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Lessons in Adaptation:
The Hiwassee Event (Story)

Continues the 2nd of a 4-part series on
Three Approaches to Organizational Adaptation.
(Click here to read the Introduction.)

A few years ago my husband and I decided to take a day canoe trip down a section of the Hiwassee River in East Tennessee. John had enjoyed what little white water canoeing he had done and was really the driving force behind the trip. I had only been in a canoe once and though I love outdoor activities and being near the water, I have never been much for those down "in" or "on" water. I am fairly risk averse when it comes to putting my body in situations from which it might not emerge unscathed. I prefer my feet on the ground and a longer response time in cases of emergency than water activities usually afford. In short, such activities represent just a bit too much loss of control and a lot too much contact with my mortality.

Organizational Application: Most of us are averse to some kind of risk and usually to loss of control as well. Adaptation almost always involves some degree of risk and loss of control that produces anxiety. The higher the degree of anxiety, the less likely we are to embrace an adaptation effort with enthusiasm. We must have some compelling reason to undertake the movement.

However, John, who is significantly less risk averse with his body than am I with mine, kept insisting that I give it a try. After all, he reasoned, how did I know I wouldn't like it since I had never tried it. I might just be avoiding the one activity that would become my passion. I would feel such a sense of accomplishment and would have more confidence going into other such situations, he further reasoned. Unfortunately, reason rarely has much to do with what I do and do not find physically risky and what I will and will not do. And sound logic is almost never a motivator for me since it is usually not very well aligned with my feelings or my psyche. John and my relationship with him, however, are important to me and this trip was important to him. So I repressed my anxiety and agreed to the outing.

Logic and sound reasoning are not usually what motivate most of us to undertake or embrace an organization adaptation. We are anxiety driven creatures. We must "feel" comfortable with the shift or feel positive enough about the person, ideas, or opinions of the one(s) advocating the shift that we are willing to suspend our discomfort long enough to begin the adaptation, hoping for comfort later.

John borrowed a canoe from a colleague, Pete, who was highly skilled in white water canoeing and took instruction from him as to what river to choose, where to put in and take out, what equipment to take, and what to expect. Pete assured John that he had adequate skill to undertake this section of the river and would find it more fun and challenging than just a flat, fast moving section. When John inquired about how I, a total novice, would do with this section, Pete seemed to think I would have no problems since his wife had done this same section as her introduction to white water canoeing and had handled it like a pro.

Many organizations and their members undertaking something new or adapting something already existing do little more than "talk to a friend" before plunging head long into the effort. Very few conduct a complete assessment so that they will know if the adaptation they are considering is indeed what is needed and will know all the adjustments, new initiatives, and implementations that will be required to actually bring about the adaptation. What may seem to us as proactive preparation is really a more passive approach.

In reality, Pete had very little actual data on which to base his call that John or I had the capability to undertake this section of the Hiwassee. As a mater of fact, what little data he had about me was probably the least applicable data possible - how I presented in social and professional situations. With both feet on the ground (even if they are in heels) and the illusion of control, I am Ms. Invincible - confident, mature, intelligent, reasoning, calm, and unflappable. However, in situations of physical crisis, I am Ms. Neurotic - anxious, immature, unreasoning, illogical, and totally driven by instinct. Pete did have some data about John' ability to handle himself in outdoor situations from rock climbing excursions they had done. Since climbing is usually more difficult than canoeing, he probably reasoned that John would do well. We trusted Pete's opinion (after all, he was the expert) and moved forward with our plans.

Because assessments can be costly and/or time consuming, we opt to forego them thinking that between what we know and what our chosen expert knows, we have enough data to make the adaptation. However, surface level knowledge and understandings can be very deceiving. Though we may have data, it is rarely high quality or objective and is almost never reliable data on which we should base our adaptations. Low cost up front usually means very high interest rates over the course and a huge penalty in the end.

The Saturday morning of our trip was a perfect fall day in East Tennessee. The air was crisp and as clear as a great room window that had just been washed free of several months of dirt. The leaves glinted like new copper pennies as they rippled in the short bursts of wind, and vibrant yellows, oranges, and reds were everywhere. And the river, the river was crystal mystery. Along the edges, I could see the rocks and fallen, moss covered, decaying branches and the sunlight reflecting on the bottom. Further out larger rocks barely pierced the surface or lay fully basking in the sun, some single and others paired or in families. The water flowed in sheets over some and parted to go around others coming back together in a small, roiling curls of white. Where the rocks were close set, the water gathered and raised itself, falling heavily through the narrow passages and forming swirling dark and yet lacy cavities.

