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Yahoo
2 days ago
- Politics
- Yahoo
River group, city meet to talk about access to the Black River
Jun. 19—WATERTOWN — A group of river activists and the city have started working out their longtime differences regarding the group's concerns about access to the Black River. Members of New York Rivers United, a group of whitewater advocates and rafting enthusiasts, met with city officials last Friday to talk about a series of projects that they would like to see completed to give them more river access. The hour-long Zoom meeting "was cordial and productive," said New York Rivers United member Alex Barham, adding that he was satisfied with its outcome. City Manager Eric Wagenaar said he thought it "was a good meeting." For more than a decade, the group and the city were at odds over what is known as the Route 3 Wave, once a popular whitewater kayaking course that was a site of a world championship that drew thousands of spectators. A large rock moved in its way and damaged the course. But the city never corrected the issue. According to Rivers United, the repairs were required by a Federal Energy Regulatory Commission license for the city's Marble Street hydroelectric plant. The city has now agreed to look at the Route 3 Wave. Rivers United members and city officials will go to the site in August when river levels are down to see what can be done to fix the problem, Barham said. The city also has agreed to repair some stairs to the river and complete other repairs along the river near Newell Street, Wagenaar said. "We have to work on some things with them," Wagenaar said. In December, Rivers United, which advocates for accessibility to the river, filed a complaint with FERC about the city never correcting the Route 3 Wave problem. The group also has claimed that the city violated the hydro plant's FERC license on a daily basis since it was renewed in 1995. The river group conducted an audit of the facility that found numerous alleged violations. That prompted the state Department of Environmental Conservation to urge FERC to conduct a noncompliance investigation into the plant. In May, a six-member team from the DEC completed an on-site inspection of the hydro plant. Wagenaar said Wednesday that the DEC will be back next week for a follow-up visit. FERC also required the city to submit a report about the group's complaints about the hydro plant. The city submitted the report last Friday. "They're looking at it," he said, adding that he doesn't know when FERC will complete its response. Rivers United members Steve Massaro and Barham and Dick McDonald of the state Department of Environmental Conservation attended the meeting with the city. City Engineer Tom Compo, hydro plant employee Jeffrey Hammond, Michael A. Lumbis, the city's planning and community development director, and Wagenaar were among the city officials at the meeting. In 1995, the river group, the DEC and FERC negotiated the terms of the current license, designed to mitigate significant commercial, environmental and recreational impacts identified during the relicensing process. Under the 1995 agreement, an account was set up to distribute funding for river accessibility projects. The city and Rivers United were at loggerheads over who decided how to spend that money. The group claimed the city spent about $60,000 from that account, but the DEC and Rivers United never approved it. About $225,000 remains in the account.
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Travel + Leisure
13-06-2025
- Travel + Leisure
This Little-known California River Has Some of the Country's Best Rafting—Here's What You Need to Know
Our collective nerves spiked the instant we arrived at the Kern River. A steely quiet came over Erin, my partner, as she eyed its waters, which flow with visible fury through the southern foothills of California's Sierra Nevada. Her daughter, Etta, who was a day shy of turning 13, had a similar reaction. I knew this to be their shared method of armoring up for the unknown—and a wholly appropriate response to the occasion. Bobbing at the river's edge was a blue rubber raft in which we were to spend the next two days navigating 20 miles of turbulent whitewater. From left: Goats feeding on cottonwood leaves at Cuyama Buckhorn; hiking with goats at Cuyama Buckhorn, an activity led by head bartender Sam Seidenberg. Yasara Gunawardena Still, their silence amplified my own jitters. We were on a new trip from Momentum River Expeditions, an Oregon-based outfitter specializing in luxury-tinged rafting adventures throughout the American West. It was also something I'd been itching to do for the better part of my life. When I was growing up my father ran rivers often, relating his exploits in a highly infectious, off-color poetry and always assuring me that I would join him once I was old enough. But when I turned 13—generally the age when you can trust a kid to handle a paddle in serious rapids—my dad moved away and started a new family. Our relationship descended into estrangement and our would-be rafting trips, like so much else, failed to become a reality. Suffice to say that, three decades later, it was a touch loaded to be on my first multiday rafting