jackson's hole

My dad is so awesome.

As a young child, the unadulterated essence of my very being could not be stopped from shinning through the densest clouds on a rainy day. I lived my life through a continuous state of discovery beaming joy into and from each new experience. See, I, being an only child, had few friends and no real partner in crime, if you will, to share my sweet discoveries with. However, I did have a mom and a dad. While my mom is unquestionably the coolest thing since the other side of the pillow, this story is about a weird brotherhood between father and son.

I wonder still to this day if he just saw a brotherly void that needed to be filled, or if he in fact just has deep set in his soul a child still needing to discover and make believe cave adventures underneath every bed, kitchen counter, and couch in an our apartment at night. I have decided that it is a hybrid mix of both these things. And so, the vast majority of my time as a young boy was spent adventuring into mysterious, seemingly untouched, pristine voids within the earth’s crusts. Some call these things bottomless pits conducive to Closter phobia. We, however, call these things caves. 

My dad at this point in his career was doing some type of scientific research on the bat population in Missouri. As I recall, it was monitoring the air quality in caves and correlating that to the decline in bat population. So, I would go to “work” with him, and explore these never ending mud covered mazes in a complete absence of light. There was no better thing – putting on an old pair of overalls and waterproof booties, slapping my helmet and headlamp on, and venturing into the unknown.

These caves didn’t have side walks running down the main corridor, or electrical wires running like graffiti on the walls to taint 200 million year old stalagmites with colored lights.  These caves were faultless immaculate creations hundreds of millions of years in the making. Hidden by darkness, never basking in a single spec of sunlight, defended by nothing but natural inaccessibility spawned by mother earth. The growth of these caves can be stunted by a single insignificant fingerprint of human oil, and me — I — was crawling through layers upon layers of mud-cake admiring the magical fantasy like fields of upside down opaque soda straw formations closer than so many others. And who was behind me? My dad.

We were walking through the monotonous hills of Missouri one day, the humidity ever present in the air. When I spotted a small dark spot through the trees, hiding in the leaves. Of course as I exclaimed, DAD LOOK! He was already ready for the new adventure at hand - knowing the importance of embracing every new sidetrack in our lives. We walked up to the dark spot, and as we got closer, we saw its sneeky vastness. I stuck my head down by this hole, which had to be no bigger than 2 feet in diameter, and I felt the air blowing out and sucking in - pushing an old earthy smell into my nose. Knowing absolutely nothing about this 'hole', we decided to go in. My dad could hardly fit through. We crawled, army person style, forever. Finally itching our way towards a point where we could duck walk. This cave opened up into a HUGE cavern - and kept going long enough to daunt us. 

We got back to the park ranger office and asked about this cave, and he knew nothing about it. Turns out the cave wasn't on any map or in any records. I rightfully named the cave, "Jackson's Hole."

We would go, and go, and go – never hesitating to grasp each new opportunity with gusto and greatness. We adventured into each cave as a team, and an inseparable bond was formed between father and son. 

-Jackson

I didn't mean to grow this beard!

I’ve checked off a fair number of figurative boxes thus far in my life as a leader. My growth has been refreshing and always never-ending. I’ve worked for the whole spectrum of organizations, filling roles from the depths of leadership to delegating even the smallest details. I’ve been required to shave every morning. I’ve shown up to lead trips still covered in glitter from the night before. Anyways, while in the car on our way to an after-class lap up Looking Glass Rock, Jackson and I pondered what it really means to be a professional. What is professionalism? How far does it extend into your personal life? There are obvious boundaries, as there should be. Surely being mean or intolerant is a quality not held by any successful leader. But here’s the problem: The line is drawn in sand. There is always possibility for misinterpretation.

Jackson and I had just led a trip to Chattanooga with some of our best friends. Participants included my old college roommate, many cute girls, most of my climbing partners, and folks who had never before gone rock climbing.  The balance of roles would no doubt be the biggest struggle of this trip. A few years ago, we starting using something called an “attitude check” to get participants excited. When we yell ATTITUDE CHECK, everyone yells back WE LOVE THIS SHIT. It’s always a hit among the college-aged crowd. On this trip, we checked attitudes while climbing at a popular cliff line many times. It just so happened that we were climbing right next to a prominent figure in the North Carolina climbing community (who shall remain nameless). I looked over just after an attitude check, only to see his face changing rapidly between laughter, surprise, and disapproval. Whoops.

