On the scariest drive I’ve ever done, I'd been pulling a U-hual trailer through a mountain pass during a blizzard at night.
It was one of those times where I had to turn down the volume so I could “see better", but not so low that I wouldn't be able to hear well enough to keep singing along. I force myself to sing in stressful driving conditions because otherwise I'd hold my breath and white-knuckle the steering wheel. Singing is just distracting enough to make me smooth.
It was 2017 and I'd been moving from Lander, Wyoming up to Jackson, through Togwotee Pass, on a route that I was extremely familiar with. During that harrowing drive, I'd realized that WYDOT had closed the gate behind me after Dubois when I went through... which meant, no one would come along who could help.
I've driven in white-outs before but, that night, I legitimately couldn't see any part of the road. It felt like my 4Runner and I were in a Toyota commercial—I just remember singing along to Forgot About Dre and hoping that I was driving on pavement. After making it to the last hairpin turn of the pass before the straightaway that led out the other side, I accidentally started drifting. Actually, the trailer had started to fishtail on the ice.
I got lucky on two counts:
No one was coming toward me in the other lane.
When I'd first moved out there, a coworker had taken me splitboarding and shown me some of the local spots. At the time, I'd just taken a job 2,000 miles away, in the middle of nowhere, sight-unseen. I was grateful.
No, actually I'd been ecstatic.
In the years that followed, one spot in particular that he'd shown me became one of my favorite places in the world. When the conditions were safe enough, I'd go on solo splitboarding strike missions—drive from town, hike the ridge, snowboard safely down near the skintrack, and then repeat it a couple of times. Those were my "walks in the park." It's where I went to clear my head. For me, going there wasn't about riding anything crazy so much as it was about the time I got to spend with myself hiking up. Any bullshit going on in my life at the time seemed unable to reach me out there.
I always felt better when I went. Things just seemed to click into place and some new perspective would emerge that I hadn't considered. I'd glide over to the trees from where I parked by the road, and break into a smile immediately. Then, I'd climb the 1,000 feet to the ridge, switchbacking my way up and setting new kickturn platforms wherever the existing path had begun to crumble.
These past couple of years have felt a bit like that insanely snowy drive to me.
When I started a newsletter in March of 2024, I couldn't see the road but trusted myself enough to keep writing (singing), breathing, and hoping I'd find pavement. Since then, writing led me to start a podcast, add a daily column, and now take on contributors as a formalized publication. While in the process of shifting Unobstructed from where it started (as that newsletter) to the publication I’m growing it into, BUDS felt like it'd needed a title change.
So I’m excited to share that I've renamed this daily column from BUDS to Kickturn. Same daily column on pivots, patterns, and new perspectives, just with a name that feels like a better fit to me.
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For those who are curious, the definition of kick-turn reads:
kick turn:
noun (skiing/splitboarding)
"backcountry skiing and splitboarding maneuver used to make a sharp, U-turn while skinning (hiking) uphill, allowing you to change direction in tight spots."
How do you keep your bearings in uncharted territory? What's the one thing you reach for to ground yourself when you can't see the road?
onward.
If you know someone who'd appreciate this, pass it along. And if something stuck with you while reading, I'd love to know what it was. For more on this daily column and The MAP Year Project, read the backstory here.