Misadventure can be a chance to reflect on risk and personal limits and how to do things differently. By Hazel Meehan

Adventures don’t always go to plan, but when they don’t, there is more to be learned than when they do. 

On my first solo tramp I learned that my limits could far exceed my expectations.

The weather was good: low vis but low wind, exactly what I needed for off-track tops travel in the Tararua Range. The route was to be over the Broken Axe Pinnacles and around to   Mitre Peak before descending out via the Atiwhakatu track.

On the first morning I ran out of gas for my stove; on the third, food. There was the promised low vis, but the wind was strong enough to blow me off my feet on occasion. Twice I accidentally followed trails down the wrong spur. The terrain involved some no-fall scrambling and the wet and cold slowly wore me down. 

It was hard, but I learned I could put my head down and get it done. 

I took this understanding of my limits and used it, later pushing myself on hard days in the bush and in remote gorges on the West Coast. During the last three years I have run close to a thousand individual rapids on over 50 rivers across New Zealand. I learned, over and over again, that I could back myself. 

Last year my friend Matt and I attempted the Armchair Traverse, a sharp alpine ridgeline near Whistler, BC. After a steep approach, there is moderate scrambling on super loose rock with a good bit of exposure. We had estimated camp to car would take up to 16 hours. 

The alarm went off at 4am. By 9am I was sheltering behind a boulder while Matt climbed the rock above, knocking down large chunks as he went. My helmet felt pointless, a thin plastic shell that would do nothing if a large chunk was to hit me.

While risk can be a big draw – making me incredibly present and my adventures fulfilling – at other times it can be too much.

Following Matt, I pulled onto the climb, testing each hand and foot, moving carefully and deliberately. I refused to look down, knowing there was nothing but air for several hundred metres. It occurred to me that if I fell, Matt would be the one telling my family how he had watched me disappear from view. 

ThenI had my feet wedged into a horizontal crack, hands running over blank rock, searching for friction from anything. I found the tiniest ripple and shuffled my feet further along, making sure not to look past my shoes to the glacier below. 

After several hours I had had enough. For the first time in my life, I pulled the pin. I called a helicopter. 

What I hadn’t realised in the Tararua Range was that my physical and mental limits, while related, are also separate. Although the Armchair was well within my physical limits, it was beyond me mentally. 

Having chosen the route, I felt extra pressure to execute and overcommitted, falling into a common heuristic trap. The conversations I’d had and route descriptions I’d read beforehand also led me to a misguided understanding of what to expect. It created a situation where I couldn’t turn around yet felt unsafe continuing. 

Reflecting, I began to understand the difference between my limits in relation to real and perceived risk.

I can manage perceived risk. Real risk, however, is entirely different. 

Although I felt I had a high risk tolerance, I have come to see that I just had good management strategies to bring down the real risk. In fact, I have a fairly low tolerance for real risk.

Acknowledging this has allowed me to become softer, kinder to myself. I no longer feel the need to push far out of my comfort zone when there is a high level of real risk.

I can participate in a way that feels honest, respecting my boundaries on a given day and having the integrity not to let ego get in the way of good, safe, personal decision making. I also understand that these limits will change, and that exploring them is a process I’ll be engaged in for the rest of my life.