So what was it? Was this certain attitude check particularly offensive? Was my impromptu flagpole while leading a climb as unprofessional as the “sun’s out, guns out” mentality we often adopt? What about the simple act of giving “knucks” before embarking on a climb? At what point should we stop caring if our actions have negative impacts on the first impressions we make? Should we sacrifice the benefits of yelling WE LOVE THIS SHIT for the possibility of better first impressions? I think there is inherent value in acting with a certain amount of abandon while leading. It builds rapport, allowing for a closer connection between leader and participant. At a certain point, considering professionalism transforms into over-thought.

Most of me wants to think that it is possible to balance the roles of “peer” and “leader”, but I wonder if this idea lends itself to a two faced relationship with others. How can someone respect my leadership when, at lunch just two hours before, they heard me say the words “dood, fucking-shickadang!” Perhaps organizations of all fields should communicate exactly what they view as professional and unacceptable. It could be an appendix to the staff manual or an hour-long discussion during staff training. Topics could include: beard trimming, how many drinks to have at a party, the kinds of stickers you’re allowed to have on your bumper, and the cute girls you’re not allowed to flirt with. If organizations expect their employees to act professionally, employees should expect organizations to set their own unique guidelines. All organizations have different circumstances, which changes the way employees should act.

So, you ask, I should always act as if my life is under a microscope? No. I think the mere examination of professionalism and how it differs in different organizations usually dictates an adequate level of professionalism. Consider the mountain guide. Which guide makes you feel more comfortable and safe: The stereotypical, bearded, experienced Yosemite Valley dirt bag, or the clean cut, humble, and conservative rock climber? Both have their merits, and both create very specific environments that inspire confidence. One fosters this confidence through an obvious appearance of being a seasoned climber, while the other fosters this through a more welcoming, albeit less relaxed, environment. They both probably have good jokes, smelly feet, and a desire for gratuity. Their goals are similar, their intentions are respectable, and their executions are contrasting. Who would you pick?

I like to think I get tipped more with some stubble on my chin and dirt under my fingernails, but I try not to over-think it.

Who knows. Fuck it.

Riley.

Welcome to the Occupation.

This week, we dig out this absurd response I wrote for a job application. Pardon my repetition, but the adaptation made me laugh. Perhaps I didn't really want this job after all:

There are many important moments in a person’s life experience. Please tell us a story about one moment or experience that has affected your life and how it has helped you become the person you are today.

While I could write endlessly with the same amount of unrelenting enthusiasm I have about every single day spent in the outdoors, there is one recent day that stands out among the rest. This day wasn’t particularly unique, traumatic, or indicative of my future. It was a pretty generic Saturday in mid-October, aside from the remarkably good weather. Life for me was somewhat stressful with the impending reality of graduating college and becoming an adult in the traditional sense of the word.

In an attempt to decompress for a few hours, I made vague plans to go rock climbing with my climbing partner Jackson, much like every single day we’re in each other’s company. We had just gotten back from a perfect day of climbing that Friday evening, and as a result our motivation for another alpine start the next morning was significantly diminished. I knew that getting out of bed would bring a frigid tile floor under my feet and a severe lack of coffee in my stomach. And in fact, we must have had an unusually strong ability to telepathically communicate that morning, because we both slept until 10:30. Needless to say, we were not off to a good start for a day with weather as good as it was.

But, against all odds, we managed to not only drink coffee and eat a bagel, but also completely rack up and pack the car full of climbing gear. Celebratory high fives were exchanged as we peeled out of the dorm parking lot with a revived feeling of anticipation. Our objective was the Nose, a classic four-pitch line on Looking Glass Rock known to me for its amazing position among the Blue Ridge Mountains and proximity to my dorm room. The Nose is an often-guided climb because of its distinct cruxes, amazing views, and distinguishing “eye-brow” features. I’ve probably taken at least thirty groups there in the last six months just to climb the first pitch. It is probably still the best route I have ever climbed, and I savor the movement every single time I climb it, like bites from the sweetest strawberry imaginable.

