“You can’t hold me. You’re too... dainty.” He said with a pompous chuckle, exposing bleached forty-year-old teeth from beneath sun-chapped lips. “Sir, I already told you. I’m not holding you, I’m belaying you,” I uttered, my boiling annoyance disguised in a polite smile. This man was a chief engineer at Apple and a guest at the Lake Tahoe summer camp I was working at. I had spent nearly fifteen minutes convincing him to climb the three-story ladder of black basalt before us. Guests swarmed behind me, complaining of sunburn, soggy sandwiches, and the smell of moist climbing shoes. But the Apple engineer’s voice prevailed. “How do I know you aren’t gonna drop me?” Right now, I’d like to. “Because this is my job, I am a professionally certified climbing instructor, and I’ve been doing this for years,” I said with my customer-service grin still plastered to my face. But he didn’t budge. He stared at my frumpy brown shorts, his eyes meandering to my sun-leathered legs and onto my fuchsia harness. Stop that. His gaze returned to my face. “What about the climbing teacher from last year, Will, I think his name was. Where’d he go?” Oh, the guy who hadn’t climbed before getting this job? “He graduated.” I said coolly. “What a shame. He was strong. He could lift me up this thing.” It’s not lifting, it’s belaying.
He finally ascended after minutes of cajoling; his brand name boots breaking off chunks of precious basalt with each step. I sat silently as this million-year-old cliff - my favorite climbing crag - became dust under his footsteps. My eyes fogged at the death of these stones and at the remnants of our conversation. Droplets of doubt traced muddy trails down my cheeks because I wasn’t an adequate climbing leader, not in his eyes. These droplets formed a pool, then a pond, then a lake of self doubt and anger, an ecosystem of inadequacy based on my gender, not my abilities.
These tears didn’t stop for thirteen weeks while serving as a wilderness guide for a Stanford alumni summer camp. For three summers, I led Silicon Valley software engineers, CEOs and venture capitalists through California's aptly named Desolation Wilderness. Most of the attendees of my trips were men; men were used to leading others. Men who spent their days commanding rooms of one thousand policymakers or making million dollar decisions. They were powerful. Competent. Strong. And they knew it.
So naturally, I needed to acquire these traits to earn their respect. I had to convince them I was equal; that my leadership style and skills mimicked the alpha males around me. But I wasn’t loud. Or domineering. I giggled too much. And I didn't have a beard. To many of these men, women were followers, not fearless leaders. We are second-place runner-ups in a culture of fast paced prosperity and athletic prowess. We are receptionists, homemakers, trophies. We are different; not equal.
My first summer, I wasn’t equal. I was constantly doubted, checked out, and questioned by the campers. Moms and teens in short skirts inquired about my favorite sports bras but never my favorite hike. Grandmothers told me not to enter the wilderness alone because I’d be mauled by a bear or a harassed by a man. Dads and uncles wanted to know how hard I could climb just so they could compare me to my male co-workers; climbing guides like Will who were armed with veiny biceps and fuzzy chins.
But I didn’t have rippling muscles or unkempt facial hair to demonstrate my ability. I just had years of experience, professional climbing certifications, and wilderness medicine training. I had tales of thirty-foot falls and bloody fingers and tending to gushing head wounds. But my gently toned arms told kept these secrets from the universe. After all, I was a woman. I wasn’t Will.
It's not that women were shunned at camp - more than half of the sixty-two staff were females. However, most of them worked in the kitchen, with children, or in the retail store. We did have a female lifeguard my first summer - she was in charge of rescuing chubby three year olds when they would topple into the calm azure water. Simply stated, women cooked, cleaned, and coddled at summer camp. Women didn’t teach rock climbing classes, bandage raw blisters, or lead groups of CEO’s into the wilderness.
Yet I couldn’t get enough. I truly adored my job even with the emotional summits, valleys, and jagged topography in between. I craved the jeweled moments spent with these ill- tempered men; the sunset vistas and exchange of life stories that would turn bitter frowns into bleached, toothy smiles.
