As climbers and adventurers, we could do a whole lot more for the places and the peoples that we love.

This past Sunday’s New York Times carried an excellent Op-Ed piece by Thomas Friedman on the devolving quagmire that is Afghanistan.  In the same section, Nicholas Kristof wrote a piece called The Afghanistan Abyss.  Both authors shared the view that we have a fundamental misunderstanding of the tribal dynamics in Afghanistan and how those dynamics play out in the presence of  an occupying force. “More troops, more blood, more chaos,” believes Kristof. “Frankly, if a bunch of foreign Muslim troops in turbans showed up in my home-town in rural Oregon, searching our homes without bringing any obvious benefit [such as education, agricultural development and infrastructure], then we might all take to the hills with our deer rifles as well,” he said.

In the book review section of the very same issue of the Times, Greg Mortenson’s incredibly inspiring memoir, Three Cups of Tea, is listed as a best seller for the 134th week.  As many of us know, Mortenson was a climber who, although he failed miserably in a climbing attempt on K2, fell in love with that far off place where the mountains grow so big. But instead of leaving with his memories and his photographs, he decided to give back to the place.  He founded a non-profit foundation and  built dozens of schools for girls in Pakistan and Afghanistan. Through education and awareness, he seeks to end tribal repression and the need for more troops, blood and chaos.

Mortenson’s book is beautifully written.  It’s a great “story.” And it is easy to read it just as a “story.”  But the suffering of which both Friedman and Kristof write is real. Can we connect with both the story and the reality? Is there something we can actually   “do?”

Afghanistan was this past week’s headline.  But we don’t need to look far beyond our own footprints to find other places that could use our help as well.

Ann and I had the great privilege of listening to Geoffrey Tabin speak at an American Alpine Club dinner a number of years ago.  Tabin, an ophthalmologist, climbed Everest. Like Mortenson, he fell in love with the beauty of the place.   As he travelled through the region, he saw countless cases of preventable corneal blindness. Returning to Nepal year after year, he single-handedly treated thousands of these cases restoring sight to those who could no longer see the majesty of the mountains that surrounded them let alone the faces of those they love.

Sir Edmund Hillary too.  For years after his historic first, he returned to the Sherpa people founding schools and hospitals, lifting countless numbers out of poverty and ignorance and disease.

None of us need be a Mortenson or Tabin or Hillary.  But perhaps we could connect a little better.  I so admire my friends Andy and Bob who participate in the Israel bike ride for the benefit of the Arava Institute. Arava is “the premier environmental education and research program in the Middle East, preparing future Arab and Jewish leaders to cooperatively solve the region’s environmental challenges.”  The goal is to build networks and develop understanding that will enable future cooperative work and activism in the Middle East and beyond. Andy and Bob love the place where their roots run deep.  They give back.

In this time of economic crisis, it is so easy to circle the wagons around our own little compounds.  But we cannot forget to look outward.  Whether through tangible actions or through the support of those who take those actions, we can connect with those in need.

Charles Houston was another climber who “failed” on K2.  In his retreat from the peak, his team fell on a steep icy slope.  Tied to his fellow climbers, Houston and his partner Pete Schoening miraculously arrested the fall and saved their comrades. Houston, also a physician, went on to give back to many over his 91 year life.  But he is perhaps best known in climbing circles for his role in that dramatic improbable rescue.  His biography is called The Brotherhood of the Rope.

We are all tied together.  Climbers and adventurers and explorers and those who don’t wander far from their tribal homes.

I want to do better at remembering the connection.

The Brotherhood of The Rope.  We depend on it.

The wind battered the tent for the second night.  Or maybe it was the third night. Trapped at 11,000 feet in a horrid storm.  The wind blowing – not gusting but blowing – a constant 70 mph.  We’d cut countless snow blocks to protect the tents from imploding.  I lay in my bag sleepless as the tent bent and snapped against the wind and thought, “What’s the point?”

It wasn’t the first time that this thought had occurred to me. On the carry to 10,500 feet, I’d flamed out under the weight of a 70 lb load, sure that I was too old, too fat, too out of shape, too “something” to be doing this stupid project. I never uttered the words out loud, but I sure wondered what the point was.

Ann later confided that she too had struggled in her own private hell – more than once – asking the same question.  Is there a point to all this?

It is, of course, a question many of us ask ourselves from time to time.  I do, like when I’m arguing with a recalcitrant teenager or endeavoring to understand why a client has made the same bad choice for the third time.  Should we be concerned that there be a “point? ”  Should we only engage in activities that have a “point?”   Is a well lived life one that has a “point?”

Should our objective be to leave some “legacy?”

