The night before my 35th birthday I had the privilege of giving an hourlong talk on my pilgrimage to all of America’s National Parks. I shared stories about how it started, what it’s been like for me as a solo traveler, the people I met along the way, the lessons I’ve learned, and what’s still ahead.
I hope to give the speech again this fall in Texas, and perhaps elsewhere too. As those details get finalized, I will share them with you.
In the meantime, below are my remarks. Long time readers may recognize some of the stories, but most of what’s in it has never been shared online before, especially parts of the 2nd, 3rd and 5th sections.
I feel nervous and also excited to share so much of my story with you in this way.
As always, feel free to forward this to others or respond directly to me with your thoughts at tim@thiswalkinglife.com.
Warmly,
Your fellow walker, Tim
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Extended Version of Tim G’s Remarks to a Private Group in Minnesota – June 2021
Tomorrow is my 35th birthday.
If you asked me 3 years ago what I’d be doing on my 35th birthday… Well, let’s just say that speaking to a group of strangers about some of the most intimate details of my life would definitely not have been on my list.
But looking back, nothing about the last three years has matched my expectations.
My journey since January of 2019 has taken me to nearly all of America’s National Parks; connected me to strangers in almost every state, and helped me to rediscover long exiled and forgotten parts of myself.
Tonight, I’m going to tell you 5 stories about that journey.
But before I do, I want to give everyone a little bit of background on our wild places and our National Parks here in America. Here are a few facts:
(1) How many National Parks do we have in America?
There are currently 423 sites protected by the Park Service, 63 of which are designated as National Parks. The other sites include National Memorials, Battlefields, and Monuments.
I’ve been to 59 of the National Parks to date, and have plans in the next few months to visit the last remaining parks I haven’t been to yet.
We have National Parks in every part of our country. From Maine to the Virgin Islands on the east coast; in the midwest and mountain west; on small islands off Los Angeles; north of the Arctic circle in Alaska; in Hawaii; and even in American Samoa, a place closer to New Zealand than any other part of the United States.
(2) What was the first National Park? And how long ago was it created?
When I started this journey, I thought we’d always protected our most beautiful places. But that wasn’t the case.
Yellowstone, our first National Park, was created in 1872. But what did it mean for something to be a National Park? No one knew. As soon as it was established, fights broke out over who should control it, who should have access to it, what should happen to the animals who lived there, etc. It would be decades until congress appropriated funding to maintain it, pass laws that prevent development on it, or even create a ranger service to protect it.
Yellowstone was a prelude. Even today, lawsuits and debate rage over how much protected land is enough, what kind of development on it is okay, and what it means for all of Americans to be equal owners of our last wild places.
How big are the parks? How much land is protected?
The parks encompass 85 million acres (60% of this land is Alaska).
That amount is equivalent to more than 1.5 times the total land in Minnesota.
Parks vary widely in size. The biggest park (Wrangell St. Elias) is 13 million acres, while the smallest (Gateway Arch) is less only 91.
Together, the park service manages roughly 3.5% of all land mass in the United States.
But that’s enough history for now.
Tonight, I’m here to tell you five stories about the Parks — and how my dream of exploring them has changed my life.
Part I: Men in Black … Penguin Suits
My pilgrimage through the National Parks began somewhere markedly not wild: in a condo in downtown Wayzata (Minnesota) in January 2019.
It was a typical January night in Minnesota - pitch black by 5pm and god knows how many degrees below zero.
Inside though we were warm, and me doubly so, as I found myself in the arms of a giant of a man… in a full body penguin suit.
That man was my brother, and we were in my grandmother’s apartment. She was hosting a “great outdoors” themed party and asked us all to come in costume.
My grandmother (Muppa as we in the family called her) loved the great outdoors.
Growing up I remember eating freshly picked berries, learning the names of the dragonflies, listening to warblers sing, and hiking in the forests for hours with her. My grandmother taught me to have a deep reverence for the natural world, and that each of us (no matter how young) had a responsibility to protect it.
Later, as she grew older and she could no longer walk so far, she taught me other lessons too. None more important than if you want to see miracles slow your step to match the rhythms of the wild. It was a lesson I’d often forget and have to relearn in the years that followed.
That night, back in Wayzata we were moving slowly indeed, but I felt very far from either awe or the natural world.
We’d brought my grandmother home from the hospital days before. We knew she only had a few more days to live.
We all felt cut up, but she hated the idea that her final ideas would be only sad. So, she decided we needed some good costume parties.
That night we sat around her bed in our costumes retelling stories, many lived outside. Muppa could barely speak anymore, so we did most of the talking. But she could still say a little, smile, and squeeze our hands to let us know she was still listening.
That’s why toward the end of the night I was so taken back when she looked at me and asked weakly, but clearly:
“Where should we go on our next adventure?”
If I’m honest, part of me wondered whether she was still there at first. But the longer she held my gaze, the more I knew her question held deep meaning. It hadn’t been asked idly.
