An Open Letter to my AP European History Teacher

“Keep history as a hobby, and go make money.”

Those were your words of advice nearly ten years ago as I was about to graduate and head off to college.

And now I find myself casually reading books about European explorers in Africa, World War I, or ancient civilizations of the Americas and taking notes as though I were still in class.

History was – and still is – enthralling. I was intrigued by the idea of being able to go to college and study mostly history; I didn’t have to spend countless frustrating hours trying to wrap my head around mathematical concepts and scientific laws that I could never hope to understand. I could take a semester-long class entirely about Early Modern England. And I would inevitably end up with a degree that left me three options – teaching, working in a museum, or law school.

I eventually followed your advice, though it took me a couple of years to come around to that path. I majored in geology and excelled academically, earning the Outstanding Senior Geology Major award and graduating with honors. I landed a coveted internship with the US Geological Survey and got accepted into a fully funded M.S. program, where I used remote-sensing data to map fault systems on Mars. I built up a decent reserve of money working in the oil patch, and then I jumped ship to the geotechnical engineering industry a few months before oil prices took a nose-dive in late 2014 and left tens of thousands of oilfield workers jobless.

At age 27, I’m very nearly living the dream. Sure, there are days when I don’t like my job, or when the rush-hour traffic on I-5 becomes frustrating beyond belief, but that’s true of everyone. I work as a geologist for a reputable engineering firm in Seattle, and I like what I do more days than not. I make a good living – not as much as the Amazombies or Microsoft crowd, but what I don’t have in income I make up for in schedule flexibility. In the past year, I’ve taken a cumulative total of five weeks off – I went canyoneering in the jungles of the Dominican Republic, climbing in the Alaska Range, and SCUBA diving in Thailand.

I was in the right place at the right time. And one of the things I learned in your class was that much of history comes down to that.

Most famous political figures throughout history got where they were largely because they were born into the right family; most famous Western explorers were simply the ones lucky enough not to succumb to disease, environmental conditions, or attacks from native tribes. Joseph Conrad survived his voyages and lived to write novels and stories that would end up on the "must-read" list of future adventurers, but how many equally talented individuals journeyed to Africa or Asia and never came back?

You knew the reality that so many baby-boomer parents of millennial children refused to acknowledge – that we’re not special snowflakes, that not everyone gets to grow up and be an astronaut, that museum curators and psychologists are not exactly hot commodities in the 21^st century. The job market for people with social science degrees is small, and society is flooded with B.A.-toting twenty-somethings convinced that their specialization in Post-Victorian Multicultural Women’s Studies warrants something other than an $11/hour gig as a barista.

I still enjoy history. Having some understanding of it has helped shape the way I think and the way I live my life. It inspires creativity, fosters a life of continued learning, and above all else, it motivates me to travel. And because I have a good job – I can afford to do those things. I can read about the Khmer Empire – and then I can go to Cambodia and see Angkor Wat for myself. I can follow Morocco’s history from Carthage to World War II – and I can explore markets in Marrakesh and hike in the Atlas Mountains and imagine 17^th century caravans traversing the vastness of the Sahara. 

I admit: there are times when I fancy myself an explorer. I read about men like John Wesley Powell, Gordon Laing, and Thor Heyerdahl and envision myself embarking on similar journeys. I’m inspired by stories like Sterling Hayden’s Wanderer, Joe Simpson’s literary portraits of the Andes and the Himalaya, and films like 180° South.

Discontent with a stable life – the security of a consistent income, a family, and a place to come home to every night – was the source of motivation for many of the explorers now immortalized on the pages of the books that collectively form what we like to call “history.” And I certainly empathize with that discontent. I can’t see myself being happy with family life. But there’s one truth that no one can ignore: innovation and adventure cost money.

The aforementioned Western explorers had to start somewhere – whether it was through their own wealth or convincing someone in a position of political and financial power to support them – they still started into the unknown with at least a boat or some horses and a meager stockpile of supplies (however useful they may or may not have been). In an age when everyone is trying to convince the masses to give them money to fund their ridiculous enterprise through GoFundMe and Kickstarter, I know better than to rely on others to satisfy my own narcissistic ambitions of adventure.

Secondary and post-secondary education in the United States is failing young people by encouraging them to "follow their dreams" instead of preparing them for the 21st century job market.

Thank you for being upfront about the career implications (or rather, lack thereof) of pursuing the social sciences as more than a recreational pastime. Thank you for the healthy dose of realism that you added to my life. The world needs more teachers who understand the balance between fostering academic interest and preparing students for the world outside of high school or college. The world needs more teachers who aren't afraid of bruising a student's ego by encouraging realistic goals.

