New Adventures

It is nearing the end of monsoon season here in Tempe, and by now I have become accustomed to the frequent storms that dot our landscape in the evenings. On Wednesday night as I was leaving campus after a 12 hour day, the streetlights were reflected from the low lying clouds and it was just sprinkling as I left the building. It doesn't just sprinkle during monsoon season, though, and before I had gone a quarter of a mile, the sky opened up, soaking me in seconds and leaving me no choice but to continue the rest of the four miles home in the downpour. The ocean has taught me a lot of things, but one of the biggest things that it taught me was to find humor and joy in every situation. So, as I sloshed home through the flooded streets for the second time in three weeks, wiping my eyes every few seconds to see ahead of me through the blinding drops, I smiled and reminisced about the days on the ocean and how it all came about.

At the end of the summer of 2003, I was sifting through an Oxford Street bookshop in London, searching for a book to read on the flight home to the States after an incredible summer abroad. I was looking forward to going back to Purdue, hanging out with my friends, resuming practices on the Wabash River, and starting my junior year of college. What I didn’t know was that one of the books that I would purchase that day would forever change my life. As I sat in the tall grass of Hyde Park that evening and watched the planes circle around Heathrow, I opened up Debra Veal’s, Rowing it Alone, and got goosebumps in the warm August twilight. Her story captured me, and though at the time I never fully understood the reason for those goosebumps, I knew that deep inside of me, I wanted to row across an ocean. By the time that I landed two days later in a stormy Chicago, I knew that I was hooked. The beautiful blend of rowing, adventure, and the unknown held me in its grasp, and I could not stop thinking about it. For months, my obsession grew, and the more I researched, the more I talked to people, and the more serious I got about actually partaking in the adventure, the more I knew that I could not live my life without making the dream real. When Kohl and I registered for the race in January of 2004, we could hardly contain our excitement, looking forward the absolute adventure of a lifetime.

Now, five years later, the adventure is coming full circle, and I am happy to be helping the next generation of American ocean rowers. Anne came in from Colorado over the weekend with two of her friends, and from the moment that I opened up the door on Friday evening, I could feel the exact same excitement emanating from her as Kohl and I felt when we were first starting out. It was infectious, and I recalled my days when the adventure was new and the dream began all over again. We spent the entire night looking at pictures and sharing stories about the row.

The next morning after some pancakes, we headed out to see the American Fire. I remember the first time I saw an ocean rowing boat, the American Pearl, with Mack, and then the first time I saw the American Star in Toledo. Both times, I was overwhelmed by the tangible hold that the boat put on the adventure and I could not stop smiling. I think that the feeling is universal for those who are truly passionate about ocean rowing, as Anne had the exact same reaction when we pulled up to the boat. We spent several hours going over the boat, telling more stories, and letting Anne get a feel for life onboard in the late summer heat. By the time we went to lunch, where Kohl joined us, Anne was truly hooked. As Anne shared her own story of her original teammate dropping out, we suggested a few others who might be interested, and Kohl texted Mia. A few more texts and a phone call later, a partnership was born, and within the hour, the new American Fire team was finalized. We went back to the boat, where the four of us equally shared in the new excitement. Kohl and I looked on like proud parents as Anne and Mia crawled into the cabin and all over the boat and started talking about how they were going to go about their adventure.

That evening, we headed to Hannah’s to watch Ohio State get clobbered by USC (it was pretty much a bad week for the Big 10), before going over to Jose’s for an ultimate Frisbee party to celebrate the start of the fall league. It was an excellent way to end an exciting day, and I look forward to watching the campaign grow each day until Kohl and I are standing in the Canaries, watching our boat and new team as they row into the horizon.

Anne and her friends left early on Sunday morning in order to get back to Colorado by Monday for work, so I decided to join Case, Fife, Trish, and Cody for a trip to West Clear Creek near Camp Verde. I had heard a lot about this gorgeous canyon, but had never actually been up there, and I was excited about the day ahead. After a few miles on the dirt roads, we arrived at the trailhead near the namesake creek underneath the yellowing cottonwoods. The five of us started out along the creek before the trail meandered up to the desert floodplain. Almost immediately, Case picked up some Indian pottery shards along the path, and for the rest of the trip, we all had our eyes peeled for the artifacts. We explored an old settlement ruin and then made our way back to the creek where we were greeted with a beautiful outcropping of red rock that boasted some excellent jumping cliffs and a large rope swing. Even though the water was still cool from the night before, it didn’t deter us from using the cliffs and rope for the purposes that their creators intended: living life to the fullest.

After a good time at the outcropping, we pulled our Camelbacks over our shoulders and continued along the dusty trail, finding plenty of artifacts along the way. There was a rumor of a sliderock, but the trail didn’t follow the creek exactly, and we meandered along the red canyon walls crossing the water only occasionally. Several miles of the beautiful landscape passed and I took notes in my head of places to explore further on the next trip out there before we came to the last creek crossing. We stopped for lunch and a dip in the clear water to cool our sweaty bodies before resuming the hike. Seven miles in, we were supposed to follow the trail up towards the rim of the canyon, but the trail conveniently disappeared. We hunted for it among the cacti and until we finally followed a wash to where the trail reemerged from the scrub. It was a long, strenuous hike up to the rim, but I found a whole arrowhead in the scree, and the view from the top was spectacular. From the top, it was another three miles along a dirt road to the next trail, which wound its way back to the car as the sun sank lower behind the mountains to the west. I almost stepped on my first tarantula as the September harvest moon starting rising out of the eastern rim. We lost the trail once more in the last half mile, and walked the remaining bit of the hike with the moon lighting our way back through the tall cottonwoods. All in all, it was an excellent, scenic hike, and I can't wait to come back to explore it some more.

We ended the weekend at a local pizza joint in Camp Verde before making our way back to the Valley. When I got back home and plopped down on my bed after a very full, enjoyable weekend, the moonlight streamed in through my window. I can't help but think that the same moon is shining down on the Atlantic somewhere, waiting for new adventures.