So much in my life in the weeks leading up to that night had fallen apart. First, there was an acceptance that after more than a year of separation, my marriage to my childhood sweetheart was headed toward divorce. Then, only days later, my job, which I’d moved back to Minnesota for, and which not only consumed all of my time for years, but which had become so central to how I evaluated my worth, had reached a dead-end too.
My grandmother’s simple question touched something raw in me.
“Where should we go on our next adventure?”
At a moment when I felt the weight of rejection in so many of the most important parts of my life, it was a reminder that in other spaces I was still wanted. I want to be with you exactly as you the question said.
The question was also a promise – reminding me that even when she was gone, I would always carry her with me. Whenever I went, she’d be there too.
In the days that followed, after she breathed her last breath, it sometimes felt like winter might never end. I went through the motions – I interviewed for jobs. I did all the self-care I was supposed to do. But in the quiet of my mind, I kept hearing her question – first a whisper, then something much more.
That question became a lifeline, pulling me out of falling back into places I was meant to leave behind.
And it was a permission – to let go of dreams that I’d held onto too long, and in their place begin to imagine into new ones… even if I didn’t yet really understand where they’d lead.
Where should we go on our next adventure?
Somewhere far from here. Somewhere raw and wild. Beyond that, I didn’t know. But I didn’t feel like I had to figure it out exactly anymore before I went.
My grandmother’s passing taught me something else important too. Time is not unlimited. I wanted to get out there, now.
So, a month after my grandmother died, I put my job search on hold, wrote a letter to my professional contacts, and announced to the world I was taking a “sabbatical.”
I promised I’d be back soon, but in the meantime, don’t bother trying to reach me, I was headed west in search of adventure.
Part II: A Day in the Life
When I tell people that I’ve traveled to nearly all of the National Parks since March of 2019, I think they have a lot of misconceptions about who I must have been before I started, and what a day in the life of a solo 30-something traveler might look like.
Let me dispel some of those for you by telling you about my first day on the road.
First, a lot of people imagine me traveling from vista to vista wrapped in a Mexican blanket and living my best #vanlife.
#Vanlife refers to the lifestyle of people who live in Sprinter Vans and go on adventures. For any of you who don’t know what sprinter vans are, they are essentially Fedex trucks, with the insides retrofitted with a bed, cabinets, and a kitchen.
They are an amazing way to explore the outdoors for an extended period without having to deal with the hassle/expense of an RV or roughing it in a tent.
Before I left on my trip I definitely dreamed of living #vanlife.
That’s why when I first had the idea of going off to the west, I rented a sprinter van for two months.
I had to pick it up in Denver, but that was no problem - part of the adventure I told myself!
Then the morning of my flight I received an email letting me know that – “We’re sorry you didn’t rent from us this time! Next time you explore - let us be your wheels! Use this code for 10% off”.
Wait… what? Maybe it was a mistake. I frantically tried to get a hold of someone at the company to confirm everything was okay with my reservation.
I finally got a hold of Dylan. He seemed surprised to hear from me. He informed me that he’d emailed me paperwork a week ago, and since I hadn’t filled it out, he thought I’d bailed.
“I thought I could fill out when I got there - after all we’ve talked like 20 times. I told you I have a plane ticket already. Why didn’t you call or email again?” I pleaded.
He ignored the question. “Sorry dude. People flake all the time in this business. We rented the van to someone else.”
He didn’t have any other vans now. But he could rent me one … in a few weeks, for a week only… for twice the daily rate we talked about before. Was that cool?
No Dylan, that wasn’t cool.
For the next few hours I frantically tried to make other arrangements. In the end, I didn’t find another sprinter van. But, I did end up securing a small SUV using Hertz points built up over a decade+ of work trips.
This moment turned out to be proleptic of so much that was ahead.
Namely, me thinking I’d made plans, those plans not working out, and… it being totally okay.
When I got to Denver, it dawned on me that without a sprinter van, I didn’t have lodging.
Now, this leads to people’s second misconception about me: that I must have been an Eagle Scout or some other type of great outdoorsman.
In truth, I’d never been in a tent before. But, how hard could it be? So, what did I do? I drove to the REI of Denver to get one.
Upon getting to the tent section of the store I quickly realized I had no idea how to pick among them. After trying to figure it out on my own for some time, I swallowed my pride and asked for help. I got good advice, and was ready to move toward the register when the salesman stopped me and asked: “do you know how to set this up?”
Before I could even be tempted to lie, he’d pulled everything out of the bag, and created a clearing for me to do my worst.
The poles weren’t that hard to figure out, but for who knows how long I struggled to determine the difference between the tarp, rainfly, and tent and how to fit the poles into them all at once. Meanwhile, a gaggle of very outdoor-competent looking Coloradans seemed to be growing around me, shaking their heads at the sad scene.
