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.
You can be an armchair athlete and do Outward Bound, but you won't like it much. Before the program, I ran 12 miles a week. After I signed up (paying a deposit on the $2,000 fee), I stepped up the regimen to 20 miles a week and filled a backpack with 30 pounds of books. Still, the course was difficult. The real pack, stuffed with gear and a portion of the group's food, weighed at least 50 pounds. On my 5-foot, 3-inch frame, that was close to half my body weight, and it threw off my sense of balance. When I tripped and landed pack side down, with my arms outstretched and my legs struggling, I looked like a capsized turtle.
Hoisting myself over large logs, deep-knee bending under fallen branches, and squishing through sinking marsh, I twisted my ankles and scratched my legs on every rock and branch. But this expedition was, believe it or not, fun. And it was stunningly beautiful. We passed through areas rich with the scent of pine, and even though I felt as graceful as a rhinoceros, I had to avoid stepping on exquisite wildflowers glowing with yellow, purple, and red.
Drinking dishwater. As does any responsible outdoorsman, Outward Bounders camp to "leave no trace." We cooked over fuel stoves instead of campfires, and to clean our bowls, we poured in a bit of water and scraped the remaining food particles into the liquid. Then we drank it. Personal hygiene was equally primitive: We dug holes 6 inches in the ground and found new--and necessary--uses for leaves, pine cones, and snow. By the second week, I hardly noticed.
What many Outward Bounders fear most is "the solo"--up to three days during which students are left alone in the wilderness to reflect on the trip and plan strategy in the event of a bear invasion. I was no different, imagining myself looking around fitfully, wondering what was making that terrifying sound. But my solo, 24 hours, wasn't like that at all. I lounged during the day and fell asleep long before dark. If bears came, I snored through it.
During the most difficult moments, though, we leaned on one another. We spent hours negotiating fields of rocks so treacherous that at one point my legs shook, and tears came to my eyes. But when a student ahead of me offered his hand and another behind me provided words of encouragement, I imagined a string tying us all together. And soon I realized what the English sailors had proven to Kurt Hahn 60 years ago--that being brave is just as crucial as being physically fit. In the end, Outward Bound was as much a journey into myself as into the great outdoors.
This story appears in the October 4, 1999 print edition of U.S. News & World Report.