Discovering the Passion

Can you recall the first time you were outdoors and thought, “I kind of like this. I think I’ll do more of this.”

“In fact, I’m going to prioritize doing this over a lot of other really important things. I don’t really know why, it just feels like what I should do.”

As I’ve grown up to the ripe old age of 28, I spend more time reflecting on the steps taken to lead me to where I am today. I think about the big steps taken in my life so far- moving from Chicago to Bellingham for college, moving to Seattle after college, taking a job at a ski company- and these choices were heavily influenced by one common thread: Nature.

So, I’d like to tell you a story about how this passion came to be, my hope being that after you read this you will ask the same question: Where did it all begin for YOU?

Growing up just outside Chicago’s city limits, spending time in the wilderness was not something that people did. In the winter, you suffered through long, cold, dark days. The summer was almost worse. It wasn’t the sheer heat that got you, it was the humidity. A ten-minute walk to the comic store turned into a race against time to get back inside the comfortable confines of an air-conditioned home before those silk boxers disintegrated into your nether regions.

In the spring, I remember running home from the bus, dodging falling branches of 100-year-old elm trees that couldn’t withstand the thunderstorm which increased with force by the minute. Suffice it to say, suburban Chicago kids were not outdoorsy. In the nature vs. nurture argument, the weather in Chicago “nurtured” us to stay inside and play more N64.

So it comes as no surprise that my first overnight camping trip didn’t happen until I was 10 years old. Camp Echo was a rite of passage for any young and adventurous kid growing up in the North Shore. 10 years old is the youngest age you can stay overnight, and so they called it First Timers camp, which could not be a more apt description. The number of firsts campers experienced at Camp Echo was extensive; first fist fight, first love, first time getting pantsed, first time shitting in a wooden box.

And my experience was no different, but I had a few more firsts that tested my resolve.

When my parents dropped me off for camp I hopped on the bus with a mixture of cautious optimism and excitement. That was quickly shattered when the first kid I asked to sit next to looked at me dead in the eye and said No. My parents’ recollection of the story was watching the bus pull away with my baseball cap pulled down low over my eyes, sitting in a row by myself.

When we arrived at camp, I was dumbstruck by the beauty of the place. We pulled into the north end of the camp which sits at a slightly higher elevation than the rest of the property. From the parking lot, I could see the rest of the camp spill southward into a neat little peninsula about three hundred yards wide by five hundred yards long. All three sides of the peninsula were similar; about fifty yards of spaced oak trees grew outwards from the lake’s shoreline before giving way to a large grassy field. In the middle of the field was the biggest stone well I had ever seen. Sprinkled between the trees and the shoreline were a number of small log cabins with names crudely painted on the banner above each door: Featherstone Lodge, Wally Ford Lodge, Friendship Lodge.

The campers spilled out of the bus and were shepherded to the tennis courts to be sorted into our cabins. With my confidence waning from the bus ride over, I shuffled into the pack hoping to not draw any attention to myself. I must have succeeded because the next thing I know the entire camp had been sorted, counselors rounded up their campers and headed towards the cabins. I looked around and there was not a single other person left on the tennis court. At this point, my 10-year-old self started to have a mental breakdown. Does no one here like me? Did I get on the right bus? Am I here as punishment?

As I turned these thoughts over and over again in my head, I began to wander around the camp. Fortunately for me, the nurses’ office was next to the tennis courts and they must have seen me crying because a nurse came out and asked me if I was lost. I couldn’t even muster a Yes, so I just nodded. She decided the best option was to take me around to each cabin and see if there was space.

The first three cabins were a hard No. The conversation between counselor and nurse went something like this:

Nurse: Hey Greg, can-

Counselor: Jesus, not another one.

Nurse: He was on the tennis courts! Alone! He looked really sad…

Counselor: Well what do you want from me?

Nurse: You got any space left?

Counselor: I dunno, what’s in it for me?

Nurse: Not a damn thing.

Counselor: Well is he cool?

Nurse: He’s ten.

When we arrived at the fourth cabin, the nurse seemed just as defeated as I was. Her eyes gave away her true feelings about the situation; a potent stare of sympathy for my situation mixed with disdain that the task was not complete. She came to the realization that what once was her effort to be a good Samaritan, help out the poor lost kid and in turn be rewarded with the simple satisfaction of assisting, had turned into an unnecessarily frustrating task.

Luckily upon arriving at the fourth cabin, I instantly spotted a neighborhood friend and yelped, “Clark!”

It’s not what you know, it’s who you know, right? This sealed my fate, and I became a brief but proud member of the Y's Men Lodge.

The next three days were a complete 180-degree flip of the first three hours. I had the time of MY LIFE. Literally. I was ten. There wasn’t much competition in terms of life experiences up to this point.

We spent the next three days doing a variety of activities: swimming, water polo, sailing, archery, horseback riding, Capture the Flag, hiking. Camp Echo was a dream.

There are a pair of memories that stand out among the rest, which really led me to telling this story instead of another about how I discovered my passion for the outdoors.

The first memory was on the second day of camp our cabin went on a hike just outside the camp boundaries. Partway into the hike we stopped at this mysterious sand dune. I call it mysterious because we had just spent 45 minutes hiking through the dense and marshy forests, so it was odd to come across sand. The trail wound to the left, but to the right the ground had eroded creating this 30-foot long bluff about 5 feet tall. Instead of loose soil and rock below the bluff, it was a sandy oasis. How did the sand end up there? I have no idea. I just knew that my ten-year-old brain felt this place was special. My fellow Y’s Men and I spent the next two hours wrestling in the sand and jumping off the bluff trying to one-up each other. Each acrobatic maneuver was met with an enthusiastic hoot from the group which encouraged the next kid to do something more ridiculous than the last. That was the first time I can remember recreating in a place that wasn’t a park. We had walked into the woods to play.

The second memory is not incredibly exciting but distinct for me because this is something I still do today when I spend time outside. It’s tradition that on the last night of camp after dinner, the camp splits into two teams and plays an epic game of Capture the Flag. While we were at dinner, I asked my counselor if I could leave early; I wanted to spend some time alone before the game. He obliged, so I left my table and walked down to the lakeshore to watch the sunset. Listening to the smooth and rhythmic buzz of cicadas, watching a chaotic Midwest sunset where the sun is fighting to break free from the thick tangle of passing storm clouds, was where I had the simple epiphany. The ubiquitous presence of nature, oft overlooked and taken for granted, was going to consume my life. Mother Nature had cast her spell, and I was spellbound, for from that day forward, a life indoors wasn’t a life worth living. I had broken free from the suburban Chicago existence that was my world, and envisioned a grander, unpredictable future that would be the catalyst for shaping who I am and where I am today.

I challenge you to ask the same question: where did it all begin?