Journey Around the World

Hayden Lynch '12 reflects on his yearlong trip around the world, and on the familiar lessons of community, friendship and care he found in unfamiliar places.

We hiked through the thick rainforest of the Ko'olau mountain range, on what we believed to be the Ka'au Crater trail, in Oahu, Hawaii. Jimmy, my best friend since elementary school, who has curly brown hair and a large personality that can be heard in his booming laugh and seen in his big grin, was with me. We had been exploring the five main Hawaiian islands on our first stop around the world. From volcanoes to waterfalls to perfect waves that curled behind your surfboard, pushing you toward the white sandy beach, we had done it all. This day was to be no different.

We trekked for four hours before reaching the summit. Thick cumulus clouds rolled in, blocking out the view of Honolulu. After a brief rest we decided to climb down the back side of the mountain where a skinny trail sloped steep into the brush. We ducked down into the shade before the path opened onto a precipitous ridgeline covered in mud. I began to doubt our decision but carried on. With each step our pace slowed due to the wet conditions and precariously narrow trail; we were forced to scoot down on our behinds, legs straddling the ridge hundreds of feet off the ground. With each gust of wind our hands gripped the leaves of grass tighter and tighter.

We reached the valley below and found ourselves stuck. The ridge was too narrow, steep and muddy to attempt a climb back up. Our only option was to venture into the unmarked rainforest toward Honolulu, praying we'd find a trail, road or fellow hiker to bring us to safety. For two hours we bushwhacked toward Honolulu. Foliage grabbed at us. Neither of us spoke. We feared losing our way home.

We reached an impassable point. A 200-foot waterfall roared over the edge of the rocks we stood on; the sound was as terrifying as the thought of being trapped. "I think I see a way down!" yelled Jimmy, looking over the edge. To say I was hesitant about the idea is an understatement. Nevertheless, I decided to attempt the descent. The long strands of grass felt thin and fragile in my hands as I lowered my body over the edge. I kicked my boots into the soft mud to stabilize my weight against the vertical wall.

Rain had begun to fall, and night was fast approaching. Then it happened. The mud shifted and my feet slipped from their holds, dangling in the air. There was no time to calm the fear raging inside me as the blades of grass in my hands began to snap, gravity pulling me toward certain death. I screamed. The last few blades of grass broke and a shivering sense of slipping crept up my spine. I thought I would die.

I felt Jimmy's fingers wrap around my wrist. Inch by inch he pulled me up, nearly yanking my shoulder from its socket. We sat on a rock in awe, exhausted and drenched, trying to digest what had just transpired. I checked my phone: one bar of service. I dialed 911.

The helicopter rocked like a dreidel wobbling to a halt as a man ripped open the door. All Jimmy and I could hear was the sound of the propeller. The man leapt from the open door and lowered himself down, landing inches from my feet. "Everyone okay?" he yelled. We nodded though our bodies were shaking. I slipped both feet through the harness and prepared to be lifted up to the helicopter. Our rescuer radioed to the pilot: "All set." My hips raised a few inches off the rock then paused. I looked back toward Jimmy; fear washed across his face. How had we put ourselves in this position? Then the helicopter took off, launching my body over the waterfall's edge. I dangled below as it cruised toward Honolulu.

"Gnarly view, huh?" my rescuer yelled over the wind. I nodded in acknowledgement and thought only of being on the ground. We landed on a suburban soccer pitch to a swarm of police officers and firefighters. When I was safe, the team left to rescue Jimmy. Once reunited, Jimmy gave me a big hug and with his usual closed-lipped grin asked, "What a way to start the trip, huh buddy?"

Leaving Home

I quit my job in advertising two years ago. Data analytics was not my dream job, but I loved the people I worked with. The problem was the work. Hours on hours staring at a computer screen filled with endless spreadsheets, the sense of adventure and meaning in my life crippled by this routine. Then I found "Departures," a series on Netflix created by three guys who quit their jobs and traveled the world, filming their experiences from every continent on Earth. I felt attached to these three guys. They were living out of backpacks, exploring the most beautiful landscapes and embracing local cultures — speaking their languages, indulging in their foods and enjoying their traditions. I saw this lifestyle as an education influenced by constant interaction with people far different than myself.

In July 2018, I decided to pursue a more deliberate life defined by new experiences and challenges. I convinced Jimmy to come along for the ride (and planned for Alex Vozzella '11 and Max Romanow '12 to join later). Our packs were stuffed with a tent, sleeping bag, hiking boots, a first-aid kit and five pairs of clothes. We headed for the airport unsure how the next year of our lives would unfold. After surviving a near-death experience in Hawaii, it seemed our need for adventure only increased. We left with an acquired appreciation for life and landed in Fiji excited to explore and learn about this new place.

