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. 

The grand return and a little bit of solitude

Man, it's really nice being back in Alaska. Even though its been raining. A lot.

We managed to get out on the river with the kid sister, booty-ed a kayak (haven't been able to locate the original owner, so hey, free kayak!), and enjoyed troubleshooting an interesting little dam on the upper Chatanika.

A good time was had by all.

Although you might not know that from the face that Mom managed to capture.

I've tried to duplicate this face, but honestly have no idea how my face got like that. This is the second picture where I've managed this glorious frown (there's one from moose camp 5 years ago), and I still can't make it on purpose. 

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Last weekend, Nick and I went on an impromptu trip to Chitna to dip net for salmon. We managed to miss the run by 2 hours (a friend who left 2 hours ahead of us reached his limit within 4 hours), and fished for around 23 hours over a day and a half and caught only 28 fish between us. The drive to and from Chitna was beautiful, and the view of the mountains from our fishing spots was fantastic, so it was totally worth it. Even though it was 'busy' on the river, it was easy to feel isolated for periods of time. I didn't realise how much I missed that aspect of Alaska until I had it for a weekend. And we discovered that it really isn't that bad to sleep in the front seat of a Subaru. The back is better, but you can totally wiggle into a sleeping bag, lie the seat back, and catch a couple hours of sleep in the front.

The only bummer of our fishing trip was the lack of a (functioning) camera. In the evenings, the view of the Deltas was spectacular. It would have been nice to have documented it, although no picture can do justice to the actual beauty. So instead of a picture from our fishing spot, here's one of us cleaning fish in the backyard.

I have to admit, dip netting doesn't win any points for being an efficient way to catch fish from the river bank. I'm sure someone thought, 'hey, let's just put a net in the water and let the fish swim into it and then we can just scoop them out! No worries if the river's full of silt and you can't see the fish. They'll swim right in! This is a great idea!'. It's definitely a method of fishing that's super exciting when the fish are running and you're catching 4 or 5 (or more) at a time. But when your average is around 1 fish per hour (and in reality, most of the fish were caught in a 4 hour period), with 2 hour dead periods in between fish, it's a little boring. And just a tad disheartening. But c'est la vie. We definitely got enough salmon to be ok, so there's no stress or pressure if we don't get more.

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I didn't fully understand how important having easy access to mountains, rivers, and the easy sense of solitude was to me when we moved to Europe. I didn't realise how much I'd taken it for granted until we came home and I had it again. Now, being able to escape into the wilderness on a whim, run on the miles of trails easily accessed from my parent's house, drive to the mountains and disappear into their vastness simply isn't something I think I can go without again. I certainly don't regret moving to the Netherlands to do my grad school; I am a much more interesting and rounded person for it. We were able to experience things you simply can't find in Alaska (good public transit, anyone?), and climb places you read about in the climbing magazines. I've gained some perspective, and a greater awareness of global politics. But that said, Alaska is home. It took leaving to understand the depth of its importance to me, and to recognise that it is something I'm not willing to give up again. 

Wheeeeeeeee Alaska!

The move back to the states is complete and Ev and I are settling back in to the wonderful world of Alaska. I gotta say, I missed Fairbanks, the people, the low population density, the wilderness, and the thai food. And our friends, I suppose.

It's a bit weird being unemployed and living in my parent's basement, but that's temporary and I have no pride. Or at least, I'm pretending I don't. 

Anyways, there's not a whole lot to report right now. We keep trying to get on the river for some magical wilderness adventures and camping, but the water levels are suuuuuuuper high and my broken rib has me nervous about long, technical paddles. Apparently I'm a giant wuss. Or afraid of dying. Take your pick.

Its been an... let's say interesting few days. Ev's best friend was in an accident as was evac'd to Seattle, so there's some stress and worry on that front. My best friend was in a head-on collision that totalled her car. Luckily, she, her husband, and the dogs are ok. 

So maybe not the best time to be really good friends with us. 

Wine, family, and rocks

It's probably time for me to actually write this blog post. I've had pictures sitting in a draft for a week now, but haven't actually written anything. Oops.

First things first, the defence was successful and I managed to walk away with  this fancy piece of paper that proclaims I have a masters degree.

Which means the mission of the last 2 years of my life was achieved. Wooooo!

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To celebrate this momentous occasion, we went on the first real holiday I've had since starting grad school. It's one thing to travel, but as a grad student, there's always the shadow of school and research hanging over your head. 

It took about 10 days for the whole 'I'm done and graduated and don't have anything I have to get back to' thing to sink it.

