How to freeze to death on a mountain

My friend stopped mid-hike and looked back at me.

"Okay. If we don't start heading in the right direction this second, that's it — our night's over."

He said it with the kind of finality that left little room for misinterpretation. But I didn't need any clarification. We both knew what was suddenly, and almost unbelievably, at stake.

What started as a simple winter hike in Kananaskis — one my friend had done hundreds of times (and I dozens) — had suddenly turned into a life-or-death struggle, courtesy of a whiteout and a series of navigational mistakes.

It was only -15°C, but with the clock striking 5pm, it was virtually pitch black out. Even if you could see, you wouldn't see much — the snow had picked up speed and visibility was near zero. In a few more hours, temperatures would drop to sub -20°C.

Time was of the essence.

It's hard to pinpoint where exactly things went so wrong, but looking back, the moment where we crossed the second half-frozen stream should have tipped us off.

Note: Basic outdoor survival tip here — don't cross half-frozen bodies of water (especially in the middle of nowhere). If you fall in, you'll be dead within 45-60 minutes… even if you manage to get out.

It was after passing the streams that we managed to work our way into a clearing, where our phones started getting GPS signal. Using Google Maps and a compass, we charted a course back home through the knee-high snow.

At this point, I still had plenty of gas left and was optimistic we were on the right track.

But almost an hour later, doubt started to creep back in…

We had entered into another clearing, and looking at the forest's edge ahead of us, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

"Hold on… let's check the GPS."

…

"Fuck."

We had been heading in the completely wrong direction. An hour of precious time and exertion, gone.

Dumbfounded, we came to the conclusion that the GPS must have frozen when we were plotting our trek back.

It was at this point my friend uttered his foreboding one-liner, and we decided on a new course of action: come hell or high water, we'd go 80° East. It was going to suck, but no matter what, we would at the very least hit a highway — so long as we stayed the course.

As we embarked again, my mind began to race.

The first thought I had was how pissed my parents were going to be if I was entombed on this mountain.

The second was about an Internet Historian video called "Man in Cave," which recounted (in excruciating hour-by-hour detail) the story of a cave explorer who got stuck in a cave and ultimately met his demise. I wondered if someone would make something similar about us. It had better not be monetized…

My thoughts continued to spiral out of control for a few more seconds before a new, more productive one took over. For some reason, I started to think about the movie 127 Hours — the one where the guy got trapped by a boulder and had to cut off his own arm to escape.

Now, amputating your arm in the wilderness had absolutely nothing to do with our current predicament, but it was an inspirational story, and one that led me down a helpful train of thought:

They say the human body is capable of incredible things… let's see what mine can do.

So we trudged onwards into the night, staying within a deviation of +/-5 of 80° East.

And boy, were we right that it was going to suck.

Each mountain we climbed, we had to descend before climbing again. Ducking beneath the underbrush, climbing over fallen logs and jutting rocks, falling and getting back up again — we did it all, without stopping, over the next hour.

Keep in mind, we didn't stop once the entire hike (except to check our GPS), so by the third mountain, a quiet kind of delirium was setting in.

I slipped for what felt like the hundredth time and sucked in the cold air. Looking up at the seemingly Sisyphean mountain before me, I leveled with myself.

I was exhausted.

My feet were soaked (at some point my boots had come undone), my face was bloodied from the onslaught of branches, and now, my hamstrings were starting to go.

There was no way I was going to give up — but I remember thinking to myself that we needed to see some kind of payoff. Another mountain or two like this would take a serious toll on us, and all bets would be off.

Thankfully, I heard my friend laughing a few moments later.

As we reached the top, the moon had come out and illuminated our surroundings, and my friend knew exactly where we were: the summit where he had spread Kaya's (his dog's) ashes years prior.

Thanks for the help, Ghost of Kaya; guardian angels; God — whichever one of you it was.

After 20km and 3000 ft of bushwhacking, we were back on a path and our trial was finally over. In 30 minutes or less, we'd be strolling into the parking lot — followed by the pub for a well-earned beer, of course.

Embracing finitude

The following morning, I noticed something different about myself.

I take cold showers daily, but ever since that night in Kananaskis, they make me return to that ominous clearing before the forest's edge — a place I wasn't sure I'd make it out of. It's become my memento mori.

Robert Greene describes the value of memento mori (Latin for 'remember that you [have to] die'), stating:

"The power of being aware of your mortality is not a morbid thing at all. It has many components to it. The first is just being realistic and knowing that you don't have forever to live, [which] gives you a sense of urgency about your day-to-day life."

That night reminded me we don't have as much time as we think we do.

Unfortunately, most people don't realize it until it's too late.

Not until the credits have rolled for the finale of their 300th Netflix series, until they've logged their 2000th hour in a video game they no longer derive enjoyment from, or until they find themselves back again at the bar they've been going to since college, disillusioned and decades older. Netflix asks you if you'd like to continue watching, the game prompts you with another mission, a regular winks at you from across the bar; and you wonder, like in a waking dream, just how the hell you got here…

These people aren't an abstract thought either — you know them well. They've been your friends, family members, and co-workers. You may even see a bit of yourself in them.

We reach these "points of no return" by becoming so worried about making mistakes, so infatuated with comfort, that we live shallow lives. Lives we fool ourselves into thinking will last forever. As a result, we become conditioned to avoid the risks that colour our world — be it a new relationship, fork in our career, or otherwise.

A memento mori has a funny way of helping you realize that.

In 2023, I hope you too can remember that you have to die — so you have the courage to take more risks and live more urgently. It's uncomfortable, difficult, and at times, harrowing, but on the other side is a better you; one full of rich experiences, and a greater appreciation for the fragile life we've all been given.

To a year of living with urgency,

R