trip with my chosen family of Erin and Etta—and especially for it to be on the Kern, which Erin introduced me to. Fed by the snowmelt of Mount Whitney, the tallest peak in the continental United States, the 165-mile river winds through the Sequoia National Forest, a majestic landscape that has long held sway over seasoned fly-fishermen and hardened river rats. Though only three hours by car from Los Angeles, where we live, it's a region of California that's remarkable not just for its rugged splendor but also for the absence of crowds and Instagram-friendly curation that have come to define more popular parks like Joshua Tree. This is what Erin loved about the area, which became one of the first things I loved about Erin after she took me for a long weekend early on in our relationship. Over the years, she, Etta, and I have driven up often—including, at my prodding, for a half-day rafting trip back when Etta was eight. From left: A guest tent at the new Momentum River Expeditions base camp; an appetizer of baked cheese with chimichurri, served at the Momentum base camp. Yasara Gunawardena This adventure would be a very different beast: more challenging rapids, to say nothing of the sense of immersion that any rafting junkie will tell you comes only by making the river your home for a few days. As one of Momentum's 'Wilderness Gourmet' trips, it would also introduce us to the singular flair the company brings to such excursions. We'd end our first day at its newly constructed base camp, where we'd indulge in a multicourse feast prepared by Matthew Domingo, a chef who helped Momentum pioneer these journeys 15 years ago. After a tutorial on paddling commands and basic safety, our guide, Shana Sims, led us to the raft we'd be using. My family was in the lead raft in a flotilla of three carrying a total of 15 guests, and as we were whisked into the Kern's current, something extraordinary happened: our anxieties evaporated. Sims played a key role in this. A sinewy spark plug of a woman and veteran of a number of Momentum's runs—the Salmon in Idaho, the Rogue in Oregon, the Tatshenshini in Alaska—she had a manner, at once chill and focused, that instilled confidence. But equally critical was something that often gets eclipsed by the air of adrenalized machismo that defines rafting culture—namely, how relaxing it is. From left: Momentum River Expeditions guests approach their rafts on the Kern River; playing in the Kern at the end of a day's rafting. Yasara Gunawardena Yes, there is the whitewater, which we'd come to learn could at times be steadfast in its determination to rip our bodies from the raft. But most of the trip was dominated by a drift that was languid, meditative, sharpening the pixels of the present tense in a way that is increasingly rare in our pixelated age. As we were moved, quite literally, by the landscape, everything around us took on an almost Technicolor quality. The whirlpools that appeared as fast as they vanished. The shifting light on the granite boulders that peppered the hills. The silhouettes of hawks circling overhead. The grins, giggles, and gasps of the people I cared about most in the world. When we reached a particularly calm section of river, Sims made an announcement: 'If anyone wants to take a swim, now's the time.' From left: Paddles await rafters on the banks of the Kern River; the author paddling on the Kern. Yasara Gunawardena Erin jumped in. I followed her. The water was an icy whoosh—and a veritable elixir on that nearly 100-degree day. Her daughter may have been the one turning 13 that weekend, but, just then, it was Erin who became the teenager among us. 'Oh my god!' she hollered. 'This is freakin' AMAZING!' On past trips, we had beelined from L.A. to one of the tumbledown motels in Kernville, the area's quaint main town. Our days there tended to revolve around wandering the Sequoia National Forest's many mountain paths, the Cannell Meadow Trail being a favorite; lounging in the hot springs along the river; and taking in the sunset from Kern River Brewing Co., a restaurant with sweeping views of the valley. From left: Cuyama Buckhorn, a converted motel; a guest room at Cuyama Buckhorn. Yasara Gunawardena But in keeping with the ad-hoc theme of our weekend, we opted this time to drive up via the Cuyama Valley, which unfurls at the border of Santa Barbara and San Luis Obispo counties and is two hours from both L.A. and Kernville. Our last rapids, Pinball, proved to be the most accurately named. Our destination was Cuyama Buckhorn, a roadside motel that in recent years has been made over into a stylish resort with vintage flourishes, such as bocce courts and firepits ideal for roasting s'mores. While all that sounded like a lovely complement to the comparable grit of a rafting trip, we gravitated to the Buckhorn largely for goat hiking, a new experience the property can arrange for guests. This is more or less what you're thinking: a hike accompanied by goats—specifically the trio of sturdy pack goats that live in the care of the hotel's trail guide and head bartender, a rangy, affable guy named Sam Seidenberg. Erin and I had an ulterior motive. While we wanted to do something special for Etta's birthday, we also wanted to test a hypothesis: