I am not my diabetes, but it sure is a bitch

It seems that there are a couple topics that come up on a semi-regular basis for me. Living with diabetes is one of them. I've talked a little about managing it with my climbing and running in the past, but glossed over many of the psychological factors. Based on several conversations I've had recently, I'd like to go into that a bit in the hope that other people with chronic conditions, diabetes, and auto-immune disorders may find something that resonates. 

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In case you haven't figured it out by now, I have Type I, aka juvenile, diabetes. I was diagnosed when I was 4, and in many ways, consider myself lucky; I've never experienced life without diabetes, and thus dealing with it is literally all I've ever known. It's ingrained. People diagnosed with chronic conditions later in life, especially ones such as diabetes that require drastic and permanent life changes, often struggle with depression and controlling their disease. I personally know several Type 1's who were diagnosed in their mid to late-teens and still struggle to keep their blood glucose levels (BGLs) under control. 

When you start looking into psychological effects of Type 1, a lot of what comes up focuses on juvenile diabetes and how hard it is on everyone around the shiny new diabetic and the challenges of dealing with young children and managing the disease. Diabetic children have a much higher rate of depression (close to 24%) than other kids (this seems like a 'duh', but is surprisingly easy to overlook). It's easy to feel overwhelmed by all the little things that are part of managing a chronic condition, which in turn can generate a sense of isolation, anger, and depression. Don't forget to factor in the influence a high or low BGL can have on your mood! 

I've been managing my diabetes for over 22 years, and if I stop and think about all the things I'm constantly doing to keep a handle on this stupid disease, it's pretty overwhelming. I cope by basically ignoring it - my diabetes is a fact, and my lifestyle is built around accommodating it. That said, my parents have always been amazingly supportive and made sure that diabetes never kept me from doing anything. On the other hand, you hear stories of people who stop doing their favourite activity or decide not to train for a half marathon because they're afraid they won't be able to manage their diabetes. It's easy to let fear of your condition keep you from pushing yourself. After all, playing it safe is more comfortable than venturing into the unknown.

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When I was a teenager, I struggled with depression. I didn't let on to the people around me just how bad it was, but suffice it to say it's a bit surprising I made it out of high school. Looking back, I think a component was related to my diabetes, combined with a couple traumatising experiences. My parents got me to see a counsellor, but I don't recall ever talking about the role, if there was one, diabetes played in my depression. Needless to say, the sessions weren't particularly helpful and the sense of isolation and discontent I felt was unmitigated. I wonder now if factoring my diabetes into the equation would have resulted in a better outcome. 

Having a chronic condition adds an extra layer to every experience. There will always be a small part of you that needs to hold back and observe. You can never shake the feeling that you're an outsider, not fully part of the world around you. 

And we're back to that feeling of being different, that you will never be fully understood, that people will treat you with kid gloves because of some stupid disease that isn't your fault but for some reason is now defining you. You always wonder if you didn't make the team or get invited to the sleepover because the coach was worried about dealing with your condition, or your overbearing parents, or if you're just broken and inferior because your disease. 

Chronic conditions suck. 

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My Dad and I recently discussed an article about the psychological effects of chronic conditions, namely diabetes, and if/how healthcare providers can help mitigate them. The article posed a question as to whether having a chronic condition predisposes you to depression, or if depression is a symptom that could be used to diagnose. The crux of the matter being, how do you treat someone with a chronic condition and depression. 

The question of 'what can I, as someone dealing with people with chronic conditions, do to help alleviate psychological problems' isn't one that had been posed to me before. People always want to help, and you're taught from day 1 to build a support network that can recognise and help treat high/low BGLs. The side effect of this, however, is people start to identify you by your disease. 

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Before you get mad and accuse me of attacking people who care about me and just want to help, let me explain. 

Diabetes is, by necessity, a lifestyle. Everything I do is, in some way, influenced by my disease. But I am more than just a diabetic. I have just as much potential as any other young women who loves to run, climb, and play in the dirt. When I train for a marathon, I may carry extra Gu and glucose tabs, but the hours, milage, and sweat I put in aren't worth any more or less than another runner's. My ability to climb a 5.11 slab has nothing to do with my diabetes and everything to do with hours of training, scrapes, and screaming muscles. 

So when someone comes up to me and goes 'it's so amazing that you did that, especially with diabetes!', it taints my achievement. 

I don't want to be defined by my disease. 

I don't want other people to define me by my disease. 