But what I enjoyed the most was traversing the rocky terrain of female leadership. It is a trailless territory on an unknown map. I yearned to get lost in this wilderness, to grasp what it means to be a woman outside. A wild woman. Armed with grace and grit, I spent two more summers in Lake Tahoe leaning in, bucking up, and exploring the wilderness of gender politics in outdoor leadership.
Every wild woman is born from another. I met my first wild woman when I was sixteen after convincing my parents to send me on a National Outdoor Leadership School course in Alaska. For one month, I hiked with copper grizzlies and kayaked above ancient humpbacks under the guidance of a true she-ro, Mackenzie Campbell. Spellcheck thinks I mean hero. I don’t.
Mackenzie was a rock traversing, bear calling, hair braiding mystery. Her legs were thick
and firm, hundreds of miles of Alaskan backcountry hiking etched into her sculpted frame.
Beneath her chunky glasses were oceanic eyes that had seen mountain vistas I could only dream of. We had similar shoulder-length chestnut hair; hair that was long enough to finely frame umber skin but short enough to require minimal care in the backcountry. Around her wrist was a rainbow friendship bracelet, and next to that, a simple silver chain with a compass-shaped charm. I remember her standing beside my other leaders, two men six-and-a-half feet tall with black, unruly beards and the “I’ve been living out of a van in Alaska for three years” stench. She was the same; she was different. She was perfect.
I loved the way she led our gaggle of honking teenagers into the wild and into uncharted gender politics territory. Mackenzie hiked, paddled, and built roaring campfires as swiftly as the men and with the same vivacity as the pubescent boys. Often, we couldn’t keep up with her. At nighttime, she’d recite thousands of facts about bears and wildflowers and in the morning teach us how to make backcountry cinnamon rolls. She could even tie a figure eight knot with one hand. But as much as she was equal to the men, she was also different.
Mackenzie wasn’t afraid to acknowledge her femininity, grace, compassion and empathy alongside her will for equality. She embraced her womanhood, flaunting her fantastic feminine aura whenever she could. She used her motherly intuition to make me unafraid of the bears and stars and solace, to warm my shivering soul under the frozen Alaskan sky. One day, when a sixteen-year-old girl suffered a third degree burn from a fuel accident, Mackenzie offered the perfect tonic of sympathy, warmth, and toughness to heal the girl’s hand and heart. Mackenzie had it all. She could cook, clean, and coddle too.
Whether atop white sea kayaks or beneath teal backpacks, Mackenzie led us deep into the midst of our government issued maps, into the pale green of the Chugach National Forest and around sky blue of Prince William Sound. But our most important map had no color. This map depicted the rugged, barren landscape of female leadership for which Mackenzie was the North Star; the compass rose. She was the first wild woman to show me the trailhead where I would begin a lifelong journey, a never-ending trek into a puzzling political wilderness. A landscape where I would be equal and a woman. A wild woman.
I thought about Mackenzie often during my second summer in Tahoe. As the person in charge of managing all outdoor adventure activities for the camp, I organized and led climbing classes, hiking trips, and kayaking tours through the Sierra. I was pleased with my promotion and the new duties, gear, and faces it promised. But more than anything, I was elated to teach San Franciscan families how to fish.
Each week, ten or twenty elementary aged boys would congregate near Witches pond, a dot of greenish, silent water that rotted behind the camp’s parking lot. Fish didn’t naturally thrive in Witches pond, but instead were imported by retired military trucks that rocket launched Lahontan Cutthroat Trout into the water to revitalize the native ecology. The leftover weaklings with torn fins and prolific diseases were discarded into Witches pond as eternal victims to a fate of limbo; catch and release fishing with eight-year-old boys.
