Observations, Thoughts and Opinions on Adventures and Life

Fear is a natural and necessary part of the human experience but sometimes it just gets in your way.

One of the scariest moments of my adult life was at a piano recital where I was scheduled to play. I never wanted to play in front of other people. I signed up for piano lessons because I enjoyed the quiet moments at home, practicing and improving, learning new songs.   “All students must play at the Christmas recital,” my traditional Hungarian piano teacher told me.  

I knew it would be tough but I thought it might be good for me to challenge myself and a great motivation for practice.  I agreed to memorize the piece she assigned, a Christmas carol called Here Comes Santa Claus, and play it in the recital.

All too soon, it was the night of the recital and time for me to take my seat at the piano on stage.  I was a tightly wound ball of panic.  My hands were shaking, sweat on my forehead, arms trembling as I raised my hands to the piano keys.  My mind went completely blank.  

All the hours I had spent practicing and memorizing the song were gone from my brain. I could not remember the song at all!  

A few deep breaths and a desperate attempt to block out the audience finally helped me get started.  I did my best to surrender to the knowledge in my fingers as they found the right keys at the right times.  Despite my panic and terror, the song came out all right.

My piano teacher had a saying about fear.  She said it was really an acronym - False Emotions Aren’t Real.  And she was right about the fear I felt that night.  Not Real.  Regardless of how the recital turned out, I was going to go home afterwards and still have enough to eat, still have a warm, dry place to sleep and me and my family would be safe.  And yet, sitting there at the piano, I was so scared, I could not stop trembling.  I could not organize my thoughts.  All because of fear over a situation that was in no way dangerous.

But what if the fear is real?  What happens when your life really is in danger?  Is it a different fear?  

A few years ago, my husband and I were on the return stretch of a very long day hike in the mountains.  We came down off a ridge into a narrow, steep-walled valley filled with a marshy creek surrounded by thick bushes.  We were still a few hours’ walk from the road.  

As we hiked the trail beside the creek, my husband said, “this is prime bear territory.”  Not five minutes later, we noticed a large brown shape looming in the bushes about a hundred meters ahead which we quickly identified as a grizzly bear.  The bear seemed to be the size of a small car.

The wind coming from our backs towards the bear carried our scent towards it.  This bear already knew we were there.  It seemed unconcerned as it dug for roots in the sand.  That was good.  I thought maybe we could take a wide path around the bear, give it a lot of space and pass by without disturbing it.

Then we noticed the bear was not alone.  Two smaller bears, cubs, were with it.  I know from reading and research that a mother grizzly protecting cubs is one of the most dangerous bears of all.  If she sensed her cubs were in danger, she could respond with a lethal attack.

I looked around for an escape.  A tree to climb?  No, all the trees in this sub alpine valley were small and thin.  The bear would certainly be on us before we could make an escape.  

Just then, one of the cubs stood up on its hind legs, looked over at us and sniffed the air.  What if it decided to come check us out?  Would momma follow?  Panic set in.  No safe places.  

But in that moment, I realized we’d need to keep our minds clear and focused to give us the best chance of getting away safely.  

We decided that I would find a path around the bears, as far from them as possible, and my husband would follow while keeping an eye on the bears.  We had spent the day trying to keep our boots dry but now I waded through knee deep pools to take us on the safest path towards the lake.

As we approached the lake, I started to feel relief wash through my mind.  We were going to make it.  The fear ebbed.

I find it fascinating to compare the fear I felt at the bear encounter, where the risk of injury and death was real, with the fear I felt at the piano recital where my safety was not in question.  

Fear was important in the bear encounter, it sharpened our senses.  We acted fast and made decisions that improved our odds of survival.  

Although the fear I felt at the piano recital was just as strong, it was completely unnecessary.  It worked against me and made the experience a lot more difficult than it needed to be.  

Oddly, the fear I felt sitting at the piano in front of an audience was a lot more difficult to manage.  Perhaps because I wasn’t in any real danger.  I could allow the fear to take over because there was less at stake.  That’s not to say I didn’t try to manage that fear.  If I had known a trick or technique to turn it off, I certainly would have used it.

In the years since the bear encounter, I’ve noticed a real reduction in the intensity of fear I feel in non-life threatening situations.  Maybe the way I handled my fear with the bears internalized a powerful lesson in my subconscious.  

Fear can be managed, it doesn’t have to define my experiences.  

Now when I start to feel the fear building up, I ask myself, “Is my life in danger here?  Am I 100% safe?”  When I realize I’m safe, I feel a loosening in my chest.  The fear-tightness subsides and I have a chance to relax and actually enjoy the situation I’m experiencing.  

Like I should have enjoyed the piano recital.  I practiced hard and played the piece beautifully when no one was listening.  It should have been a pleasure to share that with others.

Like sharing this article.  I'm proud of it and it should be a pleasure to share it with you.

 I recently completed a three day, two night solo backpacking trip. This was the first time I went out overnight by myself. It was a wonderful trip through mountains and forests, along rivers and streams, among birds and squirrels and deer.

One of the things I love about backpacking is that it strips away all the clutter and noise of day to day life. No cell service so no contact with the outside world. No TV or computer games to fill my time. No chores or busy work around the house, no errands to run. And on this trip, no conversations with hiking companions. Just me, my thoughts, and miles of walking.

