Spring in Montana is a season of waiting, trapped in a limbo of rotten snow and inaccessible trails. It makes me feel desperate: a rare warm day followed by another sleet storm, the high-octane days of summer still impossibly far away.
In May 2019, I was crawling out of my skin. The high-elevation north-facing trails were still sheets of ice and the south-facing trails were shoe-sucking mud. I was so sick of my gym routine that I’d sit in the parking lot for 20 minutes, willing myself to go inside.
I’d moved to Montana from the northeast nearly a decade before, drawn to lofty mountains to reinvent my tame life in suburban New Hampshire. I immediately began compiling a résumé of outdoor activities: I learned to mountain bike, became a strong climber, checked peaks off my list, and worked as a horseback guide. Backcountry recreation was the social currency and my value hinged on accepting every invitation, so I did my best to learn everything.
But no matter how many skills I picked up, my struggles with asthma meant I often fell behind. I was the last one to the top of the switchbacks, watching my lean, muscled friends vanish over the ridge as I sucked air through a windpipe that felt like a crumpled straw.
I made up for those cardio challenges with an uncanny ability to reject fear. I volunteered to go first on intimidating climbing routes, humming to stay calm as I gripped miniscule edges and pressed my feet against glassy slabs of rock. I fell often, once catching my leg behind the rope and flipping upside down, my head ringing as I smashed into the wall. My belayer called up in a panic and offered to lower me, but I was already pulling myself up the rope before I’d stopped swinging. My self-worth banked on being the most fearless, camping in winter storms, grabbing the reins of the horse who had thrown me, pulling pebbles out of my knees and joking about how hard I’d hit the ground.
That frenetic activity level of summer and winter made spring’s dullness harder to bear. I craved movement in the backcountry and the social life that came with it. Kadin texted me one of those afternoons when I was flopping around the climbing gym mats delaying my workout. He was a climbing partner, decently good friend, river guide, and enough of an enigma that I wasn’t sure whether I had a crush or he just had enough mystique to seem appealing.
He asked if I had a kayak.
I responded right away. Yeah, an old river runner. You looking to get out this week?
My kayak was a 15-year-old Wave Sport Frankenstein I’d picked up at a pawn shop the year before. I’d spent that summer paddling the reservoir south of town, occasionally running a calm section of the Madison River. The boat was narrow and prone to tipping. I planned to take a roll clinic the following summer, as I was determined to gain aptitude in yet another outdoor sport—just enough to feel confident on beginner whitewater.
The section of the Gallatin River that Kadin wanted to run was near my house, easily accessible and less intimidating than anything in the canyon. Despite being an open section of water, it was still technically early-season conditions, ice cold and scattered with hazardous deadfall. I accepted the invitation immediately.
I didn’t consider whether or not I was comfortable paddling that stretch. Along with the desire to keep up with my peers, my ability to assess risk was skewed after years of narrow backcountry escapes, a well-documented phenomenon where your risk perception shifts after successfully navigating unpredictable situations. From outrunning lightning storms to losing the trail to tackling climbs well above my grade, I’d encountered plenty of tenuous scenarios and always figured it out, scraping by without too much damage.
The Adventure Experience Paradigm describes this well; it uses a simple line graphic to show the interplay of risk and competence. When the risk is low and the skills are high, the person is toward the bottom of the chart in the “realm of exploration and experimentation.” When competence and risk are balanced, the participant is in the middle, and when risk exceeds competence, the outcome can be catastrophic. The more experience someone has with navigating risky situations, the more confident they become, skewing the variables. My boating experience was minimal and that section of river was not for beginners, but I had scraped by enough times that my risk assessment was dangerously off-kilter. It was a really, really bad combination. (...)
My boat wasn’t cooperating the instant I dropped into the river. The water was too fast and unpredictable. Every time I tried to adjust course, I was buffeted by the current. I scolded myself to paddle like I knew how, but this wasn’t the type of kayaking I was used to—my reflexes were slow and instincts incorrect. My boat’s slim bow dipped and rose, and I flexed my legs against the thigh braces in an attempt to stabilize. An icy splash of water streamed down my jacket. I knew I shouldn’t be on the water.