Our 43rd President, George W. Bush, was utterly consumed by the concept of legacy. In the fascinating fictionalized biography of Laura Bush called  American Wife by Curtis Sittenfeld, the character who becomes president is single-mindedly driven by the notion of how his political decisions will impact his legacy.  Most of us have an opinion as to how that turned out for the real character.

I was thinking today about Alison Hargreaves.  She was the Brit who wanted to be the first person to climb the three highest peaks in the world solo without supplemental oxygen. She died on K2 leaving a husband and two small children. Many asked, what was the point.  What, in fact, is her legacy?

Ann has a friend who wants his legacy to be that he has read all of Western literature before he dies. That seems rather narcissistic to me.  But is it any more so that wanting to climb the Seven Summits as I do?

Most everyone has an opinion on the politics of Ted Kennedy, who died this past week.  It would be difficult though for anyone to argue that he failed to leave a legacy. He was part of the national discourse for more than 40 years and authored more than 1000 pieces of legislation. Many would say that he left something of importance behind.

Leaving something of importance is what motivates many writers and artists. Photographers too! (I even suspect it may be a motivating factor for parents, although it is so easy to lose sight of that!) We want to create something meaningful. Something tangible.  Something that stands the test of time.

And what is that?  What is the proof of a life well lived?  What is legacy?

I am reminded of the poem that some attribute to Stevenson, others to Emerson or Stanley:

She has achieved success
who has lived well,
laughed often, and loved much;
who has enjoyed the trust of pure women,
the respect of intelligent men
and the love of little children;
who has filled her niche and accomplished her task;
who has left the world better than she found it
whether by an improved poppy,
a perfect poem, or a rescued soul;
who has never lacked appreciation of Earth’s beauty
or failed to express it;
who has always looked for the best in others
and given them the best she had;
whose life was an inspiration;
whose memory a benediction.

Much of life is like hauling a 70 lb load up a steep hill. To climb, to adventure, to journey on the edge is to live deeply into the richness of life. But, finding the “point” is up to us. We create meaning and legacy out of the ordinary fabric of our lives, with vision, boldness and determined action, especially when the load is heavy. What do you think?

Photographers and other visual artists talk about “negative space,” the space beyond the subject where nothing seems to be happening.   It is a key element of artistic composition.  As a design principal, it gives the eye “a place to rest.”

Struggling up the fixed lines to the West Buttress of Denali carrying 70 lb loads, I thought a lot about negative space.  But not the artistic kind.  I thought about the negative space I should have created in my pack by jettisoning the things I really didn’t need, creating room,  and a greater opportunity for rest.

Perhaps it could be said that “less is more.”  But I think less is really less.  And less is a good thing.  Often in art.  And certainly in a backpack.

Off the hill, it’s a good thing too.  We are trained to do more, produce more, have more.  We’re busy. We multitask.  We juggle.  We keep the balls in the air. We email and voicemail and text message and twitter. And we’re exhausted and stressed.

This may be heretical.  But less may be better.  A little negative space might make life lighter and richer.

But with all of life’s pressures, how do we create this negative space? These are three areas that I am paying attention to:

1.  Doing less; saying “no” to more.  There are some days that my “To Do” list looks like the Manhattan phone book.  I arrive at the end of the day having accomplished nowhere near everything I set out to do, feeling frustrated and depleted.  On days that I focus on just two or three important tasks, the entire day feels more manageable.  There just feels like there is more space.  Saying no is tough sometimes.  But it lightens the load.

2.  Cutting down on multi-tasking.  Ann has suggested that text messaging, reading directions, listening to a Nightingale-Conant program and carrying on a conversation all while driving at 85 mph might be injurious to the health.  And she might be right!  But more than that, multi-tasking makes us less present.  If I am emailing and at the same time listening to my associate who has a concern about a research project, I do neither very well.  When I am fully in the moment, life seems less crazy.

3.  De-cluttering.  I am a clutterer.  I like stuff.  But stuff gets complicating.  Clutter reduces our efficiency.  By keeping our work spaces  and living spaces clear, our creative energies are nourished. We flow more. We stumble less. We are more productive because less gets in the way.

I discovered a book recently that I really love.  It’s called The Power of Less by Leo Babauta. Babauta says, “I’m a firm believer in simplicity.  My life is better when I simplify it, when I cut down on the noise and I’m able to enjoy the things I love.”  Babauta believes that “simplicity boils down to two steps:  1.  Identify the essential.  2.  Eliminate the rest.”  This beautifully written book provides a road map for creating a more peaceful life, a life with more space.

Babauta also has a great blog called Zen Habits.  It’s really worth subscribing to.

Living more simply is what motivated Thoreau.  He went to the woods to live freely and thoughtfully.    He offered “first prize” to the person who could live one day deliberately. Thomas McNamara in his book The Human Adventure says, “Because we do too many things, the one important thing remains undone… . If our lives are crowded with things or even with people, we will not notice any one of them sufficiently to make an act of love.”