Most of the boys had never touched a fish before. This was so unlike me. My dad was an avid fisherman who taught me how to bait a hook by the time I was eight. When I was eleven, I caught my first trophy-sized bass. But at camp, the city boys were skittish, afraid of the slime and murk and shadows cast by hundred-year-old pines. Some boys were rowdy, energetically shrieking and stumbling onto the muddy shore, occasionally slipping into the verdant water.
All of the boys were accompanied by their dads, the same Silicon Valley executives who attended my climbing excursions the summer before. But the city boys were different from their city dads. They didn't care that I was a girl. Or a woman. Or a wild woman. I was simply the
person with the bait and rules and fishing knowledge, the person who would teach them about poles and hooks and patience for the first time in their lives. Most importantly, I was the person who would give a free milkshake to whoever caught the first fish.
On Mondays at four p.m., dads and sons would arrive at the water’s edge clutching shiny poles from expensive outdoor stores. They yearned to dirty them, to disguise them in moss and fish blood. But before I began my lesson, the middle aged men would gaze at my faded purple hiking boots, examine my braids and wonder, sometimes out loud, who is this girl and who taught her to fish? They eight-year-old city boys never understood the prejudice buried in their dad’s questions; they were unaware of my trailless map riddled with politics and inequality and judgment. They just wanted to fish.
But I had to answer this question before the lesson began. The dads simply couldn’t let a girl teach their sons something so manly as fishing without an explanation. So each week I reconciled my feminine and fisherperson identities, laying it out for them like I laid out their pre-baited fishing poles.
I told them about my childhood in Wisconsin, about Friday night fish fries in my mosquito-ridden backyard, about learning how to fish with my own dad. And, of course, about the trophy bass mounted on our living room wall. I told them about how being a fisherperson is learning how to tie a fisherman’s knot, it’s getting comfortable with blood and gore and death. It is not man hands and grizzly beards but safety and patience and wilderness.
Each week was nearly the same. No matter the awkward glances, personal questions, or safety infringements, I cherished every moment. I would wince as men and boys swung hazardous metal hooks into the air, slapping them onto the surface of the water, observing as their precariously perched bait floated tragically to the pond’s depth. Boys would cry, dads would swear, moms would occasionally stop by to tell their sons and husbands not to get dirty because dinner was in an hour.
During the first half hour no one ever caught a fish - probably because they spent more time constructing a mountain of excuses than casting into the water. The city dads alleged that the water was polluted or their poles weren’t good enough. The boys thought the fish were asleep. I would giggle and assure them they weren’t. I’d pick up a fishing pole and affix my bait in seconds, commencing my ritual to convince the boys that the fish weren’t sleeping and to assure the dads that girls in braids and purple hiking boots could fish too. I’d flick the line into the water, casting into the three-inch boundary where the golden reeds met the black water.
One, two, three, and it would happen. Every time. I’d feel the hook push through the fish’s cartilaginous lips. Reeling him in cautiously towards the water’s edge, I’d lift the flopping creature into the crisp air, caressing his two-inch barbed fins into submission, coddling him in my gentle hands. Later to clean and cook him, if I pleased.
“Who has never touched a fish before?” I would ask. The boys would sprint towards me, ignoring the cautionary tale of their dads’ frantic yells. The dads would step closer too, their inquisitive body language revealing fish-touching virginity. “Get in line to take a picture with the fish!” I would proclaim, smiling at the bouncing bodies and toothy smiles around me.
With these lessons, I ached to be Mackenzie, to be someone’s she-ro. I strived to be powerful, competent, and knowledgeable - the kind of leader these men wanted. But I also revealed the importance of grace and neatness, how thin fingers tie better knots and a delicate touch is required for a far cast. I craved to instill compassion for the creatures of this planet; reminding young boys that fish have families too and we mustn't kill for entertainment or thrill. I hugged disheveled boys when their brothers would steal their poles, wiping salty tears and letting them latch onto my legs like fifty-pound barnacles. When the dads would spend more time detangling their lines from fir trees than casting into the water, I reassured them that this sport was difficult; that it took years to develop a solid cast or read the black water. And, that fishing was largely based in luck. Not really, but I had to tell them this. I was paid in tips. After a few weeks of this, I realized I could be the leader that men approved of while flaunting my feminine traits. A wild woman.