This was indicative of much that was to follow too. Whereas in my old career I was expected to create the appearance of mastery (even when I was a beginner) and hide my ignorance at all costs, here my struggles were on public display. And… It was wasn’t just fine, it opened up my world.
Even though learning “basic” skills as an adult has often been embarrassing, saying yes to looking like an idiot has meant that now I have wonderful memories doing so many types of activities that 3 years ago I assumed I’d never experience: camping, teaching yoga, wilderness backpacking, freediving, scuba diving, and rock climbing among others.
But, before I wax poetic about the joys of beginner's mind for too long let me take you back to that Denver REI.
With my new tent back in the bag and a cart full of other camping gear in toe, I headed to check out.
As the woman at the register scanned my items she casually asked: “Where do you plan to take this nice new tent?”
Awkwardly, before I knew what was coming out of my mouth I responded: “Where do you… think I should take this nice new tent?”
After she gave me the once over and rolled her eyes, she told me her favorite place in all of Colorado was the Great Sand Dunes, a National Park I’d never heard of before.
Several hours later I found myself on the top of the tallest dune in North America, looking out over a landscape that was part Sahara Desert and part Swiss Alps. My socks were full of sand. I was out of breath. My legs throbbed. I was drenched in sweat. And I felt absolutely alive.
That night, I lingered on the top of the dunes until long after the sun had gone down. I didn’t want to miss a second of the glow.
As it grew dark, I packed up my bags to head back down to my car, but as I got ready to go, I looked to the east and noticed something that made no sense. The sky was getting brighter.
Now, I’m no astronomer, but I know enough to know that 30 minutes isn’t enough time for sunset to turn to sunrise.
As I lingered, wondering what was happening, the full moon rose over the mountains, at first a sliver, seconds later a full orb of bone white light, illuminating the dunes in an otherworldly glow – making visible the world below me that had seemed lost in the growing darkness just moments before.
Turning to some strangers nearby, I yelled out – let’s howl at that moon, and we all did.
You can have plans. You can be resourceful. You can read the guidebooks. But more than anything, that first day taught me that sometimes the greatest magic happens in the moments when you put all of that aside, embrace your ignorance, trust the strangers you meet, and linger in unexpected places that speak to your soul.
Part III: Strangers on the Trail
When I left Minnesota, I didn’t know exactly where I was headed or what I’d see, but I knew I wanted to go deep into wild places, just like I did that first night. I imagined in them I’d find all the things I felt were lacking in my life back at home: purpose, adventure, discovery, joy, and magic. And I wanted to do it all alone. Partly to prove to myself I could, and also because I felt so burned and burdened by so many soured friendships and relationships.
I believed my journey would be defined by the views I saw, the places I explored, and the things I learned while standing within them.
What I didn’t expect was that the strangers I met along the trail would be so central to my journey too.
Back on that first day, as I waited for an Uber in Minneapolis to take me to the airport, my mind was lost in dreams of what places I would see.
I barely paid any attention to the driver as I got in the car.
“Did you see that girl I just dropped off before you” my driver asked aggressively, jolting me out of my reverie.
I shrugged, I hadn’t. Besides, the thought of striking up a conversation with a cab driver with 30 minutes to go in the ride seemed high risk. What if I had to talk to him the whole way?
“She’s a lawyer. Beautiful. Too bad you didn’t see her.”
Okay… thanks for sharing, I wanted to say.
“She’s really into Tony Robbins – been reading his books, watching his talks, even signed up to go to one of his big expensive in person events. She said he’s making her see her whole life in a new way.”
I grunted to acknowledge I’d heard him, but I also did my best not to make eye contact. I didn’t care.
“Let me tell you something,” he went on, completely unfazed by my lack of interest. “When you get to be my age, you come to know a lot of things. That doesn’t make you a guru. All of us old guys know a lot of things. We usually just keep it to ourselves. Tony Robbins, he doesn’t keep it to himself. He’s just a shameless old guy with marketing.”
I felt a little panicked. How much longer to the airport I wondered – before realizing we hadn’t even made it to two blocks.
“Anyway, I was just asking because it seems like you might want to get to know her, even if she’s wrong about Tony Robbins. She’s carrying a lot of heavy bags too. Where are you going with all of yours?”
I could see his eyes peering at me through the rearview mirror, a mixture of wisdom and naughtiness glowing within them.
Part of me wanted to tell him to shove it. Who the heck was this guy? What did he know about me? I might be carrying some suitcases, but I was sure that after going to a weeklong yoga retreat I’d left all my heaviest emotional baggage behind. I’d done a lot of crying there, worked things out, and I was definitely on the path to enlightenment now!
And so, I did my best yoga guru impression (not realizing it was an impression), and told him I was headed off on an open-ended journey of self-discovery to the west. I threw in something about doing a lot of meditation too. That’ll shut him up, I thought smugly to myself.