I can't play "Mountain Guide" on the weekends

Denali wasn't fun. The Alaska Range is an incredibly beautiful place, the expedition was a highly valuable experience that gave me more confidence in my skills and made me a better mountaineer, and I'm glad I went -- I'd do it again if given the choice. But it wasn't especially fun.

I spent hours editing this and internally debating how much detail to go into when writing something that would be published online, because I genuinely don't want to say anything that's hurtful to anyone else who was involved in the expedition. I might not hold certain people in the highest regard, but they are individuals living their lives the way they want to. 

This was not a climbing expedition of friends (or even mountaineers of similar skill and experience levels who have mutually agreed to form a team to attempt a specific peak or route). Essentially, we were what the National Park Service would define as an illegal guiding operation. Two people gave James* money to guide them on a climb of Denali. I essentially acted as "assistant guide" -- I was another competent mountaineer on the rope, I helped our "client" out with a variety of things on the mountain, and I split the majority of camp chores with James. In return, he used some of the money he got from them to pay for my air taxi from Talkeetna to basecamp ($550) and ground transport from Anchorage to Talkeetna ($180).

I went into it knowing this. I knew we were probably going to generally move slower than I would have liked, and that I'd have to carry more than my share of the group gear. I didn't realize how much this, along with the guide-client dynamic, would wear on me -- physically and mentally -- after 15 days on the mountain.

Another thing that absolutely played into this was the cultural difference between the clients -- both of whom are Indian -- and myself. Cultural differences are a difficult subject to write about in the age of political correctness where anyone who disagrees with the writer is quick to label their writing as "racist" or "prejudiced." But they exist. There were situations where I thought the clients were being rude and entitled, but I'm willing to give them the benefit of the doubt and assume it was because of their own cultural norms, not because they are assholes.

At the same time, I know enough about the world to know that anyone from India who has travelled extensively and gone on numerous guided climbs of world-famous mountains is very wealthy. 

When I first met Diane* and Andrew* in Anchorage, they reminded me of the 40-somethings commonly seen in the Seattle REI preparing for their mid-life-crisis ascent of Mt. Rainier, sporting thousands of dollars worth of brand new mountaineering gear without the slightest idea of how to use it.

"I'm going to get frustrated on this trip," James told me as we were pre-cooking some of our expedition food in the hostel kitchen. At that point, I was trying to keep an open mind.

Less than an hour before we were supposed to leave Talkeetna and fly into base camp, Andrew was forced to leave the expedition due to a family emergency. I felt bad for him -- flying halfway around the world to climb a mountain and then not being able to do it because of a completely unforeseen circumstance would suck -- but I didn't really know him. And I couldn't help but think that this would make things easier and safer for the rest of us. Two experienced mountaineers on a rope with one inexperienced person is a manageable situation.

On July 1, we decided to take some gear up to the top of the headwall (~16,000') to cache to make our move up to Camp 4 (17,200') easier. After an hour of slowly slogging up to the base of the fixed lines, the weather was deteriorating -- it was beginning to snow harder and the wind was picking up. James asked Diane if she wanted to stay there while he and I took the gear up. She was obviously tired and having a difficult time with the climbing (I'm not sure whether that was because of the cold, altitude, or her fitness. It doesn't really matter), but still protested that she wanted to continue up with us.

"I really don't think that's a good idea," I objected. My self-preservation instincts were kicking in at this point -- we had to get up, drop our cache, and get down, fast. Diane was just going to slow us down. In the end, she decided to stay. James built her an anchor, and he and I continued on. "Sorry for being a dick, but we need to move," I told James as he and I prepared to ascend the fixed lines.

"Yeah, you were kind of being a dick," he replied. "Remember, she paid to be here."

If she had gone with us, things might have gone badly. At the top of the headwall, we were getting slammed with 50mph gusts. The task of digging a cache was hard enough without having to look after someone who didn't know what they were doing, and as we descended, fractures were forming in the snow off to the right (climber's right). It might have been a dick move to tell her to stay, but in retrospect, it was necessary. I'd do it again.

A guide's first responsibility should be to keep herself and her clients alive, even if that means a few bruised egos.

Running into bad and stressful situations is inevitable on mountaineering trips. There's always something that doesn't go the way it's supposed to. It's almost like a twisted family vacation, only with dad getting pissed off at mom because there's always too much slack in the rope, the teenager complaining because the group is taking a rest day when he/she wants to keep going, mom can't figure out how to get her inReach to work properly so she keeps asking the teenager what's wrong with it, and instead of a toddler in a baby backpack, there's just a big plastic poop-can (aka CMC) that people take turns carrying.