My diabetes didn't run the marathon, I did. Everyone has something to overcome, some personal demon to be vanquished. A knee surgery, jet lag, a colic-y baby that keeps you up all night. When we finish our marathons, we want a high five and someone to say 'way to go! You freaking rock!' 

I am so much more than a diabetic who enjoys being active. I am a person who enjoys being active. I would much rather be lauded for my accomplishments because I'm a women than because I'm a diabetic. To build things up based on my disease implies that you expected less of me because of it. 

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That said, I recognise that my diabetes brings an extra level of risk to everything I do. I've never pursued mountaineering because I don't want to deal with the logistics of carrying my glucose meter, extra insulin, and emergency food inside my jacket to keep them from freezing. Then there's the spare insulin pump or insulin pens, glucagon, and a few other things. And we have to factor in my amazing ability to get low 45 minutes into a hike, regardless of what my BGL was when we started and if I've been shoving sugar into my face. I have no idea what's causing this; it's only a problem on steep hikes, not runs, bikes, swims, or anything else. But in the event that things go sideways and I have a diabetic episode, the people I'm with are suddenly dealing with a probably belligerent, combative, and sick individual. 

I hate being cold and have never have a burning desire to take up mountaineering anyway. The risk I present to my partners, coupled with the steps I'd have to take to manage my diabetes on a mountain, just aren't worth it to me. 

But I want to you know that I absolutely could do it. I just don't have a desire to. 

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To this day, I'm extremely touchy about being put on a pedestal as a diabetic. I won't deny that it's part of who I am, and I have no idea what my life will be like when a cure finally exists (now go donate so I can find out). 

I truly believe that anyone can do anything they put their mind to, chronic condition or not. It takes work. It takes blood, sweat, tears, and endless frustration. But a disease does not make us less. There is nothing less about us. There is no reason we can't live our lives and define ourselves by our triumphs, achievements, and joys. When we allow ourselves to be defined by a disease, we let the disease win. 

And you know what? 

My diabetes can go fuck itself. I may have to deal with it, but it sure as hell doesn't make me who I am.

Teachers are pretty great (a month in the life of an unemployed engineer)

It's probably time to say something magical. After all, it's that time of year. But, despite my best efforts, things aren't moving forward quite the way I'd like. 

Allow me to explain. 

When I graduated, I was in contact with several engineering firms in Alaska, and things were looking pretty good for being able to get a job shortly after getting home. After all, I have a masters degree, several years of design experience, and a burning desire to stay in AK. Well, it turns out that even the best laid plans are subject to the whims of the economy. Which, as it happens, is shit. Especially for civil engineers. Something about the money that goes towards infrastructure and civil engineering in Alaska comes in large part from oil companies and the state and federal governments. With the prices of oil tanking (haha pun), and the fact that Alaska ran a deficit for the first time in ages last year, there simply isn't money coming in. Oh, and we're officially in a recession. So roads and bridges aren't getting built or fixed, airports are getting put on the back burner, utilities are getting ignored, and oil companies aren't building new stuff. 

tl;dr, no money = no jobs. 

And thus, for the first time in my life, I'm in limbo, keeping in touch with firms, networking like my life depends on it, and trying not to slowly lose my mind. 

Obviously, the best way to go about filling time and making something resembling money when you're an unemployed engineer is to teach. Some old adage about those who can't do, teach. Yeah, right. After several weeks of substitute teaching, let me just say HOLY CRAP TEACHERS ARE SAINTS. 

I've been substitute teaching primarily high school science and maths classes, since that's my background. Because I have no idea how to handle little kids, I'm avoiding elementary schools. And let me say, kids are ridiculous. I've developed a whole new level of respect for teachers. It's got to be a calling, cuz otherwise you'd probably lose your mind. So to all the teachers in my life, cheers to you!

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This past week Nick's band (Petty Crimes. They're a Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers cover band) played at the Pub. They're pretty damn good, and I got to channel Stevie Nicks and sing Stop Draggin' My Heart Around with them. Which was really fun. I missed singing. Yet another perk of being done with grad school: time to do stuff that got shoved onto the back burner because you can't actually make days longer, no matter how hard you try.

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Yesterday, Ev, Dakota and I had a climbathon. The goal: climb as many routes as physically possible. We were at the gym for 4.5 hours, climbed a combined total of 38 routes, and crushed pretty hard. Because I am in no way competitive, we tracked the number of routes, falls, and climbs harder than a 5.11. There were a couple really epic dynos to the top of the wall, complete with power noises (or as I like to call it, my water buffalo giving birth impression), some really cool looking body positioning and stemming, and a really impressive heel hook at chest level.