We spent the next week on the remote island of Mana. The accommodation was modest: a shared room in a weather-torn shack 20 feet from the ocean with a misspelled sign painted out front that read "RESTURANT." Each day we'd head out to sea in a decrepit motorized canoe with the lone local fisherman in search of tuna to help provide for dinner. At night we indulged in kava, a root-based drink that relaxes the nerves, and listened to the neverending stories told by locals of their days on the island. These families welcomed Jimmy and me into their homes and lives like old friends. The desire to share their culture evoked a sense of purpose that hinted that I could enjoy this moment for a lifetime.

From Fiji we ventured up the east coast of Australia, meeting fellow backpackers, listening to their stories and learning of new places we never expected to visit. After Australia, we traveled through Southeast Asia. In Sa Pa, Vietnam, we stayed with Mimi, a short, elderly woman who always wore a pink sun hat that covered her wrinkled face and large hoop earrings that caused her earlobes to droop. Her nephew, Vi, a shy kid with a smooth face and an eagerness to learn English, took us on two 10-mile treks through the cascading rice terraces while local kids nipped at our heels hoping to sell bracelets for less than the change in our pockets; we each bought 10.

Then to Indonesia, where we scaled a volcano hours after an earthquake decimated the region, toppling our guide Gede's home. His resilience and optimism seemed incomprehensible and opened my eyes to the ease and comfort of my life back home. "I'll rebuild with bamboo, much safer next time," he said nonchalantly, as if this devastating event was as common and inconvenient an occurrence as a flat tire.

A New Perspective

After venturing into the jungle to face Komodo dragons, Jimmy and I split ways. He headed home to earn a bit more cash before rejoining me in Europe a few months later. Alex Vozzella '11 and Peter McLaughlin (my roommate at Dartmouth College) met me in Kathmandu, Nepal. The three of us journeyed to the northern Himalayas in a Jeep, packed tight with eight Nepalese women and men, for a 15-hour ride along a precarious dusty dirt road winding through 10,000-foot mountains. We ventured toward Rappcha, a small town carved into the side of a mountain where our guide, Sokol, lived. Sokol was a thin yet muscular man standing five-foot-five with kind brown eyes and hands rough like a carpenter's, and with him, we began our trek toward Mount Everest's base camp.

For three days we climbed in pouring rain. On the fourth day I woke with chills and a throbbing headache. I had the flu. Lying in bed inside a cozy teahouse, I thought of heading home. I'd never get to see the beauty of Everest with my own eyes; I was devastated. Alex and Peter spent the morning hiking to Lukla, a two-hour steep climb away, to acquire medication while Sokol stayed behind and took care of me, frequently bringing water and lentil soup. (I later learned he did not charge me for this food).

Even as I slept, I never noticed the second pillow placed under my head. When I woke, Sokol laid on the bed next to me, head propped up against his pack. Two weeks later, we shared stale crackers at the foot of Mount Everest, rejoicing in our accomplishment. I realized at that moment, as I glanced up toward the formidable peak, how fortunate I was to be there — not only because I had the means to pay for this experience, but also because I was surrounded by people who cared for me like family.

The time we spent in Nepal changed my perspective on life. I began to appreciate the immense adversity many families in Nepal face. For example, Sokol lost two wives in childbirth because they didn't have adequate medical care, and he raises both kids alone. At the same time, I found the simplicity of their lives mesmerizing: Each family raises its own livestock, maintains a garden, and constructs its own homes and toilets. I was humbled living among these women and men who understood what it meant to live by their own hand daily.

From Nepal, Alex and I waved goodbye to Peter and traveled to Japan, discovering a culture defined by respect and discipline. From north to south we met kind-hearted people who showed genuine interest in our lives. Every night we went out for dinner and people would invite us over to their table. Whether they spoke English didn't matter: Hand gestures sufficed in communicating and appreciating our different backgrounds and personalities.

On our last night in Tokyo, a young couple opened their home to us when we were lost in search of our Airbnb. They charged our phones and gave us apple juice while we watched Japanese cartoons with their 2-year-old daughter. Alex and I were overwhelmed with gratitude toward this family, though they told us they viewed this act as a responsibility rather than a favor. The differences in our cultures never felt more apparent as we pondered how a similar scenario might have gone had we been two Japanese kids lost in New York City. We left Japan full of hope in humanity after experiencing an entire society that showed us what it meant to treat everyone with respect.

