Outdoor Adventure Movies

I’ve always thought there was a difference between seeking adventure and exploring. The two often go hand in hand, but they aren’t necessarily the same thing. Adventure can be found in the excitement of the journey, while exploration asks us to look a little deeper and understand what we’re traveling through. That’s what drew me to Exploring the Mother Waters. Something about the film spoke to the way Sean and I approach our own kayak expeditions. We enjoy the adventure as much as anyone, but we’re also curious about the waters beneath our boats, the landscape around us, and the people who call those places home. We’re not just interested in how far we can paddle. We want to come away knowing something we didn’t know before.

Of course, Sean and I couldn’t simply sit there and watch the movie. We started studying the water. We talked about the current, the eddies, the standing waves, and the hydraulics. We watched how the river moved around obstacles and tried to understand what the water was doing. The expedition on the screen became a conversation about reading a river. We also found ourselves debating the boats and equipment the expedition team was using, trying to identify different pieces of gear and figure out why they had chosen them. I suspect some viewers were watching to see what happened next. Sean and I were just as interested in figuring out how the expedition worked.

Would I watch it again? Yes. Exploring the Mother Waters reminds me that an expedition is about more than reaching a destination. The miles matter, but so does what you learn while traveling them. For Sean and me, that curiosity is a large part of why we continue putting our kayaks on the water.

At the 12th Annual Environmental Film Fest at Eckerd College I was the projectionist for the movie Under the Sea: A View from Below. It was Karl Stanley’s determination to build his own submarines that grabbed me. There is something remarkable about a person who doesn’t simply dream about exploring the underwater world but sets out to build the vessel that will take him there. Designing and constructing a submarine is one thing. Having enough confidence in your own workmanship to climb inside, close the hatch, and descend beneath the surface is something else entirely. For me, that trust is the bigger story. Karl wasn’t just testing a machine. He was trusting his life to something he had built with his own hands.

I had to get Sean to see this movie. And we did watch it together after the festival. Sean and I recognized something familiar in the documentary. Stanley’s first submarine underwent underwater testing in the waters around St. Petersburg, Florida. These were the same local waters Sean and I had spent decades paddling. We knew what those waters looked like from the seats of our kayaks, but here was someone approaching them from an entirely different perspective. Seeing our own paddling grounds on the screen made the film especially interesting. While we were fascinated by the engineering and the underwater exploration, I kept coming back to the relationship between the builder and his vessel. Every paddler develops a certain trust in their boat, equipment, and judgment. Stanley had taken that relationship to another level.

Would I watch it again? Yes. I enjoy films about people who are willing to build something, test it, learn from it, and then trust their own work. Under the Sea: A View from Below is about underwater exploration, but what stays with me is the confidence Karl Stanley placed in the vessels he created.

I had read about Aron Ralston and watched several of his interviews before Sean and I sat down to watch 127 Hours. Sean knew his story, particularly the amputation and the specialized prosthesis Ralston eventually used. We weren’t watching simply to see how a man managed to cut off his own arm. We wanted to understand how someone with considerable outdoor knowledge and experience could end up in a situation where that became his only way out.

What caught our attention wasn’t one enormous mistake. It was the accumulation of smaller decisions and overlooked details that eventually left him with no good options. That was the uncomfortable part of the film. The more time we spend outdoors, the more confident we become in our knowledge and skills. Familiarity can make us comfortable, and comfort can make us careless. We start overlooking little things because we’ve done something a hundred times without trouble. Sean and I recognized that tendency because neither of us is immune to it. Experience is valuable, but it doesn’t give anyone a pass on the fundamentals.

What ultimately stayed with me was Ralston’s refusal to give up. His determination kept him working toward survival when his situation seemed hopeless. But I don’t think the lesson is simply to admire his toughness. It’s to recognize how easily an experienced outdoorsman can get into trouble, and how much better it is to catch the small mistakes before survival depends on extraordinary measures.

