The 5 things I learned when I lost a friend on the mountain.

I’m fortunate in this life to have many friends who share my same passions. I never need to look far if I want to share a nice hike, good beer, or night of live music. It is rare, however, to meet someone whose fiery passion for everything they do is so contagious that it inspires everyone around them to push their limits.

I met Justin on Craigslist. He sent a single sentence reply to an ad I had posted looking for a new roommate. Since I was broke and the deadline was coming up, we scheduled a time for him to come by and see the place. He introduced himself as Jarstin McFlarstin (an actual nickname that everyone, even family, calls him).  The apartment was an absolute shithole, but only minutes after his arrival we were already swapping stories of grand adventures – summit conquests and life changing hikes. I was immediately inspired. My Friday plans changed from beer and video games to 8pm bedtime and grueling hike in the morning.

We lived together for 3 years, even working side by side as line cooks in a Thai restaurant in downtown Boulder. We egged each other on, as guys in their early-20’s often do, to see who could run the fastest, eat the hottest chile, or get the cute girl’s phone number.  He even convinced me to wake up at 3am one day to go climb TWO 14,000 foot mountains, then drive back to Boulder for an 8 hour shift in the kitchen. We came down the wrong way and had to summit a third peak to get back to the car.  I literally fell asleep fully clothed on my living room floor when our shift was finally over.

We hiked and climbed everything we could think of, and continuously pushed each other to go harder.

Summit number 1. Notice how we’re still happy.

One day Jarstin and some friends took off to Grand Teton National Park to climb the middle Teton.  His friends came back. Jarstin didn’t.

Losing a friend is never easy. But Jarstin and I had jokingly covered the topic before and I knew that he had very literally died exactly how he wanted to; pushing his limits in some of the most beautiful mountains in the world. It was almost poetic. It reinforced for me that we are simply visitors in nature. Things can, and will, go wrong. But beautiful life lessons emerged from the shadows of that day.

Here are the 5 things I learned from losing a friend in the mountains.

1. Making excuses is the same as preemptively quitting. 

You see, Jarstin was born with a rare condition that caused severe curvature of his spine, and deformation of his legs. He grew up wearing Forest Gump style leg braces and didn’t even take his first unassisted steps until age 10. When the braces came off the ONLY thing Jarstin wanted to do was walk. He walked to school.  He walked around the local parks in Benicia, California.  He enjoyed his walks so much that he landed a job on the trail crew in Sequoia National Park. A man at age 24 with one leg still deformed and significantly shorter than the other had chosen a career in hiking. Grueling 14 hour days of physical labor, no creature comforts beyond a simple sleeping bag and a worn-out tent, and dehydrated food for months at a time.

Jarstin straight-up kicked my ass on the hiking trails, but there was no excuse I could think of to not keep up.  If this lopsided goofball could practically jog up the side of the mountain while telling dirty jokes and whistling old showtunes he learned from his father, then my fatigue was downright pathetic. He would fall multiple times during a hike, but be back on his feet so fast I almost thought he just took a break to do a quick pushup.  I was exhausted, sweaty, and hungry, but here was Jarst – stumbling uphill faster than I could even run back down.  I had no excuse to stop. I ended up in the best shape of my life that summer.

If you want something, go get it. Making excuses is just another way of giving up ahead of time.

2. Live fast, die young. 

I know that’s just about the most cliché sentence I could ever type, but I seriously mean it. Jarstin packed more life into his 27 years than most do in 40. At one point he had bought a ticket to Laos, arrived with $25 to his name, and spent the next 2 years hand-building a bar on the Mekong. With some clever marketing and hard work he  eventually sold enough drinks to tourists to buy a plane ticket home.

That’s the kind of adventure seen in Hollywood movies, but very few people have the guts to gamble like that. I still don’t, and probably never will, but the lesson has stuck with me. This is your only trip through this life. Not everything will go exactly as planned, and not everything you experience will be pleasant. But you should arrive at the finish line satisfied with your attempt. Give it your all. Take risks, gamble, push yourself, and make a serious lasting impression.

Who knows, maybe some day your friends will even write about you.

3. Trade comfort for memories. 

Your grandkids aren’t going to want to hear the amazing story about the time you Netflix-binged an entire season of House of Cards without a bathroom break. You won’t fondly reminisce about how you once wore sweatpants for 3 weeks straight because you were too lazy to do laundry.

But spend a couple of nights in a tent when the weather dips below 0°F (did it). Have a float plane drop you off in the middle of the Canadian Wilderness with some food and a canoe so you have to paddle back across the US border (did that too).  Walk into the woods with nothing but a jacket and a pocket knife and spend the night in a handmade shelter, eating dinner that you foraged yourself (surprise, did it).  Or, spend 14 hours climbing mountains before a full kitchen shift. Thanks, Jarstin.

I find that most of the best stories I’ve heard in this life involve some sort of discomfort. A broken tent, a flat bike tire, lost luggage. Comfort is temporary, but amazing experiences turn into life-changing memories.

Out of my comfort zone. Into my life-long memories.

4. Nobody is beneath you.

 

One of Jarstin’s best friends was a part-time dishwasher in our kitchen. Jorge spoke almost no English, and for the most part kept to himself. But Jarstin took it upon himself to learn enough Spanish to ask Jorge when he needed help, ask how his day was going, and just generally be a friend. Maybe one of the only friends Jorge had in town.

A year later Jorge got a new job as a line cook at a very expensive restaurant in town, and Jarstin and I were repeatedly treated to exquisite cuisine for free, simply because we had taken the time to treat him like an equal when very few others would.

Don’t forge relationships for your own benefit. Forge relationships because all people are truly worth knowing. If you’re genuine and true, the good will follow.