“What’s her name?” he shot back, seemingly ignoring everything I’d just said.
Okay buddy, screw you. Let me out. I don’t care if we are on the highway.
“Do you still love her?”
Before I knew what was coming out of my mouth – I heard myself haltingly saying: “Yes”
“Do you want to make it work?”
I started mumbling: yeses, nos.
He asked me a few more questions. I don’t know why, but I answered them all.
He was quiet for a moment, and gave me another once over:
“Maybe your journey is about learning to let go.”
As the car raced onward, we got lost talking – literally. He missed not one, not two, but three turns off I-94.
As we doubled back from St Paul, navigating to the airport on roads I’d never been on before, our conversation turned toward what it was like for him to be a father:
“I wish I’d been on more adventures and made memories before I had my son.” He told me, “It’s hard to explain. But when you’re a dad there’s so much you want to give your kids that you can’t. But stories… what you experienced and learned, the choices you made… sharing that can be greatest gift you can give them.”
When we got to the airport, I felt somewhat panicked that I'd miss my flight, so I got ready to rush out as soon as the car stopped at the curb. But he stopped me again. Reaching into his shirt, he pulled a necklace of prayer beads from around his neck.
Handing them to me, he said with that same mischievous smile on his face again: “Earlier, when you were pretending you were enlightened, you said you meditated. I think you need these more than me. Go have adventures. Go create memories. Be safe brother.”
On my journey, new people like the cab driver came onto my path almost every day. Here are some images of a few of them. There are dozens more I never captured. I could tell you a story about each for hours.
I’m so thankful for my time with that driver, for so many reasons, but perhaps none more so than for teaching me at the very outset that everyone I was to meet had something profound to teach, if only I’m willing to slow down enough to truly listen.
Part IV: Temptation
I think there’s a point on every journey of self-discovery when the searcher doubts whether they are on the right path, and when they must decide: should I turn around?
My first few months on the road, I traveled untold miles, visited almost 30 National Parks, and felt happier and more purposeful than I could ever remember.
But, when I returned home in June 2019 I wasn’t sure how to talk to people about all I’d just experienced, let alone make sense of how it fit in life not on the road.
Were the first three months of my wanderings pointing me toward a new life direction? Or, were they an extended time of rejuvenation so I could return to my old life refreshed?
“What’s next?”
Every conversation, I’d get asked that question. I’m sure the askers had good intentions, but as someone struggling with decades of self-doubt, those two simple words carried terrible undertones. I wondered whether they were also saying:
“It is so cute that you’ve done your nice little adult outward bound for the last three months. Are you ready to come back to the real world? Which investment firm do you plan to join now?”
And, part of me wondered: are they right?
“The Achievement Path”
While my young childhood had been marked by a lot of struggles physically and academically – years of severe illnesses, learning disabilities, and bullying so bad I had to change schools – by the end of high school I’d figure out how to navigate through it all by sticking closely to what I’d later call “the achievement path”.
That path, which I first defined as academic perfection (but later came to encompass so much more), didn’t lead to popularity in the short term, but I felt sure it would lead to safety, wealth, and social standing in the long term.
I knew there were people who seemed happy (and successful) who hadn’t taken this path, but I didn’t think I'd could be one of them. As a young adult I felt like I had to cling to that path for dear life.
In high school, I eschewed friends in order to get the best grades so I could get into the “best” college. In college, when I learned the “smartest” people ended up on Wall Street. So, I figured out how to get a job there too. Once there, I strategized and executed plans to ensure I got the top possible bonuses, best promotions, and on and on and on.
The achievement path was both hard and easy. It was easy in the sense that the goals were always clear and defined by others. Whenever one was reached, the next was revealed. It was hard in that it required a lot of effort to push on: sacrifice, hard work, repeat. Ad infinitum.
The path gave me a lot and took me places that were exciting: silly money, fancy friends, business associates who made it onto the front page of the WSJ. I have a lot of happy memories from those years. But if I’m honest, I wasn’t staying on it because I really wanted any of those things. I stayed on it because I was terrified of what would happen if I got off it. I wasn’t ignorant of my enormous privilege. It seemed selfish and reckless to throw it all away for an uncertain and probably much poorer future.
Then in January of 2019, the universe unceremoniously kicked me off that path.
And… I was totally fine. The story should have ended there. But even though it felt so, so good to be free of the endless pressure to achieve for the first time in almost 20 years, parts of me began to panic - was this merely the calm before the real pain and loss came? Was I headed toward lifelong regret?
Telling people that I was going on a “sabbatical” felt like a perfect solution. I figured it would help me save face with other achievers, while also giving me enough time to rest and explore.
I was thrilled by my choice. It gave me exactly what I hoped. Those first three months of wandering were the best of my life. I’d never experienced that kind of the freedom, that much time to be fully present to beautiful places, that much space to create, or even that many opportunities to connect deeply with people who weren’t on “the path.”