Not so All Alone

Ok so first I have to say, when you picture a backpacking trip all alone, you are probably thinking of long periods of isolation with no human contact. This was not exactly the case for me. I walked alone during the day but I stayed in two popular backcountry campgrounds. These campgrounds are set up with a communal cooking and food storage area, including fire pits and picnic tables, well away from the tenting area. This helps contain food smells in one central area and keeps animals away from the tents.

When it was time for me to cook my dinner, I joined the other campers at the picnic tables. Inevitably, the conversations started. “Where did you come here from?” “How did you like that hike in?” “Are you staying for just one night or more?” “Do you get out backpacking a lot?”

You should know that I am not a person who socializes often. Meeting new people is unusual. I work at home for myself, by myself. On a typical day, I interact with only the two people who live with me.  

As an introvert, social interaction, particularly long conversations with strangers, can be very draining. I have to admit, I tend to avoid it. 

But in the backcountry, it was much easier. We all had at least one common interest (backpacking) and that made conversation flow more easily. It was a great reminder for me that meeting strangers can be very interesting. And sometimes, it’s nice to feel like part of a group of like-minded people with a common interest.

Finding a Greater Appreciation for Everything I Have

Something I have felt many times after backpacking trips is the intense feeling of gratitude for the little things I usually take for granted.  

On my first backpacking trip, many years ago, I didn’t pack the right clothes and I got cold. I wasn’t careful about staying dry and I got wet. Being cold and wet can make for some long days and very long nights. When I was done that first trip and got back into the car at the end, being able to turn on a heater and have warm air blowing on me felt like a minor miracle.

Even when you’re warm and dry, sleeping in a bed is such a wonderful experience after you’ve been sleeping in a tent. Even two nights in the tent was enough to remind me how great it is to have a comfortable bed where I don’t have to worry about how to stay warm and dry.  

Other things like a warm heated indoor space to retreat to when it starts to rain, drinking water straight from a tap, and fresh food are things I can easily take for granted. In the backcountry, water must be treated to make it safe to drink. Fresh food is too heavy to carry so freeze dried and dehydrated foods dominate the menu.

When I have to do without these simple things for a few days, I find I am intensely grateful for them when I return. The first warm shower after a backpacking trip is absolute bliss.

Finding a Greater Appreciation for the Person Closest to Me

There were times when I was hiking and when I was at camp that I felt like I was just putting in time. The hiking seemed to drag on and I just wanted to be at my next milestone. At camp, there were times when I had a couple hours until dinner or until bedtime and I was just sitting there, putting in time. This doesn’t usually happen to me on backpacking trips.  

The difference is, I didn’t have Dan along to share the experience. Typically, we would be talking about the backpacking trip or reflecting on life or planning the future. Without Dan there to chat with, the minutes felt a bit longer and a lot emptier.

When I got home, I felt a deep appreciation for Dan and everything he adds to my life. It’s easy to take him for granted when we’re always together. I’m glad I got that jolt - this person makes my life better! I never want to forget to appreciate him.

Future Backpacking Trips

I am looking forward to more backpacking trips both on my own and with Dan. I know we’ll have some great adventures together but I’ll also have some time on my own with solo trips.  

Solo backpacking was a great experience. I will definitely be going out alone again. And I’ll return a better, more appreciate partner and human being.

On July 17, 2022, I quit smoking. Again. I’ve quit many times in the past but this time, it feels different.

In the past when I tried quitting, I felt terrible. And not just during the early days, when the cravings were really strong, but for a long time after.

Sure, I knew the first few weeks were supposed to be tough but even after I was off cigarettes for a few months, I still wanted to smoke so badly. 

Eventually I’d hit a speed bump in life and I’d just give in and have a smoke.

It was like I was waiting for something stressful to happen so I would have an excuse to start smoking again.

But last year, all that changed. I was at my doctor’s office for a routine check up. Nothing alarming at the check up but my doctor told me I should quit smoking and recommended a prescription medication to help me quit.

I said no thank you. I didn’t need any medications. If I wanted to quit, I would put my mind to it and quit on my own.

“But I don’t want to quit right now,” I told myself.

That was really a load of bullshit I sold myself. Truth is, I was scared to quit smoking.

I had smoked for such a long time, on and off for 35 years, I didn’t know what my life would be like without smoking.

You see, I thought of smoking as a “friend”. It was always there for me if I needed to take a break, needed a few minutes alone to think or needed to remove myself from a situation to get a little space. I would go outside and smoke.

I also used cigarettes as a reward. After a long, intense meeting at work, I’d hop outside for a smoke. At the end of a long day, the first thing I did after I pulled out of the company parkade was roll down the car window and light a smoke. Job well done, you deserve this.

Smoking seemed to calm my nerves and I smoked heavily during university exams and while I was studying for my chartered accountant final exam.

I knew it was a crutch but I said to myself, if you’re suffering from a broken leg, you need a crutch. Problem was, the “broken leg” that smoking supported never healed.

Or maybe it had healed years before but I couldn’t give up the crutch.

Smoking was always satisfying, always the same. Cigarettes never changed, never let me down. As crazy as it sounds, I wasn’t sure how I could live a happy life without smoking.

