Vol. 123 - Let's Go to the Top of the World

On not being able to share amazing stuff with my family

On Thursday, I’m heading to the northern tip of Norway, four degrees above the Arctic Circle, to spend the week dogsledding, Nordic skiing, fatbiking down frozen rivers, and searching for the Northern Lights. This epic, once-in-a-lifetime trip is an assignment for National Geographic (to those of you who don’t know, I’m a freelance writer by trade), which means I can’t bring Emily or my kids along.

And that breaks my heart.

My work has allowed me to experience some amazing things. As the person tasked with telling the stories, I usually get to see sides of the world that most people only read about (…get it?). I’ve huddled in the pit stall of a NASCAR team during the Southern 500 and ridden across an empty expanse of the Badlands. I’ve been given access to heavily classified areas and raced on a silly bicycle against one of America’s preeminent cyclists. I’ve gotten paid to stand on top of one of the biggest mountains in the Tour de France and scream into the racer’s faces (I write a lot about bikes) and I’ve gotten paid to learn the tricks of the trade from some of the world’s best weapons handlers.

Thanks to my work, I often have the opportunity to do some really, really cool shit. And I can almost never share it with my family.

I wish I could, because the trips and the experiences these assignments have allowed me to enjoy have always been unreal. And maybe, when our kids are older, I’ll be able to take them along. Maybe, when they’re teenagers or young adults, they can come dogsledding through the Arctic Circle with their old man or take an oil tanker across the Atlantic (a story I’ve yet to sell but dream of!).

Maybe someday, rather than enjoying a weekend alone in a $3,000-a-night mountain lodge (for free) in order to write a travel story, I can spend a weekend with my wife in a $3,000-a-night mountain lodge (for free) in order to write a travel story.

When our son found out that I was going to damn near the North Pole, his first question was whether or not I was going to meet Santa. His second question was if he could come along.

The tears tumbled down his cheek when I told him that he couldn’t. I tried to soften the blow by reminding him that the temperature in the town I’m going to averages around fifteen degrees at this time of year, that we were going to staying in a bare-bones lodge that may or may not have WiFi, and that most of the day—which we’d be spending out in the elements—would be shrouded in darkness. But none of it worked. He knew I was going to do something cool and he was upset that he couldn’t come. It didn’t even matter when I explained to him how bittersweet these trips are for me, how the awe and wonder of my work is tempered by the fact that I can’t share it with the three most important people in my life in any way other than how I share it with the rest of the world—by writing a story for them.

Shortly after my assignment was confirmed, my Norwegian guides, who booked all of my travel, sent me all of my flight information. The trip was slated to be seven days; Thursday to Thursday. However, a few days later, another email landed in my inbox. “Great news,” one of the guides told me. “We decided to make your travel a bit easier and give you a day off in Oslo on either side of your trip.”

I was bummed. Don’t get me wrong, Oslo is very high on my bucket list.

But the email stung for two reasons.

First, here’s yet another amazing place I’m getting to experience without my family in tow. Second, and far more importantly, seven days away from my kids suddenly became nine days. And I don’t want to be away from my kids for nine days.

I don’t want to leave Emily alone to be a single parent for nine days. I don’t want to go to sleep for eight straight nights without holding at least one of my babies. I don’t want to wake up in the morning with no one to worry about but myself (borderline sadistic, I know. But this is the job I signed up for and I kind of love it).

Nine days is a long time to be away from my family. Nine days is getting dangerously close to being too long. Combine that with the fact that I’ll be at the edge of civilization, often likely far from anything remotely resembling a WiFi signal, and nine days is likely to feel an eternity.

But chasing stories is the other job I signed up for and it’s work that I love. I just wish my wife and kids could love it with me.