At the same time, I felt like it had maintained my professional options. When I came home and people asked me “what’s next.” I felt like they were inviting me to rejoin the “straight and narrow”.
I wasn’t so sure that’s what I wanted anymore, but I felt terrified that I’d say the wrong thing and somehow ruin my future.
Trapped between these competing desires, my achiever parts came up with another idea: Sabbatical squared.
What if I told everyone I was going to see ALL the parks?
That would definitely take a long time to accomplish! I reasoned. Plus, I hadn’t done any research about it, but maybe I’d be the first person to do something like this? Maybe I could go on Oprah! All of it sounded awfully impressive to me, and I assumed it would sound impressive others too.
So, after telling the world what I was now up to, I headed north to Alaska and some of the most remote parks in the country.
~~~
Upon reaching Anchorage, I immediately headed off the grid for an 8-day backpacking trip in Wrangell St. Elias National Park, where me and 4 fellow hikers were dropped off in the wilderness by a bush plane, miles and miles from the nearest home, road, or electrical pole, and told we’d be picked up on other side of 7 mountain passes.
I’d never experienced that kind of extended disconnect from society before. Between the prolonged periods of silence, the physical intensity, and the newness of it all - that week challenged me in ways I’d hadn’t yet experienced on my travels.
Coming back to civilization, I remember feeling gratitude that I’d pushed forward with my journey and not stayed back in Minnesota. Maybe my motives to go on had been impure, but this was definitely the right choice.
At the same time, when I got done with that experience I also felt a different tug — I couldn’t sit still. Time was ticking.
What mountain should I climb now? And will it be tall enough for people back home to think it was worth my while?
But… Alaska is a unforgiving teacher. It doesn’t take long before you learn there are many mountains you can’t climb with grit and pluck alone.
One afternoon, after getting to the top of a marked trail that I felt insufficiently challenging, I decided to keep free scrambling toward a summit still several thousands of feet above. I was all alone, and it was raining.
Hours later, after having achieved my goal, on the way down I found myself on a narrow ledge, pressed awkwardly into a boulder, my arms grasping for an edge to hold. Looking down, I knew if I slipped I’d die.
Would anyone even know where to look? Why was I even climbing this mountain at all?
I made it down, thanks to some of the skills I’d learned climbing, but also due to a lot of luck. I remember pulling myself onto a safe spot after what felt like an hour of struggling and wondering whether I’d die.
Once at safety, I remember the sounds most clearly: the howling of the wind and the patter of rain on the rocks. The universe didn’t care if I climbed that mountain. I wasn’t on ESPN or with live audience waiting to erupt into applause. I was just a reckless fool on the side of a mountain, with miles to go — cold, muddy, panting for air, alone, and lucky to be alive.
A few weeks later, as I was still trying to make sense of what had happened on that mountain I found myself in a disagreement with a park ranger in Bettles, Alaska, who bemusedly asked me if I was a “park collector”.
“Wait, other people have done this?” I wanted to ask.
“Have you heard about the guy going to all the parks with his grandma. They were just on Good Morning America.”
The pit dropped out of my stomach. How much time was I putting into accomplishing this goal of seeing all the parks and climbing all these mountains? How much further were my peers back at home getting while I was doing this? How much was I risking to get it done? How much was it costing me? All of it so I can do something that’s been done many times before? And a grandma is doing it - now that’s one hell of a story… so much for Oprah.
Well, even if I wasn’t the first, maybe people would still think it was good enough if I saw all the parks in a year? As August dragged on, and the endless Alaskan summer days became longer and longer nights, I knew I was running out of time. I had to decide:
One -- quit now, enjoy the memories.
Two -- push on with all speed, keep pushing my limits and taking risks. It’d be a blur, but I’d make sure it would be epic enough that it’d get me back on the path
Or three -- finally own my journey. Stop worrying about it’s marketability. Do it on my own terms, at the speed that’s right for me, and without knowing where it’s headed.
In the weeks that followed I waffled between all three.
But in the middle of September, when I left Alaska I’d only seen 5 of its 8 parks my choice had become clear.
Had I given up the idea seeing all the National Parks? No, I still wanted to see all the Parks, but now for very different reasons than those that drove me at the beginning of the summer.
I didn’t want to go because I’d be the first person to do it, because it’d get me onto Oprah, or because it’d indirectly create a bridge back to my achievement path before January 2019.
I wanted to go to them because I’d learned that exploring this country and its parks (slowly) was the best way I knew how to find meaning, healing, and transformation.
I knew that if pushed on, and protected my journey from being anything other than what it needed to be - for me — it had so much more to teach.
Other people might think what I was doing was crazy. Other people might not understand — but if I wanted to make the most of this time, I had to learn for that to be okay.
It was time for me to own my journey. It was my job and my job alone to create, pursue, and protect my dreams.