Saying no is sabbath rest.

The image,  from a hillside in Washington state, has lots of negative space. Places for the eye – and the spirit – to rest.

Go negative.

Adventure has risk.  But life itself is risky.  No one makes it out alive.

Sunday’s New York Times carried the obituary of legendary climber Riccardo Cassin.  Cassin, who was 100 years old when he died, climbed more than 2,500 routes over a career that spanned more than six decades. Many of the climbs were first ascents; many of them are still considered  the most challenging, difficult and classic routes in the world.

After a heart condition sidelined him from a K2 expedition in 1954, Cassin went on to establish one of the most sought after climbs in the Alaska Range that now bears his name.  Finding great joy in the mountains, Cassin climbed well into his 80s.

This summer’s issue of Alpinst announced that  John Bachar had fallen to his death while soloing near his home in Mammouth, California, leaving a wife and a son.  Bachar was 51 years old. Bachar established some of the most astounding big wall routes in the world.  He was an idol and an icon for those of us who came of age to climbing in the ’70s and ’80s.

As I reflected on the lives of these two great adventurers, my mind drifted back, as it often does when pondering “big questions,” to to a warm Sunday afternoon in February.  Although many years ago now, the images and the sensations of that day are not diminished by the passage of time.   Called to the scene of an accident as an EMT, I crawled into the back of a crushed car to discover that the young driver was my climbing partner Chris.  I held his head and watched his life ebb.  He was 28. The oncoming car had crossed the yellow line. That driver walked away.

It is the arbitrariness that is so troubling, isn’t it?  And even more, the brevity of it all.

In Carlos Castaneda’s The Teachings of Don Juan, Don Juan tells Castaneda “to take death as your advisor.”  It is in the shadow of death that life becomes so precious; to be enjoyed and lived; not deferred; not at some time in the future; but right now.

And what is the point?  Alpinist’s Editor-in-Chief Michael Kennedy, in his piece about Bachar, said it so eloquently:  “it’s the need to engage ourselves fully, joyfully and vehemently, as he did, in each moment, each climb, each passion and ideal, that will resonate from the fierce and perfect grace of an uncompromising life.”

Psychologist and meditation teacher Jack Kornfield in his beautiful book A Path With Heart says this: “What matters is how we live.  This is why it is so difficult and so important to ask the question of ourselves: ‘Am I living my path fully, do I live without regret?'”

The Hebrew psalmist chants: “This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad.” Buddhism teaches:  Be. Here. Now.

This is an image I made of my friend Jess.  Yes, she’s wearing mountain boots and crampons; yes, she’s at 11,000 feet; yes, she’s doing a handstand in the snow.

Let’s live – and adventure – with joy.  Fully.  Here.  Right now.

Ann and I had an unusual vacation – unusual for us:  We didn’t do anything. We had sailed east to Vineyard Sound and into Buzzards Bay, spending some superbly tranquil days on the remote and untrammeled island of Cuttyhunk. But the weather was “challenging.” So we came home. And did nothing. And it was wonderful.

Those days that we spent just hanging out in the studio got me thinking about the power of “stopping.”  We are all so plugged in with our Crackberries and laptops and cellphones and emails and faxes.  It’s rare that any of us can actually disconnect and “stop.”  Stopping is counter-cultural. Being “busy”  is a badge of honor.

Part of the satisfaction for me of adventuring to remote places is disconnecting, going “off the grid.” It is refreshing to be out of touch and unreachable.  It is a time to be peaceful, a time to renew.  And many times, even on big expeditions, it is a time to stop.

When we stop, we don’t get things “done”, we don’t accomplish anything. Yet in the stopping, it is as if the jar of muddy water that is our mind settles, and we can see our way again.  That is the great paradox, isn’t it?  That in the act of stopping, we re-create.

Technology, of course, encroaches almost everywhere now. When I first travelled to the Great Ranges in the early ’90s, direct communication with the outside world was impracticable if not impossible.  If you needed to communicate, you sent a runner with a letter.  Sometimes other climbers would take a message out for you… or bring one in.  But otherwise, you were completely on your own.

When I was on Denali this past May, we carried a Sat phone not much bigger than a cell phone. The technology is amazing and it was re-assuring to know that if we needed to be in communication with the outside world, we could.  But it also took away from that sense of isolation that is part of the renewal.

And so as the corners of the globe become less remote, it seems all the more important to learn how to stop, even when we can’t escape.  It’s not a strong component in my skill set.  But it’s worth working on.

The image is from outside Reykjavik.  The still geothermal waters belie the formation and renewal of the earth that continues to unfold below.

Here’s to stopping more – along the paths of our adventures and every day.