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Brandon Nelson
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Brandon’s take:
Another day, another 28 miles on the water. Since dawn you’ve watched
whales blow geysers into the still morning air, seen an osprey swoop
overhead with a rattle snake in its talons, and held your breath as a
whale shark passed just inches beneath your kayak. You had your
lunch-stop ambushed by a small band of camouflaged, rifle-toting
militaristas looking for dope, and in the late
afternoon were literally blown off the water by a 40-knot gale that’s
been sandblasting you for 8 hours straight. You’re 3800 miles into your
journey—500 yet to go—each one of them full of countless tales to share
with your friends back home—in real time, via satellite!
Face it, globe-shrinking communications technology is here to stay, and
it’s the greatest thing to hit wilderness expeditions since ice axes
and Eskimo rolls. For less dinero than a good dry suit, and taking up
no more room than a well-thought-out cook kit, you can haul a satellite
phone, laptop or PDA, solar panel and digital camera capable of sending
the day’s adventures and images
from any corner of the earth, to your website—and its thousands of
viewers—every day! It is a responsibility of serious, modern
expeditioners to share their harrowing and intimate experiences with
the masses of less fortunate, armchair adventurers back home. To avoid
doing so is nothing short of rude and selfish.
Put yourself in their shoes, I mean those friends and family members,
those young kids and old-timey grandfolk, the many sponsors and
supporters who made your trip possible in the first place. Think of
hearing them say those woeful words that you’ve been blessed to have
never said, “I wish I would’ve done something like that.” Imagine them
stuffed in their cubicles at work, crunching meaningless numbers and waiting for the day they’re moved one aisle
closer to the window. They LIVE to escape through your written words a
few times a week, the full-color, impossibly vivid photographs splashed
across their computer screens that YOU sent from the wilds with your
simple, lightweight gear. You’re their heart-and-lung machine, their
lifeblood.
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Heather Nelson
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For 23 hours and 30 minutes a day you relish in isolation, natural
beauty, fresh-caught feasts and high adventure. And for a mere 30
minutes you reflect, and you craft a thoughtful, inspired piece of
writing, re-living the day’s highlights, capturing the magical moments
others dream of. You attach a photo or two, simply and silently upload
the data to your website and send it to your list of fanatical
followers. In a flash you’re done and you’ve stowed the gear out of
sight and mind for another day. But back home, thousands of hearts
begin beating faster as they log on and see the new update in the
inbox!
Savoring every syllable, goosebumps covering their skin as they lean
closer to the screen, they’re transported to the wind-torn coast right
beside you. Word by word, they feel the sharp grains of sand subtly
sting and the howling wind erase all other sound. The smell of
fire-roasted fish wafts into their brains and they salivate as you
guide them lyrically through landing and devouring a trio of
triggerfish. They lay beside you in their own feather-filled sleeping
bag, sheltered from the wind by nothing more than the hull of their own
kayak, gazing up at Orion arcing across the dark, desert sky, and
wondering if they’ll wake to conditions that let them move come dawn.
For a few short moments they’re with you, they’re THERE on the
expedition. You, and a few electronic gizmos, have made that so.
Deny the masses that treat by leaving your high-tech gear at home?
Shame on you for being so rude and selfish!
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Heather Nelson
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Heather’s take:
“I’m sorry I haven’t called in four days, Dad, but we are on an
expedition!”
I glance over at the silhouette of my husband, a satellite phone
antenna emerging from behind his head like a mystical horn connecting
him to another world far, far away. The sky is bursting with reds and
purples as the sun disappears behind the jagged mountains, leaving an
aura of warm light on the Sacred Sea of Siberia. Round, black eyes
break through the water’s surface as a nerpa seal emerges to say hello.
I lose myself in the depths of his eyes, dreaming of diving with the
nerpa, exploring the lake with powerful kicks of my legs, swimming side
by side…
“Hi Ma! Yes, I know it has been days since I called. I’m sorry Ma. The
bank has been sending me lots of notices? The phone company too?!” I
press my hands over my ears to block out the sounds of home, coming
from half a world away.
Expeditions are about immersing yourself in a culture, honoring those
people with respect and thanks for the land they have welcomed you
into. They are about being 100% present with your expedition team
members and camaraderie, friendship, and sharing intimate experiences
with a quiet satisfaction.
The people who worked so hard to help you get to your destination know
that you despise reality TV, are insulted when someone excitedly says,
“You should be on survivor!” They know that you do what you do because
you LOVE plunging into un-westernized cultures, relying entirely on
your own wilderness skills to survive weeks out of your kayak or bike,
and going for days with no company but your partners and Ma Nature.
The only thing “rude and selfish” is to not revere with your full
attention the foreign land that took you a solid two years of planning,
and traveling half way around the world, to finally see. What insults
your following back home is to not allow yourself to experience the
expedition wholly and waiting until you return home to share your
experience.
The responsibility of “serious, modern expeditioners” is to focus on
the place, on yourself and your partners without a stream of electrons
or radio waves connecting you to home like a rubber band that gives you
enough slack to paddle a little farther each day, but each time you are
on the verge of inner peace, or feeling one with the wilderness, the
band is at the end of its elasticity and some assumed responsibility
from a far away land requires you to pull out the laptop, pick up the
sat phone, and transport yourself to the rat race you claim to be
escaping.
“I wish I would’ve done something like that.” People say it with a
dreamy look in their eyes. I tell them how powerful a self-support,
multi-month journey is for the time you have to grow and discover the
true you. And as I turn around to walk away, I think to myself, “I wish
I could have done something like that too.” An expedition is not truly
an expedition if you bring an electrical umbilical cord connecting you
to the realities of home. In its purest form an expedition is a journey
of the soul. The vehicles to help you make this journey are the fear of
the unknown, the testing of your physical and emotional limits,
embracing the wilderness, and LEAVING THE SAT PHONE AT HOME!!!
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