Part V: Tall Trees and Fast Waters
I doubt many people have ever seen this tree, and yet I think it might be one the most remarkable trees on the planet. Yet there is no plaque at its base. It’s not officially named by the Park Service. There is no trail (paved or otherwise) to where it stands.
It’s probably 200 feet tall, more than 50 feet around, and perhaps as much as 2,000 years old. As amazing as that all is, those figures just make it an average giant in Sequoia National Park.
So why does this tree speak to me so much?
Study the image for a moment. What do you see?
Do you see the blue sky in the middle of its trunk? Starting at more than a 100-feet in the air, this tree is not only hollow, it doesn’t even have a back side. Keep scanning up. Even higher the tree is whole again, and there you’ll see healthy branches growing, full of pines and cones.
When traveling through the parks, I’m always learn about the natural world. Often, these learnings point back toward lessons for the human world.
Nothing I’ve seen the last two years has taught me more about resilience than Sequoia trees.
Coming out of Alaska, I was especially determined to live out the wisdom of that sequoia.
I would stand tall alone. Nothing would blow me down. And I would protect my dream against anything that sought to stop me: whether other people, their expectations of me, or even my own doubts.
And then I met a woman.
Her name was Morgan, and in November 2019 we explored Big Bend National Park together.
This particular picture was taken on our last day in the park.
Immediately after taking the photo, I thought I could take a more stunning picture. So, I asked her to stay still while I found a different angle. But as I was frantically jumping from rock to rock in search of a better view – I sat down onto a cactus.
Now, this wasn’t one of those cacti with a few cute needles – like the kind you’d find in a hip New York City dentist’s office. This was a mean and ugly cholla cactus, which releases dozens of needles (with force) into the skin of anyone foolish enough to get too close.
Now, being Mr. independent, Mr. wannabe sequoia tree, I tried to stifle might yelps as I reached back behind me to pull the needles out.
Morgan had seen the whole thing. As I reached back, she called out. “I wouldn’t do that… If you do they’ll just go deeper into the skin if you press them at all. Then it’ll take you weeks before you get them out.”
Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a pair of tweezers: “Let me help … now drop your pants.”
For the next 15 minutes. I attempted to cover myself by half standing, half crouching, and pressing my front side into a boulder while Morgan, a woman I’d been trying to impress, pulled needle after needle from my legs as I squirmed in pain like a baby praying that no one else would happen upon us and deepen my shame even further.
Our time together exploring the park was unexpectedly meaningful, and even the uncomfortable experiences, like this one, brought us close. But that was the problem… In the days after the trip as we began to talk on the phone I felt myself turning into a bit of cactus. Everything got all confused inside.
The more I felt drawn to her, the more fearful I felt, and the more I felt myself putting up prickly boundaries.
I feared that I’d give away my journey a second time if I let her get too close.
No, I decided, I needed to stand alone and not let anything get in the way of me doing what I’d set out to do – including this woman who saved my butt (literally).
After a series of long and painful conversations, we said goodbye to each and wished each other well on whatever lay ahead.
Of course, even without Morgan in the picture, I found sometimes there are forces in the universe that are a hell of a lot greater and more important than one man’s stubborn desire to have a journey of self-discovery.
Like, you know, a global pandemic. In March of 2020 life came to a grinding halt for everyone. I wasn’t going anywhere. My journey was put on pause.
For the next five months, I lived in lockdown with my parents and brother back in Minnesota.
In July, when it seemed like everyone was headed out to nature, I decided it was time for me to head back on the road too. Once more, I packed up my belongings, and went out on the road alone – determined for nothing to interrupt my dreams again.
I crisscrossed Utah, Nevada, Montana, Idaho, and California – trying to find places I’d never been before. Seeking out new experiences.
One day, I helped change the tire of a woman and her daughter who barely spoke a word of English. Another I had to scare away a bear in the dark. Later, I witnessed firefighters parachute into Lassen Volcanic National Park.
I thought they had the blaze under control, but days later I had to flee when the flames grew wild, the sky turned orange, and air became too thick to breathe.
To escape the inferno, I kept heading north, all the way until I reached Washington State.
It was there that’d I run into Morgan again, and after awkwardly circling each other for a bit, trying to decide whether I wanted meet up or not, we found ourselves together again, beside another one of our country’s beautiful rivers, on the border of the Mt Baker National Forest and North Cascades National Park.
It was getting late in the day and we had miles to go still. So moments after taking this photo we starting putting our things back in our bags. But before we closed them up, part of me wanted to show off some of my new “solo outdoorsman skills” to her.
So, even though I didn’t need water, I told her to wait, because I was going to provide us both with fresh, cold, glacial fed mountain water.
I went to the edge of the river to filter my water, but as I did I slipped and fell.
It was deeper than I expected. My head went under. As I popped back up, the freezing temperatures of water took my breath away. But as shocking as it was, I felt a desire to laugh coming over me. How absurd that my ego had made me look like a fool again I thought.
