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.'
'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).
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.'
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.
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.
