The admission should have been a warning sign, but since it caught me off guard I completely missed its prophetic properties. The guy I was dating wondered if I was a lesbian after noticing that my music collection contained a large number of female artists. Oh, silly me. Of course you would question my sexuality being that I own both an Melissa Etheridge and an Indigo Girls CD. My mistake.
It took me a few years to break up with said boy, even after he repeatedly referred to women’s basketball as “lesbian ball” despite the fact that covering women’s basketball is perhaps my favorite part of my job. (Hey, it’s not a proud moment in my relationship history.)
This trip down memory lane came as I was thinking about the book Into the Wild (see yesterday’s review) which details the story of 20-something Chris McCandless, who gave up a comfortable upbringing to live off the land and meet his tragic end on a solo wilderness adventure in Alaska in 1992. The book offers insight into a few other explorers who lost their life (or faced grave danger) while seeking something both internal and external – a personal spiritual quest of sorts connected to the greater universe of nature.
And as I read and reflected, it occurred to me that all these explorers were men.
Why is that? Why are the great stories of adventure seemingly a male domain both experience by and written by men?
Perhaps I’m just woefully undereducated. So I did what any good reporter would do – I googled “women adventurers.”