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.

Travel is Not a Cure for Depression

In the mountains, being in a clear state of mind can mean the difference between life and death. When it comes to travel -- the lines are a little more blurry, more complex -- but bottom line is that the level of enjoyment from travel often comes down to whatever state of mind the traveler is in. 

Another sunset from 37,000 ft.

Being in a good place in your head is the first step towards having a fulfilling experience in any place on earth.

I wasn't in a good place when I went to Peru last summer. I was working what was supposed to be a good job as a mudlogger -- a field geologist on an oil rig -- in the Powder River Basin of eastern Wyoming. On the surface, it seemed like a great way to start a career -- it was well-paying, offered a flexible schedule with blocks of time off rather than the standard 8-to-5 routine, and kept me reasonably close to the mountains. In reality, it was a never-ending saga of being trapped for weeks on end in a cramped trailer with at least five OSHA violations in the immediate vicinity, working 12-hour shifts with no predictable time off, and slowly accepting the reality that the optimistic promise of a 2 weeks on/2 weeks off schedule was never going to happen. I was going to be stuck out there as long as I held that job.

Pretty sure storing flammable liquids and flammable compressed 

gasses right next to each other is a really bad idea.

This was the first time in my adult life that I truly felt like I had no freedom. Every other job that I've had that I didn't like had an end in sight -- I would graduate from my MS program, and fire season would end with the first big rainstorm. I could have walked away at any time, but I kept telling myself that if I stuck it out just a little bit longer, I'd leave with that much more money. The country was in an oil boom and making $300/day without having to pay rent was a hard situation to walk away from. 

I booked a plane ticket for a two-week trip to Peru in mid-July with the hopes of climbing some of the easier summits -- Pisco, Yanapaccha, Tocllaraju -- of the Cordillera Blanca. But my attempts were failed before they started. The complete and utter lack of freedom that had plagued me for the past six months left me in a state of anxiety, of feeling internal pressure to do everything right on this trip because I knew it would be a while before I had that kind of freedom again. And I ended up doing most things wrong.

A glacial river flowing out from the Ishinca Valley

Feeling trapped for so long heightened my sense of awareness to situations where other people were taking the lead on trip decisions. When the climber who I'd met up with via summitpost kept trying to make choices about what we'd climb and when we'd climb it, I took it far too personally, and from there it was a downward spiral. We were still a poorly matched team, but this made everything worse.

I wanted -- needed -- to do things my way. After my partner and I split up in the Quebrada Ishinca, I might not get the mountain I wanted, but at least I could do the trip how I wanted. I befriended some Canadian climbers and my two summit attempts on lower, safer peaks went well.

Tocllaraju from the slopes of Ishinca

When I went back to Huaraz, I wasn't sure what I should be doing. For one, I had a minor cold, and my lips were terribly sunburned, so I needed a couple days to recover. I stayed in the hostel for a couple days, rested, and explored Huaraz. I befriended a few other travelers, explored some ruins, and did a day hike to Laguna 69 below the rocky, glaciated slopes of Pisco. In the end, I spent so much time trying to figure out what I should do with the rest of my time in Peru that I never did anything overly interesting.

The brilliant turquoise waters of Laguna 69

And the whole time, I was dreading going back to the confines of that cold, dingy trailer on a grimy well pad in eastern Wyoming and long, lonely nights spent reading articles on Matador Network and dreaming about the day when I could finally be done forever but with no end in sight.

I took an overnight bus to Lima, intending to spend a few days exploring the tourist attractions there. I visited the catacombs at the Church of San Francisco, went to the ChocoMuseo, bought some gifts for people back home at the Indian markets, and did a really amazing (and delicious) food tour of the city. In a way, I suppose a part of me felt so removed and disconnected from whatever it means to be a normal human that I wanted to do things that normal humans do when they travel. Go to museums and restaurants. Walk out to the beach.

A church in the Barranco district of Lima

Peru wasn't the best travel experience I've ever had. It's a beautiful country, and I'll go back someday. And when I do, I'll be in the right place, for the right reasons.