I was mesmerized and tingled with chill bumps. I was going to join this flow, be a part of this river and emerge at the take out point stronger, wiser, and more confident from having been a part of something wonderful and important. I could do this thing and I would be unharmed and better for the effort and John would be happy and so proud of me. Maybe I had found something that would become a passion.

Most large adaptation efforts are begun with great fanfare to get members excited and bought into the process. Meetings are conducted, rallies are held, and motivational goals are set. Much effort is expended to ensure that members feel almost a patriotic fervor for the adaptation cause and are motivated to sacrifice self to see it implemented. However, initial rallies and their accompanying fervor will not carry a poorly conceived and planned adaptation effort through the rigors of reality. When the "high feeling" is gone, so is the commitment. Worse yet, such activities tend to contribute to the view of adaptation as a one-time event, as a project rather than an ongoing process of data collection and incremental adjustments. Adaptation is based on good data, solid concepts, adequate planning, shared information, reality-based education, hard work, and commitment.

By the time we reached the put in point, the day had become warm, so I changed into shorts, a short sleeve top and a new, never been worn, expensive pair of all-terrain Teva sandals I had bought just for the occasion. I hadn't bothered to ask anyone if they were appropriate for white water rafting, but they looked sturdy and indestructible and I had wanted a pair. I was sure they would be exactly right. We put on our life jackets, put the canoe in the water, and loaded in our gear. John steered us out into the middle of the river so that we could get away from the noise and laughter of groups putting in with large, yellow and black rubber rafts. The fact that we were the only ones in sight using a canoe made me a little uneasy at first, but I soon settled into a smug superiority. Rafts were for those less capable of handling a canoe.

When we have the illusion of being prepared or the illusion that others are prepared and looking out for us, we can be lulled into a passive mindset about adaptation. We'll just ride along and everything will work out just fine. We are not proactively vigilant nor are we anxiously anticipating some big problem. And even as we see others behaving in ways different from us, we are more likely to question their behaviors than our own.

We need not have worried about the noise because each raft quickly passed us up and within a few minutes, had distanced us by fifty yards. This was good, John reasoned. We wouldn't have the noise, and we could watch the routes that the rafts took over each rapid. We could measure their degrees of success, as measured by their staying up right, and use that data to chart our own course. I hadn't given much thought to the rapids or to not being upright until this point. John had talked to me about rapids and their various classes and the ratings of those we were to navigate. Since all the rapids were fairly low on the scale, however, I didn't give them much thought. I certainly had not entertained the possibility that rapids might be connected with not being upright.

Though we are given information in the beginning about the possible problems and pitfalls that might lie ahead, this information is not presented clearly enough and often enough for us to internalize the data. Advocates of an adaptation must walk the line between giving enough information and education to adequately prepare members to navigate the adaptation and giving members so much information and education that they become fearful and paralyzed. So when reality finally intrudes on our denial and we must entertain the notion that things could go wrong, we become anxious. We are essentially hearing this information for the first time and are not prepared to face and weather the challenge that is now just before us.

We watched as the five rafts one after another went over the first rapid with little difficulty.

"No problem," John yelled over the sound of the rushing water as we headed toward the first rapid.

At this point, I wasn't so sure I agreed with him. As the cacophony of unfamiliar sights and sounds pressed around me, I became disoriented. My euphoria was quickly replaced with fear and anxiety, and as the front of the canoe and me with it slipped in to the rapid, I could hear John directing "just lean to port; just lean to port." Port? Now is that right or left? I panicked.

Passive adaptation quickly gives way to reactive adaptation when crises hit, and we are usually surprised by each crisis. We remember little of the information or education we have been given and therefore cannot put it to best use. Fear leads to panic and panic to attempts to bail out of the adaptation effort. Self-preservation becomes the central focus.

Just as I was turning around to ask if that meant right or left, I felt cold on my arm and back. Then I was looking up through a thin layer of water at a distorted sky. When I surfaced, I could feel one of my sandals hanging on by just the ankle strap and I could see my royal blue and pink plaid shirt rushing down the river. To keep from losing my shoe and being pulled under again, I wedged myself into a crevice between two rocks in the middle of the rapid and held to one rock with my left hand while I adjusted my sandal with my right hand. I was not about to lose those sandals.

