy hustled a loose cow back to the group on his own, they all cheered and praised him. When the old man stopped for a moment under the shade of a tree, another would ride up and share some water. That is the sort of greatness that should be rewarded- not the most opportunistic or lucky individual- but the utmost dedication to goal and team. A master in my mind is someone who doesn't strike at every opportunity to hold up a social status, he is one that helps the old man and cheers for the boy and works just as hard, not for reward, but because he is loyal to his team and understands that success is to be shared by all through a common goal. He is one who knows all the tricks and tips of the trade, and he teaches them to others. He knows and humbly accepts that he is no better than anyone else, but in the end helps others to become the best that they can be. That is mastery to me.   

Listening Point

Earlier this year, my friend took me to a secret haven here in the north woods. It was the retreat of the inspiring environmentalist, Sigurd Olson. You probably haven't heard of him or if you have, know that he was closely tied with the BWCA. In fact, that is a miss calculation for his love of our Minnesotan Wilderness- he was a part of it. One day he stumbled upon a place on Burnt Side Lake that so perfectly captured all of his needs, his experiences, his memories, his meditations, his passion that he had to call it his own place, and so he did- Listening Point. I also read his book Listening Point, which reflects and defines our own need for adventure and nature through his stories at the point. In the last chapter, he calls us all to find our "Listening Point", a place where heaven and Earth collide, where we can feel free and meditative, where we can slow down and truly be happy and at peace.

And going there, to Sig's little slice of perfection, going into his humble cabin where all his simple things still hung in there original place except for his trusty canoe which was placed in the rafters, I was truly and fully humbled. I felt an ambiance of peace and respect not only for Sig but for the place itself and how truly when sitting on the bare rock of the point that rare windy day on Burnt Side had the waves slapping against the rocks so rhythmically and perfectly I totally understood why this man chose this place as his culmination of perfect place. He had traveled everywhere in the arrowhead, into the conifers and tundras of Canada, seen many adventures and wild waters. It was merely an honor to be in his perfect place, it truly is to be in anyone's perfect place.

But the whole time I was there, I remember his call to duty- to find our own point. And I thought of the places I've been, where could I claim my listening point? The first place that came to mind was Montana, along the banks of the Bighorn. But honestly, reflecting on it, I could never call that place perfect or home. But then there's Glacier park, Yellowstone park, Banff Provincial park, all beautiful paces but not home or familiar in the sense where all my memories and passions are met. But there is one place- Hay Creek, in the big spring pools- that I could and always have wanted to call home. Its a place I hold near sacred in my heart with all the memories and education I gained from along its muddy banks and the pursuit of smart little trout. The connections and relationships I've made there, the peace, nature, and solitude of it. But at the same time- maybe its ok to not yet know where that perfect place is. Maybe we can have more than one, maybe the pursuit of our perfect place is in fact what we would call "perfect." We can all define what it really means.

Where is your listening point?

Reckless Abandon

“Adventure is the very basic core of man’s living spirit.”

-Christopher McCandless

Adventure is an aspect of life that is as important as air and water. It is the root of creating new experiences and stories. It can be found in many forms: to be out of the ordinary, out of the comfort zone, for honor, for thrill- but in all forms, adventure ends with the same two things- a revelation and something to share.

Early last spring or even closer to the end of winter, spring was a far cry from the frozen, snowy times, my best friends and I took a couple of canoes down the barely unfrozen Kawishiwi river outside of Ely. The 2010-11 winter was a long, snowy, cold one- but the lure of open water was inescapable. We strapped our alumacrafts to our cars and headed straight for the river as fast as we could to try and beat the rain. We trudged our canoes through melting snow to the river bank and launched the best we could without getting our feet wet. From the get go there were challenges: rocks, rapids, and ice to be specific. We faced them all with laughs and smiles. We probably made it three quarters of a mile down river before we hit solid ice, but even then we raced to see how far we could break into it. Then the rain came- and all of us, except for one was prepared for it-but let me tell you, I have never seen that girl have so much fun and so much strength before that day. We paddled back, dragged the canoes over the snow back to the parking lot, ran the rapids a few more times, then went home cold, wet, and excitedly exhausted. I’ve heard countless stories of the “Good Ole’ Days!” Back when kids actually played and explored outside. Every time I’ve later asked myself, “Why don’t I have stories like that? Why can’t those days be today? Why did those good days end?” Ever since-I’ve made that a priority in all my ventures- to truly cherish and fully live up the experience. 

Since I began school in Ely and found a love of paddling, I’d always wanted to paddle a remote northern river. And so a few weeks later, once more snow had melted and more rain had fell, my friend Zach and I went to paddle the beautiful Stony River.  This river is the epitome of a paddler’s dream: interesting water and terrain, periods of rapids and slow deep pools-even a mostly frozen lake-and it’s a good length to take up a day with. However, we underestimated water levels just a bit. The rapids were running high and fast, but not enough so to totally buffer some of the larger boulders. It took split second decisions and maneuvering to avoid disaster, and we did all right for the first five to six miles but eventually, due mostly to over confidence, we came to a ledge fall in the river and had our sixteen foot canoe get stuck right in the middle of the hull. The bow dove into the bottom pool and the stern was lifted up and twisted by the current and we were literally dumped into a ten to fifteen foot deep pool. The scary thing was, it went really slow- we tried leaning, humping, bracing until finally the current had swiveled us enough where we simply toppled over into the freezing black water. It was a powerless feeling, a feeling similar to something to perhaps shell shock, disorientation, numbness. I finally heard Zach yelling from behind me,

“Evan! Help! Grab the canoe, get to shore!”

