Scarcity:
I was hellbent on ice climbing tomorrow—the sort of plan that makes you feel competent and rugged, as though you’ve hacked life better than most people who cower under fleece blankets at the first sign of winter. But life, or rather, the weather, often enjoys performing a little vaudeville routine just to remind you that control is an illusion. The freezing levels were skyrocketing from a frosty 2,000 feet to 8,000—a cruel trick, like turning your ice cream into soup mid-bite.
It was that scarcity heuristic in action—the gnawing sense that time and opportunity were slipping away, whispering: If you don’t do it now, you’ll never get another chance. But instead of trusting my brain’s whispery panic, I pivoted. And honestly, pivoting doesn’t come easily for me. I’m the kind of person who gets attached to a plan as though it’s a beloved childhood toy. Ice climbing felt scarce, precious. And yet, ignoring the facts—that the ice would be mush, the risk high—would be like sticking a fork into an electrical outlet just to prove I’m resilient.
So, I exhaled. I set the gear down. I remembered that more cold days are coming, more adventures waiting. Scarcity’s a liar sometimes. And when I really listen, I remember there’s nothing noble about suffering for the sake of a plan. The mountains will wait. The ice will form again. And tomorrow, I don’t have to prove anything to anyone—not even to myself.
Commitment:
When I say I’m going to do something, I do it. It’s not about being stubborn—it’s more that I’ve always felt like there’s some kind of cosmic scoreboard tracking whether I follow through. So one day, quite a few years ago, I set out to ski Mt. Larrabee. It was one of those grueling four-hour approaches where you’re ankle-deep in that special kind of slush that soaks your soul, trudging up boot packs, road walking like some sunburned pilgrim on skis. But I was fueled by that mix of ambition and irrational pride that makes Type 2 fun feel like a spiritual obligation.
By the time we reached the upper bowl, we finally saw the mountain in all its terrible glory. It was warming up—fast. The kind of day where the sun feels less like a cheerful companion and more like a liability. But the snow was holding, at least for now. Stable enough. So we kept going, heads down, ignoring the rising temperature, the clock, the creeping feeling in our guts. And then—there we were—surrounded. Natural slides sloughing off all around us, D1.5, D2—hissing and tumbling like the mountain itself was whispering, you’re not welcome here.
Two of us stopped in our tracks, blinking at the signs like they were neon warnings on a Vegas strip. But one of us—there’s always one—wanted to push on. “We’re so close,” they said. And they weren’t wrong. We were close. But close is one of those words that can either be hopeful or tragic.
That was the commitment heuristic in full bloom—the little voice that says, you’ve come this far, how can you possibly turn back now? It’s a liar in fancy boots. It makes you mistake stubbornness for strength, pride for purpose.
But the thing about mountains is that they don’t care how far you’ve walked or how much you want to tag the summit. They’ll take what they take, and they’ll give you nothing back but humility, if you’re lucky. That day, we turned around. Not because we weren’t committed, but because we realized that commitment means knowing when to let go. And thank God we did—because sometimes the bravest thing you can do is walk away from the thing you thought you needed, with all your pieces still intact.
So, I exhaled. I set the gear down. I remembered that more cold days are coming, more adventures waiting. Scarcity’s a liar sometimes. And when I really listen, I remember there’s nothing noble about suffering for the sake of a plan. The mountains will wait. The ice will form again. And tomorrow, I don’t have to prove anything to anyone—not even to myself.
Commitment:
When I say I’m going to do something, I do it. It’s not about being stubborn—it’s more that I’ve always felt like there’s some kind of cosmic scoreboard tracking whether I follow through. So one day, quite a few years ago, I set out to ski Mt. Larrabee. It was one of those grueling four-hour approaches where you’re ankle-deep in that special kind of slush that soaks your soul, trudging up boot packs, road walking like some sunburned pilgrim on skis. But I was fueled by that mix of ambition and irrational pride that makes Type 2 fun feel like a spiritual obligation.
By the time we reached the upper bowl, we finally saw the mountain in all its terrible glory. It was warming up—fast. The kind of day where the sun feels less like a cheerful companion and more like a liability. But the snow was holding, at least for now. Stable enough. So we kept going, heads down, ignoring the rising temperature, the clock, the creeping feeling in our guts. And then—there we were—surrounded. Natural slides sloughing off all around us, D1.5, D2—hissing and tumbling like the mountain itself was whispering, you’re not welcome here.
Two of us stopped in our tracks, blinking at the signs like they were neon warnings on a Vegas strip. But one of us—there’s always one—wanted to push on. “We’re so close,” they said. And they weren’t wrong. We were close. But close is one of those words that can either be hopeful or tragic.
That was the commitment heuristic in full bloom—the little voice that says, you’ve come this far, how can you possibly turn back now? It’s a liar in fancy boots. It makes you mistake stubbornness for strength, pride for purpose.
But the thing about mountains is that they don’t care how far you’ve walked or how much you want to tag the summit. They’ll take what they take, and they’ll give you nothing back but humility, if you’re lucky. That day, we turned around. Not because we weren’t committed, but because we realized that commitment means knowing when to let go. And thank God we did—because sometimes the bravest thing you can do is walk away from the thing you thought you needed, with all your pieces still intact.