I tried to offset the negative health affects by staying active. I took up running and I actually did ok. I started training for and running half marathons, all while keeping up a half-a-pack-a-day habit.

Life’s about balance, I used to say.

About a year and a half ago, I decided I should try to cut down a bit. In the winter, I was spending more days outside backcountry skiing. Going up hill was tough. I often felt out of breath on long ascents.  I thought it could be easier if I was smoking less.

Then in the spring, I wanted to get into mountain biking. Going uphill, I had to stop a lot to catch my breath.

I realized I needed to cut down if I wanted to get the most out of these fun outdoor activities.

So I created a plan to cut down.

Once a week, I dropped the number of cigarettes I had each day by one. I started at about 13 smokes a day, then after a week I went down to 12 and so on.

When I was trying to go from 9 to 8, it got really hard. The time between cigarettes stretched out so long. The thoughts of smoking took up a lot of my day and it was distracting and frustrating.

Then I remembered the doctor’s offer of prescription medication. I thought it might be worth a try. But not to quit.

No, no, I didn’t want to quit. But maybe it would help me cut down.

I realized I had nothing to lose. I could try the medication and if it didn’t work or it just felt bad to take it, I could stop. No harm, no foul.

I called the doctor and asked for the prescription. A few hours later, I was picking up my pills. I started right away.

It was easy to do it because I wasn’t trying to quit.

For me, the only side effect was some days, I just felt lousy. Tired and lethargic, like I was getting the flu. But this didn’t last and as my body got used to the medication, I got my energy back and something strange was happening.

I stopped thinking about smoking.

I would forget to smoke when it was time for my next one. Then when I went out to smoke, I only wanted a little bit. I would put out the cigarette when I’d only smoked half of it.

Having only 8 cigarettes a day became easy.

After a few weeks, I didn’t even want to smoke anymore. It wasn’t worth the hassle. I’d have to pause the TV show I was watching or the game I was playing, put on my shoes, go outside. And for what? I didn’t need it. Didn’t want it.

I realized this was a great opportunity to try quitting.

Just for the summer though.

If I quit for a month or two and then I wanted to smoke again, I’d allow myself. I’d still have the benefits of quitting for a couple of months, giving my body a break from smoking. Not a failure, nothing lost.

By the end of the summer, I was feeling good. I was surprised how much easier mountain biking and hiking were after only a few weeks off the cigarettes. I had fooled myself into thinking that smoking wasn’t affecting my fitness.

It felt so good to crush the uphill sections of bike rides and hikes, going strong, feeling like I could almost go forever. I didn’t want to give that up. I looked forward to a smoke-free ski season.

And maybe that’s the difference this time. I genuinely want to stay quit.

The benefits of not smoking outweigh the benefits of smoking.

And speaking of the benefits of smoking, it turns out, I don’t need cigarettes to reward myself for working hard. I also don’t need them to calm down or deal with difficult situations.  Looking back, it seems so obvious that I was using these reasons as excuses to keep smoking. They weren’t really benefits at all.

Life really can be better without cigarettes.

This summer, my strength and fitness keep improving. When I’m riding my bike up a long hill, I don’t get out of breath so quickly and I can push my legs, making them stronger. Every time I go, it’s easier. And more fun.

I feel healthier too. When I was smoking, I always had a bit of a stuffy nose and I snored. Some nights I snored so loudly that my husband had to move to the spare bedroom.

Since I quit, I’m breathing better and I have almost completely stopped snoring. And one weird side effect — my sense of smell has improved a lot. I lost it so gradually, I hadn’t realized it was so dull. Food tastes better too.

Sure, sometimes I still get the urge. I’ll walk past someone having a smoke and as the smell of it drifts past me, I feel a nostalgic longing for the satisfaction of having a cigarette.

Then I remember everything I’d have to give up if I started smoking again.

So not worth it. 

I originally wrote and published this article for Medium.  https://medium.com/@angela.bargen/i-tried-ice-climbing-and-it-scared-the-shit-out-me-a903d36042f6 

There’s a clothing brand out there that really annoys me. It’s the one that sells the yoga pants and has a fruity name. They cover their reusable shopping bags with cheesy feel-good sayings that drive me crazy.

One I really hate is “Do one thing a day that scares you.” Fuck off.

When I read that, I start thinking, well, jumping off a cliff would really scare me. Standing in front of a moving train would certainly scare me. Climbing 300 feet up a frozen waterfall could also be pretty scary.

Would that satisfy you — obnoxious shopping bag from store I can’t stand but I still wear the yoga pants because they’re so damn comfortable?

And yet, I did try ice climbing. And actually, I loved it.

I didn’t intend to climb a frozen waterfall. I had seen videos of people ice climbing and it looked terrifying. I thought, “That’s a new level of crazy.”

That’s not me.

But I was on a course in the mountains with a friend. Sure, the course was called “Alpine Ice” but I hadn’t actually stopped to consider what that would mean.

I just wanted to spend some time with my friend. She lived in a different city and this three day course was a great way for us to take some time away from our regular lives and share some cool experiences.

I met her at a rock climbing course. We both enjoyed being outside and we wanted to spend more time in the mountains. This course seemed perfect.

Except that I struggled with some of the skills we were learning on the “Alpine Ice” course.