24 hours later, my fingers are still kind of burning and my neck is quite sore. I'm also not sure I can make a fist.

It's a good feeling.

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It's definitely the holiday season. The insane amount of baking for my parent's Christmas party has commenced, get togethers with people and secret santa's and white elephant gift exchanges are happening, and my alcohol intake has upped. Gotta love it.

So Happy December. 

Spread that joy

My fellow Americans -

The election is over. The results are in. The people have spoken.

I’d say ‘God help us all’, but this nation is, theoretically, not governed by God or religion. Our system is designed to balance itself, to check those who try to seize unilateral control. I seriously doubt that Congress and the Supreme Court would allow our President-elect to expand his powers into Putin-esque levels. Other Presidents have tried and failed (FDR comes to mind when he attempted to remove a Supreme Court justice who wasn’t bending to his will). The system has worked before.

In order for our democracy to succeed, the American people have to respect the government. We don’t have to trust it, don’t have to like it, but we have done our civic duty and elected people to represent us and (hopefully) fight for our interests.

So as much as I fear for my rights as a women, freedom of the press, free speech, and immigrants, I choose to believe that our system will work. We have to respect the process, even when we dislike and fear the results.


Now it’s time to move forward. 

We woke up this morning, the day after what may have been the most important election of our lifetimes, and the world had not ended. Who we are and what we believe has not changed. Emotions are high, people are scared and angry (the Canadian immigration website crashed last night). My Facebook feed is full of fear and outrage and anger. And in it, messages of encouragement and love stand out.

So let’s focus on the good.

Let’s be positive and optimistic. Let’s stay (or become) involved in local politics and initiate change at that more personal level. Let’s volunteer. Let’s refrain from talking shit or spreading fear.

We can still be kind and understanding. We can still appreciate the little things – the sunrise over the mountains, the dusting of fresh snow, the celebration of life and friendship. We can still be role models.

Now is the time for random acts of kindness. Now is the time to show the world what losing with grace looks like. What winning with grace looks like. Now is the time to speak out when you see discrimination, to stand up against racism, sexism, xenophobia, homophobia, and hate. Now is the time to be an inspiration.

Let’s spread joy.

Let’s spread love.

Let’s be the change we want to see.

Let’s keep America great.

A heartfelt plea

The 2016 election is upon us. 

And it is, by every definition of the word, an unprecedented shit show. 

So I have a request. Call it a plea, if you will, or begging, or wheedling. Whatever. I'll even accept pestering.

Vote.

I know you may not like any of the presidential candidates. You may not trust them, think they'll run the country into the ground. However things turn out, the world is changing and America is about to experience a shift. It's probably time for that - it's easy to get into a rut. A good 'ol revolution, especially when it includes a peaceful transition of power, sends a message to our government and the world that things are NOT fine. We deserve better than the status quo. 

I don't care who you vote for. I have my own (strong) opinions on the matter, but your opinions are your own and I won't try to sway you this late in the game. 

I encourage you to do your research. Do some fact checking. Look past the rhetoric and accusations and dancing around topics and try to get to the meat of the issues. We need a president who will represent America and our values, who will strengthen our diplomatic ties, and continue to make this country one that others aspire to. 

Exercise your civic duty, your hard-earned right, and vote. 

This democracy, the right to vote, to express ourselves, to have a peaceful transition of power, is what American men and women have fought and died for. Voting is a cornerstone of America.

So please, vote. 

Vote to honor the sacrifice of so many Americans.

Vote because this may be the most pivotal election of our lifetimes. 

Vote because your vote does matter.

Vote even if your candidate doesn't win, or you don't expect them to win. 

Vote because if you don't, you lose the right to bitch about the government for the next 4 years. 

Vote because there is more on the line than who the next president will be. 

Even if you hate all the candidates, vote. Write in Mickey Mouse. Leave the bubble blank. I don't care. Go to the polls, because there are other things on the ballots. Senate races, ballot measures, representatives. People who are elected to be our voice in Congress. Go to the polls and vote. 

The next batch of senators and representatives will help shape the direction of our great nation. 

The next president will unarguably change the course of history. 

And we as Americans have a duty to this process and the very concept of democracy.

So please. PLEASE. I'm begging you. On November 8th, vote. 

Yup, I'm doing nothing

The job search continues. Over the last couple months, I've sent out way too many emails, had a couple interviews, and become unfortunately familiar with the refrain 'We would be very interested in bringing you on. However, we don't have enough work right now. We'll let you know as soon as things pick up.'

Stupid economy.

