Words and Photos by Peter Gierlach
As soon as I step onto the icy, rocky shore, the wind cuts through my skin like a frozen knife. My gloves are powerless to the assault - my fingers begin to send urgent pain signals to my brain in a last-ditch effort before succumbing to the sweet relief of numbness. The trail is slick, and each step requires extreme precision and focus, lest I roll an ankle or slip into the shallow water lapping up to my left. Once I have solid footing, I take a moment to pause, breathe deeply, and look up. While the wind whips against my down jacket, I see the light beckoning in the distance.
My endpoint is approaching.
When I think of adventure, my mind tends to lean towards extremes. I love stories of brutal expeditions in harsh environments that require deep fortitude from the adventurer. Accounts of desert trails, frozen tundras, and outrageous distances always pique my interest and stoke my inner wanderer. And, while my adventures have never been worthy of a documentary, teetered on the brink of disaster, or put my wife in actual jeopardy of becoming a single mother, I do love my own grand escapades in far-off, rugged places. Like many with a wandering soul, I look forward to those days or weeks each year when I can escape from society and explore the edge of my comfort zone in solitude.
Lately, though, waiting for those more intense expeditions hasn’t been enough to scratch my itch.
While looking forward to, and experiencing, big adventures adds enjoyment and meaning to my life, these occasional stretches on the calendar don’t do much to color the rest of the blank space in the year. My routine tends to go like this–
I, or a good friend, will find a beautiful place with rugged terrain that widens our eyes. We then consider how we could best experience that area in a way that fosters both excitement and personal growth. Finally, we commit to plans and spend weeks (or months) dreaming about the experience. It becomes all we talk about when we’re together, and the anticipation mounts like we’re kids who hear the jangling music of an ice cream truck rounding a distant corner.
Then, when we just about can’t take it anymore, the time comes. The adventure is always incredible and life-giving. In beautiful places far from civilization we refresh our spirits, and recharge our minds, all while shredding our bodies to their core. Beaten, bruised, dirty, and always smelly, we live a feral existence outside the prim and proper professional worlds we all tolerate day-in, day-out.
Finally, we return home with a new zeal for life and wisdom that we promise to take into our daily existence. And that wisdom does last - for a bit. Over time, the rising tide of domestic life drowns out the untamed inspiration that came on the trail; inspiration that sometimes becomes visible again during certain droughts, but for the most part is forgotten in a sea of to-do lists that need completing, emails that need responses, and house projects that need attention.
While I certainly enjoy this ride, it’s not one that creates a lasting or balanced satisfaction with the conflicting forces of wanderlust and contentment that swirl within me. I love my life; my family, my comfortable home, my inspiring job, and the feeling of sinking into a huge couch with a nice homemade meal and a good show on a Tuesday evening. I equally love leaving all of that, temporarily, to be reminded of how little I am capable of functioning with, what my limits are, and who I am as a person - separate from the noise of personal and professional responsibilities. These two lifestyles are constantly in conflict, and I try my best to faithfully tend to both.
But there may be a solution to this. Which is exactly why I find myself as the only person stepping onto a frozen, concrete walkway in the middle of a raging inland sea at sunset.
As we were deciding where to buy a house, my wife and I came across the “90/10” principle.
The idea is that, when making a major life decision, we should focus on what our life is actually going to be like 90% of the time - routines, schedules, workflow, commutes, etc. Then, we use that as the compass to guide our decision-making, as opposed to the fleeting (but often exhilarating) 10% - big adventures, far-off travels, exciting expeditions.
While I’ve certainly dreamed about my 90% being spent living on a trail, camping around the country, and hopping from adventure to adventure in search of the next high, that’s not where I want to be at this point of my life. I’m thrilled that the 90% includes a loving wife and a stable job and free all-you-can-eat sushi on my friends’ birthdays. But just 10% for adventure seems, well, pretty low. Instead, I’ve realized my need to fill in every extra percentage I can with adventure.
This is where National Geographic “Adventurer of the Year” Alastair Humphreys comes in. Having faced a similar dilemma with his attempt to balance adventure with domestic life, his solutions include “microadventures” and the philosophy of “living adventurously”. The idea is to bring adventure into everyday life, so that more of “90%” is filled with those moments under the stars where we feel both infinitely big and cosmically small, or those heart-pumping final steps up a mountain before we come into contact with an exhilarating view. His advice, for those in a conventional office role, is simple–
“Go sleep on a hill.”
This means we can live adventurously throughout the year; not just when our calendar allows for something bigger and more ambitious. While microadventures still require some advanced planning (especially when friends are involved), for me, I’ve distilled these ideas into a simple motto that guides my daily decision-making and makes adventure accessible even in the smallest margins of my schedule–
“Any excuse for adventure.”