We went out to a glacier to practice walking in crampons. Those are the spikes that you fasten to the bottom of your boots so you can walk on ice without slipping. The tricky part is, the crampons are wider than your boots so you have to adjust how you walk. You want to keep your feet a little wider apart than normal.

I had used crampons a few times before but it had been a while. I wasn’t sure I remembered exactly how they worked. I was a bit nervous, but I attached them to the bottoms of my boots like a pro.

Then I stood and stepped forward, onto the ice. The foot I moved was too close to the foot I was standing on. The crampon on my moving foot snagged the crampon on my stationary foot and I fell forward onto the icy ground.

I tried to stand up quickly, before anyone could see me, but the crampons were still tangled. My feet were locked together and I was lying face down on the ice. I kicked my feet up in the air behind me, trying to separate them.

I later dubbed this move “the beached mermaid”.

I was so embarrassed.

Then I found out that the next day we would be learning ice climbing. Yikes! Another opportunity for fear and embarassment.

That night, awake in my tent, I wondered what the heck I was doing out there.

Maybe I should be at the mall getting a facial and spending too much money on shoes. One thing a day that scares you? Fuck you, obnoxious shopping bag.

I can’t even do one thing that’s mildly daunting.

But I woke up the next day determined to be positive and keep trying every skill the instructor presented.

At the toe of a glacier, where the ice went up steeply, the instructor set up a rope. He gave us a quick description of how to swing the ice tools so the picks would stick in the ice and how to kick your feet (with crampons on, of course) so that the crampon spikes would stick.

If it comes together, you should be able to make your way up the ice.

I tied in to the rope. My hands were shaking a bit. I tried to convince myself it was just the cold.

I have to admit, I was pretty tempted to give up before I even started. Give in to the feeling that I was lousy at this whole ice thing and I should just stick to summer. Maybe I should accept that I’m not a winter person.

I could just go through the motions and pretend to try, killing time until my turn was over and I got to untie from the rope.

But something urged me to give it an honest try.  Maybe it was the sense that I hadn’t pushed myself in quite some time. I hadn’t tried to step out of the comfortable and allow myself to feel uncomfortable.

It certainly wasn’t some dumb shopping bag with chippy slogans.

I stepped up to the ice and swung the first tool. It planted itself in the ice. Then the second.

Now the crampons — don’t betray me again, you shitty little spikes. One kicked in smoothly and then the second. Now stand. Now swing again. Then step the crampons up.

Holy shit, it’s working! I am climbing ice.

The instructor called over, “For someone who’s never climbed ice before, you’re making it look easy.” That was the one compliment I earned from the instructor during the entire course.

I savoured it.

I signed up for another course as soon as I got home. This one, “Ice Evolution” was focused solely on ice climbing. This time on waterfalls instead of glaciers.

I wanted more. I wanted to feel that thrill of everything coming together, everything working. I wanted to look down between my feet and see the ground far below. Feel that thrill of discomfort.

No Lucy Lime, I don’t do one thing a day that scares me. That would be insane and I think you’re an asshole for suggesting it.

But once in a while, I try to do something that pushes me out of the comfortable. Just to feel that thrill of doing something I never thought I’d even have the guts to try.

I originally wrote and published this article for Medium.  https://medium.com/@angela.bargen/mountain-therapy-is-good-for-everyone-30534fd70501

Ah mountain therapy. When life gets frustrating and I’m stressed or even just bored, I head to the mountains for a little adventure and a healthy dose of nature.

Works every time. I always come home feeling better. Or at least tired. I’ll sleep that night.

When we head to the mountains, we try to always remember our Prime Directive. Yah, we’re Trekkie geeks. But our Prime Directive is really helpful in the mountains:

1. Be safe — get back to the car with no injuries, and
2. Have fun.

I think everyone has these goals when they go out to the mountains although most people don’t express them in Star Trek terms.

What I find interesting is how different people perceive risk and what they perceive as fun.

Bears

When I tell people in the city about some of the stuff I do out in the mountains, I sometimes get asked “aren’t you afraid of bears?”

A lot of people feel it is dangerous to go too far from the road. They’re concerned there are bears in the woods ready to attack.

Sure, bears are out there. Sure, they can be dangerous.  But I see it as a risk that can be managed.

Similar to driving in a busy city. It’s risky business. People get hurt or even killed in car accidents but with the right skills and awareness, we reduce the risk to an acceptable level.

I’ve read about how to avoid bear encounters and if they can’t be avoided, how to manage it so that we all have a nice day. Bear included.

It’s working so far. We’ve met bears on trails while hiking and while mountain biking, and one of two things happens.

Either we go around them while they dig up roots and ignore us. (We give them plenty of space.)

Or we’ve been able to scare them off. Usually loud noises, clapping and yelling, will convince the bear to move away.

We’re careful and we know there could be more aggressive bears out there. But it’s an acceptable risk for us.

Hiking

Some people feel really excited about getting out for a hike. Maybe they hike up to an alpine lake or to a waterfall. Maybe they stay near the car or they venture out for an hour or two.

Other people find hiking excruciatingly boring. I remember a mountain guide friend saying, “I don’t hike unless I’m hiking in to a climb.” For him, hiking wasn’t worth the effort unless there was going to be some climbing involved.

