The Book Sense 76
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"Why did you write the book?" Some authors can answer this without guilt. Adventure book-writers who tell a tragic tale often get the question with a wink and nod -- somebody died, that's why we wrote the book.

I'm certainly aware of the public's fascination with extreme adventure narratives. As a former editor at Outside magazine and a longtime freelancer whose "beat" has been expeditionary milestones, I've watched with amazement as the once obscure category of oceanic and high alpine risk taking has become a bestselling phenomenon. Most of us know the titles: Into Thin Air, The Perfect Storm, Endurance, and so forth. A writer friend of mine and I jokingly commiserated a few years ago, feeling we were perhaps the only outdoor writers on the planet not to have a disaster project underway. Then she co-wrote a survivor story about a single-handed, open ocean boat wreck. So that left me.

My expedition news column for Outside and, later, Men's Journal produced more than a few book potential tales, and yet I also had terrific ambivalence. Part of it was first book jitters, part the fact that many elite outdoor professionals think journalists are jackals. A story about an expedition gone wrong is exploitative, many feel. I wasn't sure they weren't right, and felt better off avoiding the issue altogether. In 1998 I wrote a magazine feature about a U.S. whitewater kayaking team and its controversial attempt to run the deepest gorge in the world, the Tsangpo Gorge in southeastern Tibet. On the trip a boater, the father of two young children, died. Months later a book contract was offered my way. I struggled anew.

There is no handy blueprint for responsibly embarking on a book about a tragedy. What do writers owe those who tell them their personal story and share their grief? Do we owe something financial? A hunk of the advance, say, or a percentage of royalties? Isn't that fair? Or is genuine interest, thoroughness, and fairness enough?

And what qualifies the writer? Being a witness? Must we be in the boat, or on the mountain as events occur to legitimately report the story? Jon Krakauer raised the bar when he related the Everest 4'96 events as both journalist and participant. And yet there are brilliantly insightful journalists who are lousy mountaineers. Should John McPhee not have written about the volcano chasers or championship tennis even though he was not himself an active member of either of those fraternities?

Frankly, I think both writers and subjects are confused (at least as far as the adventure world goes). The result of so many best-selling treatises is a mistrust -- now bordering on hostility -- toward those who wish to explore those who explore. I can't say I blame them. But I also think there is a natural and sincere desire by all of us to understand those who seek the greatest challenges, whether scientific, corporate, or in the natural world. People want to know what makes such pioneers tick, and ultimately, the scrutinizing lens is applied to reader as well as subject.

The question seems this: Why are they different and would we, could we, do a little of what they do? Edge toward the unknown. Try something we haven't tried. Few entertain Everest or the Tsangpo, but many are drawn to raw passion, by the need to do something that is the product more of driving emotion than pragmatic need.

Out of tragedies come the opportunity to learn something. When we are moved, we listen. I came around to the fact that I wanted to do the book for several reasons. I was objective, I had a historical perspective, and most of all I had an urgent desire to understand their sport, their lives, their trip. I promised myself I'd try to give as much as I took. Hopefully I did.

The Last River: The Tragic Race for Shangri-La

Read an excerpt.

Todd Balf is a contributing editor to Men's Journal and Fast Company magazines. He has reported on, written about, and sometimes participated in expeditionary adventures for the last 15 years. For his first freelance assignment he trained with a class of aspiring raft guides on the Class IV Kennebec River in Maine: he lost a quadrant of his front tooth in a first, and nearly last, attempt at whitewater mastery. Balf grew up in Rockport, MA, studied journalism at the University of New Hampshire, and now lives in Beverly, Massachusetts.

* A November/December 2000 Book Sense 76 Pick
"This is the breathtaking account of a world-class kayak team's quest to make the first descent through the foam, fury, and unexplored mysteries of Tibet's Tsangpo Gorge. It's the ultimate white-knuckle, white-water adventure on the Mount Everest of rivers. Perfect for anyone who loved Into Thin Air and The Perfect Storm."
- Ingrid Nystrom, Stacey's, San Francisco, CA

Author photograph by Alex de Steiguer.

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