Would I watch it again? Yes. In fact, Sean and I watched 127 Hours together twice before our 2011 kayak expedition. It wasn’t just entertainment for us. It gave us something worth discussing before heading out on another extended journey. A good expedition doesn’t begin when the kayaks leave shore. It begins with the decisions we make before launching, including the little ones we sometimes think we’ve outgrown.

What drew me to Sanctum was the story of an experienced expedition leader responsible for getting his team through a dangerous environment. That resonated with me. I’ve spent decades teaching younger people how to recognize danger, make decisions, and develop the judgment necessary to return home. Knowing how to paddle, dive, climb, or navigate is one thing. Knowing when conditions are turning against you, and having the judgment to do something about it, is another. Experience brings responsibility, especially when other people are depending on your decisions.

The first thing I noticed was that the weather above the cave was more dangerous than the water inside it. That’s what caught my attention. The cave diving was certainly hazardous, but the tropical storm and flooding above ground transformed an already demanding expedition into a fight for survival. The danger wasn’t confined to where the team was working. It came from conditions developing beyond their immediate view. That’s a lesson I’ve tried to teach throughout my years as an outdoor instructor. You can’t become so focused on what’s directly in front of you that you forget to pay attention to everything else that can affect your expedition.

Would I watch it again? Yes. Sanctum is a reminder that experience doesn’t eliminate danger, and leadership isn’t simply about knowing the way forward. Sometimes it’s about recognizing when the situation has changed, making difficult decisions, and accepting responsibility for the people who trusted you enough to follow.

Read our full article about Frozen →

I first watched Frozen as part of my work with the Eckerd College International Cinema program. I showed the film on a Friday in October 2010 at the Dan and Mary Miller Auditorium. The story is simple enough. Three young people find themselves stranded on a ski lift after the resort shuts down for the night. They’re suspended high above the ground, exposed to the cold, with no easy way down and no one coming to help. What begins as an ordinary day of recreation turns into a fight for survival.

What caught my attention was the realism of the injuries. The film doesn’t treat the consequences of a bad decision as something a person can simply shake off. When someone gets hurt, that injury becomes another problem that has to be dealt with, and the options for survival become fewer. Having spent years teaching wilderness safety and first aid, I appreciated that the film didn’t make its characters indestructible. In the outdoors, a serious injury can turn an already difficult situation into something far worse, especially when you’re exposed to the elements and help isn’t immediately available.

I can understand why Frozen caused such a stir at the 2010 Sundance Film Festival. There were reports of audience members fainting during screenings because of the tension and graphic scenes. Whether every account was accurate or some of it became part of the film’s publicity, I can understand the reaction. The injuries are uncomfortable to watch, and that’s part of what makes the film effective. It forces the audience to consider what those injuries would actually mean for someone trying to survive.

Would I watch it again? Yes. Frozen is a reminder that you don’t have to travel deep into the wilderness to find yourself in serious trouble. Sometimes all it takes is a familiar recreational setting, a few poor decisions, and conditions that leave you with no easy way out.

What drew me to North Face was the true story behind the film. It follows experienced mountaineers whose technical abilities, determination, and knowledge of climbing could not overcome deteriorating weather, changing conditions, and a series of decisions that eventually made survival impossible.

The 1930s were a remarkable period in European mountaineering. Climbing techniques and equipment were advancing, and ambitious climbers were pushing into terrain that earlier generations had considered nearly impossible. But many of the safeguards available to modern climbers simply didn’t exist. These men were skilled, experienced, and capable. That is what makes their story worth studying. Their abilities were real, but so were the limitations of their equipment and the environment in which they were operating.

What struck me most was that the fatal mistake had been made long before the climbers died. I won’t explain exactly what happened because I don’t want to spoil that realization for anyone watching the film for the first time. Part of the experience is recognizing the significance of a decision that may not seem particularly dangerous when it is made. Only later, when injuries and deteriorating weather force the climbers to retreat, does the full consequence become clear.

I’ve spent much of my life teaching outdoor skills and expedition judgment. One of the hardest lessons to communicate is that a decision can be wrong long before its consequences become apparent. You may not recognize the problem until circumstances change and the options you thought you had are no longer available. Technical ability can help you work through difficult situations, but it cannot always undo an earlier decision.

