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You are here: Home / New Features / Learning Curve: Learning to Turn Around

Learning Curve: Learning to Turn Around

by Maggie Slepian on March 24, 2021 Essays and Commentary, New Features

A few months back, I wrote about learning to suffer. I spoke from experience, discussing how people who finish the hardest backcountry trips have learned to gut it out. They don’t quit—they push through the worst conditions, worn-down bodies, and debilitating mental fatigue.

There’s a point though, where that mentality becomes not just unreasonable, but unsafe as well. For certain people (hello, me), knowing when to turn around can be harder than just suffering.

My desire to finish what I start is a combination of fierce pride mixed with an overblown “I can handle it” mentality. It’s sent me racing a high tide across an inlet as the water is rising and my companions are yelling at me to turn around. It’s sent me continuing up prominent peaks as lightning forks overhead, and it’s prevented me from speaking up when I know I’m not fit to be in a certain situation.

This mentality landed me, a bare beginner skier, in the advanced skier group during a backcountry avalanche safety course last year. I’d been skinning once in my life and was barely coordinated enough to wobble down groomed blue runs at our local resort. But thanks to the sleek ski setup I’d received as a perk of working in the outdoor industry, plus athletic friends who actually knew how to ski, I’d been lumped in with the group skinning to the highest meadow for field practice.

a woman digs a hole in the snow on a steep mountainside

I took this picture of my friend during the avalanche course, but trust me when I tell you, I learned nothing and haven’t been backcountry skiing ever since.

I watched the beginner groups with rental skis strapped to their backpacks boot-packing to the lower areas. I wanted to speak up and see if I could switch groups, but I stayed quiet. My friends helped me set my bindings to walk mode, and I fell in line with the dozen or so participants who absolutely, definitely knew how to ski.

Our two instructors led us higher and higher. They scanned the meadows, looking for a good place for our group to set up. Each time they stopped (and then invariably kept going), I’d hunch over my poles, wheezing from exertion. The climb was steep and narrow, and I didn’t know how to do skin turns. My friend stuck close behind me, offering tips. Step on the skis? Something about 90-degree turns? Making them cross in the back? I don’t remember, because this was the last time I skinned, and I’ve mostly blocked this day from my memory.

By the time we arrived at our meadow to dig pits, measure slope aspect, and practice beacon locating, I was paying zero attention. My entire thought process was consumed with staring down in horror at what looked like an impossibly steep mountainside of deep powder disguising unpredictable terrain.

I grabbed one of my friends.

“I shouldn’t be up here,” I hissed. “I will never be able to ski down this.”

She was usually encouraging about my skiing progress, but now she scanned the slope from her waist-deep position in the pit we’d just finished.

“Um yeah, yikes,” she said. “Why didn’t you say anything when they put you in this group, or ask to turn around?”

I shrugged helplessly. Was it pride? Had I just blindly accepted the instructor’s false assessment of my skills based on my fit companions and really nice ski setup? Whichever it was, we’d been up on the mountain for hours by this point, and it was time to rip the skins and head down.

My fears were correct! It was really bad!

a woman eats a sandwich while sitting in snow on the side of a mountain

Lunch break before I fell down the whole mountain essentially on my face.

Falling Down the Mountain

I was the last to go, peering down at the tiny dots of the other group members waiting at treeline. I went into a frantic, splayed pizza stance, skidded a few feet down, then fell over. I pushed myself up, vision spotting from stress, then tumbled sideways into the snow, my skis over my head. An instructor had waited behind me and was trying to give verbal assistance. I pushed myself up again, made it through one turn, then tumbled into the snow again, ejecting from one of my skis.

The slope seemed to grow longer and longer. It took me so long to get down the first section that the group was visibly freezing as they waited for me to finish tumbling down the hill. Murmurs of encouragement greeted me, but I stared at my cursed skis and waved the group on.

The next section through the trees was the same. I hit a tree, fell off the trail, lost a pole. I skidded sideways down through bumpy, deep snow on the final run, avoiding eye contact when I reached the base. I just wanted to be back in my truck.

Obviously, the best thing would have been to step to the side when I realized we were climbing too high for my abilities, and tell an instructor I was switching to a beginner group. But I had forced myself to stay put and gut it out.

The situation wasn’t overly dangerous, but this mentality, despite my proclaimed affinity for suffering, can be detrimental in other situations. If I was in over my head on a backcountry ski tour and something bad happened, would I have the skills to get down? To rescue my companions? The answer is a resounding no, and it’s something I have to accept to ensure I stay within my limits, even if it means turning back or declining an invitation.

