Chasing Waterfalls

Sometimes the best things in life are the things you aren’t chasing at all.

For most of my life, I planned everything. Not just vacations. My whole life.

I lived by spreadsheets, calendars, and to-do lists. I took pride in being organized, paying attention to the details, and thinking through every possible scenario. I believed that if I worked hard enough and planned well enough, life would unfold the way I envisioned.

But life has a way of reminding us that we aren’t in control.

My hip injury forced me to confront that reality in a way I never had before. During my recovery, I couldn’t make long-term plans because I simply didn’t know what my body would be capable of. I didn’t know what I would be able to do the following month, the following week, or sometimes even the following day.

My future became uncertain, and for the first time in a long time, I had no choice but to let go of the illusion of control.

When I was finally cleared to return to skiing and kayaking this spring, I packed up my van and set off on a six-week road trip through the West. Normally, I would have spent weeks mapping every mile. This time was different. Instead, I left with only a handful of ideas—a few places I hoped to visit, some rivers I wanted to paddle, mountains I wanted to ski, and enough flexibility to change course whenever it felt right.

At the same time, other parts of my life were changing too. I had left a job. A long-term relationship had ended. For the first time in years—maybe even my entire adult life—I wasn’t tied to a schedule or a carefully mapped-out future.

For the first time, I felt truly free.

That freedom was both exhilarating and deeply uncomfortable.

Instead of trying to optimize every hour, I gave myself permission to be curious. To take detours. To stay longer when a place felt special. To leave when it didn’t. To trust that I didn’t have to know exactly where I was going to end up. Instead of asking, What’s next on the itinerary? I started asking, What feels right today?

Early in the trip, I found myself back at the North Fork Championships. Banks, Idaho was a place that had once felt like home, but now felt different. (I wrote more about that experience in Returning to the River.) From there, I headed to Mt. Hood for some ski mountaineering.

A few friends invited me to come visit them in White Salmon, Washington. I’d never been there before, but I’d heard plenty about it and it was only an hour away from Mt. Hood, so I happily added it to the trip.

White Salmon is a whitewater kayaking hub, with everything from mellow Class II runs to some of the hardest Class V+ in the country. The landscape was unlike anything I was used to in California. Ancient lava flows from the Cascade volcanoes had carved a narrow basalt gorge, its steep walls covered in lush green forest. The rivers flowed with crystal-clear, glacier-fed water that was freezing cold.

I’d never had much desire to kayak waterfalls. Honestly, they looked painful. And terrifying.

I didn’t know much about Husum Falls before I arrived. It isn’t one of those iconic waterfalls that attracts kayakers. There are plenty of better-known rapids around. It was commercially rafted. But after spending a few days paddling in the area, I found myself standing across from it thinking, I could do that.

That feeling surprised me. Confidence doesn’t come easily to me, especially in kayaking. Usually, I spend more time talking myself out of it than into it. My inner dialogue is full of doubt. This time was different.

So next time I was on the run and a friend offered to lead me down the falls, I said yes.

Scouting fromthe river bank, I was incredibly nervous. But he was patient, encouraging, and talked me through exactly what to do. I followed his line, took one last boof stroke, and suddenly I was dropping over my very first waterfall.

I blinked. And just like that, it was over. I was sitting in the pool below with a huge smile on my face.

Ironically, by letting go of the need to control every detail, I found experiences I never could have planned.

I never set out on that road trip hoping to kayak my first waterfall. It wasn’t on a bucket list or a spreadsheet. It simply became an opportunity that presented itself, and for the first time in a long time, I was open enough to say yes.

That’s the funny thing about life. Sometimes the best moments aren’t the ones we’ve spent months chasing. They’re the ones we discover because we leave enough room for the unexpected.

Maybe that’s what this road trip was really teaching me.

Sometimes the most beautiful parts of life are the ones you were never chasing in the first place.