You are, what they call here, an adult.

Magic moments from where wilderness expedition meets creative writing, big life news, and art in action.

Last week, I taught creative writing on an Outward Bound course in Wheeler Bay. It’s a collaboration between two amazing organizations: The Telling Room, Maine’s beloved youth literary arts organization where I’ve been a teaching artist for years, and Hurricane Island Outward Bound. This combination—creative writing and outdoor adventure—is my holy grail, the perfect marriage of my greatest passions. I’ve done this with both adults and youth in the wilderness, and it’s magic every single time. Going out on expedition nudges folks out of their comfort zones, slides them sideways into the deeper questions of their lives. Add writing and sharing personal handwritten stories to the mix, and you’ve got a group of humans who have remembered what we’re really here to do: connect to each other, to our wildest selves, and to the world. This, to me, is what it means to be alive.

Over the last four years, we’ve gone backpacking, climbed rock walls, and canoed the Rangeley Lakes. This time, our adventure was sailing the ocean in a 30-foot pulling boat. Everything—and I mean everything—happened aboard. We got really good at changing under a sarong, sleeping absolutely still, yelling “eyes away!” when we had to use the bathroom. But the ocean was always a hand’s length away, and that was reward enough. We swam with seals, sailed with porpoises. Plunged, sleepy and shivering, into the cold Atlantic every morning before seven. Each night I slipped my fingers through the dark water and watched bioluminescent plankton blink on like so many stars.

This was an emotional course for me. I am so thrilled to tell you that I have accepted a full time job writing for the Appalachian Mountain Club. I never thought that I—a freelancer with literally twelve jobs—would type those words together, “I” and “accepted” and “full time job,” but here we are. When something is exactly right, it finds a way. It’s the work I’m already doing but with a salary. It’s the direction I’m headed (more on that in a minute). It’s my dream job. It also means giving up, at least for now, something I really love.

I wrote this short letter while on course for my successor, whoever they may be. May the magic continue.

---

A letter to the next Telling Room instructor at Outward Bound:

You’ve said yes to adventure. Packed your clean laundry, your new boots, maybe a secret chocolate bar (definitely bring the chocolate bar) and driven to the end of the road. You’ve settled into camp: nestled your tarp into a grove of hemlocks and birches near a lake, or maybe you are learning how to sleep in a straight line on a pulling boat for the first time. You’ve squatted a mosquito, or six. You’re trying to remember to floss your teeth, where you put your headlamp; trying to stay one step ahead of the students. Home–your soft bed, your calendar, the cell phones and cars and people–is fading to a dull roar in the distance. Your brain and your heart suddenly have space.

Time moves differently here. Every minute a slow drip, melting into days of sun and salty air, loon calls and laughter, surprise thunderstorms and pooping in the wilderness. Your hands are tan, and they are learning to tie new knots. Your hair is tangled and you don’t care. You yell back at the belligerent red squirrels who hurl pinecones at your head; call hello to the harbor seals. Your plans for the future have narrowed to what shirt you will wear to bed, and what’s in the snack mix. You hope that today will be the day you get a brazil nut. 

You are, what they call here, an “adult.” The students curse or crack a dirty joke and then sneak apologetic glances at you, as if they’ve forgotten that you, too, were young once not so long ago, and that one doesn’t grow out of these things, you just learn to read the room better. They look at you as if you know things, and you do: how to thrive outside, how to help birth a story, how to be patient. But don’t fool yourself into thinking you’re supposed to have all the answers. It’s better if you show up open, ready to be surprised.

And surprised you will be: A morning plunge into an ocean so cold it takes your breath away. Unexpected raucous laughter. The storm rolling in too fast, changing all the well-laid plans. And your students, weird and bright and brave, who show their care by holding a sarong, by carrying the heavier bucket, by heckling each other over spice kit mishaps at dinner. The sentences they write inspire you, so deliciously new and creative you wish you’d written them.

And that’s just it, isn’t it? The secret? You are a student out here, too, learning how to believe in loon song and ocean salt, hazy sunsets and wildhearted humans. Letting the sharp fin of a porpoise fill you with wonder. Pushing into discomfort until you find your own power, until your fingers brush god. And even after you drive away from this place–months later, years later, forever later–some part of you will always be here, sitting cross-legged in the dark, sharing stories with friends under the slowly spinning stars. 

---

I have been looking for a more significant way to use my talents and passions in service to the natural world. Starting this September, I will be hiking out to AMC lodges, tagging along on adventures, following trail crews and scientists around, and telling the story of an organization I really believe in, one that combines science, advocacy, protection, and stewardship to do the big environmental work we collectively need to do.

I want to share this video with you that landed in my inbox tonight. It gave me shivers. The clips are from Climate Aid: The Voice of the Forest, an event in Maine last year that was co-organized by Protect Ancient Forests and my friend and writing mentor, Rick Bass. It was the most beautiful expression of poetry, music, writing, song, and collective action I’ve ever seen.

Everyone, giving from their highest selves what they can. Art in action. This is where I’m headed. I hope you’ll come, too.