Ted Alvarez - The Wilderness Idiot: Lessons from an Accidental Adventurer

Ted Alvarez is the host of the The Explorist podcast, as well as Backpacker s Northwest editor and a National Magazine Award finalist. Whether chasing grizzly bears in the North Cascades, fording an icy Alaskan river, or drinking his own urine in the desert, he regularly goes to extreme lengths in pursuit of a good story. He lives on heroic doses of strong coffee in Seattle, Washington.

Wilderness Idiot: The Podcast

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Copyright 2019 Ted Alvarez

Lava Land and Lord of the Ring Road were previously published in Air Canada enRoute magazine.

Camping in Murdaland, Cougar Town, Guinea Pigs of Denali, Hai Country, I Am the Firestarter, In Praise of the Winter Siege, Leader of the Pack, Make Hiking Great Again, Moms Big Adventure, Mount Rainier Was Robbed, Pleasure Islands, So Good It Hurts, Spoiler Art, The Last Grizz, The Nights King, To Eat a Rat, and Wild Gym were previously published in Backpacker magazine.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.

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ISBN 978-1-4930-4304-0 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-4930-4305-7 (e-book)

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information SciencesPermanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

To my family and friends for giving me stories not even I would believeif I hadnt been there myself.

And to Trouble, which always seems to find me wherever I go.

SOMEWHERE IN THE MIDDLE OF AN 88-FOOT FALL, I DECIDED I should get better at saying no.

It mightve been 23 or 45 or 60 feet above the waterits hard to tell when time slows down like that. It slowed so much I thought I could count the pebbles in the black-streaked cliff faces surrounding the Colorado mountain pool. Seconds before, I shouted, I regret nothinga favorite line from The Simpsons . But that seemed like hours ago, and Id already cycled through six or seven reasons I would soon be wrong about how gravity and regret function as interlocking physical forces in the natural world.

At that secluded Colorado cove, I had failed every moms favorite intelligence test. I had indeed jumped off the cliff because my friends did, and soon Id reap the consequences: my brain unplugging when I slammed into the water; an embarrassing march to the car in a swimsuit exploded like a banana peel; a U-shaped bruise on my thighs and butt that looked like a toothless great white shark tried to gum me to death. It would last for weeks.

And yet my initial assessment was right: I regretted nothing. I remain dim and incapable of saying no when some new, wild experience is around the corner. It may be the eventual death of me, but thats positive reinforcement for ya.

This deep, guiding foolishness doesnt replicate itself in civilization. I dont seek thrills in the concrete jungle or walk in front of buses. But Ive come to accept that my woodsy version of FOMO has led to a buffet of outdoor experiences Ill never forget and a career in journalism where I get paid literally tens of dollars a year to visit unbelievable places and meet incredible people. And it can work for anyone. Just dont say no.

Now, theres moderation in my reckless idiocy. For instance, I wont be jumping off an 88-foot cliff again . And my yeses now tend to not involve the potential for grievous bodily harm. With age comes a very small dose of wisdom.

But I essentially stand by my credo. For the wanderlust inclined, the pathways to a truly adventurous life seem clear and rutted: Crush at an outdoor sport, amass a legion of followers who drool at your hero shots on Instagram, and host TED talks explaining how people can live their best life. You can also simply spend a lot of money.

But I didnt have a lot of money, and Im not that great at any particular outdoor sport. What I am good at, however, is being curious enough to say yes and follow up by putting one foot in front of the other while seeing who I meet and where I end up. Thats how this collection of stories came to be, amassed roughly over the last fifteen or so years of my writing career, mostly thanks to the gracious and patient editors of Backpacker and other magazines like it.

I like to think I weaponized that propensity to do things I shouldnt. To leap before I look. Bite off more than I can chew. Gulp mouthfuls of unidentified substances before I know what they are. I cant help it: Im addicted to the intoxication of experience, the pain and healing of ignorance-made-knowledge, the act of self-sabotage and growth.

This doesnt mean everyone should do it the way I did. (Im here to tell you: Dont eat a rat if you can avoid it.) Negotiate your own idiocy: You just have to embrace the blank spots beyond your comfort zone. That way lies self-knowledge, soul-quieting confidence, and the soul of wilderness.

About that wilderness: I still believe theres no better, more satisfying place for this process to happen than the wild. Some of this is what we think of truly wild placesempty deserts, lonely mountains, places with more bears than people. But wilderness is where you find it, and sometimes thats in the middle of a crowded marketplace or under your own bed. These places harden or soften you, and you emerge not quite the same person you were before.

And now more than ever before, the wilderness needs you. People who come from different spaces and backgrounds, who maybe dont feel like the wild or the outdoors or adventure is your space, Im here to tell you it is. Outsiders belong outside, and any everyperson can claim the spotlight when they find their piece of it.

I fell into an adventurous life by being too stupidor never learning howto say no. Everyone should try it.

T-SHIRT. PANTS. SOCKS. RAIN JACKET. INSULATION. BUFF. SHOES. Underwear. These are my clothes, all flying on a ripping Icelandic gale across Rauasandur Beach toward the Arctic Ocean and Greenland beyond, unless I can catch them. Thats why Im running full tilt, my toes digging out fat clumps of cold, clotted sand the color of pumpkin pie. And Im naked, my shame fully exposed to the icy patter of summer sleet sloughing off the moss-knuckled fjords behind me.

A normal person might grab a wad of seaweed and fig-leaf it back to the car for a fresh set of clothes tucked in a suitcase. I am, after all, lost deep in Icelands Westfjordsa rarely visited ventricle of densely knotted sea inlets and mountain ridges branching off the countrys Northwest coast. The only witnesses to my embarrassment are likely to be the sheep that pepper the canted green hillsides like dirty cotton balls. Here they outnumber humans 1,000 to 1.