When we are reacting to a crisis for which we are not prepared and from which we are not certain we can emerge unharmed, we become very focused on ourselves and what is most important to us. We thrash about to regain a sense of personal safety and care little about what happens to others or to the adaptation effort as a whole. Personal safety and security are huge drivers for us and we will protect them at all costs.

I was positioned so that the water hit my back and curled up and around my shoulders. I was not comfortable, but I was upright and stable, I began looking for John. He was off to one side of the rapid with one leg hooked over the canoe and the rest of his body stretching desperately to grab the paddle closest to him before it floated down stream. He was yelling at me, and had been for several seconds I was sure, to get the other paddle. But I wasn't about to move. I was totally shell-shocked, and I wasn't going to move again - ever, and at that moment, no one could make me. The significance of our losing our paddles didn't even register. Both paddles floated merrily down the stream, leaving me, John, and the canoe behind.

What constitutes a safe place really depends on the information we have. If we do not have adequate information about the whole adaptation process or about how to successfully navigate a particular crisis, then what's safe for us will likely not be determined by the long-term viability of the organization or the process. We will be much more focused on the here and now than on the long term good and will continue a pattern of reactive adaptation. Because we generally feel abandoned during times of crisis, we tend to resort to an "every man for himself" mentality. This is the first point at which we might be tempted to resign. If we do understand the big picture and do have enough understanding to navigate each crisis, then what constitutes safety for us will likely include a more long-term perspective.

Holding the canoe now with his arm, John hurriedly struggled over closer to me and told me to get out of the rapid and get into the boat. I wasn't interested in doing either and through tears and some rather colorful language, I told him so. I felt betrayed. I was furious with him for getting me into this and with myself for letting him.

"You can't stay in this rapid forever, Cynthia," he said in a raised, frustrated voice. Our chances of catching our paddles were getting more and more remote, and I was being totally irrational.

"Watch me," I retorted.

"For crying out loud, will you be reasonable!" he screamed over the rush of the water. "We've got to catch our paddles; our paddles!" he screamed again. " Don't you understand?" Yes, I did understand, or at least as much as was possible at that moment, but the future consequences were not nearly as scary at that moment as was the thought of moving.

Anger and frustration are natural responses to being in an unexpected crisis. If we are not adequately prepared and do not feel we have been given adequate information, we will feel betrayed by those whom we have trusted. Sometimes we will turn our anger inward. However, more frequently, we view our being in an untenable situation as someone else's fault. Our only involvement was being suckered in, and we become righteously indignant about our fate. Of course, as long as we hold the view that others control us, we have no hope of becoming proactively adaptive to our environment. Even though this may seem like a natural time to leave the organization, few of us will. Because righteous indignation gives us a feeling of power, we are not as likely to throw in the towel now as we were earlier in the adaptation process.

Finally, John grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the rapid and toward him and the canoe. I tried to get into the canoe but all I managed to do was capsize the boat. His urgency about our situation gave me momentum, but it also increased my anxiety, and I couldn't seem to get all my body parts coordinated enough to get into the canoe. My arms and legs felt limp and shaky. John managed to flip the boat upright, however, and as I held onto it with what little strength I had, he got under my rear and pushed me into the boat head first and then quickly got in himself. I was lying on my back facing upstream with my legs sprawling over the sides of the boat. John was paddling frantically with both hands, and I was still in shock.

"Paddle!" he directed, so, never moving from my position, I threw my arms over the sides of the canoe and starting paddling.

"Damn it, Cynthia," John screamed. "You're paddling in the wrong direction! Just stop! Stop! Don't try to help me. You're just fouling things up" - at least I think it was "fouling" that I heard.

Though we may be literally rescued by someone who does see the larger consequences to us and to the organization if we remain in this crisis and do not attempt to pick up the pieces and move on, the result is usually conflict. We feel resentful that we seemingly have been brought into the adaptation effort under false pretenses and now cannot back out and our rescuers feel resentful that they must carry us and that we cannot see the big picture and behave accordingly. Because we are ill prepared and our hearts aren't in it, our efforts to help are really hindrances, and we are then treated with hostility. This hostile treatment deflates the power of our indignation, and we are again susceptible to turning over.

