I’ve been thinking a lot about adventure. So many of us crave it – but what is it, actually?
Is it doing something crazy – quitting your job and selling everything you own and taking off for parts unknown? Is it doing something risky – hanging from cliffs and diving out of planes and willingly allowing your life to hang in the balance? Is it doing something gigantic – traveling around the world and living large and turning heads?
All of those things certainly count as adventure – and my life has included some of those moments. But could it be that the experience doesn’t have to be berserk in order for it to make you feel alive?
Because I think that that’s what adventure really is: an experience that makes you feel alive. Something that snaps you into the present, a place most of us are more comfortable avoiding. Often, all that takes is doing something out of the ordinary, something different than usual, something that you’re not exactly sure will work out.
I woke up on Saturday morning, the only thought in my head, “I don’t want to stay home.” I love my little house, and am usually perfectly content to spend time within the four walls, but something about this weekend had me itching to get out. The weather was inopportune, as the snow had started overnight and was continuing to come down, blowing in blustery circles, slicking the roads and driving people inside.
But I needed an adventure.
So I grabbed my snowshoes, loaded up Foxy, and drove west.
If you live in Colorado, you know that I-70 is the worst place to be on a weekend morning. The ski traffic is merciless, and when you add bad roads into the mix, it can be aggravatingly slow. And about 30 minutes into my drive, that’s exactly where I found myself: bumper to bumper, creeping along at less than 5 mph, wheels grasping for grip on the ice.
“This is stupid,” I thought. “I should turn around.”
But something in me said to stick it out. I wanted to find out what might happen if I just kept going for as long as I could.
After an hour and a half, I reached Idaho Springs (a mere 30 miles from Denver), and then turned south onto an unplowed mountain road. I drove for 14 dicey miles until I reached my intended destination. And Foxy and I headed out into the winter air, where we explored in complete stillness and peace.
I thought back to the moment I had wanted to turn around, and realized that that’s when the adventure began. It’s the moment when you’re not sure if your plan is going to work, or if it will, how. The decision to keep going despite the unknowns, heading into something out of the ordinary, is unsettling and exciting (two things which often co-exist). And often, the “getting there” is just as much a part of the adventure as the destination itself.
So cook something new for dinner. Take a different road home. Sign up for the art class. Throw your name in the hat – for a job, an opportunity, a relationship. Loosen your grip on control so your hands are free to grab life and enjoy the shit out of it. Foxy will show you how.