The North Fork of the Flathead River Valley could care less about five middle-aged men shooting shotguns and clay pigeons for three hours on the first gray and white day of 2019. Those mountains remain tonight, silent and cold, clouds keeping their ridges hidden. They have survived hellish winters, sweltering summers, wind, snow, and fire have scarred the long memory of this place. We are a second long flutter of a bird’s wing in the history of those ancient mountains and rivers.
We must claim our days. Even if all we build in our lifetimes will be forgotten in one generation. We must claim our days with meaning and connection.
The world we live in is a divided, broken and shallow land. It is now undeniable that depression and loneliness are on the rise, in all age groups. According to data from the General Social Survey (GSS), the number of Americans who say they have no close friends has roughly tripled in recent decades. “Zero” is also the most common response when people are asked how many confidants they have, the GSS data show. And adult men seem to be especially bad at keeping and cultivating friendships.
As Ryan Holiday explains in The Obstacle is the Way, there are eight things we can control; emotion, judgment, creativity, desire, decision, attitude, perception, and determination. And so in 2019, let us desire to be making the connections we need to. Let us make the decisions to reach out and not hide behind screens. We can be determined to claim our days with the perceptions that keep us open to new people and determined to maintain those old friendships. Let us be cautious about opinions and judgments that close ourselves off to others.
No monuments will be built to us. The North Fork Valley of the Flathead will little remember today from the other millions of years that have shaped it. We must claim the days we have before they are gone.
Whatever happens. WhateverGalway Kinnell
what is is is what
I want. Only that. But that.
Is it possible to love anything as much as you love your children?
The author and podcaster Tim Ferris often asks his guests what they would say to their 30-year-old selves. Often the answer involves the self from the future reassuring the younger self to stop worrying, to be in the moment, to enjoy what we have now trusting that everything will work out in the future.
Recently I found my freshman year high school id card. When I look into those dull brown eyes I think of how naive I was, how foolish. It’s hard not to slip into a half cooked fantasy of going back and living my life differently. I would study harder, go on more adventures, have the courage to ask her out, or challenge teachers.
Of course, this is fantasy, we are not going back to anything. It’s all downhill from here. Isn’t the point of advising our younger selves about the futility of being anxious and worried, too driven or too focused that we now know everything will work out. Isn’t the fact that it’s worked out this far for all of us proof enough that it will in the future?
I don’t want to change that kid’s life, he made pretty good decisions. But why can’t he come to me and tell me that we are a fleck of dust in the universe, here for a fraction of a millisecond in history? That he wants me to stop looking back, what is done is done, use your days wisely. Immortality and happiness are illusions. Don’t look back I want him to tell me, look forward. You got this.
Life has a random, ironic and amusing way of playing out. For the past 16 years, my teaching career has primarily consisted of teaching seniors. These 17-18 years old spend senior year jumping headfirst into the hills and valleys of figuring out what happens after high school. Twenty-five years ago my college search was neither strategic or planned in fact I’m not sure if there was any point in my life where I was less dialed in then senior year of high school. I assumed I was going somewhere for college but really had no opinion about it. I’m pretty sure my parents grounded me one weekend in the fall of 1992 and made me apply to two colleges, Longwood and Radford. Longwood sent me the slim envelope of rejection and Radford accepted. My last semester of high school was focused on chasing girls and pretending I was cooler than shit. I have a vivid memory of being nervous as I waited in line to receive my actual diploma after the graduation ceremony knowing I might have to make up a class in summer school. I graduated.
My parents, in their wisdom thought that letting me go to college in the fall would be a fast track to failing out (a very safe assumption). They decided it would be best I defer going to Radford in the fall and instead attend community college and go to Radford in the spring. I was unmotivated, clueless and lazy.
A quarter century later my experience plays out in the back of my mind as I proofread a Stanford admission essay written by a senior student who wants to turn it in two months before it is due. But maybe I speak with the extra air of authority when I tell students to be on top of the process; knowing how poorly it can be done if you don’t have your ass in gear.
Of course, now I can look back and say that destiny was at play. My “gap” semester led to experiences that challenged and developed me. I’m often reminded of the Jon Kabat-Zinn book on mindfulness, “Wherever you go, there you are” when I’m talking to students who are in the midst of a mental breakdown regarding their futures. “It’s all going to work out” I want to tell them and somehow convince them that it will. Not to say that some will make terrible, even fatal mistakes but it will all work out, it always does. How did it work out for me? If I hadn’t been asleep at the wheel of life during my senior year of high school I probably wouldn’t have gone to Radford University.
