The Authenticity of the Remote

Jake Werlin
Jul 28, 2017 · 7 min read
Exploring Prince William Sound by kayak with NOLS Alaska

I woke to an orange sliver of light stretching across the horizon. Looking down, the twinkling lights of Seattle were a stark reminder that I was no longer in the wild frontier of Alaska. Even when packing my things up at the NOLS Farm in Palmer, AK a few hours before, I did not feel much different than when the sea-kayaking epic was in motion over the previous two weeks. It still was the course. But during that dawn approach into Seattle-Tacoma international airport, the finality of the end started to hit home.

Thinking about returning to a big city, the daily routine and home’s usual comforts triggered a pang of nostalgia for crisp sea air, remote emptiness and laughter around a camping stove. How am I going to explain this trip? “How was Alaska?” is going to come from about every person I talk to over the next few weeks. I have no idea where to begin. The adventures were so numerous, so vividly unique and such a contrast from anything that happens here that it will be hard to say anything other than “It was the adventure of a lifetime!” I’m sure that I’ll bumble my way through it, but only those who have lost themselves in the wilderness will truly understand.

So what, then, to make of returning to Seattle? So much seems to have happened in my absence, yet everything has remained the same. Trump still tweets. Russia is still a problem. NBA drama continues on. Does any of it really matter? Being disconnected for two weeks has put a lot of these diversions into perspective. It’s all entertainment — a distraction. But from what? I don’t know the full answer to that question yet, but the wilderness of Prince William Sound certainly has given me some ideas.

Perhaps what spoke to me the most, now that I think about it, was the authenticity that infused this adventure. Many of us on the expedition understood how it was modeled by our instructors — they were themselves, and they didn’t give a rat’s ass what the rest of us thought of them. It was up to us to figure out how to best interact with their personalities. Granted, it helped that both are great teachers who pushed us, challenged us, guided us, and changed us in ways that I’m sure will take a while to fully comprehend. They opened the door for us to think about tough ideas, and to question what we’ve been taught and what we believe. And that it’s OK to do that.

But they didn’t do it alone. They perhaps had the best of teachers by their sides the entire way — the remote, wild wilderness herself.

It was the rawest space I’ve seen since trekking through the mythical Himalayan peaks of Bhutan or wandering the great plains of Patagonia. Our instructors said it well when they challenged us to think of as large and pristine an area of pure wilderness as Alaska anywhere else in the world. I think I would start with Patagonia and then perhaps the Amazon, but from there I would struggle.

Mankind is without a doubt at the mercy of Mother Nature in the Alaskan wild. Passing small, weather-weary towns that are ringed by towering mountain peaks and vast open plains is humbling. The direct juxtaposition of nature’s might with our own submissive self-manifestation exemplified the true natural order of things. Nowhere to be found are the skyscrapers, highways or sounds of urban life. It is just the wild and those few bold enough to brave her temperament, constantly reminded that they are not king of the hill.

To those that think we have tamed Mother Nature and are impervious to her wishes, I dare them to spend a night at Dual Head where the nearest human is miles away and the fastest emergency response is a distant Coast Guard chopper. As that machine approaches, make sure to notice how small it is when set against the backdrop of the Chugach mountains. Then might they start to comprehend the reality of our place on this Earth. For us, paddling through the remote stretches of Prince William Sound exposed, clear as the still water of Copper Bay, that we are just as vulnerable, just as equal, and just as subordinate as all other life that share the planet.

Early on, things quickly took on a whole new meaning as we learned that every decision mattered. There was no backup. Flip a kayak? You better start a fire, because there’s nowhere to go to warm up. Stab yourself with some Cow Parsnip? Start scrubbing with sand and water, because they say it’s worse than Poison Oak (it burns by the way, in case you were wondering). We dealt with the consequences of all of our choices, both large and small — from finding soggy garlic left over in a fry-bake to whether or not to make a move in the middle of a storm. We were forced to think about basic needs in ways that are lost upon the urban dwellers. Want clean water? Plan twenty minutes ahead, because you need time to purify it. There are no trails, water spigots or park rangers here. There’s only you and your team.

As we moved deeper into the wilderness, I remember remarking many times about how quiet our surroundings were. For a land so lush in vegetation and varied terrain — after all, it is a rainforest — I was surprised at how silent it seemed to be. The rumbling calving of Chenega Glacier, the distinct, crystal-clear call of a bald eagle or the solitary splash of a jumping salmon seemed to be the only sounds to split the stillness.

I came to realize, though, that listening to the Land isn’t just about the sounds you hear. It’s the tide lines along the beach, the swirling smells of the forest moss, and the unknown pile of animal scat that you notice — right after you’ve dropped your pants over a fresh poop hole (great minds seem to think alike in the wild, it seems). I realized that I was attempting to super-impose my own expectations on top of the environment around me. There is so much to learn, to feel and to comprehend by just taking a pause. The wilderness is most definitely alive and she will speak to those humble enough to listen.

Only by understanding ourselves and opening our minds to the space around us could we successfully pave our path. We learned about concepts like sea-state, weather trends, put-outs and the human factor to aid in our navigational decision-making. These are all just fancy words for dropping our world-view of how we want things to be and, instead, accepting things for the way they are. Is that channel crossing possible with light winds, rested bodies and accessible beaches? You bet. But what happens when you see chop on the horizon, your team has been paddling for three hours and you’re looking at an exposed two-mile paddle in the chilling rain? Things change. Only by forgetting our own expectations and desires for a minute can we recognize the reality of our environment. Much like mountaineers who turn away just meters from the summit, it takes great humility to turn away from an ambitious move on the water.

We all strive to reach the unreachable, but ambitious assumptions can blind us to potentially catastrophic risks. Sometimes it’s just not meant to be.

We were pleasantly lost in the wilderness, and only there could we find our way. Alaska stripped away all of the artificial insulation with which we’ve surrounded ourselves. We were in the wildest of places, with nature showing her truest self and revealing ours. We were the equals of the orca pods, the swarms of black flies, the wandering rockfish and the roaming black bear. There is a place for us all.

We learned to listen, understand each other and acknowledge our own selves: our self-inhibitions, our insecurities and our sources of joy. The land was real and pristine, and it both challenged and inspired us to be the same amongst ourselves. Time spent chasing appearance, status, riches or whatever other temporary pursuits that consume us all is wasted time. There is only the here & the now and those with whom you spend it.

There is great energy to be found in being fully present and alive. Complete self-sufficiency — movement, shelter, cooking, hydration, safety — is all-consuming in the remote wild. It’s hard work. But only in traversing the peaks and valleys of these adventures can you find the hidden joys in the lighting of a camping stove after a long day, or riding a tidal current into a glassy glacial bay. And when you can share them with people who are openly present with you and you with them, then have you found something truly special.

And so, I return to Seattle and the hustle-and-bustle of everyday life. My greatest fear is that my experiences, relationships and learnings from the remote wilderness will fade over time. The societies that we’ve created have done a great job of clouding our view with self-righteousness, sliding the teachings of the wild to the periphery of our consciousness. Maybe, just maybe, every once in a while we should all stop ignoring Earth’s greatest teacher and listen. Perhaps then we will find our way. To Alaska, I say thank you — and see you again soon.

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade