Episode 55: A Price Too Big
On October 29, 2019, Michelle Xue and her climbing partner, Jenny Shedden, set off to climb Red Slate Mountain in the Sierra Nevada when they were struck by rockfall and killed. This story is told through the lens of her dear friend, Artem.
While all genres of climbing can be dangerous, alpine climbing is likely the most. These stories of loss pay tribute to loved ones, but beyond that, the life of an alpine climber is complex. They say, “What’s done in love, is done well.” But the passion for this sport creates a catch-22.
The cold paradox of alpine climbing leaves loved ones behind, pondering the timeworn question: Why do we climb? Why choose to continue a sport when the risks encountered could mean death? Everyone will grieve in this lifetime. And everyone will experience loss. It’s a painful but normal part of the human experience, and the process of grief, though it moves, will move in cycles.
This episode is in loving memory of Michelle Xue and Jenny Shedden.
For the Love of Climbing is presented by Patagonia. Additional support is from deuter USA, Allez Outdoor, and Ocún.
Music is by Chad Crouch. Additional music is licensed by Music Bed.
Photo courtesy of Artem V.
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EPISODE TRANSCRIPT:
(KATHY KARLO): This podcast is presented by Patagonia. Not bound by convention, Patagonia’s in business to save our home planet.
- It’s 2023, and modern climbers are more accomplished than ever, and we don’t just mean on the wall. Patagonia has always seen the value in being bold, whether it means pushing highpoints or having the audacity to demand more for our planet.
So, what’s it mean to be a “strong climber”? Full commitment to the sport and to our communities. It means not just working towards futuristic first ascents but also, a better future. And we aren’t going to get there alone.
For Patagonia’s 50th year, we’re looking forward, not back and together, we can prioritize purpose over profit to protect this planet. Get involved, read stories to get you out there, and join a community that values what we do off the wall as much as we do on. Because we’re Bolder Together. Find out more at patagonia.com/climbing.
- We get support from deuter, one of the leading backpack brands that will help you hit the trails with confidence and comfort, but most importantly—your snacks. Founded in 1898, deuter believes in fit, comfort, and working in the long term to offset CO2 emissions by teaming up with Climate Partner to invest in social and climate offset projects worldwide for select product—including their Guide and Vertrail climbing packs.
deuter packs are PFC-free—meaning no forever chemicals and they honor their Promise Lifetime Warranty since their packs were meant to be on your back, and not in landfills. So, you can focus on way cooler things like puppies, pocket bacon, and gettin’ sendy—whether at the crag or in the alpine.
(FEMALE VOICE): Today we’re going to talk about “allez”. “Allez” means “come on!” in a way, or to encourage. Ok! We are done with the simple and normal uses of “allez”, now let’s cut to the chase:
(KK): Allez Outdoor Personal Care products are made by climbers for those who love the outdoors. Their rich and repairing ingredients for their skincare collection are inspired by desert landscapes, and their simple and recyclable packaging makes them eco-sustainable. Allez commits to protecting the open spaces that we love by partnering with the Access Fund and 1% for the Planet. That’s Allez Outdoor: “A-L-L-E-Z”). Allez Outdoor—made by climbers, for those who love the outdoors.
(KK): Who is Ocún? More than prolific crack climbing gloves, Ocún has been making innovative gear engineered for climbing to improve your performance since 1998. Their climbing shoe designs are all original, developed and manufactured in Czech Republic and completely, one hundred percent gender neutral. Beyond their sticky rubber, Ocún is renowned for their hardware, harnesses, and the biggest lightest crash pad on the market. Find your new favorite climbing shoes and accessories at Backcountry, Moosejaw, CampSaver, and Amazon.
(ARTEM V): I’m really hoping that I don’t end up crying, but sometimes its weird because—
(trails off)
—because to me, she’s still [here]. Like, it feels like she’s still here. Like, she’s still gonna text me or call me or—
(pauses)
You know, but there’s moments where like, meeting her parents after the accident or whenever I have to refer to her in the past tense. It just hits you and you’re like, “Oh, fuck. That happened.”
