What About the Other Kind of Safety?
It was my first Spring ascent ever. My roommate—a summer guide on Denali—and I planned to ski with a friend of his, also a guide. I had been backcountry skiing two seasons, and before that my skiing skills were wherever I left them when I switched to snowboarding at 12 years old. Surrounded by mountaineering culture while living in Anchorage, I desperately wanted to belong.
We gathered mid-morning, later than I had anticipated. Music interlaced with “get to know you” questions on the drive down Turnagain Arm. There was no discussion about safety, skills or terrain options. At the trailhead, we slapped skins on, quickly checked beacons and started—me following clumsily behind. Near the bottom, I struggled to maintain traction on the sun-affected snow. Embarrassment and worry that they might regret bringing me crept in.
Midway up, we transitioned to a sturdy bootpack that became icy at the top. The sun was setting when we reached the summit, where both guys smoked weed during our transition. They asked if I wanted to take a hit or ski first; I declined both, saying I would bring up the rear. Their choice to smoke made me uneasy. “What if something happens and one of us gets hurt?” I thought but did not voice.
Skiing first, my roommate slipped and slid down the face, self-arresting with his whippet. Fear filled me as I watched. The slope was between 40 and 45 degrees. The surface looked hardpacked but turned out to be mostly ice. His friend, whose name and face I don’t remember, went second; he also slid and self-arrested. Left at the top, with no ice ax or whippet, I was terrified. I took a deep breath, slowly talking myself through how I would simply sideslip down. I crept onto the slope, uneasy and scared.
Slowly, I made it safely to where they were waiting. Not many words were exchanged. I felt frustrated with the day and anxious to be at the bottom. Our next turns were some of the best spring powder I have skied, though when we arrived in the parking lot, all I felt was relief. I tried to express excitement about how “awesome” the lower section was, but fear and frustration from the top lingered. I offered few words during the ride home, instead letting my eyes follow the alpenglow softly glancing at the ridgelines.
In retrospect, I see so many missed moments. I had taken a Level 1 avalanche course, but I was working under the assumption that if I went with guide-level ski partners they would keep me safe. I didn’t know what it meant to stay safe in the backcountry—whether navigating terrain or building relationships with touring partners.
Interpersonal skills require similar learning processes as to how we gain knowledge about terrain management. We can learn tangible things to make better decisions, communicate more effectively and travel in a way that feels safe for everyone. But how often do skiers invest in building those interpersonal skills to inform our decision-making?
In backcountry skiing, decisions are usually made as a group. Each of us is responsible for communicating and managing the terrain feedback we have received and synthesizing it to decide together if a slope is safe to ski. Our brains are organizing information about weather, the snowpack, the avalanche report, our goals and partners’ goals. If we don’t stop to assess how our group members are doing and check in on emotions, skill, risk tolerance and biology (is everyone eating, did you get enough sleep, warm enough etc.), we miss the opportunity to understand how available everyone is to manage this terrain, today.
That day with my roommate, we didn’t talk about anything. My partners assumed I could ski, bootpack, self-arrest, analyze the snowpack and perform effective companion rescue, and vice versa. Looking back, nearly 10 years later, I see it was solely luck that nothing more serious happened, given our many oversights. Hindsight is only a tool if we use it, and what I see now is an opportunity to gather more data about who we are skiing with and how to support each other. Not only because it is a kind and compassionate thing to do, but because it saves lives.
Next time you plan a tour, start by asking your partners how their week has been. Check in about mental health, fitness, nutrition, risk tolerance and skill levels if you are new partners. Try asking: What stressors have been present in your week? How prepared do you feel for today? Are we clear on what options we have for the day if we find safety is not what we had hoped? Ask without judgment, expectation, shame or blame.
As we learn and expand our knowledge of managing terrain, we must also gain insight about emotions and communication. The more we know about each other and ourselves, the better we can manage and support each other when we get into a difficult spot.
Blair Hensen is a licensed professional clinical counselor in Montana and former Alaska wilderness guide. She works with individuals, families and couples in a variety of settings to offer counseling, workshops and programs that support learning and conversation about mental health.
Originally published with Backcountry Magazine 151 | The Isolation Issue, March 2023.