I'm pretty sure the whole point of grad school was to make myself uber-employable so finding a job would be easy. How naive I was. I forgot to factor in the falling oil prices decimating the available funds in Alaska.

Holy crap, unemployment is boring.

On the plus side, I've been able to relax and do basically whatever I want. There's been a lot of climbing, running, and more reading than I've had time for in who knows how long. So that's a perk. I've also been able to do travelling and plan trips to visit my grandparents and go to a couple weddings. Granted, funding them is a bit... let's say challenging, but I don't know when I'll be this flexible again. Might as well take advantage of it. 

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A couple weeks ago Ev, Colin and I ran the Equinox relay. We managed to make up a team of fantastic, slightly messed-up individuals, so we obviously called ourselves Mostly Broken. We have shirts and everything. 

Between Ev's knees, my ankles, and Colin getting himself charbroiled in a propane explosion, we're pretty much awesome. And apparently inspiring. Enough that Colin got himself mentioned in the newspaper. Apparently our team name was cheeky. And we all average around a 10 minute mile, which was pretty sweet. So go us. Next year, I'll do the full marathon and get the big-boy shirt.

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So yeah. Life update. Thrilling stuff. Stay tuned for something more interesting at some point. It'll come. Probably. 

Risk and Reward: a few more perspectives

My last post on the risks taken by people, be it climbers, NASCAR drivers, alpinists, or runners, brought out a lot of comments and stories from people. Because everyone evaluates risk differently, I thought I would share some of the perspectives. 

An important consideration when discussing this stuff is that everyone is entitled to their perspective. Many people feel that climbing and whitewater rafting entail risks they're not willing to accept - they're too dangerous to be worth it. It irritates me when people project their aversion to something onto others, trying to convince them to change their ways or that they're being stupid and taking unnecessary risks. But at the same time, those of us willing to accept higher risks shouldn't try to push our level of risk acceptance onto anyone else. Everyone wants different things. Respect is a two way street.

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Iris

Yet another friend had a near-death experience whitewater kayaking this past summer. Iris had what she describes as a 'really bad whitewater swim' shortly after moving to Juneau. In her words:

'A local packrafter was looking for a partner to run a glacier river here. I wanted to get out too, and didn’t have any personal experience with local rivers, so we went together. He had run the river a few times before with no issues, noting that it is mostly bouncy class 2+ with some class 3 in one section. We were planning to walk the class 3 section due to my shoulder issues (Iris has some long-standing back and shoulder injuries that have required surgery). The river looked normal on both takeout and put in (what we could see), so we went for it.

Long story short, every marker he was expecting to see for the take out was under water. The section that was normally class three and required some skill suddenly started with a 6 foot wave followed by a large wave train and a whole host of new hydraulics. He hit the section first, and immediately swam a line to the side of the main rapids. Because I didn’t know the river, or the line, I ended up on the wrong side of the first wave. My boat got sucked sideways into it and I swam down the hardest part of the line. I hit 5-6 standing waves at least 5 feet tall. For the first two waves I swam hard at the bottom, attempting to get out to the side of the river and position myself in a safer way. After 2 waves I realized I was losing energy and getting cold fast; I couldn't continue to fight the river. I knew I had no one to help with a throw bag, since my partner was also swimming. I had no way of knowing how long the line of rapids was, or if there was a safe eddy at the end, because we had no chance to scout the rapids first. I put every bit of my energy into just surviving (breathing at the right points, staying face up, feet down river) and had a very real time of realizing that this is how people die. Thankfully, I rode them out and survived, but it certainly was an eye opener. Unfortunately, the rapids ended up more in a log jam than an eddy, so I lost my paddle as I tried to pull myself out of the log jam I was forcefully being pinned against. Thankfully, my partner made it out in better condition than I, but we faced the reality of being trapped on an island with two people, one boat and no paddles with rapids all around it. After hiking downstream for quite a while we did eventually find my boat, and then after that a bridge and a trail out, but we never did find our paddles. We walked out with our tails between our legs and a new appreciation for the craziness of an ‘easy’ whitewater trip.'

As far as risk? When I asked how her assessment and willingness to accept risk was influenced by her near-miss, Iris said: 

'Risk is about taking care of every variable that you can. Building skill, having the right equipment, being physically fit, being willing to walk away, having an exit plan for when shit hits the fan, vetting your partners, having a satellite communicator when you are that remote, doing everything you can to set a trip up for success. But if I was to never packraft again, never hike again, never ski again, I wouldn't be me. I wouldn't be alive. I would be denying myself what it means to be Iris, and I'm not willing to do that.  I will do everything I can to stay alive and reduce the risks I take, but I am still going to live my life and be the best person that I can be. So I accept the level of risk that comes with that. 