Would I watch it again? Absolutely. I don’t tire of watching North Face. Each viewing brings me back to the same question: At what point did the expedition lose its ability to return safely? That’s a question worth asking about any expedition, whether you’re climbing a mountain or paddling a remote stretch of coastline.

What does a documentary about backcountry skiing have to do with kayaking in Florida? Not much at first glance. I sometimes joke that I was interested in skiing because “ski” is in my last name. But the real reason I wanted to watch Hand Cut had nothing to do with snow. It was about preserving outdoor traditions, something I’ve spent much of my life doing through kayaking, outdoor education, and traditional paddling skills.

Hand Cut deliberately takes a different approach from conventional ski films. Rather than simply showing athletes descending spectacular mountains, it combines human-powered backcountry skiing with the history of working communities in Colorado, British Columbia, and Alaska. It explores the relationship between mountain recreation and the people who lived and worked in those places long before modern ski resorts arrived. That interested me as much as the skiing itself. The mountains weren’t simply a playground. They were places where people worked, traveled, raised families, and developed practical knowledge of the landscape.

As I watched the skiers studying the terrain, I recognized something familiar. They were reading the mountains much as Sean and I read a river or the ocean. We study currents, eddies, waves, wind, and the way water moves around obstacles. Backcountry skiers study snow, slopes, terrain, and the conditions that determine how they can travel safely. The environments are different, but the underlying practice is remarkably similar. You observe, interpret, make decisions, and adapt to what the landscape is telling you.

I also saw a philosophical connection between traditional kayaking and backcountry skiing. A Greenland paddle and a touring ski serve very different purposes, but both can represent generations of accumulated knowledge about moving efficiently through a demanding environment. Neither is simply a piece of sporting equipment. Each has a history shaped by people who depended on their tools and learned through experience what worked.

That’s what stayed with me about Hand Cut. It wasn’t the snow or the skiing. It was the recognition that outdoor traditions carry knowledge worth preserving. When we learn how earlier generations traveled through their environments, we’re learning more than a technique. We’re learning something about the people who developed it and the places they called home.

Would I watch it again? Yes. I would gladly watch Hand Cut again. There’s something worth revisiting in a film that treats outdoor recreation as part of a much longer human story. The skis and paddles may be different, but the relationship between people, their equipment, and the environment is something I never tire of exploring.

One thing I’ve learned from years of kayak expeditions is that you can spend days traveling with a friend and still spend much of that time alone. Sean and I might paddle together for miles, but each of us sits in his own kayak, alone with his thoughts. There are long stretches when conversation gives way to the sound of the paddle entering the water, the movement of the boat, and whatever happens to be going through your mind. That kind of solitude is one reason The Island interests me.

The film follows Father Anatoly, a man living in a remote Russian Orthodox monastery. During World War II, he commits an act of apparent betrayal while facing the possibility of death. He survives, but decades later he continues to struggle with guilt, repentance, and the possibility of forgiveness. His life has become an extended confrontation with a decision made under extraordinary circumstances.

My Catholic understanding of sin, repentance, and forgiveness gives me one way of approaching the story. My studies of existential philosophy at Selwyn College, Cambridge, give me another. Father Anatoly is confronted with the possibility of death. He makes a choice. He survives. And he spends the remainder of his life confronting what that choice means. The question isn’t simply whether he made the right decision. It’s what responsibility a person carries for a decision made when every available choice seems terrible.

One detail that stayed with me was Father Anatoly tending the monastery’s coal furnace. Much of his life is spent feeding the fire, carrying coal, and keeping the furnace burning. Maintaining a fire isn’t a single dramatic act. It requires attention, patience, and repeated work. You return to it again and again because neglect has consequences. There is something fitting about a man seeking forgiveness spending his days doing that kind of work. The fire must be tended. So must the soul.

I’ve known something of that quiet during long hours on the water. There are questions that don’t always find their way into conversation around a campfire or during the ordinary business of daily life. But paddle long enough, with nothing demanding your attention beyond the boat and the water, and those questions sometimes find their way to the surface. Solitude doesn’t necessarily provide answers. It does give you time to sit with the questions.