The frustration laced with anger and urgency in John's voice brought me back to the reality of our situation. I sat up, turned around, and assessed our situation. The paddles were far down stream, and I held no hope of our catching them. But John, determined to persevere, paddled like a cartoon character being chased by a shark. I wasn't sure whether to laugh at his folly or join him in it. However, given my own interest in getting both feet on solid ground as quickly as possible and the fact that we were in a borrowed canoe that had to be returned with paddles, I decided to join him.

If we do make the decision to stay with the organization, we will attempt to get some control over the situation so that we can restore our safety. This restoration may involve convincing others to abandon or greatly scale back the effort. It may involve assuming a position of superiority and hassling those who choose to get behind the effort. Or it may lead us to get behind the effort and really contribute to its going forward to completion. Both of these positions are proactive. One is focused on the good of the whole and the other the good of the self.

Luck was with us as it turned out. One paddle caught in the fork of a dead tree limb jutting out of the water and the other caught between two rocks. However, we had no sooner retrieved our second paddle than we noticed that the next rapid was right upon us. We had been so focused on the crisis of our paddles that we hadn't kept track of where we were. We hadn't even noticed the increasing volume and speed of the water. I felt like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid in the movie of the same name as they made their famous jump from the cliff, trailing one expletive all the way to the water. All I could do was grab the sides of the canoe and hold on.

Our fall was not particularly graceful this second time either as we spilled over the side of the canoe. Again, it was humiliating and frightening, but the unmitigated terror I had felt the first time had downgraded to sheer panic this second time and I was able to recover my senses more quickly and get out of the rapid and back to the canoe. We both had a little more presence of mind so that we did not let go of our paddles making the aftermath of our second drenching a little less traumatic. With John's help as a counter weight, I was able to get myself into the boat without capsizing it or landing on my head. And perhaps most important to me, both shoes had stayed attached to my feet.

When we continue our involvement with an adaptation effort, sometimes we do so having decided to make a genuine commitment. We learn about the needs requiring the adaptation, the big picture, the hoped for results, the desired behaviors, the changes that we must make, and our contribution to and place in the whole. We become agile at navigating crises and at assessing them so that we can proactively prevent them rather than just getting through them.

Sometimes, however, we continue our involvement just hoping to outlast the adaptation effort and with more interest in things returning to the old way than transitioning to the new. We learn to weather crises with more grace and less fear so that we can get through them with as little damage to ourselves as possible. But our interest is still not in the adaptation being successful, but in our interest being served. We are continuing a pattern of passive / reactive adaptation.

As we headed downstream once again, I began grilling John. How many more of these "little rapids" remained between the take-out point and us? Had we done the "big rapid" yet? How much further was the take out point? Where would I find dry clothes for the trip home?" John had nothing to offer other than "trust me; we will survive." I wasn't sure I agreed with him, but going forward, regardless of what was ahead, seemed the only option.

As we moved through a stretch of relatively slow moving water, John began to sing hoping I would join him in a few choruses of "I Love to Go a Wandering." Normally, I am always up for a song or two, but I wasn't in the mood for singing or any other activity designed to divert my attention from the righteous indignation I felt. Why had he not prepared me better for this trip? Had he known the truth and chosen to keep it from me or had he not known himself. I responded to the first thought with anger, but I responded to the second thought with fear. I really needed to believe that at least one of us had a clue.

When we become involved in an adaptation for which we do not feel we have been adequately prepared and to which we choose not to make a genuine commitment, we continue to harbor ill will and we seek for people to blame for our predicament. Our first assumption is usually that those responsible for giving information to others had the information and for whatever reason chose not to disperse it. Our second thought is usually that perhaps they did not have or know the information to share it. While the first thought feeds our righteous indignation, the second makes us anxious and afraid. We would much rather believe that something has been withheld from us than that we are involved in an adaptation about which no one has any information or understandings. We had rather be angry than unsafe.

The sun was directly overhead when we sighted the third rapid. The river had broadened to a fairly wide expanse at this point and a clump of trees formed a small island in the middle. We could choose to go to the left or right of the trees. To the right lay the rapid and to the left lay a fairly calm looking rippling stretch of water that seemed to be falling in a succession of very small waves. Since we had just caught sight of the last raft going into the rapids to the right of the trees, we decided to go that way first just to investigate. If the rapid looked too daunting, we would cross over to the left side and take what appeared to be an easier path.