Would the addition of goats bridge the gap between Etta's total lack of interest in hiking and our love for it? The lobby of Cuyama Buckhorn, a converted motel on the author's route from L.A. to Kernville. Yasara Gunawardena The answer was yes. After a day spent lounging at the Buckhorn's pool, we met Seidenberg and his goats and set off into the foothills of the Sierra Madre. As California quail darted through scrub oaks, Seidenberg foraged for various ingredients—purple sage, yerba santa, manzanita berries—to create celebratory mocktails. One of the goats, with the regal name of White Ledge, carried the ice and bartending gear—serving, in essence, as an elegantly horned bar cart that was more than happy to be fawned over by a blissed-out Etta. After the hike, we ended the evening at the Buckhorn's bar-restaurant, a woodsy den of taxidermy where the kitchen dazzled us with a meal featuring produce from local farms and a tomahawk steak of epic proportions. Knowing we'd be on a river 10 hours later gave the moment a distinctly Californian feel, a little like one of those aimless weekend road trips that evolves into a transporting adventure. Swimming in the Kern River. Yasara Gunawardena 'This is…crazy,' whispered Etta when, after drifting 10 miles down the Kern, we arrived at Momentum's base camp. An enclave of safari-style tents set atop wooden platforms—inside two of which, as if by magic, our luggage awaited—the experience was like being shipwrecked in a place you never want to be rescued from. Adirondack chairs were fanned out along a small beach on the riverbank; there was a cornhole situation, and board games and decks of cards were piled up by a communal table. At a makeshift bar shaded by a sycamore tree, one of the guides was mixing cocktails that contained pisco and ginger. Crazy indeed. Meanwhile, Chef Domingo was busy preparing dinner at the impressive camp kitchen, which faced a table laden with wines from nearby Paso Robles. What followed was a family-style meal loosely inspired by Peruvian-Asian cuisine: heirloom tomatoes flecked in tomato powder and tossed with crispy shallots; a tangy ceviche of shrimp and whitefish; marinated hanger steak with an aji amarillo paste; and roast chicken in verde sauce. To eat like this anywhere would have been a treat; to eat like this in the wild, after a day on the water, felt downright illicit. When a dessert of tres leches cake arrived, swimming in frozen cherries, Etta's contained a candle to mark the start of her teens. The Kern River, with the Sierra Nevada rising behind it. Yasara Gunawardena After being lulled to sleep by the river, we woke to an equally decadent breakfast that, Domingo explained, was an homage to the region's Basque community, which dates back to the shepherds who came to work on area ranches from the late 1800s onward. Along with eggs piperade, a dish made with a ragoût of tomatoes and peppers, there was a gratin of caramelized leeks and shredded potatoes. So delicious and leisurely was it all that I'd almost forgotten we had another full day of rafting ahead of us. Back on the river, we were all more comfortable, having developed a Pavlovian response to Sims's various commands: 'LEFT SIDE BACK!' 'LEAN IN!' 'BACK ON THE JOB!' On calm sections of the river, Sims gave both Erin and Etta a chance at the helm; she also let Etta 'ride the bull' through some midsize rapids—which is to say Etta took them on while straddling the nose of the raft, feet dangling over the edge and holding tight to a rope in the manner of, well, someone riding a bull. The author and his family dining at Momentum's communal table. Yasara Gunawardena The day ended in an exhilarating rush: three pounding Class IV rapids in quick succession. Despite their intimidating monikers—one was called Eat Rocks and Bleed—the experience was far more exhilarating than harrowing. Then came our last one, Pinball, which proved to be the most accurately named. I can't say what happened exactly, but as we paddled into it the raft buckled and, for a second that felt like an eternity, Erin was directly above me, somehow both airborne and still seated in the nose of the raft, which was now folded like a taco. We both looked back for Etta, who was still technically in the raft, yet also shoulder deep in Kern, since the back half of the raft was fully submerged inside a churning hydraulic of water, with Sims somehow holding onto both her oars and Etta's life jacket. Then—boom—the raft was spat out of the rapids, all of us still in it, laughing maniacally as we high-fived with our paddles. An antiques store in Kernville. Yasara Gunawardena Pulling into shore, Sims asked us to name our favorite part of the trip. I knew immediately what my answer was: sharing this experience with Erin and Etta. I'd spent most of my life thinking of such trips as something my father did and that I'd missed out on. Now I understood: he was the one who had missed out. I also knew, from the slight quaver in my cheeks, that were I to attempt to say any of this out loud, it would not be only river water dampening my face. 'Pinball,' I muttered. 'That was nuts!' A version of this story first appeared in the July 2025 issue of Travel + Leisure under the headline "Making a Splash."
