Mauna Loa, Hawaii | 19.4721° N, 155.5922° W | 20190925
It is a lifestyle so different that it is necessary to have a period of adaptation during the return.
– Martin Trahan
Sharp, loose lava rocks lurch under my boots. I stagger slightly, adjust my stance, and keep going. I will spend the next 10 hours hiking up and down this volcano, but my footing will never feel completely steady.
This lack of balance is nothing new. Having just returned to land after three weeks at sea, I’ve been trying to find solid footing (physically and mentally) for the past six days.
Coming back from a big expedition requires a period of adjustment. I often equate it to scuba diving. If you come up too fast from a deep dive, nitrogen bubbles in your bloodstream will burst.
Likewise, transitioning too quickly from expedition life back to “real life” can result in the mental equivalent of the bends.
When I finish an expedition, I am always divided between the euphoria of having achieved my goal and the exhaustion. The question I am often asked is: "What's next? What's your next epic trip?" But, in fact, the adventure that I just lived is not over yet. The return home is part of it, and it is, for me, the most difficult part. — Martin Trahan
I learned this lesson after back to back expeditions last summer. Knowing I would not be ready to go straight back to North Carolina after the Nautilus arrived in port in Honolulu, I made plans to stay in Hawaii for a little while.
We all have different ways of engaging in self-care. My preferred method is a long hike up a big mountain, preferably a volcano. So today, I’m climbing Mauna Loa. The summit is 13,679 feet. Right now I’m somewhere between 11,000 and 12,000 feet.
Step. Stumble. Step. Step. Step. Stumble. Breathe in. Breathe out.
Far above tree line, I am surrounded by lava rock, completely devoid of shade or any barrier from the sun. I smear sunscreen on my face and ears again, wishing I still had my hat — it blew off my head and into the ocean on a particularly rough day two weeks ago.
For the first time in a month, I am completely alone. There is not another human being for miles. And yet, in the midst of this complete solitude, I can think only of people — specifically the people I just sailed across the Pacific with.
As my feet plod monotonously upward, my mind replays a few meaningful conversations from the ship. Talking to Megan about goals in rock climbing, ice climbing, and mountaineering. Talking to Brandon about the liberation that accompanies the decision to not have children. Talking to Jess about the grit required to be a young woman working in a male-dominated field.
I rarely have the opportunity to engage in these kinds of conversations at home. But on a deep-sea research expedition, these subjects arise naturally every day.
A ship is a total environment – self-contained, isolated from the outside world. The bonds formed within the walls of a ship are as strong, if not stronger, than anything known on land. — Nathaniel Philbrick
When we arrived in port, we went straight to the bar, spiraling into a series of inside jokes that had all of us red in the face from laughter. It is remarkable how quickly — a little over three weeks — we transitioned from strangers to colleagues to friends.
But just as fast as these special bonds form, they dissipate. We leave the ship, say our goodbyes, and head off in different directions. In all likelihood, I won’t see most of those lovely people again.
Brandon and Holly celebrate our return to land in Honolulu. These two brought me so much joy every day we were at sea — it’s hard not to miss having them in my life.
This reality is not new to me. I have been to sea before, and I know that friendships formed on ships often ignite like a match — they burn bright and briefly.
And I know how it goes: Be grateful for the experience. Enjoy the memories. Go back to “real life”.
But this is my life now. When I finally return to North Carolina at the end of this week, I won’t go back to a partner or an office job or a daily routine. I will unpack my bags, do laundry, go for a long run, and sleep. Pay bills. Answer e-mails. Make dinner with a few friends. Sleep some more.
Then I’ll repack my bags and head off on another big adventure in another wild, remote corner of the world. I will meet more beautiful, fascinating people. People I relate to in profound ways. People that affirm my not-so-traditional life choices. People I will never see again.
And the cycle repeats itself.
4 — 8 is great: the members of our watch team
For the majority of my hike, the only sound I hear is the relentless crunching of lava rock under my boots. When I stop moving, and the wind dies down, the silence permeates. I realize I’ve been awake for almost six hours but have not spoken a single word.
“It’s fine,” I say out loud to myself. “It’s all fine.”
I need a break from my thoughts. I pull out my earbuds and put on a podcast — a TED Radio Hour special on finding joy.
My crunchy footsteps and grating thoughts fade into the background as I listen to the cheery voice of science journalist David Baron. With great enthusiasm, he discusses his obsession with solar eclipses and his travels around the world to witness the phenomenon. He describes how during the hardest moments of life (like the death of his mother) he finds solace and comfort by recalling the awe of his first solar eclipse.
I remember how I felt. My existence may be temporary but that’s okay because my gosh — look at what I’m a part of! Cherish those moments of deep connection with other people, with the natural world, and make them a priority.
I chase eclipses. You may chase something else. But it’s not about the 174 seconds. It’s about how they change the years that come after.
You have to love science journalists — they get it. I’ll never forget how I felt after my first expedition on a volcano in 2015. Among many other things, that experience inspired me to make this promise to myself: climb at least one volcano every year for the rest of my life. Baron chases solar eclipses. I chase volcanic summits. And while I’m out pursuing one of my favorite things in the natural world, I’m cherishing the connections I made with my shipmates, ephemeral though they may be.
Five hours and 20 minutes after leaving the trailhead, I arrive at the summit of Mauna Loa. Every negative thought evaporates as soon as I behold the massive caldera before me.
This is amazing. This is why I do this! I LOVE VOLCANOES!
I think of the expedition team who introduced me to the magic (and science) of volcanoes. Jonathan, Tim, Tomo, Armando, Dylan. I haven’t seen or talked to those guys in years. But their expertise and stoke has stayed with me, and always will.
And the same goes for this most recent expedition team. From now on, when I explain how deep sea corals grow and thrive in a world without sunlight, I will reference all that I learned from Alexis. Chocolate-covered espresso beans will remind me of Greg. It will be impossible to have a conversation about Mars exploration without thinking of Brandon. Arm wrestling competitions will prompt stories about Ben. And when I talk about badass women who inspire me, I’ll be talking about Holly, Jess, and Megan.
I can’t maintain relationships with every single person I meet during my ventures around the world, but I can hold onto the knowledge, insight, and inspiration they’ve shared with me.
I make my way down the mountain feeling much lighter. By the time I get back to my car, I am tired (having just hiked roughly 15 miles) but full of joy. I rip off my boots, chug water, and take a few final deep breaths of crisp mountain air. As I drive back down to sea level, I blast one of my all-time favorite songs, singing along to every word:
And what it all comes down to, my friends, yeah
Is that everything is just fine fine fiiiiiiiine