Sometimes, you just have to take that leap.
And so I did.
Last year I made the decision to leave home - with absolutely nothing to accomplish rather than finding what makes me tick. I climbed a few mountains in the Arctic. Stumbled down a few more in Switzerland. Saw the Milky Way. Hiked. Got my gear stolen in Austria. Hiked some more. Saw intense light in the seemingly darkest parts of the world. Saw how similarly human we all really are. Realized that I’d been scared of how big the world was. Realized that it didn’t scare me anymore.
Lofoten Islands, Arctic Circle, March 2022
Grindlewald, Switzerland, Oct. 2021
LOST IN EUROPE: Our Week in the Arctic
“FIFTEEN ROCKS IN THE TENT, THAT HAS TO BE ENOUGH TO HOLD IT DOWN,” I yelled, realizing that the ice was too hard to stake our tent down. As a windstorm brewed atop the snowy peak that Ben and I camped on, I motioned to him, “ALL SET FOR THE NIGHT, CAN YOU GRAB OUR GEAR?” And that's when I heard it: a sliding sound, something dragging against the ice, barreling and catching speed down the peak of the mountain; a climber’s worst nightmare. Now I know what you’re thinking… you’re probably wondering if Ben managed to grab hold of a rock and save himself from the abyss thousands of feet down to the Arctic Sea beside us. Well first, let me tell you how we got in this mess.
I opened my eyes, waking up to the sounds of a bustling airport that surrounded me. It was a rough night of sleep in the Oslo airport for Ben, Emma, Nic, and I. However as we grabbed our luggage and headed to the terminal, I couldn’t help but feel excited that I was finally fulfilling a lifelong dream. Ben and I had seen the Lofoten Islands on a screensaver years ago, and swore to ourselves that one day we would summit the picturesque mountains, unzipping our tent to reveal bright sunrises and maybe even surfing on the beach. However there was a hiccup in our masterful plan: it was the dead of winter, and this would be our only window to visit the small village towns in the northlands of Norway. This would mean that instead of warm sunrises and beach surfing we would settle for blisteringly cold nights and snow that covered essentially everything in our path. After all, it was the Arctic Circle. Regardless of the facts, Ben and I were not letting anything stop us. We found Emma and Nic, two brave souls to share the journey with us, and headed out into the unknown. Honestly none of us knew what to expect.
Our plane soon touched down and we stepped off the single runway, on the only plane, heading towards the garage warehouse that was the Narvik airport. We got our rental car—a tough choice between a red one and a blue one—and pulled out for the final four hour drive to the islands. Arriving that evening at our little red fishing cabin, Ben and I turned to each other in laughter, quickly realizing that we were the only humans for miles. I stoked the fire and retired to read a book in the attic I was given to sleep in (It was actually quite cozy). The next morning we embarked for a “nearby” recreation store in search of a sleeping bag for Ben. We had always said that if we got to Lofoten, nothing was going to stop us from summiting and camping on some of the largest, most beautiful peaks in the world. Again, the only problem was that it was winter, we had limited sunlight, and it was a “bit” colder than expected; but no challenge for a Minnesotan and Michigander. We soon found the store and were greeted by the owner, a Norwegian man who chuckled as we told him about our plans to hike and climb. I later found out that Norwegians don’t really laugh often, or rather ever, so he must have been truly amused at our genius idea. Nevertheless, he sold Ben a light sleeping bag and gave me a propane canister for my mini stove. While ringing us up, Ben asked him what hikes he might recommend. Our new friend certainly had many suggestions, but was quick to follow each one with the numbers of how many hopeful climbers died on each respective mountain. There it was again…that classic Norwegian positive attitude! I’d be lying if Ben and I weren’t a bit discouraged at his statistics, but driving back to the cabin we reassured ourselves of our adept thinking and ability to turn back if needed. The following days were spent with the four of us watching bright northern lights and hiking beautiful mountains, luckily with mostly blue skies and weather that no one could complain about—except for Nic: remember, he’s from Tacoma.