The Apple engineer attended my fishing lesson a year after our climbing encounter. I had forgiven him but was weary of his presence, especially his bleached smile and expensive hiking boots. He must be bringing his kids - why else would he be here? If he did in fact have kids, then he must posses the potential for compassion and for considering the trailless map I longed to show him. What if he had a daughter?
He was indeed followed by two stumbling, uncoordinated bodies of laughter that emerged from the forest service road. A ten year-old boy in navy shorts and a comically muddy forehead sprinted ahead of a tiny girl, a six year-old munchkin in pink shorts and glittery plastic sandals. She wasn’t muddy.
Girls in pink shorts rarely came to my lessons because girls hardly came at all. I’m not sure if it was out of genuine disinterest or an idea their parents had. Either way, I was delighted to teach her to fish. I hastily rigged up her brother’s pole, delivering my safety-knowledge-ethics spiel while threading a plump worm over the steel hook. He swiftly abandoned the sun-bleached dock and began casting awry on the distant shoreline with Apple dad cheering raucously behind. The boy’s hook snagged the forest canopy after just a few seconds. Apple dad assured me he would fix it because he was taller than me. OK.
I didn’t care; I was preoccupied with my friend in pink shorts. “I really want to touch a fish,” she uttered in a six-year-old slur. “We will!” I promised. And I knew we would. Her inquisitive eyes gleamed with the possibility. I prepared our rod, prompting her to choose the bait. We had pink rubber worms that matched her shorts and chartreuse insect larvae. She chose chartreuse. After wiggling the spongy bait over the hook, I positioned her petite hands over the cork base of the rod. I wrapped my calloused fingers over hers, demonstrating how we would cast together. Then, we did, my hands guiding the pole to that perfect spot nestled between the reeds and water. One, two, three, boom. The hook was yanked to the pond's murky bottom.
“We did it!” She smiled, her eyes smiling louder. She reeled in the fish with the delicate touch that six year olds somehow have. We lifted the creature and the boys scurried towards us. Her dad sprinted over with a youthful gait, unpacking his camera and squawking with pride. Meanwhile, the boys were composing an orchestra of “Ew!” and “Gross!” and “Kill it!” My glitter-sandaled companion giggled and asked what color fish guts were.
“Are you as good at climbing as you are at fishing?” Apple dad wondered out loud, his words polluting the fragrant afternoon wind. The dock creaked beneath us as I considered my response. Do you know your daughter doesn’t like pink? She likes fishing. And mud. And being outside. And I bet she’ll like rock climbing when she’s older.
“I really like them both. I spend a lot of time outside... So I like to think I’m good at it.” I said, my words trailing off into the damp forest air. The unheard truth remained packed in my brain, far from the forest air, far from the pines and biting flies and murky pond water. Far from the ears of Apple dad.
It's not about being good at it. It's about wearing glittery sandals covered in fish guts. It's about learning the skills, being prepared, getting out there. It’s coddling crying boys and then cleaning and cooking your own fish for supper. It’s reading maps and splinting broken shinbones and hurling a bear bag over a mangled tree branch. It's flaunting face-framing chestnut hair or braids or pink bandanas or no hair at all. It's adventuring alongside fuzzy- chinned men because you can, not because it's a competition. It's about fun. Failure. Wolves. Backpacks. It's about sharing sunsets and blisters and luke-warm lake water from a plastic Nalgene, about shivering in summer wind and skiing shirtless in winter sun. It is about being someone else’s she-ro. Being a wild woman.
But I didn’t say those things. Not that summer. I still had a lot of exploring to do, seeking out trails and building cairns on my map for wild women.
“Next time you come back, bring your daughter.” I smiled, my eyes smiling louder.