CBS News
09-06-2025
- CBS News
Pool raft no match for dangerous American River rapids, sheriff's office says
Two people found themselves needing to be rescued after their inflatable vessel hit dangerous rapids along the South Fork of the American River over the weekend. The El Dorado County Sheriff's Office says rescue crews were called out to the notorious "Meatgrinder" rapid area of the river on Sunday. Two friends were reported to have been stranded after their vessel, a swimming pool raft, had hit several rocks on the rapids and started deflating. The people were visiting from out of the area, deputies say. On Sunday, the El Dorado County Sheriff's Office received a call for assistance from two subjects who were stranded on... Posted by El Dorado County Sheriff's Office on Monday, June 9, 2025 Deputies, a Cal Fire crew, and county parks river patrol units all responded to help in the rescue. After giving the friends some safety gear, the pair was taken to safety. The Meatgrinder stretch of the South Fork of the American River is rated as a Class III+ rapid, an intermediate difficulty level that requires a craft specifically designed for whitewater rafting.
Times
06-06-2025
- Lifestyle
- Times
This Costa Rica tour feels like a David Attenborough documentary
'Good morning, my friends! Welcome to my office!' announces the rafting guide Pepe Mora, as he wades waist-deep into the Rio Pacuare, Costa Rica's most celebrated stretch of whitewater, 50 miles inland from the Caribbean coast. In the morning light, the river glints like silver. On either bank, green jungle rises into mist, dense and verdant as a Rousseau painting. Skyscraper trees tower overhead, their tops melting into haze. We put on lifejackets and helmets, clamber into our raft and receive Rafting Lesson 101. 'Most importantly: secure your feet and hold onto your paddle,' Mora says. 'We'll be fine as long as you follow instructions: paddle hard, backpaddle, lean in, get down. I've been rafting here for 30 years, but even now, the river still likes to surprise us. Now, vamos!' Paddling in unison, our boat turns downstream. Soon, I hear the first rapids, the whoosh of water moving at speed. Ten seconds later, we're in the maelstrom. Cascades of whitewater crash past. The raft plunges and dips like a rollercoaster: one minute vertical, the next tilted at an alarming angle. 'Get down!' Mora shouts. We hunker down, drenched by spray, clinging onto the ropes for dear life. And then, suddenly, we're through, gliding over clear blue water. Birdsong replaces river roar. We're soaked — and everyone is grinning from ear to ear. We reach our destination, Pacuare Lodge, after another hour or so of rafting. We wade out of the boat, hot, sweaty and drenched, but pumped full of adrenaline, and pile up our gear on the pebble beach. I've stayed at some remote hotels in my time, but Pacuare Lodge is the first I've reached by paddle power. On an isolated stretch of the Rio Pacuare, 12 miles from the nearest town of Turrialba, it began as a rafting camp and has since evolved into one of Costa Rica's most luxurious — and isolated — eco lodges. Although enveloped by jungle, the 20 villas offer the kind of spoils you might normally expect in a five-star resort: gleaming teak floors, hammocks, private verandas and plunge pools among trimmed lawns. There are some swish new additions too: river-view villas, a revamped restaurant and a swanky new infinity pool. Somewhat improbably, the hotel has also added its own craft brewery — an unexpected, but by no means unwelcome, find in the middle of the tropical jungle. There's even a treetop 'nest' where you can order up your own ultra-private candlelit dinner for two. I'm here for a few days before heading down to its sister property, Lapa Rios, on the isolated Osa peninsula. It's an opportune time to visit, since the national park next door, Corcovado, is celebrating its 50th anniversary this year. • 17 of the best places to see wildlife in Costa Rica Though most guests arrive at Pacuare Lodge by raft, there is also a rough access road, navigable by 4×4. However, it stops on the opposite side of the river from the lodge, meaning everything has to be winched across by pulley, including food, supplies and luggage. Despite — or perhaps because of — its remote location, the lodge is mostly powered by renewable energy: water turbines and solar panels generate electricity, with a back-up generator for emergencies. 'I remember that first time rafting in,' says Mora, the lodge's most experienced river guide, over a fresh-pressed guava juice. 