As the final days approached, Ben and I found that the Tuesday before we left would allow for just a big enough weather window to hike the nearby summit of Øfferskamoyen. This peak, although monstrous and steep, was only a ten minute drive to a nearby town, with a hospital… just in case. Ben and I grabbed our gear, wished Nic and Emma goodbye, and took the car to head towards the base of the mountain. As we began our hike around 4pm, we quickly realized that it would be more difficult than previously thought. The snow was often at our knees and some holes even led up to our waists, not to mention the steep incline of the path that ran through an iced-over creek flowing down the mountain. On the bright side, there were still a decent amount of trees and bushes that would worst-case cushion our fall. Surprisingly, we soon ran into a Norwegian making her way back down from the summit. She took a long look at us as we passed and stopped to mention that we might not want to head all the way to the peak without spikes. Looking at my shoes and Ben’s, I realized that our un-spiked, spring season hiking shoes were not the best choice. But as you might have guessed, we thanked her for the information and continued up the mountain. I guess someone had to keep the “stupid American” stereotype going, right?
Within 2 hours and just before a setting sun, Ben and I reached the final upward run. We took the moment to call some friends back home and reassure Nic and Emma that we were alive before our data cut out. Seeing as we had no more brush to break our fall and a straight shot of ice/rock to the summit, Ben and I grabbed what sharp rocks we found near us and picked our way up into the darkness as the sun set behind us; one of the few moments that I am sure I’ll remember for the rest of my life.
As Ben and I reached the summit, we turned on our headlamps in search of a flat space to set our tent for the night. With no flat areas in sight and inclement weather swiftly approaching, Ben and I settled for a slanted ice patch set up against some rocks, about 10 feet from the cliff’s edge. Little did we know, our journey was far from over. I soon realized that our tent would not be secure as I couldn’t get any stakes in the iced ground below us. Faced with the decision of coming this far and turning back, Ben came up with the brilliant idea to find any nearby large stones and wedge them in the corners of the tent. I got to work, placing around fifteen rocks in the tent and asked Ben to grab our equipment near the edge of the peak. And that's when I heard it: that terrifying dragging, sliding sound. Something was surely falling off the mountain from behind me. I quickly looked and saw Ben who was frozen, looking off the edge. He was fine, but my bag pouch had been open and our cooking stove (our only access to food), had fallen thousands of feet to the Arctic Sea below us. Defeated and hungry, Ben and I settled in our tent rationing some two Nature Valley bars and a slice of pizza Nic had luckily packed. We let out a laugh, knowing that our trip would never be complete without such a misfortune. Now alive and happy, we settled to watching darkness overtake clouds looming over the Arctic Sea in front of us. In that moment, I couldn’t help but feel so small; a speck on a planet whose size I would never be able to fully grasp. But perhaps the strongest feeling was the newfound awe of just how big the world was--something I had been unknowingly searching for throughout my year abroad. And for the first time in a long time, it didn’t scare me anymore.
LOST IN EUROPE: Vienna waits, but will you?
“Slow down, you crazy child, you’re so ambitious for a juvenile…” Billy Joel’s voice sang in my head as our train embarked from Vienna, on a three hour journey cross-country to Salzburg. I pondered how many people were on my train, perhaps even in my car, listening to Billy Joel’s Vienna at that moment. Probably a lot, all thinking they’re the main character. I don’t know why I have such an intense dislike for tourists. After all, I was one, and had been for the past eight months. But I don’t think anyone wants to be a tourist. We all wish we could know every language, deciphering every sign and cultural obstacle in our path. I certainly wish I did. However, there are perks that come with being a tourist. One of the best being that rewarding feeling when you’ve successfully communicated your order to the waiter, securing a meal so as to not starve in a foreign country. It’s always a challenge, but one that we as tourists gladly partake in every step of the journey. I just wish that I felt this same way during my trip to Austria.