(KK): On October 29, 2019, Michelle Xue and her climbing partner, Jenny Shedden, set off to climb Red Slate Mountain in the Sierra Nevada when they were struck by rockfall and killed. This story is told through the lens of her dear friend, Artem.
While all genres of climbing can be dangerous, alpine climbing is likely the most. These stories of loss pay tribute to loved ones, but beyond that, the life of an alpine climber is complex. They say, “What’s done in love, is done well.” But the passion for this sport creates a catch-22 for people.
The cold paradox of alpine climbing leaves loved ones behind, pondering the timeworn question: Why do we climb? Why choose to continue a sport when the risks encountered could mean death?
Everyone will grieve in this lifetime. And everyone will experience loss. It’s a painful but normal part of human existence, and the process of grief, though it moves, will move in cycles.
(AV): My relationship with her spanned three years, but she was the kind of person that you expect to know for the rest of your life. Obviously, that didn’t happen and that’s probably the hardest part about all of this—is how prematurely everything was cut short.
(ALEX HONNOLD) (to himself): Ok, I’m Alex Honnold. You’re listening to the love of climbing podcast. It’s a funny, sad, somewhat uncomfortable podcast—
(louder)
I was like, “Wow, this is the opposite of my podcast. But, you know, here we go!”
(laughs)
(upbeat music)
“I’m Alex Honnold and you’re listening to For the Love of Climbing—”
—is it “to the”? Or “to—“ Do you say “to For the Love of Climbing Podcast”?
“I’m Alex Honnold and you’re listening to For the Love of Climbing Podcast.”
Yeah. Yeah, I see it.
“You’re listening to For the Love of Climbing Podcast. This is not a climbing podcast. Well, sorta. It’s a funny, sad, and somewhat uncomfortable podcast about choosing vulnerability. Here’s the show.”
Easy cheesy!
(AV): Hi, my name is Artem. I am an adventure climber and alpinist based out of Oregon.
I would describe myself as somebody that is technically working, but here’s how I usually structure things: whenever I can get away from work—like, if I’m in between jobs or something of that nature, I’ll make the most of that time. But whenever I’m working, I’m constantly traveling and working and climbing whenever I’m not supposed to be somewhere, basically—or be online, at this point, with remote work.
(KK): In a world where remote work has steadily been on the rise since 2000, according to Upwork, an estimated 32.6 million Americans will be working remotely by 2025. That includes climbers of all walks of life—parking their laptops at climbing gyms or a local coffee shop, and rethinking what can constitute as a makeshift office.
It’s the perfect foundation for anyone willing to take the deep dive into a lifestyle sport that requires a lot of time. Time to train, or climb, or both—and squeeze in a 40-hour work week. And for many, this is how they choose to live day-to-day.
And maybe, if this is you, you might reject the term “dirtbag” because on the one hand, you definitely haven’t showered all week, but on the other, you do carry a full-time job.
And this is largely how Artem has lived most of his adult life as a climber, since meeting Michelle in New York in 2017.
(AV): So, I met her when she was looking for a partner to climb with at the Cliffs in Long Island City and so was I. I was there for this internship at this firm that dealt with Wall Street clients. She was there to work for a sovereign wealth fund for Singapore. Both were these super desired jobs from the schools that we were coming from.
It was just a random chance social media encounter. She was really smart. She was going to Georgetown, [she was] very high-achieving. But at the same time, she lacked that—I don’t know how to put it into words, but there’s a certain—I don’t wanna say “squareness”—
(laughs)
—but this certain “normal-ness” that’s sometimes kind of painful whenever you’re dealing with working in these firms in New York City. She was very much so not like that. She was just super curious, very ambitious, and stoked and excited and all these things. And we were in a similar boat, and that kept us connected.
But she was really depressed about her job and she just didn’t like it in New York City. She was from California, and so, she kind of had that California accent. That whole—like,
(emphatically)
“Dude!”
