FOREWORD
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Well, here we are. This is the beginning of an adventurous collection of tales about misadventure. When I read a book, I’m not much for forewords. But then again, I’m not one to do things the way most people do (as will become evident in the following tales). I usually go back and read the foreword after I have finished the book. That’s when I yearn for the backstory.
So please, don’t feel obligated to read this first. In fact, I won’t take it personally if you never read it at all. Really, how will I ever know?
So, go ahead and read these stories in whatever order you see fit. Maybe the order you choose will unlock some mystery of the universe. Or maybe it will just be fun for you. If I have never read a book of short stories in order, why should I expect anyone else to? I’ve never been one for frivolous rules.
Now that we have that all cleared up, here is some backstory for you.
Not every adventure goes according to plan, but if it is not planned, the adventure might never go.
This concept occurred to me at some point during my college years. I was (and still try to be) of the spontaneous sort. I don’t mind a good flying-by-the-seat-of-my-pants. Life should be filled with magic and serendipity. It should be a choose-your-own-adventure book—you don’t know what life has in store for you next until you turn the page.
But adventure and spontaneity still require a catalyst. And oftentimes, that catalyst is the inkling of a plan.
I first moved to Durango, Colorado, as a clueless 19-year-old. I was certain of very few things. I knew that I loved the mountains but didn’t like school. I also knew I needed to stay in school because I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life besides go mountain biking, skiing, and snowboarding.
I arrived in Colorado with most of the proper equipment and waited for the spontaneity to happen. And to be fair, there certainly was some adventure. I was smart enough to join the Fort Lewis College mountain bike team which took me all over my new state. I saw new mountain ranges. Explored new towns. Fell in love with new trails. And did some really stupid, fun, irresponsible things.
But these were not my adventures. I was just a follower, a participant. I was not driving my own life, just along for the ride. If no one else was doing the planning, I rarely went farther than the trails behind my apartment. Was this the spontaneous and magical adventure I’d been waiting for?
At some point, the fog lifted from my young brain. If I wanted to really choose my own adventure, I had to stimulate the catalyst. I had to start to do a little bit of planning. This realization wasn’t sudden but rather a long, largely unnoticed transformation. One day, I turned around and there I was—the reluctant leader of our next adventure. I suppose the old adage is true—if you want something done, you have to do it yourself. My life was transformed.
Embracing adventure, misadventure or not, is a true art. This art stems from appreciating the unpredictability and magic within the science of nature. I never make any promises to my followers. My cheesy but authentic motto has become, “It’s always an adventure with MK.” I frequently find myself amidst misadventure, whether it be some unintentional miserable bushwhack, or deep in some gully that is too steep to ascend without climbing equipment, or on a slickrock pinnacle in a snowstorm. I’ve been caught in lightning storms above treeline, topped out rock climbs after dark, and gotten lost far from camp in the middle of a multi-day trip. I’ve broken trail in 3 feet of snow, burned a hole in my pants trying to smoke out mosquitoes, and carried a sick llama’s saddle on my back (see Volume II). I’ve broken bones, torn tendons, compromised cartilage, jostled joints, and skewered skin—all with very few regrets. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been in the thick of a major mishap and thought to myself, “This is going to make a great story if I ever get out of here.” I do, however, often regret not having packed a better variety of snacks.
You see, the reason I never enjoyed planning when I was younger is that nothing is ever quite as exciting when it goes according to plan. Where spontaneity and serendipity are forms of art, planning seems more aligned with the exactness of science. To be clear, I have nothing against the sciences. I am fully committed to the laws of physics, intrigued by the growth and function of living organisms, and even teach science to folks via outdoor education.
Despite planning’s potential for boring exactness, it could still lead to the art of misadventure. Nowadays, since the realization that “not every adventure goes according to plan, but if it is not planned, the adventure might never go,” I am obsessed with planning new adventures. Some I plan an hour before, some months in advance. My favorite season is what I call open tundra season—the time of year when the mountains above treeline are free of snow. I make plans for this season months ahead of time. If you want me to set aside a day in July, you should have asked me last year.
What’s my point? Here’s an example: A friend and I spent months planning to hike the Colorado Trail. We had an exact timeline including daily mileages and campsites, boxes of meticulously portioned food, friends lined up to help with resupplies, and contingency plans if we needed to send our dogs home early (which we did, without misadventure). We were grateful for such a fastidious plan. Our resupplies went flawlessly. Having a daily mileage goal kept me motivated. We finished on the exact date we had planned to and had a day to recover before returning to our jobs. But those were not the exciting parts of the trip. The excitement still arose from the unexpected wonders and misadventures along the way.
Ten days into the trip, along the West Collegiate route, we came across a sign informing us that we could detour onto a 23-mile reroute containing 17 miles of new singletrack on the Continental Divide. The old route consisted of dirt roads and motorized double-track. Any adventurous soul would have opted for the new, mapless route. For two days, we would not be certain where we could find water or if there was a good camp. But within 2 miles, we saw our first moose of the trip. We slept on the Continental Divide that night in a flattish depression out of the wind. The next day we were caught in a lightning storm above treeline at 9 o’clock in the morning—very early in the day for such weather. We took cover by pulling our tent over us and hunkering down right there in the open. I can assure you that it was not scary when it was actually happening because there was absolutely nothing we could do about it. On this mysterious path, the lakes, flowers, mountains, and pikas seemed slightly more wonderful. There was more excitement on this unknown, unplanned way. We were flying by the seats of our pants.
So even if you want to fly by the seat of your pants, it seems only rational to make a plan. If nothing else, remember the six Ps: proper planning prevents piss poor performance. Use scientific tools to check the weather forecast. You can even plan to explore geologic structures and treat your water with scientifically proven methods. But even the most exact of sciences is susceptible to occasional chaos. Sometimes a catalyst might disrupt the normally predictable into a whirl of serendipitous wonder. Or sometimes, you might have to hike home with duct tape and p-cord holding your shoe together (see Volume II).
The following pages comprise just a fraction of my stories of serendipity and/or unexpected catastrophe. I never set out to have a misadventure—in fact, some days I pray that I can go just one day without surprising myself—but there are no rules for how to make art perfect. We all have our own perception. It could take years for me to perfect the art of misadventure; but even then, I won’t stop exploring. I hope you enjoy (or have enjoyed) The Art of Misadventure: Volume I and that it leaves you yearning for more.
Enjoy your adventures,
– MK