I was desperate to be off the river but I also wasn’t in control. That realization turned into panic as I was catapulted forward in the current, glancing sidelong at the bank rushing by and knowing I didn’t have the skills to eddy out. Too much was happening too quickly. The spray skirt felt like a vise around my waist.
A wave hit me in the face and I gasped, swiping a hand across my eyes as I heard Kadin yell behind me.
“Stay to the left! Maggie, the left!” he shouted.
I turned to hear him better, and when I looked forward I had dropped into a trough and the current swept me to the right.
I blinked to clear water from my eyes and saw why Kadin had yelled to stay left. I was heading right toward a massive strainer, topped by a downed tree at head height. It was as thick as my torso, the gnarled root ball creating a dam for a jagged pile of broken logs.
I threw my arm out and collided with the tree with a sickening whack. Before I could take a breath, my boat flipped and I was underwater.
Oh no, I thought. I am in so much trouble.
It was silent underwater, yellowish-green and brighter than I would have thought. Fist-sized rocks bouncing next to my head were the only indication of how fast I was moving.
You’re moving, which means you’re not pinned against the strainer. Get air. You have to roll.
I’d never practiced rolling a kayak—the roll clinic was still on my long list of goals—but I knew to snap my hips into the side of the boat and leverage with the paddle. My boat was built to roll, but I had no muscle memory to draw from to actually execute the move. I also had no paddle—it had been ripped from my hands when I hit the tree.
I threw my hips into the side of my boat. It rocked a few inches, then settled back.
I fought panic. Try again, you need to get air.
I threw my hips harder into the side of the boat. Nothing. The effort took energy and energy took oxygen. A countdown started in my head. I only had a few minutes to get out of the boat. How long had I been underwater?
Wet exit. Pull the spray skirt.
I frantically felt for the grab loop, but I was upside down and disoriented. When I found it after wasting more precious seconds, I leaned back and pulled as hard as I could. It didn’t budge. More seconds went by. My heart started thudding more rapidly and I felt that familiar aching burn when you stay underwater too long.
A thought came into my head, momentarily paralyzing me: these might be your last few minutes.
My clumsy gloved hands scrabbled uselessly at the edges of the neoprene trapping me in the boat. As I realized I couldn’t release the spray skirt that way either, panic, regret, and sorrow flooded my brain.
Please no. Please don’t let it end like this.
This is where my brain split into two tracks running at the same time: a sadness track and an action track.
The sadness track focused on my family. My parents and three younger siblings all still lived in the Northeast. They supported me but didn’t understand my drive to keep pushing, and they continuously begged me to be careful. I thought about my mother, wracked with nerves whenever I’d casually recount another close call. I thought about my dad. His cancer had just relapsed; my family was already suffering. My drowning would destroy them.
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for my family, I made a mistake and I wish I hadn’t come here and I’m sorry.
The action track said: keep trying until it’s over.
by Maggie Slepian, Longreads | Read more:
Image: Diana Robinson Photography (Getty Images)
[ed. I had something like this happen to me. My girlfriend and I were canoeing a fast water stream and hit a big sweeper broadside, immediately spilling both of us into icy cold water. The current that pushed us up against the tree's dense tangle was strong enough that we could barely move and it kept pushing us under. I held on with one arm and grabbed my gf with the other, eventually push/pulling her high enough so that she could climb up on a branch and finally pull herself up along the half submerged trunk. But she couldn't help me and I kept edging further out into the river hoping to get around the end of the submerged tree or at least find a less tangled location, but the current kept getting stronger the further out I went, and the harder it became to hang on. Finally, barely able to keep my head above water, the only option seemed to be to get under the tree and hope it wasn't tangled limbs all the way down. I exhaled one last time and let the current push me under, quickly sinking and pulling myself down along an underwater branch toward the bottom. Suddenly I felt a rock and pushed hard to get through the remaining tangle. It worked, and I popped up on the other side, eventually floating downstream to a nearby sandbar. Close call, with all the elements of ignored risk as related in this story. In fact, in Alaska, it's a pretty common cause of death - underestimating risk and overestimating abilities (otherwise, how would you know your limits?). My friend and former colleague Brad Meiklejohn with The Conservation Fund has written an excellent book covering this and other topics called The Wild Trails. Here's a conversation (YT).]