(laughs)
I don’t know how to imitate it perfectly, but it wasn’t her place and she just wanted to go back home to the west coast the whole time we were there. The work hours were brutal. It was like eighty-hour weeks and oftentimes, there’s weekend work, and we commiserated on that and kind of made a bond there.
But really, I think what brought us together was just our excitement for adventure and this mutual understanding that you can do anything you want in terms of climbing. You can create whatever you want, you can achieve any real dream you have—you just need to prepare for it and be ambitious and be willing to take on risky things. And she was very excited and pretty cavalier about that, and so was I. And so, we saw eye-to-eye.
And to me, that feels unique because oftentimes, people aren’t like that. And, you know, not to say that that’s a bad thing, because I think it’s a good thing. I think people should really focus on what’s important to them.
But not many people are interested in the idea of planning a trip to Siberia to go climbing or to someplace that you’ve only ever read about and you’re probably not prepared for and other people get a guide for and all these things that are stacked against you, and then, still having the courage and the stoke, or maybe the naivety, to try to do it anyway.
And so, she was like that. Even more so than I am.
So, I started climbing when I was eighteen years old. I started having the idea of climbing whenever I was five years old. And that came because of this really kinda corny nineties movie called “K2”. It was released in ’97. I saw it in ’99. I had just recently moved to America and my parents were just showing me all of these American films.
That one was R-rated, but they didn’t know what that meant. I learned my first curse words there and I learned, like I said, there are these really cool scenes of Yosemite and the movie itself was about K2 and I got that idea in my head. I’m like, “I’m gonna be a climber!”
So, I told pretty much everybody I was gonna be a professional rock climber, and they told me that’s not a job and I believed them. So, what I did was just the normal—like, climbing on trees.
I would go back to Russia and Lithuania. There’s all these abandoned Soviet projects and blocks that just never got finished once the fall of the Soviet Union happened. And they make for really cool, exposed little adventure playgrounds that are super not safe at all, but it was kind of the norm there.
And so, I started at eighteen and got straight into trad climbing. I’ve always been kind of seeking out things that feel “out there”, I suppose. Not intentionally, but it’s always just been what I’ve been drawn to.
This recent trip to Alaska had a bunch of really cool moments on these really large routes—even the moderate-size routes there translate to the biggest routes that you can find in the lower 48. So, there were some really fantastic moments there. Also, just various alpine rock summits and volcano summits.
Really, I think the coolest moments always are when you kind of know that you’re going to send, and then you’re there, and it’s this weird culmination of so many hours and days and weeks and months—or maybe even years—of planning, hoping, dreaming, thinking, “It’s not gonna work,” or “I can’t do this,” or “This is way too much.”
And then, you’re there and, you know, that moment only lasts a little bit, but they all kind of stick out in my head. Even though it’s hard to pick out specific ones as being the best—‘cause all of them, at the time, felt like the coolest thing I’ve ever done! You know?
There’s a few different styles of climbing that people go for in the Alaska range. Ski mountaineering is one of them. Traditional mountaineering with big loads and many camps with very little technical climbing—where maybe the altitude and the conditions are the challenge.
Then, there’s the technical climbing that is more reminiscent of trad climbing where you’re climbing something that’s mostly vertical, where you’re torquing your tools into cracks, climbing ice, placing protection, and doing everything you can not to whip.
And that last style is what I’ve been attracted to, naturally through the progression of starting as a trad climber. And also, reading up on the history of various styles of alpine climbing. It seems like whenever rock climbers transition from their world to the ice climbing and alpine world, they tend to choose—or favor—technicality, over let’s say, the altitude or the elevation of a summit.
(KK): After New York, both Michelle and Artem went on to new chapters. Artem eventually landed in the Pacific Northwest and Michelle went back to California. But it was the start of what they both hoped was a lifelong partnership.
Michelle had graduated with a major in operations information management and had begun her career as an acquisitions analyst. But she continued to carve out time for trips, her appetite whetted by spontaneity, a strong curiosity, and an even stronger growing tenacity.