So we headed to Tuscany and met up with my sister and proceeded to have a wonderful time drinking wine, wandering the country side, and riding some really, really nice carbon bikes. We took an insane number of pictures, a smattering of which are as follows:

The Steiner girls like to  play. The shit-eating grin is due to the forgotten pleasures of a really nice carbon fibre road bike (I am so getting one when we're back in Alaska). Also, playgrounds in the middle of the Tuscan country side are kinda fantastic.

The view of San Gimignano from the top of a tower 

 

This pose seems to be really popular.

The graffiti on the do not enter signs in Florence was awesome

As nerdy engineers, Ev and I enjoyed the architecture in Florence. Not such a fan of the city itself - it was crowded and touristy. But what else is new.

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Rach left us in Florence and we continued to Croatia for some beaches and rock climbing. It's been almost a year since Ev and I climbed on some real rock. I gotta say, there's nothing quite like it. To beat the heat (and people), we got up at the buttcrack of dawn and were at the crag before 6am. 

The 5am wakeup call was a bit much for Dad.

There was a hike, and naturally, Ev had to find the tallest point around.

A day trip to Krka National Park was awesome. The waterfalls are epic, and we got to go swimming, which, given the whole 35 degree C heat, was magical.

And the state of the concrete was... abysmal. Rebar should not be able to be used as a hanger. Ev was very adamant about this.

 Croatia is beautiful. Lots of mountains and rock and beaches for swimming.

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The parents have now been put on a plane home and Ev and I are in the process of cleaning and packing up our stuff. We seem to have done a pretty good job of not accumulating a bunch of stuff in the 2 years we've been in Europe, which is kind of impressive. Soon we'll be heading back to Alaska and the whole 'responsible adult' thing.

Well, maybe not 'adult'. 

Or 'responsible'.

Heh.

Well deserved holiday

Good news! I have officially obtained my masters in geotechnical engineering! I have a piece of paper affirming that I know lots and lots about freezing clay. 

And then we went on holiday with my parents. Met up with my sister in Italy, and am currently enjoying the beaches and rocks of Croatia. 

What I'm trying to say is, I'm on holiday and will do a real update in a week. 

I'm using the wrong bloody units

Signs you've been in Europe too long:

• You say 'flat' instead of 'apartment'...
• and 'lift' instead of 'elevator'
• 'Bloody' is a regular part of your vocabulary...
• as is 'proper'...
• and 'oy'.

• You spell using s's instead of z's...
• and c's instead of s's...
• add random u's...
• use single quotes (' ') instead of double (" ")...
• and swap your r's and e's.

• Basically, you spell like a weirdo.

• Celsius actually has a physical association (no, not water freezing or boiling, but more of a 'room temperature is 20C' thing)...
• so do centimetres.

• Your default engineering units are now metric.

The units thing is gonna be a problem. I've lost my mojo on that bit. Of course, I've spent the past 2 years trying to force myself to actually use and think in SI, so... well, I'm gonna call myself fancy and pretend that counts.

The list of languages in the geo-department that people can say 'good' in is missing at least 3 languages.

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I've been polishing up my thesis based on comments from my green light meeting and the journal article that is supposed to be submitted tomorrow. Somehow, I even managed an 'aha!' moment about a couple relationships that I wasn't expecting and don't make that much sense. I updated my pretty pretty figures and tables. And I started my defence presentation.

I have a couple fancy shmancy animations explaining ice lens development. Talk about a pain in the ass to create, but I think they make my point. And, ya know, it's kind of a critical part for understanding my research.

The end is in sight.

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Grand travel plans with my parents post-graduation are mostly made. Plane tickets are purchased, Airbnb rented, and car reserved. Rachael is taking her med school boards, then meeting us in Italy for a week, which is so freaking awesome. The rock climbing guidebook for Croatia is en route. I suppose at some point, I should get us housing there so we don't end up camping. Ev and I only have a 2 person tent over here, and somehow shoving 4 people into it seems like a really bad time. 

The end is in sight.

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The job hunt has started. Kinda. The economy in Alaska is crap right now, but I'm hoping my previous work experience and masters degree will make me appealing. The compulsive, rigid part of me wants a job before we go home so I don't have to worry about it. The smart, more chill part of me doesn't want to jump in to something that won't make me happy. The compromise with myself involves Skype dates with a couple geotech firms. 

I suppose that means it's almost time to re-enter the real world. 

Did I mention that the end is in sight?

About bloody time.