 I swam and grabbed the bow of the boat which was now totally full of water and we sluggishly towed it to the nearest shore, stripped of our wet clothes and as quickly as possible dug out the dry clothes, it was one of the closest experiences I had to hypothermia I’ve ever encountered. It seemed like no matter how hard you tried, you were quickly solidifying into a frozen sculpture. But, I found the importance of trust and teamwork then, as we motivated each other to keep moving, to empty out the boat and keep going to get warm. We did.

Around the next bend though we heard the river gurgling beyond, and we just didn’t yet have the strength or warmth to try to face another uncertain rapid. We busted our seventy pound canoe through face height black alder (once you let go of them, they hit like a bull whip right around your eyes) for the longest fifty yards of my life, we hauled the canoe over a beaver damn and down their slide and back into the water. We passed through beautiful small lakes and chased a few loons, limbo-ed under at atv bridge and went a good distance before Zach made a startling observation, “There’s lots of houses now, we must be getting close to more rapids."  Rounding the next bend, there was a long stretch of rapids that appeared to be manageable so we aimed down the middle and did our best to hold course. But as we came into the heart of it, the bow hit a rock and jutted to a stop, the current caught the stern and scraped us along the bottom as we swung and tipped again. We grabbed onto the canoe and tried our best to keep our legs pointed downstream (easier said than done.) At the end of the rapids, it emptied into a circular pool and then turned to the left into another large rapid-one we could not get sucked into. We quickly swam the canoe across the pool onto some rocks and dumped the water out, took our wet clothes off and rang them out, and stayed there for a moment checking for major injuries and losses. We were both scraped and bruised but not badly hurt, and Zach had lost his boots and one of the portage pads had been ripped off from the yoke of the canoe. “Now what?” we asked. There was no way we had the strength or warmth to paddle our way out and we didn’t know how much farther we had to go, but we knew it couldn’t have been too far since there were so many cabins. 

We jumped back into the boat and paddled like hell across the current to the other bank. We abandoned the canoe on the shore and started the long trek back, which was even longer for Zach as he walked through snow and gravel in his soaking wool socks. I cannot even begin to express the joy felt when his car came into view- I also don’t think I’ve ever ran so fast in my life. We jumped into his car, cranked the heat and raced home to return later to get the boat.

What’s the moral of the story here? I don’t really know…if there is one except to be prepared and always go with a buddy, I’d say it would be to never underestimate an experience and to be prepared for a larger adventure than anticipated. When I’m old, I’ll tell my children and grandchildren this story and laugh just as hard as I do now when I think of that day.  Everyday should be lived as a good ole’ day- no exceptions.

The River Story

Life is a lot like a river. 

 

In order to grasp this concept, first let's examine the similarities between a well lived, successful, happy life and bodies of moving water: 

1)       Passion: To us, passion is something that gives one purpose, joy, an escape, a release, a reference point, community and cohorts, understanding, direction, and foundation. To a river, passion revolves around one thing- getting downhill, to the ocean.

2)       Direction: Rivers use their passion to guide them to the ocean; they have direction in their "life." Though sometimes they wind slowly through valleys or crash and roar through mountains, they know where they’re going. People with passion(s) use it in the same way. Often you can feel lost or stressed or meaningless, but with a passion, we are rooted and defined. We can better tell where to go in life and how to deal with problems that arise.

These two aspects are in my mind the foundation of being- aqueous or human. A stretch I know, but let me explain. 

Rivers represent a passionate life.  They have direction and a goal-to find the straightest, fastest way to the ocean. Rivers make wide, snaking bends and meander across valleys and swamps seemingly lost, but then they’ll find a clue, a path and it will send them shooting down rapids with veracity and intent until they hit a metaphorical mountain range-another challenge, “do I go through them or around them?”  One option takes a long time of slow wondering, and the other takes a long time of arduous work-but either way, they’ll make it past their troubles. Rivers follow their passions; they set a specific goal and they overcome all obstacles that face them.  Even dams can’t totally contain them, they MUST accomplish their goal.  They represent good times and bad times; hard times and exciting times-they seem to carry on emotions and lives of their own just as we do, especially if you take time to know them through recreation and study.

The better we can mold our lives into a perpetual motion, the better we can define our passion and find our direction in life. Then come slow and meandering portions of life we can reassure our self that we just need to keep going, soon we’ll find a path again. Then come the rapids and falls, when we reach the pinnacle of excitement and achievement, letting loose our full potential. Then the ocean, the fulfillment, the absolute climax of our great river where our full potential becomes absolute and the hard work pays off. Without passion rivers lose their path and end in a lake or even dry up. 

Passion is the defining component. And that is why life is like a River.