Calculated Risks
The inherent hazards of exploring, and why we still go despite the risk.
Recently I’ve been preparing for another extended camping trip, and I’ve been spreading out my gear, taking stock of what can be left behind and what needs to be repaired. While scanning over the usual cordage, fire kit, and first aid, I was reminded of the inherent hazards we accept when going into the wild, and how steep that risk can be at times.
In 2014 one of my friends, Joe, was out on a solo backpacking trip deep in the heart of South Dakota’s Black Hills. A lifelong adventurer, Joe’s wilderness survival training has been honed to a razor sharpness. His brother has described him as a man who could start a fire underwater. As always, he ventured with his wet-nosed copilot, Griffin. A large pure white German Shepherd, Griffin is a fantastic companion on the trail, able to watch your six with his eyes, ears, and that keen nose. Their bond between man and beast, as well as this trip in particular, is expanded on in great detail in Joe’s book, The Legend of Griffin, which is available in Kindle and paperback through Amazon.
At some point during Joe’s backpacking trip he fell ill, and in any kind of wilderness that is a very bad thing. But being as far into the brush as he had gone, deep into the heart of Willow Creek Trail, it was almost deadly. During a grueling trek back to his truck, Joe fought an intense winter storm, a high fever, and loss of consciousness. Every time he fell, Griffin would fuss over him and stand as a brave guard over his friend. But the most terrifying experience was yet to come.
The rocky granite peaks of the Black Hills jutting out from the sea of ponderosa pine and spruce are home to a vast plethora of bison, deer, bighorn sheep, and small mammals. But where there is such biodiversity, there are also predators. Call them mountain lions, cougars, or pumas; either way, they’re one of America’s most efficient hunters. Having no natural predators and being largely solitary, tens of thousands of cats exist uncontested in the continental United States, yet they’re rarely seen. This is due to their incredible capacity for stealth. Their tawny bodies blend in perfectly with native grasses, sandstone, and shale. Soft paw pads combine with smooth and careful movements to create a stalk that is completely unheard. They’re fast, agile, powerful, dangerous, and beautiful beasts.
Griffin let out a snarl, and Joe looked up to see two massive mountain lions straight ahead. The fact that they saw the cats is evidence that they weren’t being hunted. Mountain lions are ambush predators by nature; they rely on stealth and camouflage to sneak up on their prey. Sharp claws, large teeth, and the larger ones weighing over 200 lbs. add up to a pounce that will pin most prey to the ground instantly. If one is intent on using you as a meal, you’ll never know. The two cats that Joe encountered on the trail weren’t stalking him, but perhaps they smelled his weak state and were investigating if they should. And that is almost even more terrifying. Joe eventually stumbled back to the trailhead, and he and Griffin made it back in one piece.
It forces ones to ask themselves, “Why?” Why are we primitive camping in the heart of an apex predator’s playground? Why are we adventuring with the possibility of terrible weather conditions? Why are we risking our lives on something so unnecessary?
The thing is, to us, it is necessary.
As modern humans we have access to plush and safe environments, sealed from the outdoors in climate-controlled castles. We tune the temperature, the humidity, and the light of our domain with electronic precision. Invaders, be them large or microscopic, are hunted down and extinguished as soon as we are aware of them. We sit dominant atop our comfortable hill away from the mud and squalor of nature’s primal growl.
And yet, we remain restless and unsatisfied.
For us, fulfillment comes from summiting the high peak, weathering the brutal night, building the difficult fire, hunting the dangerous game, fishing the roaring waters, climbing the steep rocks. It’s that adrenaline rush that makes us feel alive. When we’re away from it, it can feel like we’re just getting by, shuffling through the day to day tasks to pay bills and keep food on the table. But when we’re in the thick of it, waist deep in the rapids or 2:00 a.m. in bear country, there’s a connection we feel with nature that sparks something inside of us. It’s something even deeper than that wanton desire for excitement and purpose. It’s something primal, something instinctual, something that we can’t explain nor can we control.
We know that we don’t adventure in sterile environments, but we don’t claim otherwise. We deliberately seek out the challenging and the risky. There’s a relief when we come back to the safety of civilization, but it’s never overshadowed by the instinctual nature to become one with an ecosystem. To not dominate it, but mesh with it. To not destroy it, but become part of it. To not be conquerors at the top of the food chain, but to fall in line with the cycle.
For people who don’t wander down these precarious paths, we’re irrational and foolhardy thrill-seekers. But we know why we do this.