Do It Your Way

Years ago, three friends and I spent a week paddling fifty miles in canoes on the Green River. The stretch of water winds through the Utah desert and eventually merges with the Colorado River.

On the final day, we arrived at Spanish Bottom on the Colorado River, the designated pickup point nestled within a sharp bend. Miles from civilization, we sweated in the late afternoon sun to pitch tents amidst the tamarisk shrubs by the water’s edge.

As the campsite began to take shape, movement from the corner of my eye drew my head toward an approaching young man. Tension surfaced when I noticed his outfit.

“Excuse me, sir,” the young man said, stopping many feet away. His tie swayed back and forth across a dress shirt, then came to a standstill above his belt buckle and khaki pants.

“My group is a ways back,” he continued. “I’m scouting campsites. Do you mind sharing this one?”

His politeness eased my tension. I looked to my group. Everyone nodded.

“We don’t mind,” I said. “Plenty of room.”

He thanked me and disappeared beyond the brush, leaving the four of us puzzled. We’d known other campers might join us at the pickup point, but nothing prepared us for business attire in the Utah desert.

As we continued working, the conversation turned to the past week. Fifty miles of beauty, water-sculpted canyons, and long-abandoned cliff dwellings. We’d emerged unscathed and reverent from a furious thunderstorm that had swept in quickly to hurl lightning bolts into the ridges surrounding us.

Somehow, we’d avoided the numerous rattlesnakes that populated the area, but were surprised by an encounter with wild mountain goats when we accidentally trapped them in a dead-end canyon. Thick horns curved over their heads and could have left any one of us in need of medical attention had they charged. Instead, the mountain goats proved we hadn’t boxed them in at all when they ambled up the steep slope and disappeared over the other side.

By the time we finished the campsite duties, the churn of paddles drew our attention to multiple canoes rounding the bend. As the bows of each canoe dug into the sandy beach, we watched the travelers disembark, several women lifting the hems of long evening gowns as they stepped into the water. More guys in ties and dress shirts pulled the canoes beyond the reach of small waves.

I can only suppress my curiosity so long. “What’s the occasion?” I asked.

Turns out they were student teachers on a university team-building trip. Every year the trek ends with “formal” day.

Eventually, the group moved inland, pairing up to find their own camping spots. Circling our campfire later, my friends and I talked as the evening sun melted into the hilltop behind us.

Distant campfires dotted the spreading darkness beyond, and we hailed the success of our getaway, especially the peacefulness it brought. My mind drifted to how tense I’d become when the young visitor had arrived. Had my visceral reaction to the young man’s attire been a stark reminder that a closet full of scratchy collars and restricting corporate tethers, a.k.a., dress ties, waited for me when I returned to civilization?

Perhaps, but there seemed to be more to it.

Many years afterward, the image of the young man walking through the Utah desert in business clothes flashed through my head again. I hadn’t thought about it for a long time, but my thoughts returned to why I’d become so tense at a seemingly harmless event.

Conventional wisdom had followed me far into the desert.

More specifically, society’s pressure to conform.

People aren’t supposed to show up at weddings and funerals in cargo shorts and flip-flops. And they aren’t supposed to take canoe trips in dress shirts and ties.

That pressure to conform is both tremendous and subtle, often hidden in the subtext of conversations or in disapproving glances. Yet to do something great—which often means doing something in a different way—we must resist the pressure to conform.

It’s not always easy, but I believe it’s worth it.

I’ve learned to look more closely at my decisions and actions to determine how much they’re influenced by outside expectations or the rules conventional wisdom imposes on me. I strive to forge my own path, not follow the one stomped flat by a crowd. This way of thinking led me to five questions that changed the direction of my life.

But it’s alarmingly easy to switch to autopilot when we aren’t paying attention and wake up to find we’ve veered back onto the beaten path.

Nothing a little backtracking can’t fix.

I’m still learning to become more vigilant and make sure I do it my way.

What about you?

Are you doing life your way?