Passing Through

The sandhill crane, Grus canadensis, has dwelled in North America for at least two and a half million years, nearly went extinct due to overhunting and habitat loss in the late nineteenth century, and thanks to decades of conservation work is today beloved by innumerable wildlife dweebs across the country, first and foremost yours truly. Why do I unabashedly proclaim my love of this species? Why does plunking my ass down in the dirt and observing gangly-graceful birds for hours on end—a decidedly passive, non-adrenalized form of outdoor recreation—give me a thrill akin to running rowdy rivers and climbing remote backcountry peaks?

It has to do with the wild, I suppose, the epic planetary story of landscape, weather, flora, and fauna within which humankind never was and never will be protagonist. Physically, mentally, and emotionally engaging this bigger story, this ultimate context, is for me the purpose of adventuring, perhaps the very definition of adventure. Rowdy rivers and remote backcountry peaks allow for