(AV): She went on to do a ton of climbing—a lot of really impressive climbing.
When she died, she was twenty-two, and in that time between, I think, the ages of eighteen and twenty-two, she had gone to Patagonia and climbed in those mountains. She had gone to the Himalayas. She had gone and climbed all over California. You know, attempted the Grand Traverse. Traveled to Australia, to Spain, Morocco. She would basically get these ideas in her head, and she would do them.
We always stayed in touch and we would go climbing here and there. But, you know, she got a full-time job in California and she went on this west coast tour that ended in the Bugaboos. I had recently moved to the west coast—this was in 2019—and we reconnected there.
She was always like, “Dude! You need to go ice climbing.” and I was like, “Ok, you need to teach me.”
And she came to me with this idea to go to the Chukotka in Siberia. And she’s like, “Hey, you’re gonna be my guide ‘cause you speak Russian,” And you need that for logistics, especially in Siberia where nobody speaks English.
And I was really excited about the idea. I was like, “You sure you’re ok with the mosquitos and it’s gonna be super remote and really hard to be there?”
And she was like, “Yeah, yeah! I’ll make a spreadsheet and we’ll draft up notes.” And, you know, we had all these plans to do a bunch of Yosemite walls together in order to prepare for the idea of going and doing that, but mostly on untravelled ground in Siberia. We were planning for an El Cap climb in November when she had her accident in October.
And she was traveling back to LA to start her job and she stopped by in Portland where she visited me. She stayed at my apartment for a few days and we had planned to climb up a mostly unclimbed big wall in Washington called Tower Rock that just is pretty much off of everybody’s radar.
And this wall is unique in that it’s made entirely out of this really dense andesite that fractures in such a way that it’s invisible. And what that leads to is, these big blocks will separate from the wall and the edges of the rock are razor-sharp because the cracks are invisible. And so, whenever it separates, it’s just dangerous stuff.
And she was stoked for it previously, but when she showed up, she wasn’t at all. And I asked her why and, you know, there was this weird synchronicity, I suppose, with our whole conversation and how things turned out that I really didn’t think about—considering this was the last time I saw her.
But we talked about a moment she had in the Bugaboos where she was—whenever you climb alpine rock, oftentimes you’ll free solo 5.4 or 5.5, 5.6. And she was in one of those steps and she was climbing and she’s smearing up a slab and climbing a crack that was angling. And as she was moving in between jams, one of her feet just skidded out from under her and she caught herself on her lower jam.
But it was really scary ‘cause she wasn’t aware that she could have fallen. And I guess if you’ve done any amount of soloing, you’ll know that these things happen and people react to it differently. But in her case, she was really shook by it and she asked for her partner to drop a rope and when she got to the anchors, she cried.
And they ended up leaving the Bugaboos sometime after that, and her stoke for dangerous things had really diminished from that incident.
(KK): Unknown to Artem, sitting in his apartment—recounting that could-have-been fatal slip would be the last time he would see Michelle.
While she told him what had happened—how scared she was, how close it all felt to coming to an end, Artem kept thinking about Tower Rock—
(AV): —and how dangerous it is, and I was like, “Ok, well. Maybe we shouldn’t do that. Let’s just chill and enjoy the city and do normal people stuff.” And she was really excited about that. She loved food. We would always go to some nice restaurant and get like, a six-course meal. And so, we did that.
And we had this conversation before she left where she talked about how much she didn’t want to die, and how much she didn’t want her family to grieve and miss her if she did. And how that moment really put that in front of her face, and how much she loves her brother, and how she wasn’t sure if he knew that, and how they were distant at the time.
And how her parents don’t really understand what she’s doing out there cause a picture doesn’t really convey what’s going on out in those mountains. And how we laugh about how like, “If our moms could just see us—where we are, they would freak out!”
