The Why of Wilderness Trips

June-July 2005

This is an article from WaveLength Magazine, available in print in North America and globally on the web.
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by Glen Stedham

It is 4:30 a.m. and I am sitting in a hotel room, warm, dry and clean, after a four day expedition—kayaking 130 kilometers from West Vancouver to Powell River. Last night I phoned an old friend. Why, she asked, do I do such things? Wasn’t it dangerous to paddle long distances alone and miles from shore?

Good questions. Why would anyone leave the comfort and security of an orderly life todo these things? Why take unnecessary risks and expose oneself to discomfort, even danger? Solo Arctic paddler, Robert Perkins, once wrote that a trip was not about the places he passed, how many miles he paddled, or what he did each day. These were just the details of the trip. For him the trip was what happened between these facts. So too for me, a trip is not about what occurs—the specifics of places—it is about the emotions experienced.

On this trip I took no camera. Can anyone convey in pictures or words what it is like to ride a motorcycle or be in love? Real emotion is ineffable. And so it is with wilderness expeditions. On this trip I experienced strong emotions throughout the trip and repeatedly faced many decisions affecting my safety. For these few days, I was able to throw off the sameness of my life. I experienced as much freedom as is possible—no commitments to anyone other than myself, no schedule other than my own. My central concerns were only natural ones: When is high and low tide? How strong is the wind? From which direction? Will it rain? Where are the tidal currents? Where will I find a campsite? What will I eat?

Along the way, I experienced life with an intensity not possible at home with all its orderly, comfortable patterns. But I cannot say that such trips are pleasurable. Looked at in an entirely rational way, they are not. In retrospect we realize that these are peak experiences—fulfilling, satisfying and wonderful—though not always pleasurable as they are being experienced.

Trips are not the way they seem in a slide show. A slide show is an idealized trip—with good weather photos, everyone in a good mood, nobody tired or sick or cold or hungry. These parts are filtered out in the telling, perhaps even forgotten.

For me, a trip is all the emotions, both the good and the bad. On this trip, I experienced moments of Zen-like meditation, paddling alone mile after mile in silence—only me, the ocean, the sky and my kayak. At times it was tedious, paddling towards a distant shore, towards trees that seemed to stay the same size, not getting bigger or nearer. I would look at my watch to check for the passage of time, since the passage of distance was hardly noticeable.

This time I was entirely alone for four days. That was both a blessing and a curse. When I am with others, the experience is more muted—seemingly safer, more moderate, less stressful, tending towards what is within everyone’s comfort zone. Decisions are less weighty when responsibility is shared. On this trip, by contrast, there was no second opinion—no comforting presence, none to help lift the kayak or remember what needed to be remembered. But also there was none who was tired, or cranky, or afraid, none to have to talk to when silence was preferred.

On any trip worth doing, there is always fear. Pushing back the patterns of everyday life is like that. There is uncertainty. There are unforeseen events. On this trip, there was a day when I had winds from the direction that every paddler hopes for— from behind. But these were strong winds producing large rolling waves, which lifted the stern of my kayak and buried the bow in the next trough. I could feel the kayak tending to broach, which would have meant a capsize.

Seeing wildlife is always a thrill. On this trip, I looked out of my tent and saw a deer pass by. When the sea grew calm, seals followed me for miles. I looked astern and saw a line of six seals swimming with me.

There is no getting away from the sheer physicality of expeditions. In midsummer, the weather is generally benign, but you never know. Soil didn’t linger in camp. Up at 4:00 a.m. and away paddling by 6:00, I made my distance before the winds rose. I had to travel when nature allowed.

Oddly, in such solitude, it seemed there was precious little idle time. Rooted in the experience, I was busy with chores or monitoring the shifting patterns of ocean and shoreline. Ashore, the ocean was always beckoning me to return. But there were moments in the evening, when the chores were done, and plans for the next day fixed, that I could just sit on the beach and stare at the sea and sky.