Shedding the Secret Life of Christopher Brinlee
Embracing my Dissolution of Identity
I’ve been quiet here. On social media. Even most of my friends and family have hardly heard from me; and they certainly haven’t seen me in person, because for the past three months, I’ve been in Asia.
Such withdrawal from extended social networks, for me, is oftentimes inversely proportional to one of two things: my degree of presence, particularly when sharing company with loved ones; or periods of deep personal introspection. Coincidentally, both apply to this current chapter of life.
Notably, I’m nearing my ten-year anniversary of resigning from the ad agency where I used to work, before I embarked on a journey to radically reshape my life into the one with which most have come to associate me. Such a season certainly calls for reflection.
Around this same time, a decade ago, I would have been sitting in an office cubicle, Monday through Friday, daydreaming about what life might await outside those four walls that confined my existence. To be frank, I had Walter Mitty syndrome.
For six months, I’d waited with great anticipation for Ben Stiller’s film to drop. Then, December 31st, 2013—immediately after the most epic hike of my life up till that time—my brother and I went to see it on opening night at LA Live.
In The Secret Life of Walter Mitty—which was based on the James Thurber short story—the protagonist for which the film is named (played by Ben Stiller himself) was an interesting guy who’d become trapped in a rather mundane existence, working in a basement as a “negative assets manager” at LIFE magazine. Essentially, he’d intake images from his heroes, notably documentary photographer Sean O'Connell (portrayed by Sean Penn); and ensure that the film negatives were prepared for publication in the magazine. It was important, but thankless work; and very likely inspired Mitty’s daring and outlandish daydreams—the likes of which were far from realized.
However, when a particularly important negative from O’Connell went missing—one to commemorate the magazine’s final issue, representing the “quintessence of LIFE”—Mitty embarked on a transformative journey around the world in order to track the negative down. Ultimately, he became the hero from his daydreams.
Back then, I saw myself in Walter Mitty—the one daydreaming in the basement. What I deeply desired, however, was to be the Walter Mitty hanging out with Sean O’Connell photographing snow leopards in Afghanistan.
So, I made a plan and committed. On August 21st, 2014, I resigned from what had, a couple of years earlier, been my dream job at RPA Advertising in Santa Monica; gave away most of my things; moved out of my loft; and took off around the world with a backpack and a camera. For the first three months, I followed Walter Mitty’s journey, almost to a T. Iceland led me to the Himalaya, but in Nepal—not Afghanistan.
It was there, in Nepal, that I underwent a metamorphosis from Young Urban Creative Chris to Mountaineer & Storyteller, modeled after one Walter Mitty. I embraced the transformation as the core of my identity. It was a totally new Christopher Brinlee.
Over the course of the next many years, that identity required particular types of experiences in order to maintain its essence: climbing both the Matterhorn and the Eiger, unguided, in winter-like conditions—in a period of less than a week; tackling the first traverse of a remote ridgeline in the Canadian Rockies, also in winter conditions—and then almost dying in an avalanche on descent; and sailing from Cape Town to Antarctica with Mike Horn—the world’s greatest living explorer. They were all experiences that Walter Mitty would have been proud of; and I lived them—and survived to tell the tales.
It wasn’t all ego, though. I truly wanted to be the very best version of me; and for many years, experiences in the alpine paid dividends in my preferred currency of life: personal growth. And so, for many years, I invested all of my time and money into those pursuits.
The learnings that resulted; as well as the sense of self that developed, was profound. In very tangible ways, I learned that I could do literally anything that I committed myself to, no matter how logistically complicated, physically difficult, or mentally demanding that mission might be.
I learned what it was to be tethered to someone, literally, during life-and-death circumstances. When the blizzards were blowing; and upward progress through difficult terrain was required in order to survive, I placed all of my trust in my partners; and in turn, they placed all of their trust in me. I dug deep into my well of being and grabbed hold of the grit that was required to make it out alive; and so did they. I for them. Them for me.
