When we came West 30 years ago and I began hiking and climbing in the mountains of Washington state, I took a basic mountaineering class offered the Cascadians, an outdoor organization in Yakima, the town where we’d moved. Leah and I had grown up in Ohio and I guess we were a little intimidated by a part of America where roadless wilderness could still be found. I remember that, even as we unpacked, we heard a radio report about hikers in distress who'd been plucked by a rescue helicopter off a remote peak. A few days later there was a story about river adventurers who had gotten into trouble while rafting whitewater in a remote canyon. If I too was going to go outside and play in wild country -- and that was certainly my intention -- a class in How to Avoid Trouble seemed like a good idea.
And so I took a class, and learned, for example, how to read a map and compass, and also what survival gear one should have along on a trip into the wilderness. I guess the class has served me well because, in the 30 years that have now passed, wild places have become my second home. I’ve done probably thousands of hikes and climbs and backcountry adventures, and -- knock on the wood of a towering evergreen tree -- I’ve never gotten into serious trouble in the backcountry.
A couple of weeks ago three friends and I snowshoed in a winter wonderland of beauty near Snoqualmie Pass and one of the photographs I made that day was of my companions, traveling across a frozen, snow-covered alpine lake. The landscape was large and my friends seemed small. I think we all felt strong that day, and we moved well, but we were also cautious and not too cocky: Is the lake ice thick enough to cross? What is the avalanche potential of that slope ahead?
Anyone who has spent time in big country will tell you that wild places are, themselves, a kind of classroom where one learns many lessons...and the abiding, ever-lasting, not-to-be forgotten lesson is humility.
