Melanin Base Camp

A Chosen Family of Complete Strangers

featuring Danielle Williams

TURTLE ISLAND

SANTEE

I KNEW THREE THINGS GROWING UP: THAT I’D ATTEND A MILITARY academy like my father, that I’d be a lifelong runner like my mother, and that I’d accomplish whatever I set out to do in life—just like the big-haired, spandex-clad heroines leaping off the pages of the science-fiction novels that I read as a kid. They were fearless. I aspired to be also.

Life didn’t exactly work out as planned. It’s true, I watched from the bleachers as my uniform-clad siblings tossed their hats in the air on graduation day at West Point, and it’s also true that I stopped running after a long-term illness, but I haven’t stopped pursuing my dreams even as they’ve gradually changed over time.

I no longer want to conquer the world. I want to make smaller changes instead. One of those small changes has been to encourage People of Color to take up more space in the outdoors.

In 2011, I learned how to skydive. I was chasing an “alive” feeling and I found it in the exhilaration that comes from free-falling 13,000 feet and taking your life into your own hands! I took my parachute rig with me and jumped all over the United States, as well as in Thailand and the Philippines. I camped out at drop zones and slept in strangers’ cabins and pitched my tent in the woods. At age twenty-five, I did a trust fall into the skydiving community and had no regrets.

In California, I slept in a stranger’s camper along with several other skydivers. Each morning, we stumbled out into the chilly air, lured by the aroma of fried eggs, toast, and coffee percolating on the Jetboil. Jumping was secondary to sharing our life stories, which spanned several continents and languages.

In the Northeast, I rose before sunrise to plunge 10,000 ft from a hot air balloon—a tradition I would repeat several times over the same sleepy Pennsylvania countryside. I loved bracing against the cold, marveling at how quietly and quickly the balloon carried us aloft, and steeling myself for the way my heart leapt into my throat with each “dead air” drop.

In the Pacific Northwest, I did my first night jump—on accident. After a slow climb to altitude in a small aircraft while circling a brand new-to-me drop zone, I was surprised to see the beautiful sunset eclipsed by fog and darkness. “Don’t worry, there’s a blinking light on the airfield,” the instructor said right before the blinking light on the airfield blinked out. Thankfully, the other jumpers on the ground improvised, using their vehicles and headlights to guide us safely back to earth—safely but not elegantly. I ran out my landing and slid feet-first underneath the bumper of a parked Jeep, its KC lights fully ablaze, to the horror of onlookers.

In the Southeast, long, hot summer days of skydiving were followed by Low Country boils spread out on picnic tables lined with newspaper and skinny-dipping in nearby lakes. Beer bottles clinking as soon as the happy hour light came on, signaling the end of jump operations for the day.

Skydiving means a chosen family of complete strangers. It means the same language no matter where I travel in the globe and no matter what language is spoken. Our gear is the same, our preparations for each dive are the same, and we flash the same shaka signs before climbing out onto the strut and dropping into blue sky.

It’s not that bad things don’t happen; they do. There have been times when I felt unsafe as a Black woman traveling alone to drop zones in rural areas. I also found that people are quick to make assumptions about my ability, experience level, and technical knowledge, based solely on the color of my skin. When I visit new drop zones, I am routinely mistaken for a tandem customer despite the obvious signs: a gear bag and parachute on my back and my helmet in hand. It reinforces the fact that many people will never see me as a “real skydiver” because, in their minds, “Black people don’t skydive!” That’s a hard truth that bothered me less when I was a newcomer but can really get under my skin as an experienced jumper with hundreds of skydives and over a decade in the sport.

Drop zones are also places where sexist, homophobic, and racist language is often met with laughter, or averted glances from allies who are too afraid to speak up. The truth is our community shares the same “bro” culture as many other adventure sports. Despite this, I believe we have a lot of potential to be a diverse, accepting, and inclusive community.

I’ve been skydiving for over a decade, and I don’t regret the decision. I love taking the camera step on a jump so I can capture video for a newly licensed skydiver who is eager to share their world with their family and friends. It’s a way of paying it forward, because there were people who did the same for me when I was brand new. I love skydiving traditions, like beer for first-time offenses and pieing skydivers on their hundredth and thousandth jumps. I love the rush that comes from successfully completing a dive plan and the preternaturally calm organizers who help us achieve the impossible in the sky.

I also no longer get super stressed when things don’t work out as planned. Skydiving taught me that. I’ve landed at Walmart and in cow pastures, cornfields, alfalfa fields, soccer fields—you name it—if it’s a type of field, I’ve probably landed in it. Life has a way of unraveling the best-laid plans.