Being a mountaineer expanded my selfless capacity for care. On my very first expedition in Nepal, to climb a 6,000 m peak, I struggled. Hard. At one point, all of the feeling in my fingertips (not to mention my toes,) had disappeared. LB—my Nepali guide at the time, and now my friend—pulled off his gloves; and then rubbed his hands on mine, creating friction to generate heat. He did that until my feeling returned, despite the extended exposure of his own hands to the elements that the act required. I thought, “this is how I want to be.” So I encoded the motive for such acts of care into my being. Now, it’s how I show up by default.
Communication is the connectivity that binds all partnerships; that’s particularly true when climbing. Once again, when operating in life-or-death circumstances, what you say; when you say it; and how you present it matters. Lack of clarity can result in clusterfucks; failure to express needs can result in unnecessary precarities; and over-communication, or poor timing, reduces efficiency. Thus, mastering such skills, especially with a consistent partner, can create communicative flow-states that are easy to operate. When that’s on-lock, every outing becomes safer, more fulfilling, and more fun.
My endeavors into the alpine also forced me to turn inward.
When the highs are Himalayan, the lows reach canyon depths.
Figuring out how to navigate such a grand spectrum of human emotion; and also learning how to embrace each emotional environment, no matter how light or how dark it might be, is imperative to the human experience. Case-in-point: my own dance with death in the mountains helped me to better understand and work through the untimely loss of my dad.
For someone who spent his first twenty-five years of life suppressing and hiding his emotions—particularly the low ones—the past decade has shown me that there is power in all feelings. The more that we attune ourselves to our own emotions, the more that we can expand our capacity for empathy; and in doing so, the better equipped we’ll be to show up for others and to stand in solidarity with those who need it. The way the world is heading, this is absolutely imperative.
Ultimately, I’ve learned so much about myself in the mountains, which I apply to everyday life. This past decade has shaped me into the person I want to be—and for that, I’m incredibly proud. It sure as hell hasn’t been easy.
Simultaneously, maintaining this identity has required so much of my resources; and yet, at a certain point, the personal growth—which is what I’d sought throughout—had stagnated. About four years ago, my endeavors into the alpine ceased to continue to teach me anything meaningful about myself. Walter Mitty was back in the basement.
In the years since, I’ve paraded around, wearing who I once was as a mask. Call it, the Secret Life of Christopher Brinlee. Like a hermit crab, I’d outgrown my shell; and yet I’ve been too attached to the identity that I worked so hard to create, to move into a new home that could continue to facilitate the growth that I desire.
Make no mistake, these past four years have been anything but a waste. While I’ve known who I am and what I value for a while, I’ve used the time afforded by my unconventional life to show up for people who I care about in truly meaningful ways; and to better understand how the world works, so that I might find more meaningful ways to engage with it.
However, in order to show up how I desire, I must shed my old shell. It’s time for me to relinquish the mask of Walter Mitty so that Christopher Brinlee can be who he needs to be.
Interestingly, after my metamorphosis into “mountaineer” that occurred nearly ten years ago, I spent an extended amount of time traveling solo around Thailand, Nepal, and Vietnam as a means to distill what I wanted to accomplish with that new identity. For all of the snow and rock and ice that the path would ultimately lead me to, I figured out most of my shit while riding motorcycles through the jungle and chasing waterfalls.
Fitting then, that a similar itinerary led me to similar places—this time, Vietnam, Philippines, and Japan—in search of purposeful intent for my next book of life. I don’t know what its chapters will contain, or who the characters will be, but I do know that whatever stories I live, they will be authentically me. The mask is off.
For now, I am embracing the process—and strangely, it looks very similar to one of my previous paths: applying for design jobs. The difference is, this time around, I know exactly who I am and how I show up for others. And I’ve got a pretty damn good idea of how I intend to use my skills, passion, and experience to engage with the world. Now, it’s time to connect the dots.
I am so very proud of the courage and progress you have made. Impressive and insightful as well as inspirational. Hugs from little ole Mena AR.
Great style, in the writing, in the living.