Journalist Norman Cousins once said, "Wisdom is the anticipation of consequences." There are many great quotations pertaining to wisdom out there, but this is by far my favorite. I guess thinking things through as thoroughly as possible just seems like a simple and palatable way to gain wisdom...."

Travis and I have been climbing together for less than six months. It's not long in terms of a teammate in the hands of whom you will be placing your life for 1500 feet of climbing, but we have built trust in that time. We climb well together and have been talking a lot about doing something big in the mountains. So with the alpine climbing season waning, we had set out on Friday to climb the famous Elephant's Perch, slogged gear up to the climber's camp at Saddleback Lakes under bluebird skies, then watched sullenly as storm clouds crept in from the west and began spitting alternating barrages of snow and rain on our camp dishes. The next morning we awoke to a half inch of snow on the wet ground, and wind pushing storm clouds around everywhere, a deal breaker for sure. Wet icy rock is a recipe for disaster. No one climbs in these conditions. Staring apprehensively upward at our frozen route through the steam of a hot cup of coffee, not really wanting to be the one to call it off, I had asked what I thought was an obviously rhetorical question.

"Well man, what do you think?"

A shaky, "Mmm, yeah, It'll be ok," was the reply.

I was sort of dumbfounded. "No way should we get on that route. No way," I thought. But I hid my shock behind the coffee. I was not going to kill this climb if he wasn't. We'd just have to go try. "All right... let's go try," I said, and so off into the freezing wind we went to do just that.

Now, an hour later, Travis is perched on a very windy ledge about sixty meters off the ground. Between us are fifty more snow-covered meters of the Sawtooth Range's finest granite rock-climbing, a long, thin, also snow-covered, rope, and the several pieces of climbing protection. The last  items are for arresting a fall should one occur, and I had placed them in various cracks as I ascended. Each piece of protection is built to hold several thousand pounds of force, but they are only as strong as the rock they are placed in. The last of these trinkets is no fewer than forty feet below me, and I doubt I could hang my coat on it, let alone my falling body. It was a frantic placement, jammed quickly behind an inch-thick flake of decomposing rock, with hands trembling under the realization that this was the last protection the mountain would yield for another fifty feet of climbing. I knew it was a dog of a piece when I placed it, and the next good one is twenty feet below it, meaning a fall from here would take me for a 120-foot ride. That's the sixty feet of granite above my last good protection, and the sixty feet of rope I have out. This is not a proposition which I am relishing very much. Figuring in the elasticity of the climbing rope, I quickly estimate that the fall would put me, oh... roughly right in Travis' lap, or, more likely, on the ledge next to him. I reach left to a small rock edge, about the width of a pencil, glazed in wet ice. I reach left around a bulge, frantically groping for some weakness which will yield passage to the belay ledge, ten feet above me. No dice. It's smooth and also covered in ice.

Desperately off-route, terrified, shivering, panicking, almost whimpering, there are a bunch of hard questions rattling around in my head like chunks of gravel: "How long before my calves won't allow me to stand here any longer?," "What then?," "Man, why do I even like climbing? Why do I even do this?," "What if I die here? What a stupid way to go." "How did I get here?"

Eventually my shuddering calves drag me back to reality, and the realization that it is time to go. Just as I am about to make a move which I have very little doubt will lead to a fall, an idea occurs to me, and I unclip a piece of metal climbing gear called a nut tool from my harness, and use it to carefully chip the ice off of the edge next to my right hand. It's terrible, but it will have to do. With a deep breath I force my fingertips against the edge with all my might, step up on a wet knob at knee height, hold my breath, grit my teeth, and pull ever so slowly through until a small bit of snow is at my chin. Blowing the dusting of powder off, to my elation a sharp, in-cut, depression appears in the rock. There is standing water in the bottom of the depression, but, with one last desperate thrust, I am able to use it to pull up and grasp the lip of the belay ledge above me and latch onto the trunk of a small tree there. With all the grace of a beached manatee, I flop into a heap on the two-foot ledge. Safe at last, delivered by a five-dollar nut tool from the single spookiest situation I have ever gotten myself into. I change over the belay and bring Travis up. He arrives on the ledge, shivering uncontrollably after an hour on the belay below.

"Let's get out of here man! I'm freezing! This is nuts!"

It did not take me long to agree to bail off after climbing only one-quarter of the route. Our day was over.

In rock climbing, you take turns leading. One climber leads, the other follows, then you switch and repeat. When planning a route, both climbers must be comfortable on the terrain they will be responsible for leading, and both must share in the decision-making. Each climber has the right to express ideas, strategies, observations, and misgivings. Each has the right to call the whole thing off if something isn't right. No questions asked. Both must lead, both must follow. Both must exhibit wisdom.

It's been four years since that day. I'm sitting here on my front porch on a warm September evening, a beer in my hand, and it's funny how easy all those questions I was asking myself are to answer. Especially, "How did I get here?"

As with any epic tale, it wasn't one mistake which got me into the dangerous pickle I was in, but rather, a series of failures in anticipating consequences. Fortunately for those of us who like to do things the hard way, it seems to me that wisdom can be gained in another way. Not just by anticipating consequences, but also, perhaps more painfully, by experiencing them. 

Sean Rasmussen works as a commissioning engineer for the energy services company McKinstry Co. He has enjoyed twelve years of working with Treasure Valley building owners, architects, engineers, and contractors to provide functional and efficient buildings to the public and private sector. When not at work, he still enjoys gaining wisdom (usually the hard way) through climbing pursuits, triathlon, and the occasional lesson from his extremely patient wife and children.

Problem Solving for Leaders

By Phil Eastman