The Fine Art of Giving Instructions and Making Corrections… (Stupid)
By: Julia E Hubbel
Tags: Adventure, Management, Leadership, Life Lessons

“WAIT! Don’t…..”

With a thud, the sharp edge of the ax went through the firewood and buried itself in the ground.

I realized after I’d done it that I’d committed a high crime. Where we were- in the deep Canadian wilderness of northern British Columbia- an ax isn’t something you want to dull.

I felt like an ass. I should have known better.

My intentions were good, but misguided.

Not unkindly, Wayne (Sawchuk of MK Adventures) said conversationally,

“Well, an ax is a finely-tuned instrument. You probably don’t want to bury it in the dirt.”

No anger. No accusation. No implied (stupid).

Informed but not chastised, I cleaned the ax and replaced it against a nearby spruce.

Didn’t make that mistake again, either. If I felt stupid, it wasn’t coming from Wayne.

Photo by Banter Snaps on Unsplash

Our group was about four days into the first two week expedition ( I had booked two expeditions back-to-back) through the Northern Canadian Rockies. It was tough going. Long days in the saddle, tough shared labor taking down nearly twenty heavy panniers full of gear and food for all of us, setting up camp, cutting wood and carrying water, haltering and saddling and bridling. Hard long days.

Two to three days of steady travel, then a blessed rest day. Usually.

Unless a horse or a human- or both- got injured, then an extra day for recovery. Never for long. This isn’t a place where you can get yourself an Uber ride to the ER or to the corner store for a Snickers.

So you really have to protect your essential gear. Like the ax. (Okay, and for my part, toilet paper, okay?) There are places where the available firewood is limited.

I have most certainly camped, chopped wood, hiked, ridden. But this is different. This is a complex operation of some 23 horses, a smallish group of travelers and several guides/horse wranglers/farriers. Young- 14 to 27, or in one case a replacement at 72 as a stand-in when one of our guides had to nurse a bad back. One hell of a fit 72, too.

I watched that fit 72 do a double somersault when a very, very large draft horse name Rosie decided that she most definitely didn’t want to be ridden. At least at that point. He got right back up, dusted off, and found a different horse.

As Sawchuk had said before, lots of moving parts. Including thrown humans, albeit rarely.

Moving parts. More than you can possibly imagine. If you ever want to feel like a rank rookie pretty much all day every day, this is a good place to do it.

What I came to appreciate was how I got corrected. On an operation this complex, mistakes are inevitable. And constant.

I would forget something, or reach for the wrong thing, and the correction always came simply as information.

Photo by Nathan Lindahl on Unsplash

Build an overly enthusiastic fire that was sending bright sparks aloft to land on the precious “blue sky” plastic tarp that was our protection from rain, and damned important for that, too.

For example, the number two camp rule was that the red coffee cup is Wayne’s. My first day seeking to make tea, I picked up the Red Cup. The correction was kind, but very clear. Thou. Shalt. Not. Touch. Red. Cup.

That, and the very special silver kettle, which brewed his coffee, came in its own container with a (remarkably clean) bright red cotton cozy.

One day I used the cozy to pick up the once blue-speckled water kettle (long black and permanently charred) to pour hot water into his kettle.

“Can’t use it for that. Now you’re going to need to wash it.” The bright red cozy had a big swath of black char from the fire. No blame. No (stupid). Just information. I promptly scrubbed off the dirt and didn’t do it again.

You make the mistake, there it is, here’s how you fix it. Let’s move on.

This happens a lot, almost daily, if for no reason than a dropped lead rope or tying two horses to the same tree or any number of small but potentially very dangerous mistakes can lead to disaster.

So can resentment.

Photo by Marco Jimenez on Unsplash

People who are corrected and make to feel like fools- especially in public- can take out their anger in other ways. As in, on the horses, whose fault it usually isn’t, but who are mute recipients of people’s issues.

After several weeks of being around this very calm, measured approach to having my various mistakes pointed out- and trust me everyone does something wrong-it was jarring when a much more junior member of the guide staff went off on me at full volume and in a very public way, over something that was neither my fault nor that I knew anything about.

She’s young, and her emotions are mercurial, but that’s not my problem. She was undergoing a personal issue, but that’s also not my problem. I understood, and didn’t take offense. Wasn’t pleasant, but you let it go. In that case, the implied (stupid) was on full volume. To her credit, she apologized for it later, but therein lies the contrast.

In the work I’ve done with managers at all levels, one of the most potent tools that any leader has is how to coach/correct. You and I are going to make plenty of mistakes, and we are going to regularly fail. The way in which we learn what we did wrong has a lot to do with our subsequent willingness to try harder, to be more aware, and in all ways live up to the implicit expectation that we are capable of doing better. True leaders are guides who know we have inherent good sense, excellent instincts and solid wisdom. The point is to trust that it’s there. You don’t find wisdom without regular mistakes.

Photo by Bruno Soares on Unsplash

In a wilderness expedition, especially one during which we will get cold, will get rained on, will get exhausted, may likely have injuries, the level of anxiety among those who are new to the wild is already high. Add to that the feeling of being stupid or foolish, and fearing public censure due to failure, those increase the likelihood of a more serious mistake. That’s why I so appreciated the pointed but very factual, calm identification of a mistake on my part, the room to have made that mistake, and the expectation that having learned, I wouldn’t knowingly repeat.

In any work situation, employees’ anxiety levels will rise exponentially if they fear any kind of public humiliation. A young, inexperienced manager often mistakes throwing their weight around and condescension as expressions of power. The effect is the opposite of what you want: people take their anger out on each other, on the product, on the customer, steal, any one of a thousand small but significant ways that folks cascade their hurt.

The manager may well be feeling powerful, but in a highly toxic way. In a wilderness expedition, that kind of toxicity can backfire.

Photo by jean wimmerlin on Unsplash

I’ve been on a great many expeditions, with guides old and young, of all colors and genders and backgrounds. We all make mistakes when in other cultures and countries, and invariably someone is going to do something monumentally stupid. As in, six years ago, a Land Rover I was in had approached an old but cranky male lion. I made the mistake of just breaking the plane with my bright blue camera and damned near got a faceful of old, but very lethal, teeth.

“Take your camera back…now…but slowly.” Firm, strong, no blame, just clear information. I saw my mistake immediately. The way my guide did it didn’t make me look like a fool in front of the others in the vehicle. I felt fool enough. Rookie mistake, possibly endangering others.

Never did it again. I’ve been on a lot of safaris, but never heard a guide make that kind of critical correction better.

Good leaders know how to guide. Good guides know how to lead. Gently, firmly, without the caustic accusation of (stupid). Many things you and I simply cannot know until we’re there. Shaming someone in the process doesn’t inspire gratitude, nor does it enforce a potent work ethic.

We all want to do it well, do it right, and feel good about the process. If we assume good intent, we’re off to great start.