We arrived at the base of the climb around 1 in the afternoon, giddy with excitement. Almost instantly we were flowing up the balance-intensive slab like we were seasoned North Carolina trad-masters. The transitions were quick and effortless and the 5.8 cruxes felt like walking. At every belay, we laughed with delight at the ease in which we were progressing. It seemed like just the day before we were fumbling with tangled ropes and dropped carabiners. I think I even heard Jackson cry, “DUDE! YES!” after cruising the notoriously delicate crux on his first try. Forgive my ineloquence, but we were stoked. We were the human manifestations of stoke, and it felt really, really good.

We got to the top of the climb in about an hour and half, a respectable time for such a late start. Immediately after exchanging some summit hugs, we sat down to eat the apples we were saving for the top. Without exaggerating, it was in this precise moment that I became the person I am today. Jackson and I sat down on top of Looking Glass and ate those apples in a blissful silence I had never felt before. It was a silence neither of us felt the need to break. There was not a single distraction from the reflections and realizations in our minds. It was so odd how just four or so hours before, I was sitting in my room wondering if it was going to be another boring Saturday spent milling around, snacking, and looking at pictures of other people rock climbing.

During my freshman year of college, my composition teacher gave me a letter given to him by a long-time friend and writer. At the time, it did not hold much weight or significance to me. I cast it aside, filing it away with all my other papers I’ve thought twice about throwing out from my years in school. But this past fall, I picked it up with a renewed interest and reshaped perspective. This letter is written to Seth, a recent college graduate, who harbors an assortment of uncertainties. Seth had been letting these uncertainties control his life and impede his true passion: writing. The author reassures Seth that life throws wrenches in the gears of every day, but things work out for the best. There’s no point, according to the author, in trying to teach yourself to write well. It just happens as a result of continuing to follow your passions. The author goes on to tell nostalgic stories of earlier years to provide some context for the wisdom being imparted. The whole letter is beautiful, and I treasure it every day. But the last line is one that struck me more than any other piece of writing ever has before: “One must get out of bed every morning and prepare for the great celebration of one’s own imagination, even if it doesn’t happen that day.”

In truth, the day Jackson and I climbed the Nose was a remarkably similar day to many others I’ve had while rock climbing: the sun was out, we had fun, I brought enough food and water, and I didn’t hurt myself. But that is exactly not the point. I realized on that Saturday in October that I had been living my life just as Seth had been living his. I was letting my uncertainties for the future impact the present moment. I wasn’t using my dreams as a template for every single day. It took getting out of bed on the most unlikely of mornings and climbing 400 feet up a cliff just to eat an apple for me to realize just how great a life I’ve got. If I can imagine the perfect day, there is no reason to sit around without at least trying to pursue its possibility. This particular afternoon in October will always be the experience I look back on as a pivotal moment in my growth as a friend, leader, and human.

I didn't get the job, but at least I got someone to consider the true sweetness of strawberries.

Here's a mixtape. It's about as bizarre as this job application. I recommend playing it in the car, on your next road trip, when the sun shines a bit too bright in your eyes. Or maybe just in the morning, during your first - and certainly not last - cup of coffee. Mom, I think you might like some of it, but maybe not.

https://www.dropbox.com/s/j9sozycdzk28vh6/On%20the%20road.zip

Riley.

Walmart was sold-out of monopoly board games

Alongside my climbing experience, I have also been grilling for over 11 years now. Yes, the subtle art of grilling. It all started in 2002 on a small, family owned Coleman stove. I began by taking down cheap T-Bone steaks, pseudo lean ground beef burgers and becoming fairly proficient at producing the perfect hotdog. Man, I could cook them hotdogs. With increasing amounts of practice, I could load up that stove with 3 packages of 8 hot dogs and cook them all to perfection – even while simultaneously toasting the hotdog buns.  When my family realized my talent as a grill master, one christmas morning I graduated to my very own Weber charcoal grill. It had a beautiful porcelain-enameled bowl and stainless steel cooking grate - I'll never forget that morning, happiest day of my life. Soon after that christmas of 2004, I began tackling some of the nicest Sirloins and New York Strips grocery stores could provide. Needless to say, I can cook a mean medium rare strip steak.

-Jackson