I Come by it Honestly

Understanding my own limits has always been harder for me to accept than just gritting my teeth and getting through it.

I have a hunch that this is at least partly genetic. One of my most formative memories of hiking in New Hampshire’s White Mountains was a multi-peak traverse with my dad. I was in late high school, and my dad was in pursuit of his first completion of New Hampshire’s 48 4,000-footers.

a father and daughter stand side by side on top of a mountain

Is this genetic? Maybe!

Whatever this third peak on the traverse was, he needed it for his list. In classic New Hampshire fashion, our bluebird day at the trailhead had taken a miserable turn. We were above treeline, and frigid wind howled around the open peak. Visibility had disintegrated to almost nothing.

My breathing was shallow and panicky, and the clouds were so dense that I felt entirely alone, despite hiking with my dad and brother. My only reference point was my dad calling for myself and Aaron to follow his voice over the boulders as we climbed higher into the gale. As we passed the bad weather route that would have taken us around the summit cone, I begged my dad to turn around. But he wanted this peak, and we were within a half-mile (800 m) from the top. I didn’t feel confident splitting up, so I kept climbing.

a father and two children stand on top of a mountain that is socked in by fog

My dad’s face is saying “Maybe I shouldn’t have taken them up here.”

My dad’s face is saying “Maybe I shouldn’t have taken them up here.”

Neither of us has changed much since then. I recently asked my dad about one of his winter peak-bagging hikes, and he reluctantly told me he’d wound up with frostbite from the nasty conditions.

“Why didn’t you turn around?” I asked, knowing full well I probably wouldn’t have either. He had been with another companion who needed those peaks for a tick list (sound familiar?) and didn’t want to leave his partner alone.

That same day, another New Hampshire hiking friend told me there had been a rescue on Franconia Ridge—conditions were ghastly above treeline and no one should have been out there. She also discussed at length the desire to continue hiking beyond her capabilities and comfort. Is it just me, or is this mindset not terribly uncommon?

Sometimes the hardest thing to do is turn around.

I have friends with extensive backcountry experience who are never too proud to say they’re uncomfortable with the conditions. They are able to separate their capabilities from the conditions without worrying whether or not this reflects poorly upon them. They are thinking safely and critically, not concerned they’ll seem “weak.”

Do I respect them less for calling it? Never. They’re my most trusted companions, and when I can’t make a decision about bailing, I turn to them. Even though I recognize the value of knowing when to bail when something doesn’t feel right, it’s something I am continually working on.

But hey! When it comes to skiing, I’m definitely not too proud to stay low. In that particular instance, I’d say I finally learned something.

Related Content

  • More by Maggie Slepian

DISCLOSURE (Updated November 7, 2019)

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backcountry skiing, Learning Curve, New Hampshire, peak bagging, risk assessment, white mountains

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  • Mar 24, 2021 at 9:00 am #3706068
    Maggie Slepian
    BPL Member

    @maggieslepian-2

    Companion forum thread to: Learning Curve: Learning to Turn Around

    For some people, turning back is the hardest skill to learn.

    Mar 24, 2021 at 6:49 pm #3706144
    Bryan Bihlmaier
    BPL Member

    @bryanb

    Locale: Wasatch Mountains

    You’re brave to admit you have a hard time deciding to turn back.
    For me, I’ve found it most helpful to go on risky trips (usually involving a very high peak) with people I have been on other trips with, who I know have similar skills, experience, and risk tolerance as me. It’s so much easier to decide to turn back if the whole group is thinking the same thing. I think choosing the right companions, and especially having honest communication, are key.

    Mar 24, 2021 at 8:40 pm #3706161
    Paul Leavitt
    BPL Member

    @paleavitt1

    Locale: Midwest

    I think we are cut from the same stubborn cloth.

    You are not alone in finding yourself in conditions that are terrible and are bordering on type 3 fun.  I recall a 7 day late October trip where I was 35miles from my car sunrise of day 6.  My campsite was 15 miles and up at the summit of a ridge.  I got there by noonish. I was hammock camping and the weather went sideways.  Instead of the forecast 45 degrees it was 30 degrees and falling with torrential rain and 35mile per hour winds.  I hiked low but still the conditions exceeded my meager hammock tarp with sideways freezing rain.  I bailed and hiked the 20 miles to my car arriving at midnight.  I changed out of my soaked clothes turned the heater to max and drove 6 hours home.  I have never been so close to hypothermia in my life. Only the hard hiking kept me warm.  There are many ways this solo trip could have ended badly.  At that time I did not have a satellite communication device.  Now my Garmin Explorer is my constant companion.  Updated weather forecasts in the backcountry are a daily plan.   I still hike solo but my daily plans include exit strategy and my gear can handle adverse conditions.