In May 2019, I was crawling out of my skin. The high-elevation north-facing trails were still sheets of ice and the south-facing trails were shoe-sucking mud. I was so sick of my gym routine that I’d sit in the parking lot for 20 minutes, willing myself to go inside.
But no matter how many skills I picked up, my struggles with asthma meant I often fell behind. I was the last one to the top of the switchbacks, watching my lean, muscled friends vanish over the ridge as I sucked air through a windpipe that felt like a crumpled straw.
I made up for those cardio challenges with an uncanny ability to reject fear. I volunteered to go first on intimidating climbing routes, humming to stay calm as I gripped miniscule edges and pressed my feet against glassy slabs of rock. I fell often, once catching my leg behind the rope and flipping upside down, my head ringing as I smashed into the wall. My belayer called up in a panic and offered to lower me, but I was already pulling myself up the rope before I’d stopped swinging. My self-worth banked on being the most fearless, camping in winter storms, grabbing the reins of the horse who had thrown me, pulling pebbles out of my knees and joking about how hard I’d hit the ground.
That frenetic activity level of summer and winter made spring’s dullness harder to bear. I craved movement in the backcountry and the social life that came with it. Kadin texted me one of those afternoons when I was flopping around the climbing gym mats delaying my workout. He was a climbing partner, decently good friend, river guide, and enough of an enigma that I wasn’t sure whether I had a crush or he just had enough mystique to seem appealing.
He asked if I had a kayak.
I responded right away. Yeah, an old river runner. You looking to get out this week?
My kayak was a 15-year-old Wave Sport Frankenstein I’d picked up at a pawn shop the year before. I’d spent that summer paddling the reservoir south of town, occasionally running a calm section of the Madison River. The boat was narrow and prone to tipping. I planned to take a roll clinic the following summer, as I was determined to gain aptitude in yet another outdoor sport—just enough to feel confident on beginner whitewater.
The section of the Gallatin River that Kadin wanted to run was near my house, easily accessible and less intimidating than anything in the canyon. Despite being an open section of water, it was still technically early-season conditions, ice cold and scattered with hazardous deadfall. I accepted the invitation immediately.
I didn’t consider whether or not I was comfortable paddling that stretch. Along with the desire to keep up with my peers, my ability to assess risk was skewed after years of narrow backcountry escapes, a well-documented phenomenon where your risk perception shifts after successfully navigating unpredictable situations. From outrunning lightning storms to losing the trail to tackling climbs well above my grade, I’d encountered plenty of tenuous scenarios and always figured it out, scraping by without too much damage.
The Adventure Experience Paradigm describes this well; it uses a simple line graphic to show the interplay of risk and competence. When the risk is low and the skills are high, the person is toward the bottom of the chart in the “realm of exploration and experimentation.” When competence and risk are balanced, the participant is in the middle, and when risk exceeds competence, the outcome can be catastrophic. The more experience someone has with navigating risky situations, the more confident they become, skewing the variables. My boating experience was minimal and that section of river was not for beginners, but I had scraped by enough times that my risk assessment was dangerously off-kilter. It was a really, really bad combination. (...)
My boat wasn’t cooperating the instant I dropped into the river. The water was too fast and unpredictable. Every time I tried to adjust course, I was buffeted by the current. I scolded myself to paddle like I knew how, but this wasn’t the type of kayaking I was used to—my reflexes were slow and instincts incorrect. My boat’s slim bow dipped and rose, and I flexed my legs against the thigh braces in an attempt to stabilize. An icy splash of water streamed down my jacket. I knew I shouldn’t be on the water.
I was desperate to be off the river but I also wasn’t in control. That realization turned into panic as I was catapulted forward in the current, glancing sidelong at the bank rushing by and knowing I didn’t have the skills to eddy out. Too much was happening too quickly. The spray skirt felt like a vise around my waist.
