Turning Frowns into Fun

Photos: Top Ten U.S. Rivers for Rafting

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My approach to travel in the outdoors tends to be, more often than I care to admit, narrowly goal oriented, the Point A to Point B syndrome. Problems are things that keep me from reaching Point B, and by definition are to be avoided. A sudden storm, deadfall across the trail, and other unexpected obstacles are (or have been until now) the bummers in an outdoor day.

The problem-oriented approach to outdoor life has a marvelous way of keeping you focused on the present. Gone are the stretches of well-manicured trail, along which you slip into a hypnotic daze, mesmerized by the boots in front of you. Problems tend to keep your head up, your heart pounding, and your sights aimed on the next uncertain step, the next boulder to scramble over, the next thicket to navigate. When the immediate concerns are so compelling, the overall goal for the outing fades into obscurity or is forgotten altogether.

The discoveries along the way, and the giddy energy that starts to bubble up in response, are their own rewards. If we make the creek, or the mountaintop, or complete the loop hike, it's all fine and good, but now that we have so many problems to deal with, those accomplishments are pretty superfluous.

It's an attitude I've started applying to my larger life. Like most grownups, I spend too much time fretting over the myriad daily obstacles that insist on obstructing my progress. It's always something—money or phone calls or a stricken vehicle or my turn to make dinner or a doctor appointment, or, quite simply, too damned much crammed into too little time.

So I've embarked on an attitude-adjustment program, based on the we've-got-a-problem philosophy of life. During the course of the day, whenever I'm about to cross the line into that zone of frustration and angst, I make myself mutter, "Huh-oh, looks like we have a problem," and hold tight to an image of the kids meeting and embracing their outdoor challenges. It's a long, uphill haul against the gradient of a lifetime of training.

I catch myself backsliding a lot.

A few months ago, we were on a hike when an unexpected hailstorm started pummeling us with pea-size stones. We hustled under the canopy shelter of a spruce and huddled there during the storm. I immediately started thinking about how we didn't have adequate rain gear, how treacherous the slopes would be going back, how far it was to the car. Then I overheard the boys babbling about this cozy pretend house we'd found under the tree, and exclaiming at the way the hail bounced off the ground. They reached out to grab handfuls of the white pellets and gobbled them up like popcorn.

"Hey, no biggie," I reminded myself. "We just have another problem."