You Call This a Vacation?
Sure it is. You just won't realize it until you get home
I am 7,000 feet up in the Northern Cascades, teetering on a footwide ledge that drops 150 feet off a sheer rock face, when suddenly I realize a use for the trunk-size backpack I have been cursing for the past three days: It will help break my fall. A strap can catch on a branch, and I can dangle while someone runs for help. Or, if I land on the ground, the pack will soften the impact. And of course I have these ropes that will keep me from dropping more than a couple of feet should my foot actually slip. I feel better. I think.
In this age of pseudo adventure, when wealthy vacationers pay huge sums to be escorted by knowledgeable guides, to eat gourmet meals by the campfire, and to have their equipment carted by raft, llama, or horse, I wanted the real thing--a program that made no concessions to the soft spirit of the '90s, an adventure that made me work. So on my 30th birthday, feeling old and growing restless with day hiking in East Coast foothills, I signed up for a two-week trek into the Washington wilderness with Outward Bound.
The grandfather of adventure travel, Outward Bound started in 1941 when a British shipowner noticed that older seamen fared better than younger, presumably stronger, sailors when awaiting rescue in frigid ocean waters. An educator named Kurt Hahn determined that it was mental fortitude, more than physical skills or equipment, that most helped people to survive. So Hahn established a program of rugged challenges to help young sailors develop confidence. He called it Outward Bound after the nautical term used when a ship leaves home port for the open seas. Since then, more than 500,000 people have participated in Outward Bound programs in the United States alone.
Unnatural ties. I knew none of the nine other people in my program when we started our two-week voyage. Outward Bound rarely allows friends to take courses together because it disrupts the bonding of strangers that is considered essential to the experience. And that bonding doesn't come easily. In my group of seven men and three women, ranging in ages from 21 to 34, we have a Long Island policeman, a Seattle fourth-grade teacher, a former all-American softball player, two engineers, two college students, a lawyer who practices the martial art of hapkido, and a cellular phone company project manager who flies planes for fun.
For some of us, it is a time of change. Personal relationships are in flux, or careers have turned dull. One student is transferring to a new school. The other says he spends too much time at the computer. Our two instructors, ages 24 and 29, are energetic, encouraging, and unflappable. To our anxious queries (What if I can't carry the pack up that mountain? What if the fuel stove explodes?) they respond with a simple: "No worries." It has a surprisingly soothing effect.
Still, danger is never far from our minds. Risk, after all, is part of the excitement of scrambling over rocks, traversing snowy slopes, and balancing on knife-thin ridges at high altitude. Most of the injuries on my course are minor scrapes and bruises we wear with rugged pride. But there have been far worse. Last summer, a young woman slipped while hiking up a snowy slope and fell 450 feet. Despite the instructors' efforts, she died on the scene. In my group, one student was evacuated when he fell on a rock and slit open his knee so badly that the bone was exposed.
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