When I was 13-years-old, fresh out of parochial grammar school, my parents put me on a plane headed south. The plan was for me to spend that summer’s holiday first in Mexico City with my mom’s old college roommate and then on to Costa Rica where my grandparents had relocated. What turned out to be an amazing summer got off to a somewhat rocky start when I called home from the Los Angeles airport, begging to come home. I will never, ever forget what my mom said — “Of course, you can come home, but remember, you may never have this chance again.”
Not only did I get on the Mexico-bound plane, I really have not stopped traveling since. With each possibility, opportunity and scope for adventure I tell myself the same thing: “I may never have this chance again.”
My trips are planned, researched and organized as much as possible — for all the good any of that does. More often then not, my trips turn into equal parts comedy of errors, wrong turns and distractions by shiny objects. In other words, Accidental Adventures.
It’s how I ended up mountain biking alone in Yukon grizzly country; hitching a ride on a dogsled in Labrador; zip lining over lakes in Quebec; trekking out of my way to a winery in Tuscany or checking out an open air market with the locals in Ecuador. Even when I am not seeking it out, adventure finds me after things take a 90-degree turn. It often comes down to just rolling with it.
A lot of my adventures these days begin and end at Rusty Metal Farm here in Fort Kent and given the four-legged and feathered population here, require a bit of pre-planning. And while I always enjoy coming home to my farm and animals, it’s not long before the next adventure is in the works — either by design or by accident.
So far, it’s always been worth taking that chance.