Would I watch it again? Yes. The Island is a film I would return to because it doesn’t offer easy answers about guilt, responsibility, or forgiveness. A man tending a fire, alone with his thoughts, has an opportunity to confront questions that are easily drowned out by the noise of ordinary life. So does a paddler traveling mile after mile in his own kayak.

Read our full article about The Summit: A Chronicle of Stones to Serenity →

What drew me to The Summit: A Chronicle of Stones to Serenity was the historical expedition at the heart of the story. I’ve always been interested in expeditions where the reasons for exploring matter as much as reaching the destination. A summit may be the objective, but what interests me is what people hope to discover along the way, what they understand about the country they’re traveling through, and how they make their decisions.

I was also captivated by the equipment. I have a habit of studying the gear people carry in historical expedition films. While watching The Summit, I noticed what may have been an equipment error. The story takes place in 1907, but I thought I recognized something that belonged to a much later period. I can’t say for certain without examining the scene again, but it caught my attention. Equipment has a history, and the details matter when you’re telling a story about an earlier generation of explorers.

What interested me even more was how the characters judged one another’s competence. There was the authority of the Army, the confidence of club members equipped with more modern climbing gear, and the local guide whose knowledge came from living and traveling in those mountains. Each approached the expedition with a different kind of experience and a different understanding of what made someone qualified.

I’ve encountered versions of that distinction throughout my years teaching kayaking. There’s a difference between someone who has studied a landscape and someone who has spent years traveling through it. Both kinds of knowledge have value, but they aren’t interchangeable. A person may have the latest equipment, formal training, and an impressive collection of credentials without possessing the familiarity that comes from repeatedly traveling through a particular environment.

The local guide interested me for that reason. The mountains weren’t simply a destination for him. They were his backyard. He knew them through experience, not merely through descriptions, maps, or the equipment he carried. That doesn’t make local knowledge infallible, but it does make it worth listening to.

Would I watch it again? Yes. In fact, I keep returning to The Summit because it reminds me how easily we judge another person’s competence by the age and appearance of their equipment. Newer gear may offer genuine advantages, but it doesn’t automatically make its owner the most knowledgeable person on an expedition. Sometimes the person carrying older equipment understands the country better than anyone else in the group.

A documentary examining overfishing and the pressures on ocean ecosystems.

Why it belongs here: The film’s warnings deserve attention, but its widely repeated 2048 prediction should not be presented as a settled forecast that all seafood will disappear.

An offbeat documentary about the people and ecological troubles surrounding California’s Salton Sea.

Why it belongs here: The oddball characters are part of a larger story about water management, changing landscapes, and communities.

A fictional horror story built around a contaminated Chesapeake Bay community.

Why it belongs here: Fiction is not scientific evidence. Our longer article considers the film alongside the factual PBS documentary Poisoned Waters.

Read our full article about The Bay →

Three friends follow a childhood dream into a canoe trip for which they are badly prepared.

Why it belongs here: The premise is funny precisely because river travel is not as simple as stepping into a boat.

An unruly college crew enters a whitewater rafting race.

Why it belongs here: A gloriously chaotic reminder that a raft and enthusiasm do not automatically make a competent crew.

An independent Florida comedy weaving local folklore, unusual characters, and environmental themes into a regional adventure.

Why it belongs here: This one belongs in the collection for its distinctly Florida sense of place.

Tourists stranded in an Australian mangrove swamp face a crocodile.

Why it belongs here: A tense waterborne survival story, best treated as entertainment rather than a wildlife behavior lesson.

A scientific expedition in the Amazon encounters a mysterious aquatic creature.

Why it belongs here: A classic monster film whose river expedition setting makes it a natural Halloween selection.

A seaside town confronts a deadly shark and the consequences of refusing to face danger.

Why it belongs here: Great suspense, but not a reliable guide to shark behavior. The film also shaped public attitudes toward sharks.

A giant crocodile disrupts life around a remote lake.

Why it belongs here: Creature feature absurdity, with enough water and wilderness to earn its Halloween slot.