The Impossible First, continuation of review/muse
Impossible First
Colin O''Brady
Scribner
January 2020
I wrote earlier about the book The Impossible First by Colin O’Brady who wrote an account of his traverse across Antarctica in 2018. In the book he talks about a particularly hard day where he only made 3 miles. I had a similar situation on my Lewis & Clark bike tour last summer (—though to be perfectly clear it was no Antarctica).
I had a day where I only made it 9 miles before the weather or threat of hypothermia shut me down.
The day before had been beautiful following the Missouri River out of Great Falls into narrow canyons and the hush of high altitude birds gliding along. All day I was amazed by the ease of pedaling while knowing the Continental Divide was just around the corner. That evening I came into Wolf Creek, MT and looked for a campground or park, some place to pitch a tent. 1) the campground on Google maps wasn’t there and it all seemed kind of sketchy. There were old motels and gas stations boarded up like some apocalyptic nightmare. Also it was starting to get cold. I asked at a bar about a motel and no one knew anything—so when I went down past the railroad to a fishing motel I thought this might be it. It was basic and the only game in town. The desk clerk gave me a run-down of tomorrow’s weather. Rain all day and snow at higher elevations. Hmm, I said. I don’t have any gloves.
But I had wool socks and I wore them on my hands the next morning as I packed up. As I began the subtle climb it was easy but I was also fighting fear. About 9 miles later I was already soaking wet—and I hadn’t even started on the busier road that would take me over the Divide. At a certain point I looked around me: nothing but thigh-high grass, wet and blowing in the wind. I heard my mind say: if it gets too cold or hyperthermia sets in you can always stop and put up the tent and crawl into your sleeping bag. My self answered itself: what would make you think such a thing? But, now that it was out into the universe, I had to face it. What if?
Now any tour, large or small, is suffused with wat ifs. We can become overwhelmed by them—and, never leave the comfort of our couch. This was a real possibility. I was a 61 year old woman alone. So as a kind of conditional I told myself: If I see a barn, I’,, ull over and take shelter. Looking out over the grassy expanse, I saw an abandoned three-sided barn structure and pulled off down a long gravel drive to get to it. It’d been well used during bovine days and there was evidence of manure. I cleared a spot and set up shop.
Later, taking stock in my tent while the rain sheeted down, I knew I’d made the right call. Yes, it was only a nine-mile day, but I lived to see another.
I wrote earlier about the book The Impossible First by Colin O’Brady who wrote an account of his traverse across Antarctica in 2018. In the book he talks about a particularly hard day where he only made 3 miles. I had a similar situation on my Lewis & Clark bike tour last summer (—though to be perfectly clear it was no Antarctica).
I had a day where I only made it 9 miles before the weather or threat of hypothermia shut me down.
The day before had been beautiful following the Missouri River out of Great Falls into narrow canyons and the hush of high altitude birds gliding along. All day I was amazed by the ease of pedaling while knowing the Continental Divide was just around the corner. That evening I came into Wolf Creek, MT and looked for a campground or park, some place to pitch a tent. 1) the campground on Google maps wasn’t there and it all seemed kind of sketchy. There were old motels and gas stations boarded up like some apocalyptic nightmare. Also it was starting to get cold. I asked at a bar about a motel and no one knew anything—so when I went down past the railroad to a fishing motel I thought this might be it. It was basic and the only game in town. The desk clerk gave me a run-down of tomorrow’s weather. Rain all day and snow at higher elevations. Hmm, I said. I don’t have any gloves.
But I had wool socks and I wore them on my hands the next morning as I packed up. As I began the subtle climb it was easy but I was also fighting fear. About 9 miles later I was already soaking wet—and I hadn’t even started on the busier road that would take me over the Divide. At a certain point I looked around me: nothing but thigh-high grass, wet and blowing in the wind. I heard my mind say: if it gets too cold or hyperthermia sets in you can always stop and put up the tent and crawl into your sleeping bag. My self answered itself: what would make you think such a thing? But, now that it was out into the universe, I had to face it. What if?
Now any tour, large or small, is suffused with wat ifs. We can become overwhelmed by them—and, never leave the comfort of our couch. This was a real possibility. I was a 61 year old woman alone. So as a kind of conditional I told myself: If I see a barn, I’,, ull over and take shelter. Looking out over the grassy expanse, I saw an abandoned three-sided barn structure and pulled off down a long gravel drive to get to it. It’d been well used during bovine days and there was evidence of manure. I cleared a spot and set up shop.
Later, taking stock in my tent while the rain sheeted down, I knew I’d made the right call. Yes, it was only a nine-mile day, but I lived to see another.
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