Skiing with Anxiety
If I followed exactly what my anxiety says, I would likely never go backcountry skiing. This winter my husband and I skirted the particularly considerable avalanche forecast in Montana and made our way to Japan for our honeymoon. We carted our backcountry skis across the ocean in search of snow, onsens (hot springs), and ramen.
To shake the jetlag and hit the slopes for the first time this year we started in the resorts for our first couple of days. The first day was bluebird and had tons of great snow, and needless to say our excitement was high. The second day was a storm day, and most of the lifts were closed due to high winds. At one point the gondola line was halfway up the bunny hill and took over an hour to load. This started our conversation about whether we should backcountry ski the following day. I felt my body tense as we discussed possibilities. I was feeling really nervous being in a new country and not yet aware of the snowpack, hazards, and emergency protocols. Nick could tell I was nervous when I kept suggesting we just keep skiing the resorts, so he asked what specifically I was most concerned about.
This was such a helpful question. I shared that I could not stop reeling from an image of us being a headline “Newlyweds on their Honeymoon– Die in an Avalanche,” which was my fear expressing itself in catastrophic thinking, a common behavior of fear. I started sputtering my list: we do not know the snowpack here, there are no search and rescue response teams, we don’t know the language to communicate injuries or need for support, or know the terrain well to avoid terrain traps. I was also afraid that as a party of two, if one of us got injured we would not be able to carry out an effective or safe rescue operation.
These are all completely reasonable fears and potential risks that as a team we needed to confront and deal with to ensure safety. We started talking more about what kinds of terrain we would be willing to ski, and what risks we were okay with making. We could not specifically avoid being a team of two in an emergency situation, but we did end up on trails where other folks were skiing (which was both a hazard in some ways and increased safety in other ways). We discussed assessing terrain and avalanche risk as we went and stayed with low angle terrain. We also started making a plan for how we were going to care for the risks anxiety showed us instead of simply ignoring it or quickly deciding never mind, we should not go.
For us, a conversation allowed us to find a solution that worked for both our needs. We both love being in the forest in the winter, and with years of avalanche training, we have chosen to pick terrain that works for our risk tolerance as a team. Over the years, we have learned the more information we have about what our fear/anxiety is showing us the better choices we can make to care for it. Anxiety and fear are not bad. They show us danger is possible, and there are helpful and unhelpful ways to navigate it.
Three supportive ways of navigating it are:
Name what you are specifically afraid of, and decide what risks need additional attention and support and which risks you are/are not willing to take. It is okay if there are some risks that are completely off the table. We took high angle slopes off the table for this trip because of our team of two and lack of familiarity with the snowpack and terrain.
Pay attention to how you feel about the decisions you are making together and if there is one that increases feelings of fear, stop and address it.
Have a system in place for discussing red flags as you proceed with your decisions and make sure you agree on your plan ahead of time. For instance, if we notice significant avalanche dangers, or don’t feel good about visibility and weather, do we agree that we are going to go down? Know that you may face disappointment and you can navigate that together as a couple as well the more planning and discussion you have ahead of time.
When I was just getting to know fear as a young adult I would often end up either ignoring it or simply avoiding the thing that made me scared. The more I learn about the mountains and myself, the more I know that it is not always the most helpful choice to “not go skiing” but more often it is choosing what risks feel doable for today and why. My husband and I got to explore in the quiet, powdered trees of Japan without ignoring fear or simply “pushing past it,” but by partnering with it and each other to make the best choices we could, given the risks.
What ways do you find helpful in partnering with fear?