I have stared death in the face twice in my life and accepted it. I do not fear death in the way that I used to. I do not want to die - both times I thought of the future I could have and clung to it. But for me, death is not something to be feared.' 

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Everet

Ev grew up riding around the mountains of south-west Alaska on a snow mobile. He's pretty damn good on it, and loves highmarking. But it's important to keep an eye on the snow conditions, since you can set off an avalanche with disturbing ease. You can lose your balance, take a turn too tight, and have the snow mobile roll on top of you. You can get really, really stuck in deep snow and spend an hour digging it out. 

So Ev has a story about highmarking when he was younger and setting off an avalanche. Of course, he wasn't aware that he'd done it for a good 30 seconds- he was riding down the mountain, and it's not that uncommon (and less dangerous) to set off a powder avalanche. But this was not powder and it was not small. The people he was riding with saw it coming, and somehow Ev managed to not be in front of the avalanche by the time it caught up to him. But it would have taken him out. Granted, a bunch of people would have seen him go under and had a good idea of where to start digging, but getting buried drastically reduces your changes of survival. 

It should surprise no one that Ev will still go highmarking at every possible opportunity (much fewer now that we're living in Fairbanks). 

We've talked about how we assess risk on and off over the years, especially relating to the factors that go into the ultimate decision to stay or go. For Ev, he's hesitant to take risks where the consequence involves dying, which means he's less daring than he used to be. In one of the most romantic things that's ever been said to me, he's not willing to do something that could result in never seeing me again. 

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Nick 

You may recall Nick's spree of really bad times. He had an epic on Mt. Mather that left him shaken (more than a couple close calls), and a 52 foot ground fall at Grapefruit Rocks in April 2015. When he came back from Mt. Mather: round 1, he was more shaken than I'd ever heard him and freely admitted that they pretty much walked away unhurt because they used up all their luck. A few weeks ago, he returned and, armed with the lessons of the previous attempt, summited. We've had many conversations about risk assessment and the decision making that went into going for a second attempt, and Nick was kind enough to write up his experiences for me. There should be a trip report in the Newsminer in the next week or so, which I'll link to when it's out. So, without further ado, here's a (slightly edited), first-hand account of some very serious risk - reward decision making. For the sake of highlighting the serious 'oh shit' parts of this story, I've underlined them. 


The First Attempt (2014)
'Our plan was to complete the entire trip in 3 days--a silly schedule, according to the authorities. This meant that we had to cover the entire 20-mile approach on the first day, summit Mt Mather (6500 ft of elevation gain) on the second day, and return to the road by 6:00 PM on the third. Our reasons for this were to 1) make maximum use of the small weather window, 2) minimize the amount of time away from work, and 3) test ourselves and our abilities to move fast and efficiently over difficult terrain.

Our first hurdle was a too-close-for-comfort bear encounter on the approach. When we exited the canyon and saw her, she was already too close for comfort. Brian backed away quickly, and the bear charged in our direction. I stood my ground, pulled out the spray, and slowly backed away; still too far out of range for an effective discharge. Ultimately, she changed her vector and left us alone.

The climb began the next day, when we left base camp at first light with nothing but our climbing gear and a liter of water each. The face became gradually more and more technical until Brian and I were both swinging tools and front-pointing (with snow crampons) into hard ice. At this point, there is no stopping and resting. Your best option is to climb higher to the next safest place. Several hundred feet of this brought us to the technical crux: a short pitch of AI2 (an explanation of climbing grades can be found here). Not hard if you've got the right gear, experience, and stamina. Perhaps we had one of those. Yet, armed with one 60-meter twin rope and 4 ice screws, we decided to climb the pitch. Using all of my screws on the lead meant that I had nothing but my ice tools for an anchor. I buried them both, equalized them, and belayed Brian up the pitch. Probably not AMGA certified. 

The remainder of the face climbing was easier, but generally unprotected. We topped out on the ridge without water or overnight gear. Knowing how long it would take us to reverse these moves, I suggested we call it and head back down right away. Brian wanted to climb higher and talked me into doing so. We climbed as high as the weather would allow and turned around somewhere around 10,500 ft. Bad weather, no water, no bivouac gear, a long descent--the writing was on the wall.