That is until I realized I was floating down the river.
My back was pointed downstream, and my head faced up to the point where I’d fallen in. I had no idea where the current was pulling me. I tried to stand, but my feet couldn’t catch anything. I was being pulled backward again, now faster.
On the shore, Morgan hadn’t seen what happened at first. But she must have heard the splash, because as I looked to shore I saw her head pop up and stare out in my direction.
I saw something in her eyes I’d never seen before in real life, pure terror.
A dam broke in my brain. No. No! This can’t be how I die. It all happened so fast. This river isn’t that strong or deep. No!
I tried to scream out to her but nothing came out of my mouth.
My arms and legs were thrashing now, trying in vain to grab hold anything they could, but the currents had polished every stone entirely smooth. The current pulled me under again, I popped back up, gasped for air, was pulled under anew.
Morgan ran down the river’s side and toward the edge, reaching her arms toward me. No! It was too far. Then, splash. She was in the river too.
I don’t know how many moments later, but eventually I felt my left hand catch the tiniest ledge. It wasn’t enough to get out, but it was enough to hold myself in place for a moment. As I desperately held on, I prayed to find another edge to get my right hand a place to hold. But as I felt my feet dragging but never catching on the river bed below, I couldn’t find anything at all.
Looking up river, I saw Morgan coming straight at me.
Oh god! I thought. If she hits me, I won’t be able to hold on.
And sure enough, as the river tossed her into me, I felt her grab onto my arm, and both of us flew backward again with nothing to grip onto but each other.
Time does strange things in the moments when you think you might actually die. It feels simultaneously more expansive and more limited.
In the seconds that followed, I'd never thought so much, or so clearly: I could feel the different jets of current, I could see all the shapes of the stones above the water, I even noticed the subtle color shifts on the surface indicating possible rocks below. As my head went under and came back again, my brain somehow knew exactly where to reach underwater. With two fingers, I caught an edge below the surface I couldn’t have seen with my eyes.
For a moment, the two of us dangled there in the water. The water rushed around us. Neither of us dared to move at all as the churning current attempted to pull us back into the flow.
Then, just as suddenly as time had expanded, it narrowed and sped. I remember screaming at Morgan to use my body to crawl out of the water. I didn’t know how much longer I could hold. If only she could escape, that was all I cared about. I remember seeing her pull herself out with her forearms, dragging herself across a rock, her belly scraping the ground -- then thinking to myself, dear god, save me. And yet, in the same thought, Morgan -- don’t turn around, what will I do if you fall in again.
I don’t know how she got me out. But I know somehow, some unknown time later, we were both sitting many feet from the river edge, sopping wet and shaking violently, when it occurred to me I’d still never looked downstream where we were headed.
Turning around, I saw we’d been at the lip of a waterfall, which led to another waterfall, and which led somewhere unknown and deep within a gorge. If we wouldn’t have caught that last rock, I don’t how we would have survived.
In making sense of my life there’s bias that I have, maybe you have it too. When I remember the past, I’m almost always the center of the story, and all the key plot points revolve around me.
In the minutes after our escape, a narrative began to form in my brain that matched this pattern. Both Morgan and I had foolishly fallen in the river out of carelessness, but through a combination of luck, big brain power, and strong forearms I had saved both of us from certain death.
It made sense to me… and it matched my experience, but… it’s not exactly what happened.
It turned out Morgan hadn’t slipped. She’d seen the trouble I was in, ran down river, and then jumped in. She was an open water lifeguard, trained in dangerous rescues. In the split second after seeing me fall in she’d surveyed the river and saw that if she couldn't grab me and get us both to that rock, I was done.
Me, Mr. strong resilient Sequoia, fierce protector of his freedoms, and adventurous hero defying conventional societal norms would have died if it weren’t for her selfless act.
Surviving the river led to a lot of reflection, and a new closeness between Morgan and me. The river showed us that when it really counted, we wanted to choose each other.
Other lessons quickly became clear in my mind too, like: life can change in a moment, sometimes when you least expect it. Truly, no one knows how long they have left to live. Every life, every moment is precious. To treat it in any other way is surely the surest path to regret.
It also gave me a large dose of humility. How strong and self sufficient was I really? And how often did I think I was right, when in reality, I’d read the whole situation wrong?
~~~
In the days that followed, I kept coming back to the river in my mind, trying understanding what else is might mean.
As I did, Morgan and I wandered through old growth groves and ancient rainforests together.
In them, I began to see what had been true for us in the river (and in my journey) was mirrored in deep structures of natural world too.
Firstly, I saw that those giant trees, the resilient towers, they weren’t exactly the models of rugged individualism that I thought they were.
This photo is from a giant redwood forest (Coastal Redwoods are close cousins of the Giant Sequoias). Some trees there were over 370 feet tall and have lived almost 3,000 years.