If I had not gone to RU, I would not have been taught by Nick Pappas. Dr. Pappas was a football powerhouse at Shepherd University in the early 1960s. Though he was drafted to play professional football the New York Giants he instead enlisted into the Officer Training School for the United States Marine Corps. In 1965, the Vietnam War began in earnest and the Marines were off to DaNang. As recounted in Philip Caputo’s Vietnam classic A Rumor of War, Lieutenant Pappas was told by his commanding officer that there was a report that the North Vietnamese were laying mines around the airbase in DaNang and that Pappas should ascertain the validity of that report. I recall Pappas telling me that he left the briefing curious how he’d ascertain the validity.
After a lengthy recovery at Bethesda Naval Hospital in Maryland. The disabled Nick Pappas received a doctorate in Political Science from the University of Virginia. In the 1980s he became a tenured professor in the Political Science Department at Radford University in Radford, Virginia. In the spring of 1994, I signed up for Introduction to International Relations taught by Dr. Pappas. The I think the reading list was Plato’s Republic, maybe Eric Voegelin‘s Science, Politics and Gnosticism: Two Essays.
Pappas usually wore the same thing, every day. A blue oxford shirt and blue work pants. In the winter he would hobble into class with a fur-lined bomber hat and he would announce his approach with loud bird calls from down the hallway or immediately outside the door. He took the time to figure out what his students did: if on a sports team there was usually talk about that upcoming or recently past contest and some discussion of the opposing team’s mascot. He learned that I grew up not far from the Quantico Marine Corps Base, where he had done his Officer Training. He would often describe a place on the base and ask if I knew if it was still there. His primary instrument of teaching was a handout known as a Raptorgrasp. Using quotes, thought bubbles and pictures he would draw the outline of his lecture, make connections and graphically plot out his thoughts. Every class I took from him followed the same basic format, he’d lecture and assign a writing prompt. We would write an essay in blue books for the following class. He would hand back the previous weeks marked up and the grade would always be assigned a Greek word. The Greek word for excellence, “Arete” was the highest score, they were rare.
Pappas was my teaching ideal, mysterious, irreverent, and inviting. Most of what he taught was unknown to the recent high school graduate. Or, perhaps Plato, Hagel, Marx, and Nietzsche were on the syllabus and I slept through them. He had a fantastic way of making our ignorance accessible. He’d say, “Don’t you remember Book VII of The Republic, Plato describes the Cave Allegory”? We didn’t, he knew we didn’t but rather that simple introduction allowed us to pretend we did and no time was lost. It was effective.
Many times I’d stop by to see him in his office. A turn of the century railroad house a block off campus, home of the Political Science Department. Even if you hoped to drop off a late paper, the creaky wooden doors and floors would betray your presence. Pappas would often either be asleep or deep in a book when you crossed the threshold into his office. More often than not he would have a chew in and he’d look up, his eyes would open super wide and he’d make the “one second/one minute” signal with his index finger as he swiveled around to spit out the chew into a white paper cup that he always had on his desk.
He was always willing to visit. And would suggest books to read, movies to watch, songs to listen to. He once gave my girlfriend at the time a Country Gentleman mixtape, he was obsessed with the song “Matterhorn” and would sing, “Men have tired and men have died to climb the Matterhorn” every time we walked into his office to see him. Like most good friend and teachers much of what he said to me has taken decades to sink in. He made me want to understand Thucydides and he showed me that an academic didn’t have to be some stuffed shirt. His influence made me the teacher I am today.
My wish for my students is that there is a Dr. Pappas out there for them. He changed my life in immeasurable ways. Life is short we are often told. I am strictly JV kids stuff when compared to this mountain of a man, but I like to think that a little of him rubbed off on me.
Dr. Pappas died aged 77 on September 5, 2017. I miss him terribly and wish I could thank him for all that he did for me, one more time.
Sophomore year of college I saved up and bought a big Mountainsmith backpack. It has all the new fancy bells and whistles and from what I could tell, fit like a glove. Hundreds of miles through the Virginia and North Carolina sections of the Appalachian Trail that pack carried my gear. When I moved west it saw trips in Yellowstone and Glacier, the Elkhorns, the Snowies, the Absaorkas, up the Lima Peaks and down into the Missouri Breaks.
Last year that old trusted pack broke on a multiday trip into Glacier with C3. I tried to rig it back together but on a short trip into the Bob Marshall this past summer I sighed the sigh of resignation, knowing my beloved pack was not going to be on my next trip.
The other day a box showed up from REI. Smithers scored a sweet deal on a fancy-pants Osprey back. This past weekend I dropped my old Mountainsmith at the goodwill store. Goodbye old friend, many miles you caught my sweat, kept me warm and were with me as we discovered the most beautiful places on earth. Thank you.