January 4, 2006.

Nine of us woke up on day three of a big water first descent of the Yalong River, western Sichuan province, eastern flank of the Himalayas. We stuffed our cold feet into frozen bricks of shoes, wiggled our hips through crusty skirts, and shook the ice out of our kayaks. Suffering is impermanent. It was still early in the trip, and most of us hadn’t yet gotten the inevitable GI issues that Western China is known for. We drank packets of Nescafe and ate warm tsampa paste (Tibetan ground toasted barley flour and black tea; hold the rancid yak butter, please). As the sun finally reached the deep canyons, we were already miles downstream, probing the unknown, occasionally knocking icicles from our helmets.

Heavy flow seasons, the 2010s.

Many mornings of snapping my skirt on in the barely gray light, sensing friends nearby as we splash downstream, each of us still waking up. So many boofs, so many high-fives. Pulling just the right amount for a pillow landing on the local 30-footer. Afterward, we’d watch the sunrise while drinking coffee at the take-out. On those early morning sessions, I’d roll out of bed at 5:30, be in the water by 6:30, paddle five miles of Class V with some of the best paddlers on the planet, and be in front of my computer working from my home office by 9 am. By any measure, I’d call those mornings a good start to my day.

July 20th, 2022.

I woke up when a nurse bumped my gurney, and the first stab of pain post-surgery found its way through the anesthesia. “They cut off my thumb,” I remember thinking. I had severed the flexor tendon on the inside of my right thumb while washing dishes the day before. Waking up in the OR recovery room, even though my thumb was still attached to my hand, I knew that it was anything but “repaired.” The surgeons cut a zig-zag through the meat of my palm up the thumb to bring together the two ends of the tendon. I hurt, alone and vulnerable, but the tears that came were from the grief of losing kayaking, of losing this massive part of my Self.

The Stoics have an exercise of Negative Visualization to let go of judgments and adopt a more relative understanding of our suffering: “It could be worse.” It is a way of cultivating equanimity in the face of adversity. And, it is hard to mount an argument against. I am so fortunate not to have lost my thumb completely. I am so fortunate to be able to pick up my kids, bring water to my mouth, and write notes on paper even though I lost my tidy architect’s script. With time, physical therapy, and massage, I could rig my raft, row our local daily stretch of river, and begin mountain biking again.

And yet, over two years elapsed with no kayaking. I had significant pain from arthritis, nerve damage, and cold sensitivity from poor circulation. And while those things were incrementally improving, I actively embraced a quasi-spiritual practice in a mishmash of traditions. I’ve been a long-time but inconsistent student of Taoism, Buddhism, and Stoicism. Around the time I injured my thumb, I took solace verging on refuge in the meditations, discussions, and poetry offered through the audio library app “Waking Up,” by Sam Harris.

In particular, I resonate with the concept of non-duality. An overly simple definition would be that there is no Self that is separate from the experiences or objective reality that arise around us. AKA, we are one. The dissolution of self/other can be an instantaneous release from attachment, clinging, and the source of suffering. Initially, this was a bit of salve on the wound of separation from kayaking. However, the grief remained.

Most things in life things come in waves. Seasons of my life would pull me away from paddling, but we’d always reconnect. For over 30 years, I’ve identified as and clung to the idea of being a kayaker—an expedition paddler, an off-the-couch shit-runner, a river person. Kayaking has shaped where I live, my career path(s), and even who I’ve chosen to spend the rest of my life with. Although there are other sports and hobbies that I love, “kayaker” has always held the first spot in my mental list of titles. I have taken it for granted.

Early May, 2023.

I packed my 20ga shotgun into the back of my kayak alongside drybags stuffed with typical overnighter gear, plus a patchy turkey hunting kit. Late in the evening, I paddled a few painful miles of flat water, then set up camp on a cobble bar half covered in willow, cottonwood, and sycamore. An hour before dawn, I woke to a half inch of frost, bright constellations spinning overhead, and drumming grouse toms from multiple unknown directions. I never got into any gobblers, but this first glimpse of a new, woven tapestry of mixed outdoor pursuits gave me that old familiar tingle of exploration, of an expanding perspective.

