WHEN I ARRIVED at the lodge, I was introduced to a man in his forties named Garry. Garry had recently moved to Canada from England, where he was a software developer for a successful IT firm. Now, halfway across the globe, Garry was a snowshoe guide for high school students. Most of the other guides were in their twenties; needless to say, Garry, with his thinning gray hair and English accent, stood out. “All right, Sean, looks like you’re with me this morning on trail maintenance. Let’s get going,” he said, then handed me a pair of snowshoes.
It was late in the season. Temperatures were rising, and the snow had begun to melt. Each morning the trails had to be walked to ensure that routes were still safe to pass and to fix signs that had been knocked down.
Snowshoes and backpack in hand, Garry eagerly made his way for the door. We strapped on our snowshoes and set out into the crisp morning sunlight. The mountain hadn’t opened to the public yet, and so only employees were visible—several prepared the main lifts, while others shoveled the walkway into the base lodge. There was a heightened awareness to the calm; we knew that with the fresh snow, the crowds would soon arrive.
We passed the final chairlift and entered the first trail. With no tracks to follow, we were guided by large fir trees on either side. It was quiet, except for the clicking of our metal snowshoes as they cut through the light powder. The striking scenery removed any obligation to make idle conversation and at the same time added a sense of purpose to each exchange.
“Erin mentioned that you were a software developer back in England,” I said. “That’s quite the career change.”
Garry’s stride and facial expression were unchanged, and I wondered whether he had heard me. I decided to probe further. “How did that lead to the snowshoe guide job in Canada?” I asked.
“Well, I’ve always loved the outdoors,” he said after a long pause. “So, when my wife got a job that would bring us to Canada, she said, ‘Well, if you love the outdoors so much, why don’t you try for a job in the outdoors?’”
Following his passion came with a huge pay cut, Garry said. But he assured me he’d made the right decision. “My friends back in England can’t believe the change that I’ve made. They can’t imagine making that leap themselves,” he said. “But, I’m finally doing a job that I’m passionate about. I really love this job. It’s fantastic—the best job ever.”
We continued to tread through the dense forest, following the trails, picking up toppled signs and wedging them into firmer snow.
In taking a much lower-paying job in a new field, Garry could be accused of suffering a midlife crisis. His father thought he was crazy. But after I’d spent a few hours with Garry, it was obvious to me that he knew exactly who he was and why he’d made the choices he had.
“Why was it so important for you to make such a drastic change and pursue something you loved?” I asked.
“Life’s about chances. It’s too short not to take those chances. The way I always look at it is, I don’t want to be sixty-five thinking, Ah, I wish I’d done that. If I do it and it doesn’t work out, then fine, it didn’t work, try something different. But I don’t want to be sitting there for the rest of my life regretting the things that I didn’t do, because I think that’s a sad waste of your life.”
I was glad I’d asked. Not only did Garry seem to share my perspective, but things tend to sound more profound in an English accent.
“Have a play around in the job market, do jobs that you think you’re going to enjoy, and if you don’t enjoy them, get out and go try something else,” he continued. “It’s a lot easier to do when you’re young than it is when you’re my age.”
Shortly after our talk, we emerged from the trail and spotted the base up ahead. Several large noisy groups of schoolkids were running around, throwing snowballs at one another, as a couple of other snowshoe guides attempted to calm them down.
Garry laughed. “You sure you’re ready for this, mate?”
“Yeah,” I said, smiling. “I’m ready.”