Christopher Roma: Learning to turn back
Last week an experienced thru-hiker, 37-year old Christopher Roma, died tragically of exposure in the White Mountains. My condolences are with his parents, family, and friends.
My father and several alumni shared this news with me. I had never met Christopher, but in at least a few respects we were kindred souls.
I know only public details about the accident, from news reports. And based on that information I wouldn’t dare question his preparedness or his decision-making. For all I know, he could have done this exact trip multiple times before at this exact time of year; or he just got unlucky, because his parka zipper or snowshoe strap broke.
Many people will question his actions, however, since the conditions were objectively bad. According to ABC, he was facing “single-digit temperatures, harsh winds and waist-deep snow.” A helicopter tried three times to land near him, and couldn’t because of poor visibility. And many rescuers had to retreat because they were getting frostbite themselves.
I will ponder though: Did he not turn back because he had never turned back before?
I ask this because it’s a lesson that most thru-hikers don’t ever learn — or, at least I didn’t. It’s conceivable that Christopher hiked the Pacific Crest, Continental Divide, and Appalachian Trails, plus probably many other lesser known trails and summits, without ever having to turn around. Certainly the conditions would have been challenging at times, but never so bad that he couldn’t push through them or get out of them. That’s the reality of these trails in three-season conditions.
In other outdoor sports, turning back is more embedded in the culture and a more widely discussed expectation. For example, backcountry skiers turn back if they think the avalanche conditions are too risky. Mountaineers turn back if the conditions deteriorate, if they don’t reach the summit before a designated time, or if they’re too exhausted. And rock/ice climbers turn back if there is too much rockfall or weak ice.
In contrast, thru-hikers can come to expect that they can always move forward because they always have. Until one day they can’t. And if you’ve never turned back before, why suddenly would you realize that it’s even an option. Turning back is like a muscle — if you don’t ever use it, you may not know it’s there.
I feel very fortunate that I didn’t learn this lesson the hardest way, with my own life. In hindsight, it could have gone the other way on a few occasions, like when I thought I could hike my standard 30+ miles on the CDT through Colorado’s San Juans despite day-long 35-degrees-and-raining conditions, or when I forded the South Fork of the San Joaquin during peak runoff without even looking for a better spot than the trail crossing, or when I hiked and skied through avalanche terrain in Colorado without really understanding avalanche basics.
It wasn’t until the Alaska-Yukon Expedition that I made the realization, perhaps because I was no longer a naive twenty-something or because that landscape is more properly intimidating, with storms, rivers, mountains, and wilderness that are unrivaled in size and power by the lower 48. It took a few close calls for me to be okay with covering ground when the conditions permitted, and holing up for hours or days when they didn’t. Finesse not force, became my new refrain.
Even if it may not have helped Christopher, I hope another thru-hiker will benefit from knowing that turning around is an option.
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