As we neared the rapid and saw the funnel of water and felt the current pick up, that now familiar feeling of nauseating fear caught me in the stomach and chest.

"Let's go the other way," I insisted. "I'm getting sick already."

"Ok," John replied with more than a hint of doubt. "But I think this way will be quicker and a lot less work than crossing the current to get back across"

"I'm not interested in quicker or less work. I'm interested in drier," I responded. So we changed courses.

As the adaptation effort moves forward, those in opposition become more and more disruptive and insistent that they be allowed involvement in the decision-making processes. They are usually interested in finding another path that is easier and less fraught with crises and are usually able to be influential enough to get others to go along with them. They become a constant crisis for those attempting to be more proactive. The fact that everyone is tired of the relentless nature of the adaptation process and the opposition and really longing for an easier way contributes to their being more easily influenced to change courses. Weariness can sometimes override even the best judgment.

As John had predicted, paddling across the river was more than a little effort intensive, but I was certain that the passage to the left would be much easier to navigate. At least it didn't have any big dips or churning water. It had to be easier. When we reached a spot on the left side of the river that seemed reasonably easy to navigate, we once again headed down the river. I was just beginning to relax when we heard and felt the bottom of the fiberglass canoe scrape on some unseen object under the water.

"What was that?" I shrieked.

"I'm not sure," John replied, but I think we are in trouble."

Sure enough. Within a minute, the canoe scraped again, making a horrendous noise. I was certain that the bottom of the boat was being ripped and torn and would give way any minute.

"It's going to split open!" I shouted in panic over my shoulder.

"No, it won't "split open," Cynthia," John responded with resigned frustration. "It's fiberglass, remember? Fiberglass."

"Oh, yeah," I responded, a little embarrassed.

A minute or so later, we ground to a halt and John stepped out into mid-calf deep water. That lovely rippling, seemingly gentler water was rippling over a rock shelf that extended as far as was possible for us to see. John began pushing the canoe down stream over the shelf, losing his footing on the slippery rocks and banging his shins every few feet.

"This isn't working," I said with frustration. "I'm going to get out and help."

"Oh no you're not!" exclaimed John. "You'll spend all your time falling and whine every time you fall. Just stay put. I'd rather push you than listen to you."

I wanted to snap back at him, but with both of us frustrated and at our limit, I was certain a fight would ensue, so I just kept quiet. It took us a good twenty minutes to reach the end of the rock shelf. The boat finally dropped into deeper water and a section of the river that was calm and several feet deep opened before us. We could take a breather.

Most course changes based on weariness, pressure, advice from others, or a good hunch rather than solid assessment data are usually doomed to lengthen the time line and increase the demand for resources. Ill-advised course changes can be just as costly as the initial start-up of the adaptation effort. Sometimes course changes are warranted and advisable, and we arrive at this conclusion from an appropriate and adequate assessment performed with as much objectivity as we can muster. Course changes are almost never advisable to placate unhappy members or to have a change of pace and just try something new. They are usually costly and put more stress on already strained relationships.

"Do you want to bail?" John asked.

"What does that mean?" I questioned.

"Quit," he said. "Paddle over to the bank and get out of the river."

"Then what? I asked.

"We portage the canoe to the take out point where the SUV is parked."

"What do you mean, "portage" the canoe?"

"Carry it," he replied rather flatly. "You know, throw it over our head and walk it back."

I surveyed the bank of the river and tried to imagine our carrying a canoe through the bushes and brambles along the river for who knows how long. Then I tried to imagine our getting the canoe up the steep, somewhat rocky embankment to the little road above. Even if I stayed with the canoe and John went for the Explorer, we would still have to navigate that embankment. Neither seemed particularly feasible to me. As far as I was concerned, we were committed to finishing the course on the water.

"I don't think so," I said motioning to the bank. "The water looks more friendly than all that stuff." Let's just pull over and rest a minute and regroup."

When the course change is disastrous, tempers are flaring, and everyone is bone tired, even those who have been genuinely committed to the adaptation will consider giving it up even if doing so will be difficult and might mean irreparable harm for the organization. Adaptation efforts that are undertaken without an assessment, adequate grounding, appropriate planning, extensive education, and lots of preparation are uphill climbs with few breaks. The more time invested without achieving the desired results, the more tempting abandonment will become. Interestingly, when those who have been the advocates, the strong wills and backs, begin to have doubts, those who have been in opposition become anxious and concerned that they will no longer be carried and that they might have to actually carry someone else. This concern for themselves may actually cause them to discourage the abandonment of the adaptation.

