A couple my wife and I have become friendly with in recent years, I’ll just call them “Jock and Athena” (not their real names), are certified SPF-50 slathered, trail mix chomping, kayak-toting, ham string pulling, lifetime members of “The Outdoorsy Tribe.” Not that they’re flaunting it or anything.

In fact, if you passed them on a busy sidewalk (although, come to think of it I doubt that you’d find them on a busy sidewalk, especially if there was an invigorating walking trail someplace close by) you’d never suspect a thing. To all outward appearances, Jock and Athena are indistinguishable from hundreds of other middle aged, middle class American couples.

Athena is a bright, articulate primary school teacher with a quick, easy smile. Jock, her husband of some 20-plus years is one of that new breed of advertising executives, paradoxically both hard-driving and laid-back/eco-friendly. Think Don Draper in khakis and Bean boots piloting a Subaru Outback.

At social gatherings they come across as a perfectly normal married couple whose favorite after dinner topics happen to include helpful hints for dodging bears on the Appalachian Trail and hilarious anecdotes culled from their most recent sub-zero “winter camping” (yup, that’s a real thing) adventure in Maine’s Allagash Wilderness.

At a recent backyard barbecue, over burgers (my wife, myself and the other guests) and grilled gluten-free tofu strips (Jock and Athena) Jock regaled the gathering with his side splitting account of a youthful adventure wherein he and a high school buddy had embarked upon a “winter hiking” expedition (apparently this is a lot like winter camping only with lots of terrifying 5,000-foot drop-offs included at no extra charge).

According to Jock, he and his pal shared a dream of traversing the entire length of some particularly infamous extreme-hiking trail. This apparently involved stumbling across miles of narrow, precarious, trails perched atop a towering mountain range somewhere in Northern California.

If memory serves, Jock actually became somewhat misty-eyed while recalling this “dream hike.” Excuse me, dream hike? Really? Wow, you could have fooled me.

As Jock’s pulse-pounding tale unfolded, it gradually dawned on me that his play-by-play commentary involved experiences, which to my way of thinking bore all the earmarks of a recurring nightmare. I found it significant that at no point in the narrative did Jock feel compelled to divulge exactly why two otherwise rational young men would have voluntarily undertaken this ill-fated journey.

As much as any other factor, that single omission illuminates a central tenet of The Outdoorsy Tribe: an absolute and unquestioned assumption that anybody in their right mind would just naturally leap (quite literally) at a chance to sky dive into the Argentine Pampas or, oh I don’t know, rappel down the wall of the Grand Canyon. Post a few selfies from the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro? You get the idea. What seems completely bonkers to us is quite normal to them.

Don’t get me wrong. I like Jock and Athena a lot. Like so many members of The Outdoorsy Tribe, some of them members of my immediate family, they’re bright, energetic, socially engaged individuals who just happen to share some truly bizarre notions regarding leisure time.

Maybe it’s just me. But I don’t think so. I can’t be the only one who finds it impossible to apprehend the “fun factor” in courting what, to the uninitiated certainly appears to be an escalating series of near-death experiences. I know. I know. This is just something folks like to do. In the final analysis it has nothing to do with me.

In the words of legendary mid-20th century philosopher Sylvester Stewart (a.k.a. Sly Stone): “Different strokes for different folks.”

Still, the appeal of marathon swimming through shark-infested waters off the Great Barrier Reef continues to elude me. Members of The Outdoorsy Tribe have occasionally attempted to explain their odd proclivities by citing the famous “adrenalin rush” as a key motivating factor, but honestly that doesn’t wash for me either.

I can’t speak for anyone else, but my daily life seems perfectly capable of pumping gallons of adrenaline through my system at any moment. I don’t feel particularly motivated to go looking for more. Why just last week I nearly center punched an oncoming car as I was exiting the carwash and it took a good half hour for my heart rate to return to normal.

Frankly, I figure that avoiding a bunch of random adrenalin rushes accounts for most of the innovations we like to call “civilization.” Too many saber-tooth tigers out there? Let’s move into a cave. Tired of walking everywhere? Here, try something new my brother invented last week. He’s thinking of calling it “the wheel.”