And I remember talking to her about my job and how I just felt trapped and just unhappy because of whatever things that just felt important, but honestly aren’t that important. And I remember I cried on her shoulder and [having] all of these really abnormally close conversations and that’s the last time I saw her. She stopped by my office to drop off the key to my apartment and I gave her a hug before she left—and it was a really long hug.
(pauses)
And off she went. She would always leave gifts each time she’d see a friend and she would always leave a postcard saying something nice. And so, she left. And that’s the last I saw of Michelle. And—
(inhales)
—that, I think, was in early October, and that was a weirdly special time because the world was still normal. The pandemic hadn’t happened. All these people that I knew, or knew of, or admired or loved were still alive. Russia hadn’t invaded Ukraine and drafted me into the army.
All these weird, big things hadn’t happened yet. And so, I still felt—not that I’m that much older now; I’m only twenty-eight. But I felt like a young kid then, and since then, I really haven’t.
I think it’s just a total loss of innocence. I always functioned, and still function, on hope—and hoping that everything’s gonna be great. And then, when everything’s turned out to be the exact opposite of that and then, it becomes this battle of maintaining optimism and fighting off cynicism because you can’t live life mired in negative feelings, even if it does feel like a specter or cloud that kind of hangs over you sometimes.
(KK): After Portland, Michelle and Artem began planning heavily for Yosemite.
(AV): Like, we were texting almost every single day and talking about gear, talking about beta, strategies, this blog post we read, this comment we read, our thoughts on this pitch of whatever. Can we simul-climb this, can we not? How are we gonna do this, how are we gonna do that? And that all went silent.
And, you know, I didn’t see it being entirely out of the ordinary ‘cause, you know, we go into the mountains and will be out of service for a few days. And so, I just didn’t think anything of it even though it was a little weird.
She was supposed to go to JTree, I think, to go climb with her friend. But she made this spur-of-the-moment decision to go climbing with another woman. I didn’t know her, but she was a climber in her thirties from the Bishop area or Mammoth.
And they made plans to climb the North Couloir of Red Slate Mountain in the Sierras. And it was October twenty-fifth and twenty-sixth that she was up there. And for people that just aren’t aware of conditions and mountains, early season tends to not be very snow-covered, but in the High Sierras, it’s gonna be cold. And so, these big couloirs of ice will form and you’ll get 3,000 feet of calf-burning ice with a handful of steeper cruxes. And so, they went out to do that.
And so, I’d only found out about that whenever I got a text from a friend that said, “Hey, did you hear about Michelle?”
I saw that and I was like, “Oh, that’s ominous. Ok, well. I’m gonna be optimistic here.” And my method of optimism might be kind of weird. I like to rule out the worst-case scenario first. And so, I Googled her name and this article came up about two women that died on Red Slate Mountain.
And I was like, “Ok, that’s a coincidence. But it can’t be her.” That’s what I was telling myself. So, I clicked on the article and I scrolled through, not really reading and just looking for a name. And when I found it, I screamed. I didn’t expect to, but it just came out of me. It just didn’t feel real! There it was. And just like that, reality was different and irrevocably so.
It turned out what happened was that the aspect of the mountain is north facing, but there’s this big buttress of rock near the summit that catches sun in the morning. And they were probably about thirty minutes to an hour from topping out and getting out of the danger of the couloir.
The sun shining on that rock had melted something and caused the collapse that was big—and it filled that couloir with a barrage of rocks, and it killed both her and her climbing partner at a belay stance. But I didn’t know that. I just knew that she was gone.
And so, I called off work and I grabbed some crampons and an ice tool and I wanted to go to a place that me and her had shared before, literally just a month before. I just knew that’s where I would feel ok. And so, I remember going out there and ascending to the top of this ridge and sitting down.
So, for background, I’m not a religious person. I have a very Soviet upbringing and my parents were scientists so, I’ve never had religion in my life and I tend to be overly skeptical—to a point where it might be annoying. But that being said, there were these ravens that circle around Mount Hood that followed me up there and spent time with me up there.