As we sat on the bank gathering our senses and our moods, John apologized for not doing enough homework on the river, for over estimating both of our abilities, and for not preparing either of us adequately for the trip. We were clearly lacking what we needed to have had a successful trip. Then I apologized to John for being of such little help and for losing my reason and my cool and, in general, being such a pain in the rear. We had no choice but to finish the course we had planned, and we needed to accept that fact and devise a strategy.

From the number of rapids we had crossed, John reasoned that we had one remaining before reaching the take out point and it was ranked the highest. I felt my stomach tighten and fear beginning to fill it with blood.

"You're kidding. Right?

"Wrong. The big one is up ahead."

"I don't know if I can do another one," I said in fatigue.

"Sure you can," John encouraged. "It's the best choice given where we are."

He was right. As much as I hated it, we had to get back in the river, and I was damned if I was going to go for another dunking. It was possible to navigate the rapid without incident. Lots of people did it everyday. I just had to have more information and to keep my wits about me so that I could use it. John then gave me some additional instruction about how to use my paddle to better advantage and how to assess a rapid and then use my body to balance the boat and keep it upright as we passed through. With renewed energy and determination to end on a positive note and get the trip behind me, I stepped into the canoe, and we pushed out from the back.

Even the most hardened of opponents will sometimes come to realize that if organization members do not put aside their differences, make peace, and pull together, no one will emerge undamaged. It is at this point that members really become proactive in their way of working, objectively assessing where they are and making an effort to learn what they need to know to face the challenges ahead. They begin supporting each other and encouraging each other to push on until the adaptation is complete.

The final rapid came sooner than I had hoped. A few more minutes to gather my courage would have been good, but I would have to go with what I had been able to muster. That now familiar increase in the speed of the river and the roar of the water rushing over the rocks ahead caused my heart rate to escalate to the aerobic zone in far less time than any aerobics teacher would probably recommend. My adrenaline was surging. I had abandoned the flight option and was preparing to fight. John's instructions sounded muffled and distant as we headed into the funnel leading to the heart of the rapid. Time slowed, and I could sense only the water and my body as every celled was poised to implement the same plan - respond to the river; move in chorus with the water; seek synergy with the environment and stay afloat. Relax and sway easily and instinctively to balance the canoe as it conforms to the demands of the river. The water passed each side of the boat like a movie in slow motion with literally thousands, fraction-of-a-second stop action pauses. The falling and circling water always just in front of the canoe seemed intentionally to slow so that I had time to read it and respond with the required balancing movement. I am doing it, I thought, and it feels pretty natural!

When we approach global adaptation as a proactive, natural process; when we equip ourselves with the knowledge, skills, and abilities we need to navigate the challenges we know we will meet; and when we are prepared to make the individual adaptations in our behaviors and personhoods that are required to function in the new environment, we can come through most any adaptation process, regardless of how specific or global, like experienced professionals.

As the back of the canoe slid effortlessly out of the rapid, time began moving in fast forward and sounds came flooding into my consciousness as if I had just surfaced after several minutes underwater. John and I both raised our paddles in the air and began to shout. We had ridden the most difficult rapid with grace and agility. Who would have guessed? We were exhilarated, and we continued cheering for ourselves for several minutes. We had made it. We did it, and I think our cheers were as much for our having taken control of our situation and redeemed ourselves as for our successfully riding the last rapid.

Though John and I were finally able to get our act together before the last and most challenging rapid, to navigate it proactively, and to complete the course with some pride, I have had no desire to attempt another white water canoe trip and have only limited interest in canoeing at all. Because of our poor preparation and our primarily passive and reactive approaches to adapting to the reality of our situation, I emerged with some emotional and psychological wounds that left scars and a permanent aversion to other such adventures.

Even with the realization that I was not as good at adapting as I had believed and that I was by far the greater contributor to the ongoing crisis nature of our trip and even in light of the efforts I have made to become much more adaptation capable since this event, I have never undertaken such a trip again.

Organization members subjected to similar adaptation efforts with similar results will also emerged scarred and adaptation resistant, especially when the adaptation involves an area in which they are risk averse or when it threatens something that they experience as valuable. Passive and reactive approaches to adaptation as an organizational norm can have long term consequences to the capability of the organization to adapt successful over time.

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