Adventure: Reality Check

The best place for me to be is in the field. I knew this all along, but life is full of distractions, duties, and deliverables that make being in the field and staying in the field difficult at times. Going “out there,” and getting the debris of life on our bodies and minds, is like wiping the slate clean and starting over. Travel teaches us things like who we are, what we need or don’t need, and also teaches us the reality of the world around, often far different than the news reports we see.

I don’t have FOMO.

Never had it, hopefully never will. FOMO ruins a lot of people. List keepers who love “top ten” articles. An unquenchable thirst, often made worse by the salt of the world. Why do I not have FOMO? I believe it dates back to my childhood in Wyoming. We didn’t live in Wyoming year-round because back then, there was so much snow that there was no way for us kids to get to school without a helicopter or a fifty-mile snowmobile trip across open land. We didn’t own a helicopter. Come winter, the state would move barricades across Highway 287 with a sign that said, “See you in spring.” My only friend lived in Laramie, and we would see each other once or twice a season, so most of the time, I was alone.

We had snow in summer. The house sat at 8,000 feet of elevation, and the mountains rose to greater heights behind us. Storms would form over the hotter, lower plains and then collide with cold air escaping from the peaks. Nearly every night was an electrical storm stretching across the vastness before us. We did have a TV, but it only received one channel. The local news from Cheyenne, with a thumbprint on the lens that stayed with us the entire time we tuned in. The snow is mostly gone now, as is much of the water. Summers are hotter and longer, and winters are short and dry. The environment is changing.

I have a Discord channel. Someone recently brought up the topic of climate change. This person wanted to start a project on climate change but was unsure how to begin. I immediately had ideas percolating through my grey matter, but I told this person that we all needed to find our own path. But it’s a great question, and something I’m always intrigued by. Mention climate change and half the population says, “fake news.” The other half knows there is science behind the reality, but they, too, are often immune, or numb, to the reality of what we face. Do we need to see another polar bear on thin ice? Does that resonate, or is that photograph more about the adventure of the photographer than the reality of the photograph?

I love these challenges. I love engaging with the “fake news” crowd because they are often terrified of the world around us. They are the unsuspecting victims of a campaign of fear, insecurity, disinformation, and grift, which is why I love engaging with them, because they often lack exposure to other points of view. (Some of the closest people around me fall into this category.) I often don’t like engaging with the “I know climate change is real” crowd, maybe because we believe in math, science, truth, and facts, rather than demented political rhetoric and alternative facts. We know not to believe the head of Exxon Mobile when it comes to the safety of the planet, just as we don’t get our cardio health reports from the head of Big Tobacco. (Or the nutbag Kennedy.)

Perhaps I’m part nihilist, or at the very least a sunny nihilist. There is no meaning, so we are free to create what we want. Maybe. Not a perfect fit, but getting warmer. I look at a story like climate change and think, “What fun can I have with this?” Nonbelievers, whatever. They are in the same +26 degree temps we are seeing in Santa Fe right now, right after a snow-free winter. (Yes, my fellow Americans, we have mountains, winter, and snow, at least historically.) They see the same dead kelp beds. They see the dry spots where lakes once stood. They read the same legal papers from insurance companies stating they will no longer insure coastal property. They sit at the same seaside bars that now have sandbags around the edges to protect from the encroaching swell. They see it all, but choose not to.

I never thought I would hike on a glacier.

Never. It’s not that I didn’t want to hike on a glacier; it’s just something I never thought I’d have the opportunity to do. Even after a three-hour drive, a one-and-a-half-hour ferry, a short hike, another small boat ride, and another hike, I still didn’t think about what it would be like to hike on a glacier. Even after another hike, and a sit down to kit up with ice axe, crampons, and climbing harness, I still didn’t think about what it would be like to hike on a glacier. It wasn’t until I was hiking on a glacier that I thought about hiking on a glacier. (pure awesome)

To keep us from being permanent residents of the glacier, we had a guide. (Evelyn is a guide too, but we had one additional.) The guide’s name was Alan. Alan shared that he was a photographer and had work from all over Chile. Alan kept us from danger, and also put in a few ice screws and let us do some ice climbing. Don’t think K2. Think “Climbing 101,” but still fun. In a moment between movements, Alan casually looked at me and said, “The glacier was up there when I first came here in 2019.” When I turned around to see where he was pointing, I became confused. All I saw were mountain peaks. “Where?” I asked. “Up there,” he said. “Near where that small waterfall is.”

If you look at the image at the top of this post, the “up there” is the peak behind my back. Not the snow-covered peak in front of me, but the craggy stone outcrop behind me. It might not look that far in the photograph, but let me assure you, the distance and vertical change are astounding. The rest of the group looked at each other and began to ponder the reality of what we were looking at. A massive, undeniable change in the glacier.

“These two glaciers used to be connected, back in the 1990s,” Alan added. This meant the glacier we were on was connected to the glacier in the next valley over, a massive distance from where we stood, and as recently as the 1990s. (It is one large glacier but retreating around a peninsula, as you can see in this post.) This is the kind of experience that leaves a mark. Not once does a political party creep into your mindset. What creeps in is the landscape before you. The sound of melting ice and rockfall.

I’m jaded, and I have no interest in trying to convince people, but I do love telling stories. When I think about climate change, I think, “What a wonderful story.” Wonderful, not in the cute puppy way, but wonderful in the “How the Hell do I tell this story?” way. One thing I suggest to young creatives is to “make without want or ask.” Just make shit. Don’t ask for anything in return. Want to do something on climate change? Great, go ahead. Just don’t think you are going to change the world. We live in a post-truth world. Chew on that for a minute.

I know how I would tell this story. It might surprise you. There would be skeptics, doubters, and those who wouldn’t get it, but I don’t care. I’d do it anyway. The story would make you think you were looking at one thing, all the while, I would be eating away at your subconscious. And then, when it was too late, you’d understand what I did to you. How I used a visual sleight of hand to get you to understand precisely what I want you to know. There would be no photographs of glaciers or polar bears or high water marks. There would be no vanishing islands or storm damage. Nope, none of it.

The world is evolving. Humans are partly responsible. So, what are you going to do about it? Something? Nothing? Again, maybe I’m jaded, and I think we are all doomed regardless, but in the meantime, why not stir the pot, make people think? My time on the glacier contributed to climate change. Yep. Spot on. I had to get there. My carbon footprint looks like Sasquatch. But this too is part of the story, and not just my story, our story. If climate change is your story, then go tell it. Don’t listen to anyone else. Just go.