'This was all forest then. Completely wild. It's crazy to see it now. Sometimes I pinch myself.' He heads off to sort out the raft as I sit down for lunch: pejibaye (peach palm fruit) soup, followed by the Costa Rican staple, casado — rice, beans, grilled plantain and heart-of-palm. I finish with homemade popcorn and pumpkin-honey ice cream and, of course, a Costa Rican coffee: rich, fruity, black as coal. • 14 of the best hotels in Costa Rica Pacuare Lodge is the original property of Böëna Lodges, a luxury Costa Rican operator that now also owns four others: two in the cloud forests of Monteverde, one in the wetlands of Tortuguero National Park and one on the Osa peninsula, in Costa Rica's far southwest. Each employs its own in-house guiding team that provides guests with bespoke adventures, from ziplining to kayaking and canyoning to organised hikes. While they aren't cheap, for a bucket-list experience it's hard to think of a better way to experience the country's natural wonders — after all, this little Central American nation has 5 per cent of Earth's species in an area less than half the size of England. For wildlife lovers, it's paradise on earth. The next day, I hike into the forest with Eric Morales, a member of the Cabecar, the second-largest of Costa Rica's indigenous groups, whose traditional territory spans the area around the Pacuare River and the nearby Talamanca mountains. The morning is alive with animal sounds: whoops, barks, twitters, cackles. We spot toucans and motmots in the treetops. Spider monkeys loop through the canopy. Basilisk lizards bask on logs. Tree frogs lurk under leaves. At one point, a fer-de-lance — Costa Rica's most venomous snake — slithers across the path. It's like stepping into a David Attenborough documentary. We stop in Morales's village for lunch, eating plantains and tortillas in a palm-thatched hut, while mop-haired kids peep in through the doorway. On the way back, he gives me a primer in Cabecar bushcraft: plants for stomach pains and antiseptics; a tree with flammable sap (handy for torches); the raffia palm used to make cordage, baskets and roof panels. The afternoon heat is punishing, so Morales fashions me a cup from a plate-sized leaf, filling it with ice-cold water from his flask. Of course, it's leak-proof. That evening, I head up to the bar for a lecture on Pacuare's jaguar tracking programme, sipping an IPA brewed in its own micro-brewery while I learn about local conservation efforts, and try my best to filter out the night-time jungle noises. All six of Costa Rica's native wild cats can be found here: puma, ocelot, margay, oncilla, jaguarundi and jaguar. Since 2008, the lodge has worked with biologists to monitor an 840-acre area using camera traps: each individual cat is identified by its pattern marking. Fourteen jaguars have been sighted, although their range is huge, so keeping tabs on them is a challenge. Our lecturer, Geo, shows me a video of a cat padding down the trail behind the lodge, freeze-framing as it stares down the barrel of the lens. 'I have never seen one in real life,' Geo says, ruefully. 'One day, I hope I will.' The next day, after another white-knuckle rafting trip to the town of Siquirres, I transfer back to the capital of San Jose, then catch a twin-prop plane down to the Osa peninsula, home to the largest area of primary rainforest in Central America. It's a wonderful flight, skimming low over peacock-blue seas and jade-green jungle before touching down two hours later in the dusty little port town of Puerto Jimenez. • Best time to visit Costa Rica Here, I'm picked up by 4×4 and rattle along a rough, rutted dirt road for 11 miles to Lapa Rios, the most recent addition to the Böëna group, which was acquired in 2019. Founded in 1990 by the American expats John and Karen Lewis, Lapa Rios is often credited as the place that kick-started Costa Rica's eco-tourism boom. It's surrounded by its own private 1,000-acre rainforest reserve and, like Pacuare Lodge, offers wilderness with a side of luxury. Its 17 thatched bungalows are connected by a treetop walkway, offering panoramic views along Osa's beach-fringed coast and the steaming canopy of Corcovado National Park. It's like staying in a boutique hotel designed by Tarzan. After breakfast, I trek into the rainforest with one of the lodge's naturalists, Frank Chaves. An Osa native, born into a family of farmers, Chaves trained as a journalist, but returned home to become a conservationist and wildlife guide. 'Osa is an oasis,' he says, as we trace the trails, watching our step to avoid the tentacle roots of strangler figs, or caravans of leaf-cutter ants marching across the path. 'Growing up, we took it for granted. To us, it was our backyard. It's taken me a lifetime to realise how lucky I was.' We spend the day uncovering the rainforest's secrets. We watch hummingbirds buzzing around heliconia flowers, scarlet macaws squabbling overhead, red-throated tanagers perched on tree branches. In the undergrowth, we find golden orb spiders, eyelash pit vipers and poison dart frogs. We lunch beside a clattering waterfall, watching clouds of giant blue morpho butterflies floating past, their wings so iridescent, they look like something out of a Disney cartoon. Chaves points out the key tree species of the rainforest: teak, mahogany, cedar and 100ft-high ceibas, as well as more unusual ones like the dragon blood tree, named after its crimson sap, and the walking palm, which shoots out side-roots in search of water, moving across the forest floor as it does so. I ask him how Osa has changed since he was a boy. 