Climbing

For some people, the idea of climbing is terrifying.

A cliff where we often climb is just off a popular hiking area. Some of the climbs are visible from the hike. I was on one of these climbs, near the top, when I heard someone yelling up at me from the trail, “What are you, crazy? Oh my god! How can you do that?”

It seemed that the idea of climbing a vertical cliff was terrifying for him and he couldn’t imagine how anyone could be comfortable with that.

I was having a fine time up there because I knew the safety systems I used would prevent big falls and serious injuries.

A terrifying act to him was a fun afternoon for me.

Mountain Climbing

There is a mountain I’ve wanted to climb for a long time.

You have to hike in a long way just to get to the base. And then you have to hike up a snow field and over a glacier to reach the summit.

Most people take two days to do it, camping overnight near the base of the mountain.

[Hiking on a glacier requires special skills and equipment and should only be attempted by those with formal training.]

We decided to head up there and check it out. Maybe attempt the climb if we were feeling it.

We packed camping gear and all the gear we’d need to cross the glacier. Our big packs were jammed full. There wasn’t room inside for our snow shoes so we strapped them to the bottoms of our packs.

We weren’t too worried about the heaviness of the packs until we started hiking up hill.

The hike to the base of the mountain turned out to be long and steep. Our legs felt like soggy noodles. We had to stop. We set up our camp long before the base of the mountain where most climbers stay.

After we set up our camp and our backpacks were much lighter, we decided to hike to the glacier and check out the ascent route.

We were glad we had brought our snow shoes because the summer snow was soft and loose and knee deep. We went up high enough to see other climbers descending the glacier after a summit day that probably started before dawn.

It can be easier to cross glaciers in the early morning while they’re still cold and firm. Once the sun hits, they can get soft and squishy. Makes walking up much slower and extremely tiring.

We decided not to attempt the summit on that trip. I was tired and it didn’t feel like the right time.

The next day, we packed up and headed back down. My back and shoulders ached from the heaviness of the pack.

As we slowly made our way to the bottom of the steep slope, we were passed by a lone hiker with a much smaller pack and a pair of skis strapped to it.

We asked him where he’d been skiing. He said he’d hiked up the glacier and skied down. We asked if he’d camped up there.

He said no, he did it all as one long day. Incredible.

We congratulated him on pulling off such an ambitious adventure.

Who is More Hard Core?

We continued down and joined a trail along a lake where many people hike. We sat to rest.

It was summer down at the lakeshore and hikers strolled by in t-shirts. One couple stared hard at our huge packs with the snow shoes. Our big overnight backpacks looked slightly ridiculous.

We walked some more and noticed the same couple. They had stopped to take photos and enjoy the view. I smiled and nodded. The woman asked, “What are those snow shoe thingy’s attached to the bottom of your packs?”

Exhausted, I was in no mood for chitchat. “They’re snow shoes,” I simply replied.

“So what are you going to do, find some snow and walk around in them?” She asked as if it was mildly preposterous. To her credit, the only snow in view from there was near the tops of surrounding mountains.

“We did that yesterday,” I responded.

“Where?” she demanded.

As I explained the location of the high camp and the snow fields, I could tell she had no idea where I was talking about. I smiled and continued the hike.

My back and shoulders were killing me. I had to stop once more before we were finished and take off my pack for a while. The couple came up the trail and as they passed us, the woman said, “You guys are way more hard core than us.” I smiled.

I thought of all the people camping up near the base of the mountain. Waking up before dawn and heading to the glacier in the light of their head lamps.

I thought of the man with his skis. All these people seemed more hard core than me.

Explore nature, seek out new adventures

Everybody out there was having fun, enjoying the mountains.

Some people are content to simply hike around and enjoy the views from the valley, not straying too far from the parking lot.

Others wish to boldly go where no one has gone before.

It doesn’t matter as long as you are 1. safe and 2. having fun.

So go get your mountain therapy. There is no wrong way.

I originally wrote and published this article for Medium.  

https://medium.com/@angela.bargen/snow-in-august-can-crush-your-dreams-or-not-49fe81f08b60?sk=2a90359fd1f00944992c8f295299b306

I woke to a thick layer of frost on the outside of my tent. I scratched a long groove in the frozen crust with my finger nail. My boots were stiff with cold as I crammed my feet into them.

I hadn’t expected it to be so cold on this backpacking trip. It was August after all.

But we were camped high up a valley in the Canadian Rockies and I should have known to expect any weather. Even snow.

We got the tents packed up, shaking out the flies to try to get as much of the frost off as possible before stuffing them into our backpacks. After four nights on the trail, it was becoming a familiar morning routine.

As I ate breakfast, I looked up toward our first big task for the day. Hike up a high pass that would take us into Banff National Park.

This was part of Canada’s Great Divide Trail, a multi day backpacking route through remote sections of the Canadian Rockies. We had planned to hike a section of the route that would take about 2 weeks.

But we were behind schedule. We should have been here yesterday.

We were one day late for all of our backcountry campground reservations which were required once we entered the national park. I wasn’t sure what would happen if a Warden stopped us to check our permits and found we were off our schedule.

“Your reservations are for yesterday. You have no permit for today.”

I hoped for a bit of forbearance.