As the train began its acceleration one last time, I could see the mountains peaking over rolling hills of farmland that we had been passing for the past two hours, having reminded me more of rural Indiana than the magical land of Austria. I looked to Ben and Emma, who had just awoken from their slumber. I had spent the entire ride writing emails and drafting future travel plans. Emma probably dreamt of the Sound of Music tour that we would take later that weekend, and Ben perhaps of the hikes in snowy forests where we would soon find ourselves, of course with nothing more than shorts and his Jordan slides on. As the train pulled into Salzburg Central Station, I couldn’t help but feel giddy; soon to be immersed in conversations with a new culture, presenting those same challenges that every tourist so welcomes to conquer.
As the train reached a halt, I reached above me to grab my bag, containing my clothes and camera equipment that I used to document my travels everywhere. I felt it was my medium between reality back in America and the distant dream of European travel that I was constantly immersed in. Simply put, my camera acted as my second set of eyes; it was my everything. Reaching above me, I felt nothing there. My heart rate rose, my head began to spin, and possibilities all leading to the worst swirled in my mind. Running back and forth through every car in a frantic rush, I slowly came to the realization that my bag was not on this train. It had gotten off before me, assumingly by the help of a thief, or a confused traveler.
I quickly became accustomed to the coldness of Austrians as I tried to explain to the ticket attendant what had happened to me. Without a word of advice or pity, he pointed to the sign outside, directing me towards the police station. I waved goodbye to Emma and Ben as they went to the apartment, and embarked for the biggest challenge I had ever undertaken as a tourist.
I spent two hours in the Wes Anderson-esque metal box that was the Salzburg Police Station. I had once thought that communicating with a Sicilian man about which panino I wanted to order was the most difficult translation I had ever undertaken. Now, I was speaking with Officer Wilheim Müller on the contents of my stolen bag, or rucksack as he called it. Through broken English and a whole lot of frustration, Wilheim finished his investigation and handed me a pile of paperwork written in German. I signed on the dotted lines, realizing that I might have just given away my kidneys for all I knew. When asking about what I should do for my stolen passport, Wilheim shrugged and told me to call my embassy. The embassy voicemail told me that they wouldn’t be open till 8 am on Monday, meaning I had the entire weekend to feel like Tom Hanks in Terminal, except instead of an airport I was stuck in Austria.
Walking through Salzburg I couldn’t help but think of how I would get home, which wasn’t even actually my real home. I was twice removed from my real home, and couldn't have felt more like a stranger. The weekend was filled with great memories of castles, mountains, and historic towns; however I couldn’t help but shake the feeling of impending doom that I would meet on Monday, when the US consular would look at me and tell me that I was no longer a citizen, and stuck in Austria forever. Okay, maybe that wasn’t going to happen, but once again I had no idea what would.
Monday came slowly, and I ran to the station to catch my now 4am train to Vienna in the hopes of being the first at the US Embassy at 8am. My cab driver was very enthusiastic about my visit to Vienna, and insisted on pointing out the sights along the way to the Embassy. It was a change of pace from Wilheim, and really helped to take my mind off of what was to come next. I arrived at the Embassy on time, to see that 40 other people were in line before me. Once I told the guard why I was there, he escorted me to the front of the line. Finally, I thought, something was going my way. I’m not sure why I imagined there would be a sense of American hospitality at the Embassy, because the consular I spoke to must have gone to the same military boot camp as Wilheim. He told me that my police report of a stolen passport was the same as if I had lost it, and to come back at 2:30; hopefully he would get to making my emergency passport in time, he said. Seldom had I ever felt more enraged and defeated in one moment. I stepped out of the Embassy and headed aimlessly down the nearest street, taking everything I could to not collapse in defeat. Still angry at the consular and my entire situation, I redirected my attention to my surroundings. It was February, but the sun was out. I soon wandered into a park, with nothing in my hands but the H&M paper bag that held my laptop and used clothes that I’d bought in place of my stolen ones from, you guessed it, H&M. Birds were chirping and there was an old woman walking her dog beside me. A man was practicing tai chi in the field and little kids strung up in a line walked past, presumably on a school trip. A woman pushed her baby on a stroller, and with each bump she hit on the pavement, the child laughed and smiled with joy. I guess not every bump in the road is a bad thing; maybe it's not meant to veer you off into the wrong direction. For a moment, time stood still. I wished that it could be frozen, sitting on that park bench in Vienna forever. Looking down at my phone to see what time it was, I realized that it was 12:30 on February 14th, Valentine’s Day. I walked to a nearby pond, and decided that it was pretty much fate at this point. So I took out my earbuds, and turned on Vienna by Billy Joel. I somehow highly doubt that Billy wrote that song after losing his passport in Vienna, but honestly the case could be made.
