In the world of hang-from-a-precipice adventure, one thing is certain. Going “extreme” means radically different things to different travelers.
Some adventurers are romantics when it comes to the use of equipment. They won’t bring any. To others, the trip is secondary to stocking up on ropes and helmets: the latest in semipermeable, sun-reflecting gear.
Then there are those who insist that real adventure means having encounters “with people or animals you can’t engage with at home.” This made sense, I thought. “Something like meeting villagers in Tibet?” I asked. “More like snorkeling with penguins,” they said.
Since I write about adventure, I sometimes give talks on intrepid trips. A zip-line-racy range of opinions tends to surface during the Q&A. There was the man who reported that seeing roadkill made a car trip complete for him. Or the woman who suggested I shave my (admittedly bushy) eyebrows before traveling to Japan.
During one presentation, when I asked for ideas on what made an adventure challenging, a comment brought me to a stop. Off went the projector. Down I sat.
Expecting something about mudslides or dust storms, I heard this instead. “It’s not about gasping for breath,” said a woman in a wool hat. “It’s about testing emotions. Ever tried going back home after a time away?”
After weeks spent thinking about this, I had made up my mind. Sure, I’d read Thomas Wolfe’s You Can’t Go Home Again. But how dangerous could this be? Not only would I revisit the neighborhood where I grew up (Manhattan’s Chelsea), but I’d drive to Montpelier, Vermont, where I’d spent vacations as a kid. Two extreme, albeit homey, destinations in one week.
Nobody had ever heard of Chelsea back in the day. Sandwiched between the Hudson and Fifth Avenue, it was a mix of pleasantly undecorated brownstones and corner coffee shops.
That was then, I discovered. As soon as I started to walk around, I felt lost. The street signs were the same, but there was nothing else I recognized. I hunted around for Kabob & Brew, a restaurant that had impressed me as a kid by spelling its name three different ways on canopy, placard, and window. Instead, I found a gallery displaying silver gel photography. Mel’s Luncheonette used to be down the block, but at exactly the spot stood an outlet of West Elm home decor.
Even though it was April, I found I was sweating. My heart began drilling into my ribcage, emitting blasts like a Chelsea construction crew completing a job. This was the moment when I made up my mind to head for Vermont right away. Maybe the Green Mountains could calm things down. Seeing a flannel shirt might bring back not just childhood, but my years at Middlebury in the 1970s. But the minute I parked near the gold-domed capitol, I started to notice the tattoos. Colorado. Canada. Brooklyn. On biceps. On somebody’s wrist. Montpelierites, I realized, had allegiances to other places.
Not finding a single Aubuchon Hardware store or a stitch of flannel, I began to ask around. Was anyone a native Vermonter, like in the ’60s or ’70s? It didn’t seem so.
“But I feel like one,” said a bartender when I barged in, desperate for a beer. “Originally from Manhattan,” he added. “Chelsea, if you know that neighborhood. Way too edgy, now. Can’t even visit anymore.”
Sipping the first of my microbrew, shaking the guy’s hand, I came to realize an extreme thing.
I felt at home.