It was my fault, really, that we were off schedule. When I sat down in the warmth and comfort of my living room at home, months earlier, planning our trip, I had assumed we would be able to travel about 15 km a day. And we could have, on flat, well defined trails but I failed to consider the affects of off-trail route finding and the steep climbs up high passes that this route demanded. We couldn’t make the distances I expected and ended up stopping short of my planned camping spots.

It didn’t help that we had a big group. I wasn’t used to backpacking with a group of five.

A bigger group usually moves slower. One person stops to go to the bathroom, then someone else takes out their camera to take some photos. Someone else decides that since we’re stopped, it would be a good time to have a quick snack and before you know it, we’re stopped for half an hour.

Looking up toward the high pass we were about to climb, I noticed dark clouds moving in. The clear sky that had given us frost overnight was quickly becoming crowded with thick, ominous clouds.

I told the group we should finish breakfast and get moving. Better to be all packed up and ready to move when the rain hit us. We kept our rain jackets handy near the top of our packs.

We hadn’t even started the big climb when the rain began. We stopped and put on rain jackets, covered our backpacks with rain covers, trying to keep dry. If our sleeping bags got wet, we would be in for some serious suffering in the chilly night.

As the top of the pass came into view, we could see it was covered in snow. Great, first frost, now snow. In August.

The idea for the trip was mine. I wanted to hike every segment of the Canadian Great Divide Trail. At 1,200 km total length, it would take at least two months to hike. I only had a few weeks of vacation each year so it had to be done in segments. A little each year.

This year, my then husband invited his college buddy to join us. My dad wanted to come too. And since it was shaping up to be something of a family trip, my brother decided to join.

I chose the dates. I chose the route and planned the distances. I made the camping reservations in the national parks. Now with the unexpected weather, the group turned to me and voiced their concerns.

“We aren’t prepared for snow.”

“I didn’t sign up for winter camping.”

“This is frickin’ ridiculous.”

I told them not to worry. The snow would only be at the very top of the pass. When we came down the other side, it would turn back to rain.

As we hiked up hill, the snow got heavier. At the top of the pass, wind whipped snow sideways through the air, reducing visibility to only a few feet ahead.

We headed down the other side of the pass but we couldn’t see much of the valley below us. As we dropped down, the wind calmed but snow continued falling heavily. It was hard to see the trail through the alpine meadow as the snow on the ground got deeper, turning the trail into a shallow groove on the smooth surface.

I could see snow starting to pile up on top of the backpack of the person hiking in front of me. We each carried little piles of heavy, wet snow on top of our packs.

My prediction of the snow turning to rain was obviously wrong.

“This is ridiculous,” my Dad called to me.

“I know,” I said.

“We can’t keep going in this weather.” I can’t remember who said it but there was general agreement.

We started to feel wet inside our rain jackets. The wind driving the snow sideways had gone up our sleeves and down our necks. Our lightweight summer gloves were soaked and useless.

I worried that being wet in sub freezing temperatures could lead to hypothermia. There was no way to even make a fire, up above tree line. The only thing to do was carry on.

I told the group that a couple of kilometres down the trail, there was a side trail we could take to get back to the highway. If we wanted to end the trip, we could turn there and hike about 10 km to the road. From there, we’d have to hitch hike but we’d be on our way to hot showers and dry clothes.

If we carried on, we’d have to hike for three more days before the next chance to exit. Nobody was excited for three days of camping wet in the snow. Everyone agreed we should hike out to the road.

As we walked, the snow fell softly and a deep silence engulfed us. No one spoke. I felt like we might be the last people on earth.

I felt a great sadness that we had to end the trip. I had planned and prepared for it for so long. I had looked forward to it during long dull hours at work. I didn’t want it to end.

We followed the winding trail down towards a river. At a shallow place, stepping stones created a crossing.

We stopped for lunch and tried to stay dry as we cleared snow for places to sit. As we sat, I started to feel chilled. Soon my hands were getting numb. Food was cold and damp and tasteless.

After lunch, we crossed the river and found the trail to the highway. “Are we sure?” I asked. They were.

“It’s the right thing to do. Staying out here would be crazy.”

“It would be dangerous. We’ll get hypothermia. Then we’ll have to call for a helicopter rescue to get us out. It would irresponsible.”

We all agreed. So we turned off onto the exit trail.

The trail dropped quickly and entered trees and dense bushes. The snow turned to slush and then to rain. We hiked through tall wet bushes that soaked us as we brushed by. Trees dripped on us.

Nobody talked much and I think we were all lost in our own worlds of disappointment. That’s probably why it was so surprising when we saw someone coming toward us. She came up the trail from the highway.

“Hello,” she called as she got close to us. She smiled and was about to walk by.

“Wait a minute,” my Dad said. “Where are you going?”

She stopped. “I’m just heading to the first campground. I’m booked in there tonight.” Her accent turned out to be New Zealand. As we chatted, she told us she was in Canada for the summer, working for a big hotel. This was the first chance she’d had to get out on an overnight trip and she was really excited for it.

“But don’t you see the weather?” asked my father in disbelief. I think he couldn’t get over the fact that she was heading out alone. At that time, he still believed that women weren’t as capable as men in the backcountry and needed a man’s help and protection to be safe in the woods.