I felt her presence with them in this really real way. I sat down. I meditated. I listened to the sounds of the mountain. I listened to the wind, just kind of howling down the valleys. I felt the sun on me. I felt her—she was there with me, it felt like.
(inhales slowly)
And so, I did that. And then, I descended. The sun was going down and I thought—you know, when you descend from a climb, you think about the entire day and how it went. And then, I remembered that she was dead. I remembered that moment that I found out, and it hit me again.
You know, it’s like a knife that just goes into your brain. It’s so painful and I screamed again. I threw my ice tool as far as I could. I just crumpled to the ground and I just couldn’t…
(trails off)
I just felt like I was trapped in a reality that I didn’t want. I felt helpless. And then, I felt a little stupid ‘cause I threw my ice tool and I felt like I looked dumb, and I was happy nobody was around and went to go find my ice tool and got out of there.
And I remember that day was really strange ‘cause I knew at that time that I had two options. I could either walk away from the sport forever, which I told myself that Michelle would never want that—for me to do that on her behalf. Which, you know, I don’t know if that’s true, ‘cause if she knew that she was gonna die on that climb, maybe she’d tell me to go sport climbing or something.
But that’s how I felt and I felt like I couldn’t really walk away. And the other option was to go in deep and see what drew her to those kind of routes and that kind of experience ‘cause she clearly loved it so much, and she risked a lot for it. And she paid a price that was too big for it.
(KK): We’re gonna take a short break—we’ll be back.
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(AV): I never reacted like that to the death of a person before. But with Michelle, it was different because we were just so close, and it was a person that I loved and it was a person I saw myself in. As far as speaking to grieving, to me, the hardest part about that is knowing that somebody is irrevocably gone and it’s a hole that will never be filled and it will always be there.
And it also made me look at stories I’d read differently, because, you know, you’d read about adventures and there’d be this side note that so-and-so didn’t make it or so-and-so died and it really didn’t mean anything. I mean, obviously, it does, but this is just a person that you don’t know anything about.
Or you read accident reports and people default to this state of “What did do they wrong?” and “That never would be me,” We figure out ways to distance ourselves from it, but once it hits you like that, it made me look at the whole sport differently—the whole culture differently—at, you know, other people that had experienced loss in their life.
And then, it made me wonder how other people were able to just walk around and live their life day-to-day when the pain can be that deep. And, you know, obviously, there are people that suffer even more. So, I don’t know what I learned about grief other than it’s there and it’s a big motivator to live life because it’s shorter than we often want it to be.
And especially what’s weird about adventure sports is it’s so filled with grief, but yet, we keep coming back to it. And I think what drives that is knowing that we might not have next week or we might not have next year, so we may as well go on that climb or go do that thing or go make friends that you love and have this incredible bite of this big and beautiful thing that is life.
But then, it’s a bit of a paradox ‘cause it can also be what kills you and what makes all of that not possible and brings pain to other people. So, I do know that it gets better, but I also know that grief changes people.
(KK): The five stages of grief can’t begin to explain all the ways it impacts the body, brain, and sense of self. Loss is so personal and intimate that it doesn’t always lend itself to these generalized stages because it’s, in fact, as unique as we are.
This normal evolutionary process of adaptation to protect us in the face of trauma isn’t an actual “state” but a process. And this process is tied into all kinds of different brain functions that will engage in the fight or flight mechanism.
When a circuit fires repeatedly, it’s reinforced and becomes the default setting. This is how grief can rewire the brain and disrupt the diverse cognitive realms of memory, decision-making, visuospatial function, and the speed at which we process information.
Artem’s paradox is a time-old tale told by many alpinists over generations. On his most recent Alaska trip, which he says was the most amazing trip he’d ever been on, was also peppered with more tragedy.
(AV): The goal was to climb the Cassin Ridge, which we didn’t do. I got altitude sickness on Denali, and several deaths have happened on the mountain and on the Kahiltna. And so, we ended up not climbing the Cassin Ridge, but we climbed a bunch of technical routes down low.