Since I began skydiving, I’ve started things and not finished them, like my pilot’s license after I got sick. I’ve slowed down—a lot—since becoming disabled, and that no longer makes me feel as anxious or upset. Sometimes it feels really unfair that I no longer have access to the things that gave me a sense of peace—like distance running or putting in long hours at the drop zone every weekend, but I still jump and have started hiking a lot more with my elbow crutches, when my body feels up to it. When I can’t do that, I plant my feet in the grass and slip a little Maker’s Mark into my hot tea, and that counts too.

The purpose of this book is not to convince you to hike, climb, paddle, or skydive but to show you that good things await on the other side of uncertainty and self-doubt—if this is something you’re interested in. It’s scary to try new experiences—especially when you don’t have all the details and especially if you’re the only person who looks like you. The outdoors is truly for everyone. Just remember to go at your own pace and as far as you feel comfortable going. Don’t mistake anyone else’s journey for your own.

Learning
How to Fall

featuring Dr. Favia Dubyk

ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO

TIGUA (TIWA), PIRO, PUEBLOS

DR. FAVIA DUBYK IS A THIRTY-FIVE-YEAR-OLD PHYSICIAN, CANCER survivor, and professional rock climber. The former collegiate sprinter studied environmental science and public policy at Harvard, where she also set a school record in the women’s 100-meter race, before she learned to climb. A few years later, Favia was attending medical school in Cleveland and dating “a cute guy” when she suddenly began experiencing fatigue and difficulty breathing. After a battery of tests and the discovery of a 13-cm mass in her chest, she was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma.

The diagnosis upended her life. She suffered through a major surgery and several life-threatening medical complications, including collapsed lungs and fluid around her heart before she was able to start chemotherapy. Eventually, Favia recovered, married that cute guy, and completed medical school. She also began climbing again.

Regaining her strength took time, but climbing soon became a central part of her life. “My favorite part of climbing is the sensation of having my life hanging from my fingertips,” Favia described thoughtfully. She climbs V12 boulders, mostly lowball roofs where she can fall a short distance onto her back and the crash pad below, without fear of injury. She has Ehlers-Danlos syndrome and is prone to painful partial dislocations called joint subluxations.

Bouldering is a type of rock climbing that doesn’t require a harness or ropes. “With bouldering, all I need is my dog, shoes, and a crash pad,” she explained. The minimal requirements have allowed her to climb around her busy schedule as a physician. The sport requires incredible core and finger strength, and its trial-and-error process appeals to the former Division I athlete. On social media, she posts photos of her lean, muscular 5’2” frame suspended from “barely there” granite holds or hanging upside down from toe hooks.

She also loves the short bursts of movement that differentiate bouldering from other types of climbing. “I know a lot of people like to climb to gain vertical height, or to get views,” said Favia. “I climb because I like the movement.”

Year-round, she mostly climbs at night to escape the desert heat in New Mexico, where she lives with her husband, crag dog Hans, and five cats. That has become more and more important as her skill level has progressed. “At harder grades, the holds get so small that you need every advantage possible,” Favia explained. “You don’t want sweaty hands or wet rock. Even the rubber on your climbing shoes has an ideal temperature for generating the most friction.” While she prefers 30°F to 40°F, she’s been known to climb in 15°F weather with earmuffs and booties.

Her nighttime sessions boosted her mental health during her residency and fellowship as she dealt with racism, misogyny, and a toxic work environment. “During that time, I needed climbing to get through the next day,” Favia recalled. These days, she actually finds herself climbing less and incorporating more rest days.

Bouldering has also challenged her to face her fears on and off the rock. In the past few years, Favia has worked with a sports counselor to help her overcome her fear of dislocating joints and to get comfortable with riskier, more dynamic movement. Her efforts have paid off: “I never thought I’d be climbing double digits with hard moves twenty feet off the ground!” she said enthusiastically. “It’s been a long road.”

She also competed in seasons 10 and 11 of American Ninja Warrior. “I’m currently training for my first professional competition, called Tuck Fest,” said Favia. “You climb forty-five feet without a rope and then fall into the water.” She’s tackling her fear by doing as much preparation as possible, including jumping off cliffs and taking swimming lessons to increase her comfort level in the water. “I know in the moment on the wall, I’ll still be afraid,” she added. “The goal is to be confident in your skills so that when fear creeps in, it doesn’t matter.”

Running for Healing and
Social Change

featuring Verna Volker

MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA

WAHPEKUTE, OČHÉTHI ŠAKÓWIŋ

WHEN VERNA VOLKER FIRST BEGAN RUNNING, SHE WAS A MOTHER OF