Side note: I’m happy to report he now realizes that gender has nothing to do with how successful a person will be on a backcountry trip.

She responded, “Oh I’m ok, I’ve got my stripeys.” She gestured toward the striped pants that clung to her legs below her shorts. She explained that in New Zealand, everyone wore these striped wool leggings on chilly days in the woods. “They always keep you warm.”

And with a smile, she turned and hiked up the trail, into the wet, snowy forests with their potential for storms and frosty nights.

The mood in the group changed.

We picked up the pace and walked in silence for a while. Finally someone commented on how crazy that woman was. How foolish, someone else added. Just begging for an accident, a helicopter rescue.

I didn’t join the conversation.

I was caught in a sense of wonder and awe.

The forest looked different to me now. It seemed less hostile and more welcoming.

I wanted to turn around and join the stripey woman. Head back into the woods and away from the road.

She was right. The snow and cold didn’t have to spoil the trip.

I thought about how we could have kept going if we’d had the right clothes and more importantly, the right attitudes.

The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that attitude changes everything. Of course, it wouldn’t have made the snow less cold and wet but it would have changed how we managed it.

We could have pressed on to a sheltered place for lunch where we could have fired up our stoves and had some hot soup and hot drinks.  That would have melted some of the melancholy.

We could have hurried to our campground, set up our tents and built a fire to dry out and warm up. With some hot food in our bellies, we might have slept well that night.

But even if we didn’t, the next day might bring sunshine and warmth. It was August and at a lower elevation, there was a good chance we’d get some warmth.

But the group wasn’t up for it. And really, neither was I. Not this time.

I walked out to the road with the group but I took the image of the stripey woman with me. I would not be turned back so easily next time.

I originally wrote and published this article for Medium.  

https://medium.com/@angela.bargen/anxiety-spoiled-my-climb-7b56bdc40d08

I took this photo of a climb where I froze up. The climber here is right around the spot I got stuck.

I was standing on a small ledge. My left hand held a nice tennis ball-sized knob of rock and the fingers of my right hand were settled into a deep crack where I could curl them around a solid lip of rock. It was a comfortable place. My weight was on my feet and my hands were holding me in a relaxed, balanced position with a loose, gentle grip.

I had climbed smoothly to this point, finding good handholds and good ledges for my feet. Not quite as easy as climbing a ladder but not too tough. It was fun to figure out how to move higher and execute the moves with poise and precision.

Now, to keep going, I needed to lift a foot up to a higher ledge and shift my weight onto it. Then I would let go of one of the solid hand holds, reach up and hope to find something good to hold.

The problem was, I couldn’t see any good ledges to move my feet up. The rock wall looked blank and bare in front of me.

I glanced up but I couldn’t see any obvious handholds either. I knew that if I moved one of my feet up and then I couldn’t find a good handhold, that foot would slip and I would fall.

In my logical, thinking brain, I knew that I would be ok if I fell. I had fallen many times before and been fine.

Here I wouldn’t fall far, the rope would catch me. But in a different, less rational part of my brain, I was getting scared. The idea of coming off the rock and dropping through space suddenly seemed terrifying.

The longer I stayed there, the more powerful the fear became. “You’re not going to make it,” irrational brain insisted. “You’re going to fall if you try to move up. Don’t let go. Don’t move.” My hands tightened their grip. Panic began to churn inside me. I felt completely paralyzed.

After frantically feeling around on the rock above for something to hold, first with my left hand, then with my right, I finally said out loud, “I can’t do this, I need to come down.” My partner lowered me back to the ground.

I didn’t finish the climb.

I’m actually a pretty good climber. I’ve tried many climbs just like that one and made it to the top. But this time, anxiety took over.

I’ve been in this situation before. I can’t find a good way up and I get a little panicked. My brain starts spinning out all the bad things that could happen if I fall — injuries that have me on the couch for weeks, missing out on a big portion of the already short climbing season. That feeds the panic and I can’t think. My brain shouts one thought that drowns out all the rest, “You can’t do this, you have to go down!”

Then every time I try to move up, maybe trying a little foothold or a different handhold, my brain stops my progress. “You can’t do this, you have to go down!”

Eventually, I can’t even consider moving up. I want to but the fear has me tight in its grip. I’m holding back tears of frustration. Sometimes not holding them back. I give up and get lowered down.

Anxiety was stopping me from succeeding on harder climbs and more importantly, from enjoying the climbing experience. I had to figure it out.

I decided to approach it scientifically. I could come up with theories about how to move up through the anxious feelings. I could then test these theories when I went rock climbing or to the climbing gym.

I knew I could try a challenging climb and produce that feeling of anxiety any time I wanted to. And finding that feeling, I could experiment with different ways to manage it.

Yikes. Easy to say, hard to do. Climbing up and trying to provoke that anxious feeling was very uncomfortable. But I needed to find that anxiety to learn how to manage it.

I tried to be curious, like a scientist. Stand back and watch my experiments unfold. See what worked and what didn’t.

To develop theories about what might help with the anxiety, I read articles online about dealing with anxiety. I meditated. Some ideas were really helpful, others not at all.