'There is much greater understanding of conservation now,' he says. 'Especially among the next generation. People have realised what we have here, how we all need to work to protect it.' Anti-poaching measures and habitat restoration programmes have helped to stabilise wildlife numbers, he explains, including jaguars. 'We have seen them on camera traps, and found tracks near the lodge,' he says. 'But honestly, in a way, it is better that we don't see them. It means they are still wary of us. If they are still going to be here in 50 or 100 years' time, it's important they stay that way.' By the time we return, it's dusk. I stow my walking stick and binoculars, bid Chaves farewell, and walk up to the lodge for supper. A coral-pink moon is rising over the trees. The buzz of cicadas fills the night air. Somewhere down the valley, I hear the boom of howler monkeys, an eerie howl-hoot that sounds almost extraterrestrial. It occurs to me that a jaguar could be watching me, right now, somewhere in the gloom of the forest, and I'd never have a clue. Off to my left, something flashes. A firefly, surely? Staring out into the inky blackness, I suddenly don't feel quite so Berry was a guest of Audley Travel, which has nine nights — three nights' full board at Pacuare Lodge, four nights' full board at Lapa Rios and two nights' B&B in San Jose — from £6,300pp, including flights, transfers and activities (
Forbes
21-05-2025
- General
- Forbes
The Courage We Lack: A SEAL's Story Of Silence, Belonging, And Tragedy
Intense white water spray against a black background. Perfect for compositing. In 1995, a team of five Navy SEALs embarked on a high-risk mission in Venezuela to test a relatively unproven capability at the time—navigating extreme rapids in inflatable boats. The theory was that rivers could serve as highways through rugged jungle terrain inaccessible by road. If SEALs could be parachuted into such environments in rafts, they could carry out missions that would otherwise be impossible. Their entry point: the base of the Guri Dam. To this day, the Guri Dam releases more water per second than Niagara Falls at full flood. At the dam's base, water is forced into a narrow chute—about 100 yards wide and over 700 feet deep—creating violent Class 5 rapids, some of the most dangerous in the world. Four of the SEALs were experienced combat veterans. The fifth—Alex—was fresh out of training. Yet Alex brought years of experience as a professional whitewater rafting guide and had the deepest understanding of the dangers of such violent rapids. As the team deliberated the best approach for their mission, Alex had significant concerns. Yet, as the rookie recruit, he was acutely aware that new SEALs were expected to prove themselves before offering input. He didn't want to seem disrespectful of his rank—or worse, be seen as lacking the courage it takes to be a true SEAL. And so, he said nothing, rationalizing that if these highly trained warriors felt it was safe to proceed, who was he to question otherwise? As he later told me, 'In that moment, I was more afraid of not being accepted than of the rapids themselves.' Alex's decision that day shows that even the bravest among us—those willing to risk their lives in the world's most dangerous places—aren't immune to fear. But the fear that held him back wasn't of dying. It was the fear of losing face. Of looking weak. Of not belonging. Of being judged unworthy by those whose approval he sought. Fear of social judgment wears many faces. Rarely does it appear as overt anxiety or panic. More often, it shows up in subtler forms: perfectionism, posturing, control, or compulsive busyness. On the flip side, it can show up as excessive humility, people-pleasing, or quiet compliance disguised as being a 'team player'. The irony is that when we are stuck in impression management - our fear of looking bad keeping us from speaking up or taking action - we surrender the very strengths we're trying to prove. Having worked with many exceptionally talented leaders—some of whom fit the mold of 'insecure overachievers'—I've seen how fear often hides behind intellectualized emotions and a relentless need to prove oneself. Research published in Psychological Science found that status anxiety can significantly inhibit people from speaking up—especially in hierarchical environments—keeping them stuck in a cycle of insecurity alleviation. And the cost of silence in such moments can be far greater than the risk of voicing concern. Yet that 'timidity tax' is rarely obvious at the time. In our efforts to secure status with others, we must be careful not to betray