The Final Journey

We journeyed west toward Europe; Alex returned home to rejoin the workforce while Max Romanow '12 flew out to meet me in Italy for the last leg of this yearlong adventure.

Max and I spent three weeks driving from the south of Italy through the Swiss Alps and into Munich, Germany. Magnificent museums and churches enhanced my appreciation for Renaissance art and the power of religion. Most of our time, however, was spent locked in our rental car, driving for as much as 10 hours a day as we traveled between cities.

During those travel days, we would reminisce about our time as roommates in Russell House at Brooks, telling stories of the lows and highs, moments when we failed together and times when we thrived. I realized how important those years were to me; how important those relationships were. It is no coincidence that nearly 10 years after graduating, two of my best friends from Brooks decided to take a risk and join me on a journey around the world.

I learned a lot about the importance of surrounding myself with good people during my time at Brooks — people who would sacrifice their own wellbeing for mine. There were moments at Brooks when Max put my interests before his own, even though he risked hindering his success in the future. Those moments taught me a great deal about what it meant to be a friend, a brother. During my travels I met great people who helped me in the same way Max had 10 years earlier. I realized that being vulnerable with others, even those you may not know yet, creates relationships built around trust. Max taught me that at Brooks.

The last week of my travels I ventured north into the Norwegian Arctic, alone for the first time in a year. Each night I slept beneath the stars, wrapped in my sub-zero sleeping bag, trying to fend off the frigid air as I watched the northern lights dance across the sky glowing green and purple. On the last night I hiked deep into the mountains, per a recommendation from a local. For two hours, I climbed through tall grass soaked thick from rain the previous night. I reached the vertical portion of the trail as darkness fell upon the sky. The trek up toward the summit exhausted the last of my energy. My legs burned from the climb, slowing the pace of each step. My mind fogged from the focus it took to remain on the precipitous trail in the limited starlight. I reached the top to find a clear sky and flat ground on which to set my tent. My burner overcooked pasta as I read Jack London's "Call of the Wild" and waited for the night's lightshow.

Suddenly a faint streak of green shot out from behind a mountain in the distance, like a train emerging from a tunnel. Vertical stripes of green and purple sliced through the night sky, illuminating the valley below. My body warmed at the sight of the aurora borealis. "Wow, isn't this beautiful?" I asked. I turned to my right and then left expecting to see Alex or Max sitting next to me, nodding in agreement, only to remember they had already traveled home. I felt alone. Though a perfect moment, I had no one to share it with.

A Look Back

Now, far removed from my travels, I think back on the moments when I needed help the most and found solace in old and new friends alike. When I was sick in Nepal, Sokol cared for me. When I doubted the purpose of my trip in Japan, Alex listened to me. When I was scared to return home to a life of routine, Max spoke of the positives I'd find in my future. And when I was falling off a cliff in Hawaii, Jimmy reached out a hand and grabbed my wrist. These are my fondest memories because, in those moments of despair, I was reminded of that lesson Max taught me so many years before: People who truly love you will always risk their own happiness for yours, knowing you would do the same for them. It is these people who you must always surround yourself with.

I was fortunate that my financial situation allowed me to have these experiences. I had saved a large chunk of the money I made working in data analytics, and my family helped me in a large way too. That is not to say, however, that people coming from less fortunate positions would never be able to have similar experiences. Alex spent an entire year saving money for this trip. He paid off tens of thousands of dollars in student loans and saved up nearly twenty thousand dollars to travel with me. He worked hard, picked up a second job driving for Uber and moved back home to save money because it was his dream to travel the world. And he accomplished it, traveling to nine countries, reaching Mount Everest's base camp, scuba diving the Great Barrier Reef, riding motorcycles through the rolling hills of Tuscany and appreciating every day we had out there together because he had earned it himself.

It's true that a trip like mine remains financially out of reach for many people. But I've realized that one does not need to spend a year traveling the world to have life-changing experiences. Venturing outside your comfort zone, into an uncertain place where you meet people far different than yourself, will certainly provide a new perspective to anyone who is willing to take a risk, to try something new. This is what I loved most about traveling. Every day was a new experience filled with new interactions with new people in new places, always uncertain but never failing to be rewarding.

I hope my story inspires even just a few Brooksians to take a risk. Dive into what makes you most uncomfortable and see what it might teach you when you surface. Brooks prepares us for this: It teaches us to make community where we find it, to extend a hand to others and to accept the extended hand of others. Brooks also equips us for this: The person who will be there when you need them most might be the one who sat next to you in class or the one who slept in the bunk above yours. I urge you to use these bonds for support as you reach out to create new ones across your adventures.