5. Don’t be afraid to make a fool of yourself. 

Jarstin lived his life on stage. He was always singing, doing impersonations, whistling or cracking jokes. Sure, some of it was dumb, but nobody bats 1.000 in this world. Having the guts to throw it out there and let the world see the real you is terrifying, but overcoming that fear is true freedom. I’ve heard countless people retell stories of Jarst, and his incredible freedom of expression is always the centerpiece. Nobody remembers the stupid jokes, and nobody remembers the failures. But everyone respects the effort, and the selflessness of going for it.

Does this look like a man who cares what you think?

The  greatest men in history have failed, very publicly. The gumption to get up and carry on is the measure of the (wo)man, and all success are born out of first learning how to NOT do it.

You have no reason to not. Go out and do.

 

Never lonely when traveling alone.

Even just a few years ago the thought of adventuring outside alone seemed to me to be beyond foreign, bordering on lunacy or even downright foolhardy. These experiences are meant to be shared, and I couldn’t wrap my head around why anyone would want to wander into the woods by themselves and come back with “empty” memories of just a beautiful mountain sunset, sans compatriots.

It wasn’t until I began my current day job that I realized the true power of experiencing the solitude of nature in its full glory. You see, my job is extraordinarily social. I brew beer for a living, so I’m often spending 9 hours a day interacting with people; discussing ideas, giving tours and answering questions. When I get home I’m a slave to my burgeoning social media career; updating my website, posting to Instagram, or editing photos for a friend’s blog.  I would try to escape the bustle and grind of daily life with the same level of enthusiasm as any weekend warrior, but since most of my friends were also 20-somethings living in a college town I had more than a few adventure companions cancel at the last minute due to a few too many drinks the night before.

Being stuck inside on a beautiful Saturday because a friend didn’t want a bedtime is torturous and I began to realize that nature doesn’t have to be a team sport.

After a particularly messy breakup last summer I finally had the motivation. Lacking a “partner in crime” but certainly needing the indomitable therapist that is Mother Nature, I began exploring the mountains around my home, alone. At first simple day hikes – just a couple miles on the trail alone with my thoughts to achieve that sort of introspective zen that only fresh air and exercise can seem to achieve for me.

Soon, it was summits at sunset, watching the brilliant golds of early evening fade into gentle pastels of pink and orange, and finally vanish into deep purples. The incredible peace and quiet of twilight stars beautifully contrasted by the brisk headlamp-lit scramble down a scree slope back to my car.

Even using a tripod and remote I still call these “selfies.”

Slowly my confidence built. As an Eagle Scout,  I knew how to find a trail and basic wilderness knowledge like proper clothing, fresh water and wildlife etiquette had never faded from my memory. I started to realize that maybe I actually enjoyed my nature more alone than with a friend. Out here, I can truly be myself, and be with myself.

I don’t mean to say that one should always explore on their own.  There are very few things that solidify a friendship like a grueling hike, or exhilarating rip down icy rapids in a raft guided by a half-drunk college kid on his summer break.  But sitting alone, without the distraction of conversation is when nature can be truly experienced. Without the distraction of casual conversation the previously unnoticed minutia of an experience swell from the background. The way bird songs would be interspersed with the buzzing of a cicada, as though they were waiting their turn to make sure their stories were heard. The way a pinecone had come to rest against a rock. Hours spent watching clouds float lazily overhead.

I spent the better part of a year venturing into the mountains near my home, sometimes with company, but frequently alone. The peaceful solitude of a forest combined with the exhausting physical demands of a rocky trail provided the perfect conditions for deep introspection. Anything from a bad day at work to a legitimate life crisis could be worked through with a couple hours on the trail and soon my alone time proved to be nearly indispensable for managing my everyday life.

The benefits began to trickle into other aspects of my life; a meeting with an executive, a first date, or a job interview seemed like small beans compared to spending the night alone in an uninhabited forest. If I could plan and execute a summit hike at 2am to watch the sunrise, then why the heck would I be nervous to give a slideshow to my whole company? The confidence gained began a feedback loop of exploration and before I knew it I was planning my first solo road trip.

Impromptu night under the stars with brand new friends.

I headed north, through Jackson to the land of Big Sky, ironically because I had friends in the area that I wanted to visit. I packed my car with a weeks worth of provisions and sleeping arrangements, fully prepared to hike in and camp every single night if need be. I would be going through two different national parks and a couple hundred miles of wilderness, so I knew camping sites would be anything but scarce. I texted the only two people I knew in Jackson; an old friend from bluegrass shows in Colorado, and a digital acquaintance that I followed on Instagram.  In my true adventurous spirit I wanted to rise at 4am to catch first light on the tetons, and miraculously they agreed to join me.

We spent the better part of the day hiking around to hidden gems for photographs, foraging wild mushrooms, and sharing stories of wilderness adventures we had all enjoyed on our own. A group of three avid solo-explorers (more or less complete strangers) forming a crew seemed unstoppable. We all had the unquenchable zest for exploration and fresh air that didn’t need the tethers of a crew, yet here we were…. as a team. As the days passed, campsites were built and broken down, meals cooked and consumed, dawns turned into dusks, and quiet nights under the stars turned into stories of our lives and raucous laughter. Amidst my zeal for solitude and pride of independence I had completely forgotten how good it felt to build memories with other like-minded individuals. I had headed north on a quest for independence.

I wanted time alone with my thoughts, to watch the world turn and jot down my thoughts around a campfire. Instead of clearing my head, I ended up filling it. Filling it with beautiful memories of beautiful people, and a reinvigorated appreciation for a world shared with friends.