Admiring the Wrong People

June 6, 2009

If heroes are examples of exceptional courage and fortitude as my pocket dictionary claims, why are they the people we strive to be? It seems that by putting astronauts, humanitarian orators, or famous sports figures on pedestals and trying to emulate their accomplishments, we are only setting ourselves up for failure.

I experienced this form of disappointment in the spring of 2009 as an intern at Assateague Island National Seashore in Virginia. I felt that fully experiencing the area by doing everything the island had to offer was an important part of my internship. I had developed an addiction to outdoor nonfiction not long before I moved to Virginia, and was spending many evenings reading climbing accounts by Krakauer and other accomplished outdoorsmen. Those, coupled with my lifelong love for fictional epic journeys like those written by Tolkien and Lewis, my malleable mind started to become warped. Under the influence of adventure literature, I started to plan a backcountry hike up the island. Twenty-six miles on sand started sounding somewhat reasonable. Nay, it actually stated sounding fun! My narrative-saturated brain conjured up romantic images of me, my pack and an isolated beach. Ah; the open road! My brain convinced me that I walked, I would discover the meaning of life and I experience nature in a spiritual way, reserved only for those who enter the wilderness alone.

Alas, it was not to be. The night before my hike, I irresponsibly stayed up late into the night playing Scattergories and drinking lemonade, which put a damper on my early morning start. After packing, repacking, a trip to Wal-Mart and then packing once more, I finally made it to the beach. While I was getting water for the walk and camp, two separate groups of people stopped to ask me about hiking and of course, to as me how much my pack weighed. Their wonder regarding the forty pounds on my back bolstered my spirits and I was feeling pretty good when I started out.

The hike was wonderful at first. I sang songs to myself, strode quickly and brightly and paused only to pick up particularly striking shells or write abstractly inspirational words in the damp sand. “Free,” the first word said. A couple miles later and the spirit moved me to pen “discover” into the side of a dune. However, thanks to my late start, before long the tide came in.

The encroaching water forced me higher on the beach to soft sand and my ill-informed motivation began to waver, and then wane in earnest. I discovered nature alright. I communed with her up to my ankles in sand that filled my shoes and blew into my face and many other chinks in my raincoat armor. I experienced what she had to offer and I hated her. Walking on sand is tough. Not Everest tough or fighting a dragon tough, but tough all the same. My next work written in the sand was “ugh.” A few miles later, and all I could muster was “?,” after which I napped, using my dropped pack as a windbreak.

When I finally dragged myself into camp, I felt lied to by myself. My heroes are not people I relate to. While they thrive on challenge and adventure, I do not. Headwinds and two gallons of water strapped onto my already too-heavy pack are enough to send me through four of the five stages of grief. (I never seem to reach acceptance.) Fun to me is not agony. I prefer a good laugh with friends, a stimulating read or a relaxing jaunt on a well-marked path with my camera and lunch.

I don’t seek freedom like the characters in my books. I was not the victim of a hard childhood or spend my formative years itching to be on the road. While I like the idea of living like my heroes, it’s just not meant to be. Looks like I’ll have to be content with reading about outdoor adventures, leave the real ones to the authors and change my heroes to someone whose accomplishments are within my sights. Does anyone know a champion decoupager or collector of small random things I can read about? I’ve got some jars all ready.