    Suffer on

    All the best

    Paul

    Mar 24, 2021 at 10:09 pm #3706167
    jscott
    BPL Member

    @book

    Locale: Northern California

    I’m another person who often hikes alone. In some ways, that makes it easier to decide to turn back. There are no worries about what others might think.

    On the other hand, when travelling alone, there’s no other person to provide perspective. this last can play in the wrong direction.

    I remember one time camping with someone on a very early spring trip in Yosemite. He’d been on the trail that I hoped to follow. There was far more snow than he’d expected and I met him on his way out; he couldn’t finish the route and had turned back. I had blister treatment that he welcomed because his feet were wasted. At the time I thought the guy was a total newbie not used to Sierra conditions. As you might guess, two days later, after slowly hiking across miles of snow cups, and finally not being sure of where the route went over a crucial pass, I also turned back.

    In this case, meeting the ‘newbie’ gave me the perspective of another person, even if he wasn’t there with me. His earlier story made my decision to bail easier to make. And looking back, it was the right decision.

    Mar 25, 2021 at 6:11 pm #3706283
    ERIC G
    BPL Member

    @sessair

    I have traveled extensively alone in the mountains (years). I’ve been generally good at recognizing my limitations as I have gotten older (65 now). Five years ago though I was doing an early spring trip with swollen Sierra creeks. And I did something incredibly stupid.

    I didn’t want to get my boots wet! I decided to cross a swollen creek in my bare feet. I have never done this in 40 years of backpacking! What was I thinking? I didn’t have a trusted partner to ask if I had gone nuts.

    Of course the water was freezing and the rocks were slippery. I was half way across and took note how seriously dangerous the situation was. Feet now dead numb from the cold, freezing water waist level high, stumbling from one almost falling point to another, I relied heavily on my ultra light carbon poles to keep me up (just waiting for them to break). I was ready to jettison my pack but stopped short; I was 3 days from an exit and the GPS was in the pack. I was not confident I could retrieve it.

    Shoving numb bruised feet between rocks and with uncommon strength I got across. I sat on the opposite side of the rushing creek and contemplated how a perceived inconvenience , wet shoes, almost killed me. No matter how experienced, now and infrequently then, you can make a very bad decision. In 40 years of backpacking and years being in the back-country I can recall at least a half dozen times I got close to killing myself.

    Not sure what to do about it.

     

    Mar 25, 2021 at 6:19 pm #3706285
    Paul Wagner
    BPL Member

    @balzaccom

    Locale: Wine Country

    We regularly turn back in the face of such obstacles…and have written about it extensively on our website and blog.  There is no better way to kill yourself than to push on beyond where your body or the conditions warrant it.

    High water, bad weather, fire, sore feet, steep snow…all goods reasons to bail.

    Got to keep going?  A lousy reason to die.

    Mar 25, 2021 at 9:38 pm #3706322
    lisa r
    BPL Member

    @lisina10

    I’m pretty good at turning back, probably thanks to coming from a long line of anxious people, although sometimes turning back brings its own problems that can make it hard decision. I find myself thinking I probably already used up my all good luck surviving some seriously risky behavior in my youth and that it would be pretty disappointing if my luck ran out now. I also do most of my trips solo, which lowers my risk tolerance. Most recent turnaround was at the top of Matterhorn Pass in winds so high it was hard to stand upright. Bummer to climb up, just to turn around and repeat the miles I’d just done, but the risk just didn’t seem worth it (and I don’t really relish type 3 fun these days)…

    Mar 26, 2021 at 8:51 am #3706345
    Tom K
    BPL Member

    @tom-kirchneraol-com-2

    To paraphrase an old climbing saying:  the are old hikers and there are bold hikers, but there are no old, bold hikers.

    The choice is yours, but know that sooner or later you stand a good chance of  joining that select group who make the evening news, if you continually put yourself in situations beyond your abilities.

     

    Mar 26, 2021 at 10:32 am #3706366
    Jon Fong
    BPL Member

    @jonfong

    Locale: FLAT CAT GEAR

    While developing new products, you usually conduct a risk assessment (FMECA).  Some of those same principles can be applied to al kinds of activities like backpacking.

