Three is a Magic Number

There is a certain level of unpredictability in all things. There is always going to be a fifty-fifty chance of a dichotomous outcome. The chance of a random chance occurring is so near at all times, the line between what is and what could have been so slender, that it seems almost unfathomable at times—intangible. So what does one do when an undesired and unforeseen outcome comes to fruition? What can one do? What would a group of seven alcoholics do?

As an alcoholic, I am told that my disease is a debilitating one—at most it tries to kill me, and at least it leaves me restless, irritable, and discontent. Although from what I have learned, there is a power lying in wait—bred from this harrowing disease. Though I may lack discipline at times, the drive is there. Though I may lack humility at times, the grit remains. Now, pack a group of alcoholics together on a three day trip in the wilderness, facing a rural abundance of lakes, roads, and split decisions on their own. This is where things really get interesting.

To kick off this trip, we all left at three in the morning in a torrential rain storm. Regardless of the darkness and the slick roads, we made it to the outfitters where we picked up our canoes for the paddle ahead. As if driving down dirt roads wasn’t enough to slow us down, now we had canoes strapped tediously to the top of each of our three cars. Now, everything was going pretty damn smooth until we got to the entry point of our lake. We waited about an hour for our third car to arrive. No sign of them. At this point we are without cell service, and are playing the dreaded waiting game. With the feeling of worry rising, Ben and I decide to backtrack down the dirt road to search for our lost boys. After all, there were quite a few points where one could take a wrong turn. Adding in the factor of a canoe on a car, and the lack of sleep we all had the night before the drive, the possibilities of something less than what we planned happening—was quite high.

Long story short, we came to find out that the boys got lost about an hour away from the rendezvous, of course after a slightly panicked call to Shane. Once we eventually all got to the entry point, we were about three hours late to the time we had originally planned to get on the water. We paddled around for a couple hours scoping out camping sites but only found one open site, which was less substantial than what we had hoped for—factoring in that we had seven people to fit at said campsite. The day went on, beautifully in fact. However, people started to get pretty exhausted, as we had been paddling without breakfast or lunch. We ended up sending out a scout canoe, including Ben, Ant, and I—in hopes of finding a site without having everyone paddle around aimlessly.

As the day suddenly turned into evening, the exhaustion, irritability, and panic, started to set in anew, there were two options. After eight hours of paddling and about ten sites visited, which were all occupied—we had to decide. Again, trying to get seven alcoholics to agree on something? Well, I say we did quite well. We could either illegally set up camp on a—respectfully—pitiful island whilst risking a hefty fine, or we could paddle for our lives and haul ass back to the car. We chose the latter. Now, imagine being exhausted with no food, having an alcoholic capacity for resentment, and racing the dark of the wilderness. Right right. That night concluded with sunburns, a stay in a hotel, and microwaved hot dogs.

The next morning found us back on the water—bright and early this time—heading straight to a campsite in which we knew someone had just left. Odds in our favor, you know? Then add in tsunami level waves. Well, that is an exaggeration, though only slightly. We honorably paddled against the waves and wind, to venture to the site. It was taken. We then saw someone completely capsize. I think the sight of seeing someone’s things floating away and their dogs in panic promoted us to a conclusion. Sometimes you just have to take your wins and cut your losses. Defeated, but crusading nonetheless, we paddled back to the car. The trip concluded with us—slightly begrudgingly—settling at a camping ground off of the Boundary Waters, and spending the last couple of days camping amongst one another there.

Now, for a group of alcoholics attempting to go on a self-orchestrated trip in the most secluded wilderness of the Midwest—I would personally say we behaved more than admirably. There were so many times along this trip where agitation and anger could have easily taken over, consuming all the freshness of the crisp air. However, throughout eight hours of paddling you could hear laughing and singing ringing out across the water. In a hotel you could see us sharing hot dog buns and war stories of the day. At a campsite you would see us stoking fires in clouds of cigarette smoke. In the dark you would see a clump of bodies laying beneath shooting stars. In the rain you would see a table of friends playing cards underneath a tarp. Around the fire you would hear ghost stories and peoples favorite colors.

Despite the feared outcome of an unwelcome reality and a rocky start to our venture, the group of us rallied together to make the most out of the initially tediously fated trip. As alcoholics, there is always going to be the innate reaction and want to be self-centered, egotistical, prideful, resentful, and fearful. However, along with those character aspects I have found that perseverance, hard-headedness, drive, compassion, comradery, and faith co-exist too. To have fought negative instinctual reactions and exhibit understanding, openness, and willingness, is no small feat for anyone—even more so the alcoholic.

Three nights, three cars, three in the morning. Lastly, a third step prayer;

“God, I offer myself to Thee—to build with me and to do with me as Thou wilt.

Relieve me of the bondage of self, that I may better do Thy will.

Take away my difficulties, that victory over them may bear witness to those

I would help of Thy Power, Thy Love, and Thy Way of life.

May I do Thy will always!”

Dropping the illusion of control, dropping the—at times—overwhelming sense of self, showing radical compassion by doing what one can for another. These are three things that were astoundingly abundant throughout the pioneering of this crazy and stressful experience. To watch my best friends be there for each other and myself—overflowing with willingness—was a far more rewarding experience than the chance that we could have stayed in the Boundary Waters.

So you see, three really is a magic number.