A wave hit me in the face and I gasped, swiping a hand across my eyes as I heard Kadin yell behind me.
“Stay to the left! Maggie, the left!” he shouted.
I turned to hear him better, and when I looked forward I had dropped into a trough and the current swept me to the right.
I blinked to clear water from my eyes and saw why Kadin had yelled to stay left. I was heading right toward a massive strainer, topped by a downed tree at head height. It was as thick as my torso, the gnarled root ball creating a dam for a jagged pile of broken logs.
I threw my arm out and collided with the tree with a sickening whack. Before I could take a breath, my boat flipped and I was underwater.
Oh no, I thought. I am in so much trouble.
It was silent underwater, yellowish-green and brighter than I would have thought. Fist-sized rocks bouncing next to my head were the only indication of how fast I was moving.
You’re moving, which means you’re not pinned against the strainer. Get air. You have to roll.
I’d never practiced rolling a kayak—the roll clinic was still on my long list of goals—but I knew to snap my hips into the side of the boat and leverage with the paddle. My boat was built to roll, but I had no muscle memory to draw from to actually execute the move. I also had no paddle—it had been ripped from my hands when I hit the tree.
I threw my hips into the side of my boat. It rocked a few inches, then settled back.
I fought panic. Try again, you need to get air.
I threw my hips harder into the side of the boat. Nothing. The effort took energy and energy took oxygen. A countdown started in my head. I only had a few minutes to get out of the boat. How long had I been underwater?
Wet exit. Pull the spray skirt.
I frantically felt for the grab loop, but I was upside down and disoriented. When I found it after wasting more precious seconds, I leaned back and pulled as hard as I could. It didn’t budge. More seconds went by. My heart started thudding more rapidly and I felt that familiar aching burn when you stay underwater too long.
A thought came into my head, momentarily paralyzing me: these might be your last few minutes.
My clumsy gloved hands scrabbled uselessly at the edges of the neoprene trapping me in the boat. As I realized I couldn’t release the spray skirt that way either, panic, regret, and sorrow flooded my brain.
Please no. Please don’t let it end like this.
This is where my brain split into two tracks running at the same time: a sadness track and an action track.
The sadness track focused on my family. My parents and three younger siblings all still lived in the Northeast. They supported me but didn’t understand my drive to keep pushing, and they continuously begged me to be careful. I thought about my mother, wracked with nerves whenever I’d casually recount another close call. I thought about my dad. His cancer had just relapsed; my family was already suffering. My drowning would destroy them.
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for my family, I made a mistake and I wish I hadn’t come here and I’m sorry.
The action track said: keep trying until it’s over.
by Maggie Slepian, Longreads | Read more:
Image: Diana Robinson Photography (Getty Images)
[ed. I had something like this happen to me. My girlfriend and I were canoeing a fast water stream and hit a big sweeper broadside, immediately spilling both of us into icy cold water. The current that pushed us up against the tree's dense tangle was strong enough that we could barely move and it kept pushing us under. I held on with one arm and grabbed my gf with the other, eventually push/pulling her high enough so that she could climb up on a branch and finally pull herself up along the half submerged trunk. But she couldn't help me and I kept edging further out into the river hoping to get around the end of the submerged tree or at least find a less tangled location, but the current kept getting stronger the further out I went, and the harder it became to hang on. Finally, barely able to keep my head above water, the only option seemed to be to get under the tree and hope it wasn't tangled limbs all the way down. I exhaled one last time and let the current push me under, quickly sinking and pulling myself down along an underwater branch toward the bottom. Suddenly I felt a rock and pushed hard to get through the remaining tangle. It worked, and I popped up on the other side, eventually floating downstream to a nearby sandbar. Close call, with all the elements of ignored risk as related in this story. In fact, in Alaska, it's a pretty common cause of death - underestimating risk and overestimating abilities (otherwise, how would you know your limits?). My friend and former colleague Brad Meiklejohn with The Conservation Fund has written an excellent book covering this and other topics called The Wild Trails. Here's a conversation (YT).]