October 2023.

It was the season opener for mule deer hunting here in Washington. At first gray light, I crawled out of my drenched tent to re-evaluate my decision to solo backpack hunt in the alpine Cascades. To my surprise, it was a bluebird day, I saw several does within 30 minutes, and I had shot my first big game animal by noon. four miles of hiking out, twice, and 24 hours later, I had a 110-quart cooler stuffed with venison and began my long drive home, exhausted and grinning from ear to ear.

“If your mind is empty, it is always ready for anything; it is open for everything. In the beginner’s mind, there are many possibilities; in the expert’s mind, there are very few.” Shunryu Suzuki.

For five years, I’ve embraced the beginner’s mind, learning to hunt deer, elk, bear, and turkey. I’ve been soaking up podcasts, books, and YouTube about firearms, ethics, differences in deer species, and migration routes. My dawn patrols were now quiet walks in the frosty woods, my senses tuned to the faintest snaps of twigs, flutters of wings, distant snorts, gobbles, and grunts, my eyes scanning for tracks and scat. This attunement to nature and necessary release from ego has been transformational and an unexpected blessing.

April 07, 2024, Lower White Salmon.

Susan asked me on a date to paddle our backyard Class II – III river. After a couple of practice grips on my paddle, I not only felt open to the idea, I had the sense that there was a new Adam, a new Susan, a new river to go play on in a new way. We paddled with zero expectations, surfed at Cave Wave, and I even had some solid stern squirts and screw-ups. As individuals and as a couple, Susan and I are so different than who we used to be. As co-parents to two awesome kiddos, it’s been a wonderful thing to fall in love with each other in new and different ways. Pointing at the fallibility of our “stories” of reality, “We are not who we think we are.” The same can be said of relationships.

April 08, 2024, Middle White Salmon.

I awoke at 5 am, solo paddled the “Middle” section of the White Salmon, biked my shuttle, and made it back to a video conference at 10. Somewhere that morning, coughing in the dust of logging trucks or enjoying my coffee while driving home, I must have asked myself, “Am I ready for more of this?” Even when all the signs point to an unexpected return to kayaking, it’s important to ask challenging questions.

April 09, 2024, Little White Salmon.

It almost felt like any other early morning sitting in the truck at the take-out, waiting for buddies to roll up. My drysuit felt comforting even if my boots felt too tight from years of neglect. In times past, my paddling mantras were “fewer strokes,” and “put your bow up on the new current.”

That day, my mantras became “strive less” and “manifest the new position.” There was a different baseline aerobic ability, but there were no nerves pushing me to work too hard. Of course, big boofing Boulder Sluice feels fantastic. However, sitting above Spirit, there was a strong sense of equanimity. “Am I ready for this?” was asked in an honest, unhurried way. I answered with a confident cadence of strokes toward the horizon, almost zero pull on the boof stroke, and an elbows-up, triumphant stomp in the boils below.

While I am paddling less, the rivers haven’t gone anywhere. My ability to read water, move my boat, plug holes, and roll up hasn’t diminished. Suffering exists because of the clinging and attachment. Whether it’s paddling, hunting, rafting with the family or packing lunches, I’m continually working on letting go of expectations. There is a massive freedom in letting go of a fixed self and striving for fixed outcomes.

As a Grand Canyon River Guide, we had a running inside joke, “SCENIC ALERT!!” As our guests looked up from their conversations, flat water, or Chile Verde dinners, we’d follow up with “Beauty is all around you!” This is the profound reminder that resonates with me strongly today. No matter what it is that pushes me to live more present, it is all beautiful. I am a kayaker with a little “k.” I am a husband, a dad, a hunter, a businessman, a builder, and through it all, I am still a beginner.

This morning, I traced the scar on my thumb and went kayaking.