This mindset changes everything. Suddenly, each day abounds with opportunities to explore, discover, and create new memories. The default answer to the question, “What should I do now?”, becomes simple: find a little adventure to embark on. This could be a long bike ride to fill a sudden gap in evening plans, a walk around a nearby natural area before an appointment, or even a convoluted goal that makes no real sense to anyone outside me or my friends (like the time my friend Jake and I followed a creekbed for 16 miles in order to reach its output in the Hudson River - “from source to sea”).
In this case, it meant me scheming up an adventure after finding some tiny peninsula sticking into Lake Ontario in Upstate New York. While noodling around on Google Maps, this little spot piqued my curiosity. It seemed to go pretty far out into the lake. It also connected to a lighthouse even further out in the water. When I found this oddity on the map, I realized that a simple hour-and-a-half detour on my drive across New York could result in a small adventure that would imprint itself in my memory for years to come. It would be foolish to pass that up.
Left: Me and my friend Jake on our “Creek to the River” adventure
That’s not to say I don’t somewhat regret my decision. After scuttling by a Coast Guard Station, which is either unoccupied or being manned by someone who sees me and deems I am not a threat, I reach the base of the lighthouse path. The walkway is completely covered in ice, evidence of an angry sea thrashing itself over the edge in high winds that are notorious in this part of the state. In just a few minutes, this lake can turn from a placid slate of cobalt-blue glass to a raging monster from a frozen hell. Not only do I need to take great care not to slip while walking out (and risk sliding all the way into the icy-black water), but I also need to keep a keen eye on the wind and wave-height so I don’t get caught out there in a sudden surge. Especially since traversing the ice will add precious minutes to my retreat.
Gingerly, I make my way further out by literally walking on water, a serene feeling when all I see to both sides are giant ice sheets lapping gently in the current. Every few feet the wind picks up strength, burrowing me deeper into my jacket. I pass a life-saving flotation device adorned with the picture and lifespan of a brave man who died while saving someone else in these waters - a poignant reminder of the uncertainty adventure always brings.
At the base of the lighthouse there is a patch of snow that steadies my footing and provides a decent seat for a rest. Hunkered down, I am a bit more sheltered from the biting wind. To my right is a thin golden line on the horizon, reminding me that the sun is setting in spite of the low clouds. The horizon looks broken, almost like a mirage, as I follow it with my eyes all the way to my location. Thick black birds wade in the water - how they manage, I don’t know - but I envy their heating system, whatever it is.
My heating system is some hot tea steaming in my Insulator bottle warmer, which takes away the numbness from my fingers in a soothing release. At this point, I begin to chuckle. Here I am, on what could have been a normal drive filled with normal stops, sitting out in a Great Lake enjoying a hot cup of tea in frigid conditions. Monotonous routine be damned.
I’m the only person out here. And for good reason. The wind is testing the limits of my layers, the sunset is nonexistent, and it is a sketchy scuttle back to the shoreline. I am anything but comfortable. But I am alive. In this moment, I feel one with the water around me. The wind makes it hard to finish a thought, which allows for a blissful reprieve from my constant mental chatter. My body is sending alerts about the conditions to my brain, and I’m choosing not to care. It’s just me and the birds, in a Great Lake, enjoying the edge of the world and all its frozen glory.
After about an hour of soaking in the experience around the lighthouse, the sound of something very concerning reaches my ears–
A splash of water.
I shoot my head around and see that the water is rising, ever so slightly. The wind direction is changing - it’s now cutting across the path instead of from the south. This is generating small waves that are gradually increasing in size. Now, instead of lapping along the bottom of the path, the water is splashing into it with some force. Give it enough time, and the waves may start splashing over - making an escape perilous at best.
Taking the cue from Mother Nature, I gulp the rest of my tea, wipe the snow chunks off my rear-end, and begin shuffling my way back to the shoreline. It’s a long, slow march, but it’s all done with a smile and sense of satisfaction.
The return to my car occurs in darkness - the sun had set without much fanfare. The heat allows my skin, burned red from the gusts, to soften. My nose is running, my breath is shallow, and my digits are coming back to life. Realizing my layers are now preventing me from feeling the heat, I strip them off and toss them into the passenger seat.
When I take off my hat, I catch a glimpse of my eyes in the rearview mirror. They are wide, joyous, full of life. My smile lines are showing. I feel vibrant and energized. Plus, there is a satisfaction knowing that I went full circle: from seeing this place on a map, to making the effort to get here, and finally experiencing it all by myself, as if it is now my own secret spot.
Pulling out of the parking lot, the mantra of “Any Excuse for Adventure” echoes in my mind. Because this experience could have so easily been avoided if I didn’t value adventure - or look for it wherever it may be found.
