In the spring of 2020, I was out skiing with professional skier Caite Zeliff. She had asked me to accompany her for a day of filming as she worked to create her film segment for Teton Gravity Research. 

In an eerie twist of fate, she crashed on the same objective Connor and I had set out to ski back in 2017. 

Again, I was presented with a problem I couldn't fix. 

A dear friend who was injured to an extent I couldn't identify. 

Through an act of unbelievable strength and will, Caite rescued herself that day with a broken leg. 

On that long ski out, Caite said something to me I’ll never forget…

“I know you have to listen to your gut. If you have a bad feeling about something, don’t do it. But if you don’t do something every time you’ve got a flutter in your gut, you’ll never be a pro skier.” 

I thought I understood the concept of inherent risk in skiing and especially professional skiing. What I didn't understand, and what Caite’s comment made me realize, is that inherent risk means inevitable injury on a long enough timeline.

And that might sound scary, or I don’t know, pessimistic. 

But what it really is, is a mature view. 

Because participating in that level of skiing and not acknowledging the risk is unenlightened. Because, yes, while acceptance might inspire fear, it also creates respect and depth. 

Without understanding the potential consequence of our actions in the mountains, our actions are rendered equally inconsequential—the skier becomes a player in a video game—the value of task and life diminished by operating in a realm of unreality.

My Dad is famous (among my siblings) for imparting his wisdom on long car rides. 

One time, I remember him delivering the following proof of acumen, before we had even left the driveway:

“Jim, there are 3 types of people in this world… those who learn from others' mistakes, those who learn from their own, and those who never learn. I was never in the first category and often found myself in the last. I only ask that you strive to find yourself in the middle.” 

I’ve always appreciated that. 

Even at 10, the man knew me. 

So, 8 months after Caite broke her leg, I sat with my new classmates for our first day of training to become certified Wilderness Emergency Medical Technicians (WEMT). 

Never again would I rely on ignorance to aid my pursuit.

The course tested me on every front. 

It had been years since I had engaged in any sort of formal schooling, and I was out of practice. 

The class went from 7:50 AM until 5:00 PM. 

And at night, we ran practice scenarios: hyper-realistic emergencies created by our instructors.

In reality, the course was really two courses: how to be a standard EMT (and pass the National EMT exam) and how to provide care in the backcountry. The “W” and the “EMT” were two totally separate things, complete with two separate curriculums; the first curriculum was geared toward EMTs with access to life-saving tools and resources (AED’s, Ambulances, Hospitals, Splints, etc), and the second curriculum was geared toward WEMTs with no access to those things. 

Naturally, I took more interest in the latter. 

As the course went on, the dualities continued. As students, we were required to be both providers and patients. Each scenario required students to play the role of “savior” and “sick.” 

It was through my experience as a patient that I learned empathy. 

I learned of the importance of medical knowledge to those who require help. 

To be cared for is a powerful experience.

To be cared for well is to participate in part of the sacred practice of being human. 

The gratitude I felt for my classmates, as they cared for my wounds and illnesses, echoed the strongest love I have ever felt: the love for someone who helps you for no reason other than compassion.

I felt that love for each of my classmates, in turn.

Over the course of the month, I became every sort of victim. 

I volunteered to lie in the snow and have ice water poured over me until I became hypothermic. My memory of those 10 minutes for which I sat and shivered (and then didn’t…) alone on the edge of campus is foggy. 

My memory of getting my cold and wet clothes cut off of my body has a dreamlike quality. 

But the memory of my hand being held as I returned to full consciousness is crystal clear. 

As the two courses continued, I became frustrated with the time spent learning with tools and resources I never anticipated having. 

Then I learned the limits of backcountry care. 

I learned that sometimes the best care you can provide is a question, sometimes pointed, sometimes open. Sometimes the best care you can provide is an answer to the question: Does this person need help? Like real help?

That's when I became interested in both courses being taught. 

I accepted care as a system and myself as only a part. 

I decided I wanted to be equipped, no matter where I found myself on the “chain of help”.  

So, I learned how to splint a broken leg with a down jacket and how to build a litter out of ski poles, but I also learned so much more…

Like how to recognize appendicitis, cholecystitis, pancreatitis, apnea, pertussis, cystic fibrosis, schizophrenia, sickle cell anemia, peritonitis, pulmonary embolism, renal colic, asthma, rhonchi, abdominal aortic aneurysm, overdose (all kinds), stridor, anaphylaxis, heatstroke, bradycardia, brain injuries, bronchitis, poisoning, carbon monoxide poisoning, cardiac arrest, hepatitis, jugular vein distension, priapism (oh boy), cardiac tamponade, snake bites, stroke, mumps, cardiogenic shock, hemothorax, hemopneumothorax, angina pectoris, influenza, cheyne-stokes breathing, chickenpox, meningitis, epiglottitis, intracerebral hematoma, croup, jaundice, commotio cordis, compartment syndrome, crepitus, edema, dyspnea, and hypoglycemia in a diabetic patient.

I learned how to inject epinephrine and install a traction splint on a mid-shaft femur fracture. 

I learned how to deliver a baby. 

I can set up an AED with my eyes closed and deliver CPR like the cast of Baywatch. 

I possess the knowledge to stop an arterial bleed with a gloved hand. 

I know how to open a closed airway. 

I know when to use an occlusive dressing vs. a flutter valve vs. a hemostatic.

I can backboard an unresponsive patient in 7 minutes flat. 

I can recognize when the situation requires care beyond my skill set. 

And yes…

I learned the signs and symptoms of shock.

Let us return to our video game skier…

Only now is he slightly closer to enlightenment and understanding his frailty on the precipice of oblivion. 

Watch as he calms his mind, focuses on the formidable task he has chosen and moves unencumbered by a fate that awaits us all. 

He’s unencumbered because he knows that while death is inevitable, he is closer to understanding how it approaches and better at caring for those who need help.

That makes for better cinema, right?

I’d like to thank my instructors.

To be taught [at all] is a privilege. 

To be taught by instructors with such a strong drive to provide information and examples is very special indeed. 

And thank you to all my classmates.

I take great solace in knowing that someday, someone like you will be caring for me. 

Lastly, I would like to acknowledge Helly Hansen for supporting me in my pursuit to be a better skier, athlete, and partner. Thank you so much. 

Jim

(the skier preparing for the unpredictable)