Adventuring

I like the idea of being an adventurer.
In my head, it consists of the ability to adequately use a compass, find your way in the dark, and view all dangers as possibilities, knowing that the effort invested will lead you to greater, intangible reward.

What adventuring doesn’t typically include, in my idealization of it, is foreboding.

I am, by nature, not cut out to be an adventurer, because foreboding and risk naturally come with adventure, and embarking on adventures requires initiative. I have far too much inertia to come up with adventures.

Which is why I’ve been lucky enough to be surrounded by adventurous folk, and a general likelihood to say “yes” to anything, barring adultery, illegal activity and chemical use.

“There’s a hut up there. I’ve been told it’s beautiful. Wanna go?”
Sure.
I’m relatively unprepared. I forgot matches and headlamps. I brought children. We are in a vehicle not equipped for the steep, loose rock of the service road. We stop part way up because the dash is flashing lights to indicate an unhappy engine. Everything, children included, get transferred to an accompanying truck. I walk with a friend.

There are cougar tracks in the sand. We walk faster. We can’t possibly be far now, can we? We’ve been climbing for ages! Surely, we must be near the top?

A phone call. The hut has been claimed. They are dodgy characters, not ones who would tolerate children camping nearby. “It’s more of a tool shed, not a hut.”

We’re still walking, seemingly straight uphill. Oh, a fork in the road, and it leads to a perfect campsite. Flat, views forever, wildflowers.
“I’ll walk to the fork to wave the truck down,” she says.
I stay to take some photos of the now setting sun casting a warm, benevolent glow over the valley.

The phone rings again.
“Are you coming toward me? START SHOUTING.”
“I was going to stay here. Do you see them yet?”
“HURRY UP. START SHOUTING.” She is screaming into the phone.
I start a jog back to the fork in the road. I can hear her yelling.
I start yelling nonsense back.
When I reach her, she is perched atop a big boulder, waving her arms. She is panicked, because this guy had hopped on to the road to peer at her, close up.

He had run off when I started shouting too, then stood there, observing us. The truck arrived with our kids, and we all stood on a narrow, winding, mountain road, staring at each other.

It’s a black bear, and common enough a sight that they are generally not feared, but I suppose when it’s right up beside you, it’s a different story.

We all clamber into the truck and the executive decision, unanimous among three moms, is to drive back down the mountain. We are not camping here tonight. Every fibre of my being fears it will not end well.

It is not until we reach the valley near the ice cold river that we find a suitable site. We cobble a fire together and get to setting up tents and making dinner. It is suddenly dark.

Soon, we are staring at a starry sky, counting satellites and wishing upon the two spectacular shooting stars we saw. There is a dance-off in front of the fire. There is laughter and s’mores and very soon, tired and smoky-smelling children crawling into sleeping bags, bits of ash painting their fingers and faces.

We are wild. We are free.
We are thankfully car-camping.

The memories my kids are generating right now? I would do anything to ensure they continue on this vein. So what if it takes me two days to catch up on adequate sleep? So what if it’s thirty-seven mosquito bites on my legs and an hour or two of cleaning and laundry after getting home?

Go find an adventure.
They are always worth it in the end.