On the way back down, we opted to descend a different gully than we had climbed. Just meters to climber's right was a narrow ice couloir that looked like it had solid ice for anchors. To get there we had to traverse a steep snow slope, which took some time. The rappels were slow and short--only 30 meters each. We weren't moving fast enough and we both know it. After several rappels, I heard the ominous sound of a slab release. When I looked up I saw the avalanche accelerating towards Brian. When it hit him, it knocked a tool out of his hand and then continued toward me. The slope was steep enough and we were anchored well enough to the rope that it didn't cause us any harm, or knock us off the mountain. We abandoned our descent strategy immediately and began simul-climbing down the couloir. We were desperately thirsty, too. Sometimes I was able to press my lips into the melting ice and draw out enough water the wet the inside of my mouth.

With only 4 ice screws, the process was a little wonky. Brian would slide the screws down the rope to me and I would place them, about 1 every 30 meters. Soon, we reached the bottom of the ice couloir, where it joined up with our ascent route. As we were putting the rope away, a shotgun blast of rock whizzed over our heads. For a few seconds we dodged them until we realized it wasn't going to get any better. Grabbing the rope, we made a fast dash for cover. The remainder of the descent was done unroped and rather hastily. Hearts were pounding and the adrenaline was flowing. Reaching the relative safety of the cirque was a profound relief.'

There were a lot of things that went wrong here, and some of them involved risks that really couldn't be controlled. But the decisions to go for a speed-ascent, not bring enough supplies, and, most importantly, choosing to continue to climb when it was clear food, water, and light were going to become issues, were made knowing they increased the overall risk factor. They knew the risks of these choices, and chose to go for it anyway. It just happened to backfire, and nature conspired against them. The trip could have had much more serious consequences, and Nick scared the crap out of all of us when he relayed the tale.

The Second Attempt (2016)
Given the almost-disaster that was the first attempt at Mt. Mather, Nick adjusted his plan for their second attempt. The multiple near-misses couldn't be taken lightly, and lots of time was spent discussing and analysing what went wrong. In his words, 

'Trying to repeat a climb fraught with danger didn't make sense without a monumental change in strategy.'

Because Nick's a smart dude, they made several changes for this attempt, including allowing more time for the approach, bringing more ice screws, snow pickets, and a longer rope, as well as ice crampons. They decided to bivouac on the climb, bring an in-reach device for emergency communication, descend the same route of ascent, avoiding the shooting gallery encountered in round 1, wait for an ideal weather window, and establish a turnaround time. To minimise chances of encountering rock and ice fall, they decided to climb the face in the earliest daylight hours. Basically, the major problems encountered in the first approach (insufficient gear and food, not enough time, poor descent choice, rockfall, and avalanche) were mitigated to the greatest extent possible.

'The second attempt went almost perfectly to plan. Where things started to go off the rails was on the descent, again. The technical portion went fine, but it is when we unroped and tried navigating the maze of scree-filled gullies that we got lost. The first three attempts led us to cliffs, so there was significant backtracking, traversing, and head scratching. We ended up finding a way down, but it was in a gully right below "the shooting gallery". We were almost down when a golf ball sized rock blasted my left arm, rendering it basically unusable for the rest of the day. By 3:00 PM that day we were off the mountain and to the relative safety of the cirque. Other than a minor bear detour on the return trip, everything else was smooth sailing and we were happy to have had the success that we did.'

For Nick, the appeal of mountaineering is the combination of a wide range of technical skills, physical ability, experiences, and decision making tactics that make for a rich and fulfilling experience in some of the most beautiful and untouched parts of the world. It allows a combination of hobbies, including running, backpacking, ice climbing, skiing, and winter camping. And you can't launch into it without paying your dues up front - an aspect that appeals to him. 

Remember that jar of luck and jar of skill analogy? Nick elaborated a bit more, saying:

'Most people who climb can probably relate to this statement. However, most with a scientific background realize that this is not really true. Luck (which really refers to probability) doesn't have a memory. Luck doesn't care how long you've climbed. If you are a total beginner and put yourself in a dangerous situation, you can ABSOLUTELY get hurt.'

As far as assessing risk? Nick says:

'It is important to understand how risk and consequence play into decision making. Experienced climbers are always asking "what is the risk?", which is another way of evaluating "probability". What are the chances of something happening? The second, and equally important question, is "what are the consequences?" What will happen to me or my partner if it DOES occur? Mountaineering certainly entails a lot of "low risk / high consequence" activity, such as walking a knife edge ridge with a 2000-ft drop on either side. You'd really have to jump off to take a fall, but if you do, it's "lights out". Perhaps less obvious are the "high risk / low consequence" activities, such as walking across a sketchy snow bridge while properly roped to a team. You may poke through, but you probably won't go anywhere if you do. Staying safe is a constant game of mentally walking through these possibilities. 