    Evaluate each criterion and sum the following three criteria:

    • Severity – what it the worst that could happen? (0=no harm no foul, 10= death)
    • Probability – how likely is it to occur? (0=not likely, 10=probable)
    • Detectability – What is your ability to detect if there is a problem? (0=easily detect and issue, 10=clueless)

     

    So, while I was hiking in Iceland during a whiteout with no GPS:

    • Severity? Getting lost, but I have plenty of food.  It was a busy trail so there were people around.  I would rate is a 2 or 3
    • Probability? Whiteouts in Iceland? High, I would give it an 8.
    • Detectability? Can I tell when I am in a whiteout? Yes. Can I tell if I am getting lost? Not really.  I would give it a 5

    Sum total 120

    Skiing out of my league

    • Severity? Broken leg, concussion – 8
    • Probability? Likely – 5
    • Detectability? Do I know if I am in trouble?  Not really 8

    Sum total – 320

    This gives you a relative score to assess Risk.  More importantly, it makes you think about the decisions that you are making.  My 2 cents.

    Mar 27, 2021 at 7:32 pm #3706587
    Rex Sanders
    BPL Member

    @rex

    Locale: Central California Coast

    I made many “shoulda turned around” (or never started) mistakes when I was younger. But somehow I lived and learned, developing a sixth sense that trouble was in store even without hard evidence.

    With whitewater rafting, playing in what I called the “high energy zone” had frequent life-or-death consequences. I bailed on many trips before they even started, based on nothing more than a gut feeling. Unfortunately I was almost always right. But I was still on a couple of outings where the outcome was very bad. Sometimes you are not in control, and the totally unexpected happens (hello Enron and hydroelectric dam operators). There’s not much more you can do than try your best to survive.

    For many years I pushed myself to complete ambitious backpacking trips, but failed for different reasons, often bailing when stuff went too far south. When I finally finished one, I literally cried as I reached the end.

    The tension between pushing your boundaries and staying safe is a tough one. And individual decision-making versus lemming-like “group-think” is also hard. Experience helps, but sometimes at great expense.

    No easy answers. Listen to your gut, evolution put it there for a lot more than indigestion. You have my sympathies.

    — Rex

    Mar 28, 2021 at 2:53 pm #3706686
    Tom K
    BPL Member

    @tom-kirchneraol-com-2

    “The tension between pushing your boundaries and staying safe is a tough one.”

    All to often complicated by one’s perceptions of others expectations of them, or their own expectations of themselves.  Some are better than others at stripping these distractions away before they get into existential situations beyond the point of no return, at which point their fate is in the hands of the gods.  Most of those who survive such experiences become much better at knowing their limits and make decisions accordingly.  I know several who did not;  most of them are no longer with us.

    Mar 28, 2021 at 11:08 pm #3706726
    Rex Sanders
    BPL Member

    @rex

    Locale: Central California Coast

    Two important lessons:

    – If you are with a group and don’t feel comfortable doing something, you are obligated to speak up. You might be surprised how many others share your concerns, or didn’t notice the problems. And you put the rest of the group at risk if you participate but aren’t ready or committed.

    – If that group gives you a really hard time for not wanting to participate, leave. Now. There are plenty of other groups who will respect you.

    In my fairly large whitewater rafting community, the rules were always speak up, and no shame if you don’t participate. At difficult rapids requiring scouting, we gave everybody the opportunity to walk around – even guides.

    And some walked. We rearranged people in boats, ran the rapid, picked the walkers up below, and everyone had a good time. No big deal.

    — Rex

    Mar 28, 2021 at 11:46 pm #3706728
    Rex Sanders
    BPL Member

    @rex

    Locale: Central California Coast

    Activity leaders can make speaking up a lot easier by inviting anyone to raise concerns one-on-one. Lots of folks won’t “make trouble” in a group setting for a variety of reasons, and nobody’s going to fix that problem in a few minutes outdoors.

    In practice, I’ve rarely seen leadership that good. If you have concerns, take the initiative and pull the leader or their assistant aside before it’s too late.

    — Rex

    Mar 30, 2021 at 5:42 am #3706944
    Erica R
    BPL Member

    @erica_rcharter-net

    When I was young and dumb I really liked doing circuits. This lead to all kinds of risky cross-country travel. So, just turning around and going back the way I came was a quantum leap in uncommon sense.

     

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