Things I tried that didn’t work:

• stop and feel the anxiety, lean into it, breath into it
• find the place in your body where you feel the anxiety
• make friends with anxiety

None of that was helpful. I climbed up until I started feeling really anxious and afraid. The more time I spent with anxiety and the more I focused on it, the more it grew and became powerful. And the more paralyzed I felt.

Next I tried forcing myself to fall. I thought that if I fell on purpose a bunch of times, taking a bigger fall each time, it might get easier. “Just fall”, I told myself, “then you’ll get used to the feeling and it won’t be scary anymore.”

Nope. Still scary. Dropping through space, out of control, is scary for me. That fear doesn’t go away no matter how many times I try it. And the exercise is mentally exhausting. After four or five falls, my brain is fried and I’m done.

I got angry with myself. “Stop being such a wimp!” Tough love. Not helpful. I just felt like more of a failure. It started to feel a bit hopeless. But damn, I love rock climbing when it’s going well.

In my search for ideas, I found Arno Ilgner’s excellent book “The Rock Warrior’s Way”. I tried a lot of the exercises and ideas in the book. This was the source of my most successful theories.

Finally I started finding things that worked. Techniques that helped me keep climbing before the anxiety could creep in and crowd out the motivation and fun. I organized the helpful techniques into a step-by-step system.

My Anxiety Management System

I have an abbreviated version of this in the Notes app on my phone so that when I’m standing at the bottom of a cliff, getting ready to climb, I can pick up my phone and read it over.

1.  Realize this is anxiety talking.

Even before I begin to climb, I remind myself that anxiety could show up. I need to catch it sneaking in and shine a light on it. This typically happens at a spot where I stop to rest before committing to the next challenging moves. I look up and start to feel that this is too hard. Maybe I can’t do it.

I recognize that this feeling is just anxiety coming to spoil my climb. It’s not helpful. It’s not real.

If I can catch it when it first begins, before its power starts to grow, I have a chance to move past it.

2. Look around and notice all the possibilities.

When anxiety is threatening, I start to see only what’s in front of me. I get tunnel vision. When I’m only seeing part of the picture, I miss options and opportunities.

If I purposely look right, then left, up right, and up left, I see a lot more potential handholds. Then I start to notice places that might work for my feet.

It’s comforting to realize there are more ways to get past this point than I first thought. There’s going to be something here that will work for me.

3. Test the options.

If I know I can reverse the move, I will climb up, test a hold and then climb back down to my comfortable resting place. I tell myself I don’t need to commit to using these holds. I’m just going up to check them out, see how good they are. Then I come back down to my comfortable place.

I will do this several times, checking all the holds I can reach and still be able to return to the comfortable place.

I’m not committing to anything yet, I’m just checking things out. No pressure. Relax. You’re safe.

4. Create a plan.

Now that I know which handholds above me are the best, I can make a plan for moving up. I look up to the next resting spot. I plan every move to get there. I visualize myself completing the sequence.

5. Consider the real risks and decide if the risk is acceptable.

I try to identify the honest, actual potential for falling, for injury, for real negative consequences.

This spring I was climbing in Joshua Tree, California. It’s a desert environment with huge rock towers and cliffs rising from the sandy desert floor. I know there are scorpions, rattlesnakes and venomous spiders in that desert and one of my fears (one of many) was that I would be climbing and reach my hand up into a crack or onto a ledge and it would be bitten by one of these creatures.

I know these animals typically live on the desert floor and don’t climb up vertical walls to hide in cracks and pounce on climbers. It seems a bit ridiculous to even be afraid of that because the probability of this negative outcome is very low. I’m not saying it’s impossible. But it is very remote. I could probably stick my hand in a crack or up on a ledge a thousand times and not get bitten. Maybe a hundred thousand times.

So that’s a fear I don’t want to affect my actions in any way. It’s just too unlikely to ever happen. I can’t let those crazy fears stop me. I need to focus only on real risks.

From my resting spot, I look down and estimate where I would stop if I fell off while attempting my plan. How far down would I go? Is there a ledge or a big bump of rock I could hit on my way down? Or is it a fairly flat rock face? Would I just fall into the air and stop, dangling on the end of the rope? Almost every time, the answer is that I would have a nice clean fall with nothing to crash into on my way down. I would be a bit shaken but not hurt.

After taking an honest look at the worst possible outcome, I decide if I should risk it and continue up. So far, my answer has always been “yes”.

6. Commit to the plan.

Having decided that the risk is acceptable, I make the commitment to carry out the moves I planned. This is the hardest part. I focus on my plan and start moving. My hands and feet move just as I rehearsed in my head.

When irrational brain tries to shout, “You can’t do this. You have to go down.” I drown it out with the words “climb or fall.” Either my plan will work and I’ll make it to the next rest spot or I’ll fall. Nothing else. Climb or fall. These are the only words I allow to play in my head.

This process has worked very well for me. I have practiced it to the point where it is almost automatic. But I have to stick with it.

Recently, I had to take a two-month break from climbing. When I returned to the rock, I hadn’t expected the anxiety to be there waiting for me. It took over in a brutal sneak attack that left me clinging to the wall, trembling and close to tears, wishing I was anywhere else.

It was a great reminder to keep this sequence handy, review it every time I climb and understand that it is a constant practice.

I can’t get rid of anxiety but I can learn to manage it. I will keep climbing, keep practicing and keep getting better.