Social proof:
Denali has a way of making you feel small and uncertain—like a kid lost in a massive department store, overwhelmed by all the towering shelves of snow and rock. It’s not just the cold or the altitude—it’s the sheer scale of the place, the unrelenting vastness that makes you feel like an ant trying to find your way across a dinner plate in a blizzard. And when people are overwhelmed, they look for something—anything—to follow.
On Denali, that often looks like this: one team decides it’s time to push to the next camp, so every other team lines up behind them, single file, like a string of beads. And if there’s a boot pack? Forget it. Everyone will follow that same precise line of steps, no questions asked. I’ve watched whole teams march in unison until a crevasse opens right under the boot pack they were so sure would lead them to glory.
Denali has a way of making you feel small and uncertain—like a kid lost in a massive department store, overwhelmed by all the towering shelves of snow and rock. It’s not just the cold or the altitude—it’s the sheer scale of the place, the unrelenting vastness that makes you feel like an ant trying to find your way across a dinner plate in a blizzard. And when people are overwhelmed, they look for something—anything—to follow.
On Denali, that often looks like this: one team decides it’s time to push to the next camp, so every other team lines up behind them, single file, like a string of beads. And if there’s a boot pack? Forget it. Everyone will follow that same precise line of steps, no questions asked. I’ve watched whole teams march in unison until a crevasse opens right under the boot pack they were so sure would lead them to glory.
Denali
It’s social proof at work—the mental shortcut that says, If everyone else is doing it, it must be the right thing to do. We crave certainty in chaos, and when you’re standing on an icefield that feels more like the surface of the moon, it’s easy to assume that whoever went first must have known something you didn’t. But the truth is, they might have just been winging it too.
I get it—it’s comforting to be a sheep when you’re tired and scared. But mountains don’t care about the herd. The glacier doesn’t care that you’re following footprints like breadcrumbs in a fairy tale. I’ve learned the hard way that there’s no safety in numbers when the numbers are all guessing. Sometimes, you have to step off the beaten track, listen to your own gut, and risk being the lone idiot standing still while everyone else presses on. Because out there, the price of being wrong isn’t just a bruised ego—it’s everything. And the boot pack? It’s not a shortcut to safety. Sometimes it’s just the first step to a very long fall.
Familiarity:
Mount Baker feels like home. I know the ridges, the glaciers, the hum of the icefalls cracking in the distance. I know the smell of the air when the sun hits the snow and that specific crunch of my boots when the cold is just right. And that’s the thing about familiarity—it’s seductive. It whispers: You’ve been here a thousand times. You know this place. You’re fine.
I tell myself I’ll do a full tour plan, really sit down and dig into the avy report. But more often than I’d like to admit, I glance at the map like I’m skimming the instructions for a piece of IKEA furniture I’ve built five times already. The glaciers feel small, almost benign—like old friends who would never turn on me. But that’s the problem with comfort: it makes you blind. Baker is no small hill. It’s a sprawling, volatile cathedral of ice and rock. And yet, when you’re familiar with something, you start to believe you’re immune to its sharp edges.
I get it—it’s comforting to be a sheep when you’re tired and scared. But mountains don’t care about the herd. The glacier doesn’t care that you’re following footprints like breadcrumbs in a fairy tale. I’ve learned the hard way that there’s no safety in numbers when the numbers are all guessing. Sometimes, you have to step off the beaten track, listen to your own gut, and risk being the lone idiot standing still while everyone else presses on. Because out there, the price of being wrong isn’t just a bruised ego—it’s everything. And the boot pack? It’s not a shortcut to safety. Sometimes it’s just the first step to a very long fall.
Familiarity:
Mount Baker feels like home. I know the ridges, the glaciers, the hum of the icefalls cracking in the distance. I know the smell of the air when the sun hits the snow and that specific crunch of my boots when the cold is just right. And that’s the thing about familiarity—it’s seductive. It whispers: You’ve been here a thousand times. You know this place. You’re fine.
I tell myself I’ll do a full tour plan, really sit down and dig into the avy report. But more often than I’d like to admit, I glance at the map like I’m skimming the instructions for a piece of IKEA furniture I’ve built five times already. The glaciers feel small, almost benign—like old friends who would never turn on me. But that’s the problem with comfort: it makes you blind. Baker is no small hill. It’s a sprawling, volatile cathedral of ice and rock. And yet, when you’re familiar with something, you start to believe you’re immune to its sharp edges.
Mt. Baker
The familiarity heuristic is one of the hardest dragons I fight—sneaky and quiet, almost invisible. You don’t realize you’re under its spell until you’re standing there in a windstorm thinking, Why didn’t I double-check my route? Why didn’t I respect this place today like I did the first time? Familiarity lulls you into softness when you should be sharp.
I have to remind myself—sometimes out loud—that Baker is a real mountain with real consequences. No matter how many times I’ve been there, it will never love me back. It doesn’t owe me anything. And the comfort I feel up there? That’s my responsibility, not the mountain’s. I can’t afford to be a tourist in my own backyard. That’s how people lose their way, or worse. So, I do the work. Even if it feels like overkill. Even if I want to skip the safety checks because I’ve been through them a hundred times. Because I know the moment you stop being diligent in a place you love is the moment the mountain reminds you how small you really are.
--Mike Morris, Instructor and Guide
No comments:
Post a Comment