ourselves. When Alex's team launched their rafts into the river, they were immediately overwhelmed by the sheer force of the water. Their raft capsized, plunging them into a violent, raging current just upstream from its most perilous stretch. Armed only with life jackets and survival instincts, they fought for their lives to avoid being dragged under the wild and unforgiving rapids. At the bottom of the rapids, Alex and three of the other SEALs pulled themselves out of the river—shaken, exhausted, but alive. Realizing their teammate Jason was missing, they began searching for him, eventually calling in a helicopter to assist. It would be three harrowing days before his body was found—20 miles downstream. Alex was the last person to see Jason alive. And the first to see him dead. Alex's story runs through The Courage Gap as a sobering reminder that courage isn't just about laying our lives on the line (which most of us will never be asked to do). More often, it's about laying our pride, reputation, and status on the line—risking a bruised ego or disapproval in the eyes of those we're trying to impress. As I wrote in The Courage Gap: While Alex has since gone on to lead in other arenas, it's the courage he's shown far from war zones that I've found most inspiring: the courage to reflect deeply, to confront the self-protective story he told himself after the tragedy, and to admit hard truths. The courage to make peace with his fallibility and embrace vulnerability as his deepest source of strength. In a powerful and raw conversation on my Live Brave podcast, Alex and I unpacked how our unfaced fears—particularly the fear of judgment and rejection—often cost us far more than we realize. While most of us won't ever stand on the edge of roaring rapids, we've all stood at decision points—moments where the easier choice is silence, delay, or retreat, and the braver one is to speak up or step forward without a map or a guarantee. Fear widens the gap between what we know, deep down, we should do—and what we actually do. It takes courage to close it. And here lies the paradox of courage: The idea that fear holds us back isn't new. But we underestimate its reach or its cost. One study found that 76% of people at work avoid conflict while a survey by CrucialLearning found that nearly 75% of employees regularly withhold concerns—even when doing so could prevent major problems. It's why some of the biggest problems individuals and organizations face stem not with what was said—but with what wasn't – due to fear of how it would impact their status. As history shows, when fear governs decisions, it generally leads to worse outcomes over time. So what's the solution? It starts with us. Just as we are our greatest source of risk—through what we ignore or deny—we are also our greatest resource in overcoming it. That begins with being honest about where fear is pulling the strings and recommitting to the values we want to live and lead by. Every day. The root of our biggest problems isn't that we don't know what to do. It's that we don't do what we know. The only way to close this courage gap—the space between knowing and doing—is to become more committed to what we want to gain for ourselves and others than to what we fear we might lose in the process, including our place in the pack. Until we are, fear of looking bad will restrict our freedom to act—and limit the good we might otherwise do. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is risk being misunderstood. The more we practice courage—a learnable skill—the greater our capacity to take the emotional risks that bold leadership and meaningful lives require. Every time we refuse to betray our values to keep false peace or win approval and risk judgment to show up as the person (and leader) we most aspire to become, we reinforce our agency and loosen the shackles that hold us captive to others' opinions. At a time when the pace of change is relentless and external threats—GenAI, nuclear escalation, climate change—feel increasingly existential, the greatest danger to our future isn't 'out there.' It's within us—in our underdeveloped courage to confront these challenges head on and to risk what feels secure today for what could build a more secure tomorrow. As Alex's story reminds us, when fear of judgment guides our decisions, we don't just undermine our integrity—we gamble with the outcomes for others. History doesn't just turn on events; it turns on the courage—or timidity—of people facing them. So wherever you find yourself playing it safe today, ask yourself: What would I do if I wasn't afraid of being judged?And what might it cost if I don't? Not every act of courage will change the world. But any single act of courage might shift the trajectory of your life —or that of others. Perhaps more important, it will spare you the regret of wondering, 'But what if I'd tried?' Alex knows that pain. Let his story be your call to courage.
