There’s probably a lot of folks out there saying: "Man, I’m never gonna have me a rush like that. Earth’s a parking lot and outer space is just too pricy." Let me tell you something: There’s a lot of ways to blaze a trail. I always think back to those unsung heroes of the past, like that prehistoric gourmet who looked at that lobster and said, "I’m going to eat that." Or the first healer who picked up a knife and said, "Let’s operate boys." You see, adventures come in all kinds of shapes and sizes, like getting your hair cut, or falling in love. Even getting behind the wheel and backing out of the driveway can be a sublime act of faith… as well as a monumental act of courage.
~ Jeffrey Vlaming, Northern Exposure S3:E20 “The Final Frontier”
On a recent site visit in Washington, I saw a familiar name on an exit sign on the freeway: Roslyn. The little town with its bemuraled (Microsoft Word says that’s not a word but I’m not going to let Satya Nadella define the alpha and omega of my vocabulary!) café, which looks like it was frozen in time a century ago, served as the filming location for the critically acclaimed TV series Northern Exposure. The show follows the lives of the eclectic residents of the fictional town of Cicely, Alaska and the young doctor from New York City forced to move there as repayment for a medical school scholarship. Hilarity and drama ensue, of course. The quote above was delivered by my favorite character, Chris Stevens, the community’s ex-con radio DJ and unofficial chaplain, played by John Corbett.
I got really into Northern Exposure as a kid. It was an odd show for a middle schooler to stan, but then again, I was an odd middle schooler (and adult – who are we kidding?), and if you knew me then it would have made sense. I was always obsessed with explorers and famous mountain men; people who had the courage/hubris/stupidity (or as my Finnish relatives would simply put it, sisu) to stroll off into the woods alone with a musket, a knife, a blanket, and some tobacco, and reemerge years later with a map of a new state, a mountain named after them, some literal battle scars and a heck of a lot of stories to tell. As a small, sickly, shy, awkward kid, I was convinced that was the apogee of cool. After becoming a bigger, stronger, shy, awkward young adult, that obsession turned into a love for solo travel and backcountry escapades that I’m lucky skilled enough to have escaped with more stories than scars. In Northern Exposure, I saw this ragtag group making their home in the “last frontier” with their strong personalities, passion for their professions, all mostly single and going it alone up there like the pioneers of old. That spoke to the aspiring mountain man in me. But I was missing something. At that age, of course I was.
About ten years ago, a bit after I got licensed in Alaska and did a handful of projects up there, I got the itch to watch the show again. Just as I’d remembered and loved, the show did a great job of capturing the variety of people that often call those small northern towns home and the myriad reasons that they wound up there by choice or happenstance, and I connected with the characters in new ways. Yet as much as the residents of Cicely were endearing in their rugged individualism, it was obvious in this second watching that they needed their fellow rugged individuals in order to make it, whether they cared to admit it or not. Young Dr. Fleischman desperately needed his new neighbors for damn near everything, but they arguably needed that loudmouthed greenhorn in their town even more.
When I said earlier that I was missing something as a young man, it wasn’t just the way I was interpreting that TV show. One of the things I consistently discovered in all those solo backcountry trips I mentioned was that I wasn’t the stoic mountain man I fancied myself to be. Sure, a few days of peace with my own thoughts was great, but I’d soon find myself feeling lonely, questioning my motives for the trip, and hoping I’d see the bounce of a headlamp or hear the voop, voop, voop of synthetic fabric coming down the trail instead of another night by myself under the stars. I liked and needed people more than I thought, or perhaps just cared to admit. Alone, I missed opportunities, turning back from the summit at the first sign of coming weather even though I knew the risk was probably low. With a companion, whether an old friend or just a fellow traveler I’d met a few minutes ago, I’m much more courageous, willing to take risks and blaze new trails. And, true to the cliché, it was much more satisfying to share an eventual victory with someone and reminisce afterward over a beer and cheeseburger.
A willingness to head into the woods by myself has served me well at times, but alone is not how I’m going to come back home safe and sound with stories to tell and maybe an eponymous mountain. I’d be nowhere, personally, without my parents, my sisters, my wife and my son. I couldn’t have accepted this role as SEAONC President without their support. I wouldn’t happen to be at the helm during what is turning out to be a great year for our association without my fellow Board members and dedicated administrative team, who can all attest to the fact that my natural habit is still to turn inward and try to go it alone when I’m stressed, something I’m always working on. And I’d be nowhere near where I am professionally without all of you. I’m sure I’m not alone in that sentiment.
I hope you’ll have a chance to attend our January 6th Meeting, where we’ll be hearing from our SEAOSC colleague, Garrett Mills. I don’t think Garrett would have considered himself a forensic engineer or fire expert in January 2025, and he still may not today, but filled with a sense of duty to help his clients and his community, he pulled on his boots and got to work looking at buildings ravaged by the LA wildfires. His is a story of courage; he decided to say, “I’m going out there,” when there were plenty of us that would understandably have said, “this really isn’t my area of expertise,” or “just call me when you bulldoze it and let’s start from scratch.” But it’s also a story of how Garrett rallied his colleagues on the SEAOC Board and technical committees for support in by pulling together technical guidance, best practices, policy position statements, and good vibes when his community needed it. His professional association had his back and helped create the firm footing he and his SEAOSC colleagues needed to leap bravely into the unknown and stick the landing. Not a “mountain man” in the traditional sense (though he’s got a heck of a beard), but definitely the sort of person I’ve always admired, and I’m sure you will too.
This month, as you embark on a journey to achieve your yearly resolutions, your workplace goals, your adventures of all shapes and sizes, or simply make it through another trip around the sun, think about who is going to help you get there. Let them know you need them, nurture that foundation, and thank them when you get back home again. I hope SEAONC is already part of that support system for you, but if there’s a way we can be doing a better job for you on your particular journey, let me or any of your Board members know. Yes, going it alone can feel pretty good sometimes, but, like keeping your three points of contact on a ladder or rock face, feeling secure and supported in one area of your life frees you up to take risks and blaze new trails in another.
Bonne Année et Bon Voyage,
David Ojala
dojala@thorntontomasetti.com