Most of the real accidents that have happened to myself and my friends were ones that came out of nowhere. I don't know of many stories where you are face to face with the danger and then it strikes. The real accidents are the sleeping dragon of an avalanche, a rogue rock that comes out of nowhere, or a thousand-year-old hold that breaks when rock climbing (That's a whole other story as well, isn't it). 

Maybe the most difficult question to answer is, "why do it"? A wise old climber once said "If you have to ask the question, you will never understand the answer in the first place." Certainly, the simple act of getting out of bed exposes you to risk. Driving your car to work does as well. We could certainly safeguard our lives and spend our resources padding the corners and sharp edges. But the biggest risk in doing that, to me, is in not living a life that can be looked back on with nostalgia, wisdom, and satisfaction.'

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I realise this is yet another really long post that probably boarders on preachy. As someone who loves to push their limits and has a stubborn streak a mile wide, how others analyse risk and decide what is and isn't worth it intrigues me. The steps taken to reduce the risk for the next attempt, the external factors that cause you to reduce the risk you're willing to accept, the event that makes you re-evaluate and walk away... learning what makes others tick influences my decision making. 

Basically, there's no need to shy away from risk, but you have to be smart about the ones you accept. 

And seriously, guys. Don't try to make other people accept the same risks you do. It's rude. 

Plus, you end up with more people in the isolated, pristine haven, which kinda defeats the point.  

Risk and reward

Life is a series of choices. Everything has inherent risk, be it going for a walk down the road or base jumping. People often don't even think about the risks associated with more commonplace, 'benign' activities - the walks, swims, bike rides, and runs. The risks are few, the rewards comparatively high. These are what we like to call low consequence activities. Then you ramp things up. You start doing single track mountain biking, running ultra-marathons, long open-water swims. All of a sudden, the risks inherent to the activity increase, and the consequences start inching towards off-putting.

But the reward increases, too. The technical challenge of navigating terrain on a bike, the joy of the run, the endorphins from pushing yourself to your limit, the view from the top of the mountain, the exquisite isolation. To some, these things are worth the world. They are worth being halfway up a mountain in the middle of nowhere with no cell coverage at -40F. They are worth accepting the higher consequences if things go wrong.

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My group of friends enjoys pushing ourselves and testing our limits; there are enough of us doing high-consequence activities that statistically, it's likely one of these days someone won't walk away. But at the same time, no one is cavalier about the risks we take. You control what you can, be aware of the risks, be willing to accept the consequences. Life is a series of risk-reward analysis. You have to be able to assess the situation, know the risks, be willing to accept them, re-evaluate, and call it off.

A few years ago, Nick explained his philosophy on accepting and analysing risk:

When you first get into mountaineering, there are two things that can keep you safe: experience and luck. You start with a full pitcher of luck and an empty pitcher of experience. As you climb, you pour some luck into the experience pitcher. Hopefully, by the time your luck runs out, you've gained enough experience to know how to stay out of trouble.

Basically, you can't control your luck, and when shit goes sideways, you can't count on getting lucky to pull you through.

Doing what we do, it's inevitable that we will have experiences survived due to more luck than skill. We do what we can, but climbing, rafting, mountaineering (not to mention skiing, biking, ultra-running, triathlons... to name a few) have risks associated with them that you have to either accept or be willing to walk away.

This year, two good friends had major 'oh shit' events. You can do everything right - have the training, the know-how, respond the right way, monitor the environment and make the safest choice you can - and still have things go sideways. Nature isn't something you can control, and sometimes it says fuck you.

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Last spring, a close friend was fully buried in an avalanche during a mountaineering class. She's an experienced climber, and has done a fair bit of mountaineering. She's savvy, smart, and conservative on a mountain or climb. But during a traverse, the group triggered an avalanche, and a couple people got fully or partially buried. Everyone survived. No one had major injuries. Afterwards, my friend was (justifiably) shaken up. Coming close to death will do that to you. The odds for surviving full burial in an avvy aren't great, and it's pretty incredible that everyone made it out. She's very grateful to be here, and incredibly grateful to the students who dug her out and saved her life. It could have easily turned out very differently. And they probably would have made the same call (to do the traverse) again.

But as far as risk? Was it worth it? She was conservative to begin with, and says she's still willing to accept the same level. She won't let the fear win. The mountains are important to her, make up part of her. She'll be back on them this winter, being a badass, assessing, and doing what she loves. In her mind, if she accepted any less risk, she might at well take up tennis.