One might imagine that trees so tall would need roots just as deep. But that’s not the case.
Their roots only go 6 feet into the ground.
How is that possible?
Look again at the photos. Do you see how close the trees are growing next to each other?
One reason these giants grow so tall in a forest is because they interlock their roots. When strong winds blow, the force is distributed through all the trees. A wind that would blow over one tree if it were alone barely sways when it’s living in a healthy forest.
Connected roots enable trees share and support each other in other ways too. The most productive trees literally give their sugars to those nearby to ensure the forest canopy remains in tact and that next generation’s giants are poised to grow when needed.
Redwoods that grow outside of forests can grow faster at first, but they do not grow nearly as tall or live nearly so long. When the winds blow they fall. When the pests come they have no warning. When fire rages and they are damaged and they have no support. In contrast, the tallest, strongest, and oldest trees are the ones most connected to their neighbors.
Morgan had obviously saved my life in the river, but she’d hardly been the only person who’d saved me or supported me on my journey. How often had I noticed? Sometimes, but more often I’d been oblivious. Moreover, how many times had I pushed away support or longer term connection because I thought it’d make me weak and keep from realizing my dreams?
The redwoods and river would laugh.
But that wasn’t all.
This is me standing in front of a fallen giant redwood, long dead. If you scan to the top of the log, you see two saplings.
This is a nurse log.
Next time you walk through a forest look closely at the trees we call dead, and see how full of life they actually are: all the colors of the mosses growing on the “dead” bark, the shapes of the mushrooms, the small insects who live inside and help to decompose the wood, the mammals who burrow inside them, and the birds who visit and find a bounty there to feed their young.
But most remarkably of all to me, look and you may see young trees, saplings who have taken root atop them. There, closer to the sun, elevated off the fiercer competition of the forest floor, and connected to rich nutrients – they begin their life.
In time, the log will be totally decomposed. It will disappear. And where it once lay, those saplings roots will reach down to the soil, and its trunks will grow tall. Perhaps those saplings may even become giants themselves, reach higher into the heavens.
But although you may not be able to see the nurse log anymore when it this happens, it will still be there if you develop eyes that see beyond the obvious forms.
In the forest, life never ends, it just takes on new shapes.
On my journey, even when I thought I was standing tall on my own, I never was alone.
Like a nurse log, my grandmother supported me every step of my adventure. Even when I could no longer see her, she was always there. And even when this journey is over, she will always be here within me, making possible everything I do.
Of course, it’s not just my grandmother. Peel back the layers far enough and you will find the whole universe is inside you too.
What is often so hard to see in the human realm – a place where resources can seem so scarce, where achieving ones dream can feel like blood sport, and where shouting increasingly seems the norm – becomes so much clearer when we look at the trees.
We humans are also all intertwined – with our ancestors, with our friends, with people we’ve never met, and with the lands we roam. Everything is connected. How silly that I set off on this last leg of my journey believing I was alone, determined to find out who I was, and eager to push others away to get there.
As I look back, I have no regrets about pursuing my dreams doggedly. Even now, they remain as important to me as ever.
But I can also see the path to them isn’t at all what I thought. The river and the trees showed me a different way. My desire for greater self-actualization won’t be achieved in spite of others, it’ll be reached with (and through) them.
~~~
Post script
It’s been nine months since we escaped that river, and in that time much has continued to shift. Many new chapters of my life have been written. I’ve started a coaching practice. I’m selling photographs. I’m still exploring when I can, working toward seeing all the parks.
But of everything I’ve seen, what’s stirred the most inside me was making pilgrimage to our country’s civil rights sites in the south, none more so than the EJI in Birmingham Alabama. I wrote about my experiences meeting a man named Stanley there in a post on my blog.
Those experiences forced me to ask the questions of the forest again, but in new ways: not just what support has been benefitting me, but what am I doing with that support? And more deeply, how am I tending to the ones I’m connected to? I have much to say about that, but I know I’m running out of time tonight. I hope to share that with you in a future talk.
Meanwhile, what happened to Morgan? you ask.
We are both living in Austin Texas now, and in a relationship. At times, my cactus parts still flare up around her, but we’ve been able to work through it when they do.
And although we've avoided going in any more rivers, our relationship continues to save me, helping me tend wounds I didn’t even realize had been festering, unhealed for years before.
In a few weeks’ time Morgan and I are headed north to Alaska, off to explore the Parks I didn't get to in 2019.
What will we find there? How will the experiences change me? And what’s next when my pilgrimage ends?
Who knows. I can point to places on a map, but as this journey has shown me a hundred times – that predicts little. What I’ll find there will only emerge in its own time. I’m not just okay with that, I’m so grateful for the privilege and the freedom to continue exploring unknown places inside and out.
Looking forward, that’s exactly where I want to stay – connected to and caring for the people I love, while roaming spaces big enough for me to simultaneously lose and find myself anew.