So I sat, and I thought, trying to think of a happy ending. What could I gain out of this mess, if anything?
I can’t believe it has taken me this long, but right then and there I realized that not every story needs a happy ending. You don’t always need to learn some remarkable talent about yourself, or conquer an incredible feat. Like pushing an ice block on a hot summer day, sometimes making something leads to nothing.
But it's not up to me where this story leads.
Maybe some adventurous little kid will find it one day, and decide to jump into a world of the unknown; although I know I’m no Anthony Bourdain. Maybe it will just get thrown away into the JFRC archives, an adventure lost forever in time. Or maybe, just maybe, this story will find someone who needs it. After all, that's the reason we write, isn’t it? Hopefully it reminded you to slow down, and that you're doing fine. And not to worry about being everything you want to be before your time. And I do hope you realize that if not in Vienna, then somewhere, a brighter day waits for you.
LOST IN EUROPE: A story to tell your grandchildren, eh?
Barely catching our 26 euro flights. Driving our rental toyota yaris for hours down unknown roads… on the wrong side. Losing power in our cabin, stranded in the middle of a national forest, during the UK’s largest windstorm in decades.
After touching down in Edinburgh, I quickly realized that I was home. It was 45 degrees with high winds, and I couldn’t have felt better as a Michigander. It was practically shorts weather.
Over the next few days, my friends and I would embark on a journey taking us to seaside castles, whiskey distilleries, sheep farms, and our temporary home; an airbnb nestled in the middle of the cairngorms national park. Among the many home cooked dinners from Morgan and evenings by the fire, one night stands out to me the most.
It was the Friday after Thanksgiving, and while we had been hiking, a storm had been brewing that would soon make headlines. Arriving back at our cottage, we noticed the wind start to pick up a little more than usual. Then a lot more than usual. Our power instantly shut off, and we came to the realisation that our wood burning fire would be the only thing to keep us warm throughout the night. I would have contacted our host, but there were no bars in the cairngorms. Not even vodafone could save us. As we watched the trees blow and snap from our window, a brave hero emerged from the distance. Fighting the wind with every step it was our lovely airbnb host, an old woman named Lucy, walking with a hunch so the near 100 mile an hour winds didn't blow her over. To our surprise, she greeted us with candles to help light our evening. As she handed them to me, she yelled in a heavy Scottish accent, “A story to tell your grandkids, eh?”
We spent the rest of the night by the fire, listening to the wind howling through our little chimney.
Fast forward to a couple days later, walking through the maze of weathered rock and cemetery that is Edinburgh, I became quickly lost among my surroundings. With nowhere to go and every direction to turn, I found myself following a sweet melody in the distance. The music drew nearer with each step as I reached the top of yet another hill in my seemingly endless quest. As I approached him, the man next to me was strumming the beautiful song “If I Go, I’m Goin” with a raspy voice that echoed throughout the corridor he stood in. The view was indescribable. Breathtaking would have been an understatement. As I looked out over the lit windows of apartments that strung along for miles ahead, I was struck with awe. Each window with its respective story; a glance into a life that I’d probably never see again. And here I stood, thousands of miles from anyone I’ve ever known, yet I felt so at home. This would be the moment where I tell you I felt like the main character, right? Well, I’m not so sure about that, but the couple making out next to me certainly was. You see, this may not have felt like the first day of my life, but it certainly reminded me that I was far from my last.
I took in my last glance, tipped the man singing beside me, and caught up with my friends at the bottom of the hill. And ran on the tarmac the next day, almost missing my flight home.