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A couple weeks ago, Dakota was swept into the water on a whitewater trip on the Nenana River. The river was high and the rapids were class 4+. In his words:

'I came out of the boat and went through a wave train, then got sucked into a hole. I popped out and tried to swim to the boat, and saw the second hole coming. Right before the second hole, I realised I was out of energy and couldn't aggressively swim anymore. When I got sucked in, I made my peace with not getting out of this alive. When I popped out into the third wave train, I saw the boat and yelled. I got sucked under again as I passed the boat, and barely managed to get grabbed by the people in it.' 

When I asked him about his take-away from his unplanned swim, he admitted some regret with how he handled the situation: 'You have to keep fighting until you're dead. I gave up in the second hole, and came out just by the hydraulic properties.'

But as far as the risk being worth it? He says it totally was. When you do something dangerous, make sure it's what you really want to be doing. Make sure it makes you happy. Make sure the reward outweighs the risk in your ledger. As Dakota said:

'Water sports make me happy, and if I go out doing that, then I went out with my boots on, and I was fighting every second to get back home.'

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Both of these people are incredibly skilled. But their luck jars were seriously depleted when they walked away. They were surrounded by people who knew how to respond, who were able to act quickly and extract them. That's yet another facet of managing risk: surrounding yourself with the right people. People you trust, who are skilled, who don't crack or fold under pressure.

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My ankle epic is a textbook example of a totally preventable injury caused by straight-up stupidity. I was a bit tired and unenthused about the approach. I didn't even plan to climb - I was just going to belay Ev, so we only had one pair of ice tools. When Ev started to walk around the falls to set a top rope, I sat down to tighten my boots. The ice at the base of the climb was (shockingly) sloped. I peeled both feet off the ground for easier access. And started sliding.

On the drive to the climb, Ev had lectured me on ways to not break yourself while ice climbing. The bit that flashed through my mind as I began my ill-fated decent was 'if you start sliding, keep your feet up so the crampons don't catch the ice and stop you abruptly.' Ev had taken both ice tools, so I grabbed at the trees and brush along the creek as I went past. They snapped off in my hands. When I went off the second drop, my crampon caught and I tore all the ligaments in my ankle, broke my fibula, and 'shredded' the deltoid ligament that runs along the inside of the ankle, controlling all the side to side motion and providing stability.

Ev saw me slide and heard the scream specific to people who just experienced earth-shattering pain. I knew immediately that I'd broken something and shit had just gotten real. Lucky for me (my luck jar took a real beating that day), Ev is good in a crisis and very, very skilled at problem solving and, apparently, getting broken people off of creeks a mile from the road.

So many choices were made going in to that fateful day that could have resulted in a very different outcome. If I'd had an ice tool, I could have self-arrested (I wasn't going very fast). I could have put my feet down when I started sliding and may have taken a jolt, but probably wouldn't have needed surgery. I could have engaged my damn brain and not sat down on sloped ice. We could have stayed home and watched Netflix.

For me, the consequence wasn't worth the reward. I knew the risks going in, and accepted them. I'm sure if I'd actually done some ice climbing, the reward may have offset the severity of the consequences and my take-away would be a bit different. I don't regret the decision to go out. It was a choice I made, I figured the risk of getting hurt was pretty low, and it was something Ev and I could do together that had potential to be a lot of fun. I may not have fully appreciated how shitty the consequences were, but if I had the chance to make the call again, I would still go. It was my choice and I accept the responsibility. That's something I can live with.

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Everything has risk. The joking justification used by many sums things up pretty well:

You could fall on a hard climb and die.
You could get eaten by a bear on a hike and die.
You could get buried in an avalanche and die.
Or you could never leave the house, fall off the couch, break your neck and die.

Only one of these is embarrassing. Those who go out and live, make the most of the time they have, celebrate every moment, accept the risks and acknowledge the consequences because the reward is a majestic view only a handful of people will ever see, the satisfaction of running 100 miles through the Alaskan wilderness, the feeling of being a badass, the glory of the ascent... these people understand pride and joy and satisfaction. These people have very few regrets.

Life is a balance. What's worth it to me may not be to you. I may be willing to accept risks you aren't. You might have skills I lack so that the risks for you are lower and more acceptable. I'm the one who has to live with the consequences of the choices I make. And as long as the choice is mine, I'm happy to push my limits and reach for the reward that lies at the top of a multi-pitch climb, or the end of an ultra, or the view of the world in the middle of nowhere.

As cliche as it sounds, at least I'd die doing something that makes me happy.