We didn’t witness somebody die, but it was right next to us, right as we were skiing away from a climb that we did. And it was hopeless—whenever they went into the crevasse, they were gone. They fell in with a bunch of debris, and looking at them and talking to them was really hard, ‘cause I felt like I was gonna sob.
But I could just see in their faces and in the way they carried themselves—I could see myself after I found out what was going on with Michelle. And so, I don’t know. It’s weird. There’s this horrible undercurrent to some of the best years of my life, and it definitely wears on you. But at the same time, that itch to go back out there is always gonna be there, I think.
So, the whole expedition idea has been around in my head since I was a kid. People know the world is big, but you don’t know how big it is until you see it. And seeing it just made me want to see more, ‘cause I knew that there’s no way I’d see everything or experience everything, but I wanted to do as much as I could.
And so, as you build the foundation for bigger things, then you naturally progress there. And so, that’s progressed into all sorts of various big wall climbs, climbing hard, technical routes on the Cascade volcanos. You know, you have moments where you have close calls or something didn’t go right. You know, you epic a little bit.
And sometimes people fall out of the sport because of those moments. Other times, you need to take a break. For me, I’ve just tried to learn and I feel grateful that I’m not—or at least, so far, haven’t been the person that didn’t get to learn from their mistake and respecting how close you are to being that person, no matter how careful or how thoughtful or how well-intentioned or solid or talented or whatever you are. That still can be there.
And so, I guess my idea of expedition is essentially taking something that seems kind of “out there”, and then, working towards breaking it down into these bite-sized pieces that will lead you to this arbitrary goal you might have. And then, also just having the sense of “Let’s do it!” to kind of shirk whatever it is else that you have going on in your life and going out there and trying it, and taking a risk knowing that it could be awful or it could be great.
(laughs)
So, one thing that was interesting about Michelle is that she was really excited by these epic stories. She’d read pretty much all of the climbing literature you could get your hands on and she watched all of the Epic TV climbing series and all of the alpinist films. [She] was very excited by the highs that climbing can bring you. And that’s big part of what drew me to her, just because I have that same attitude.
But the cost of those risks actually, you know—
(inhales)
—the ball in the roulette landing on green or whatever, you know—of that happening is very real and it’s downplayed or not talked about that much. Or it is talked about but in hushed tones, and oftentimes, in a way that distances you from what happened.
Everybody has this belief that you need to be out there, that it’s not gonna be you. You get really excited by these epic stories. You know, they’re riveting. You read about them, but in the end, everybody was ok.
And I think that the risk involved in technical alpine climbing is understated and underplayed. If you make a career out of it and you really go into it, you’re wing suiting. You’re free soloing in terms of how much risk you’re taking. And I could point out how I’m a hypocrite because I’ve also done all these risky things.
And, to me, the best thing I could liken it to is a really strong drug where you get a huge payoff, but there is a lot of risk. And yeah, it’s way more glamorous than the idea of doing heroin or whatever because it’s real, it’s there. It’s something that you can see and touch and experience. There’s all these things that inspire us to do it—media, books, art of various kinds.
And then, you know, these dreams that you have of being there and doing it and then, having those moments of, “Whoa, here I am. I’m doing it.“ I feel like, especially if you’re a person that has ever struggled with confidence, it certainly brings that in spades ‘cause you freaking did it!
And then also, there’s this small cohort of people that get it—that understand what it’s like, and that feels amazing ‘cause you can build these really close relationships with people since you know that you’ve shared these experiences and it can grow you as a person—all of these positive things, but it can also, you know, it can fucking kill you.
Oftentimes, before something bad happens in the mountains, contrary to what most people might say, there actually oftentimes isn’t a warning before something horrible happens. And so—I mean, there’s certainly warning signs that you can pick up on after having seen it go down that you can—and you should—apply to the next time you go out.
But oftentimes, when something happens to people, they really didn’t expect it because they were really careful and they did their absolute best to do it safely.
And so, don’t get caught up with sending and summiting and looking cool to other climbers and being respected by them because that is a trap and you really need to take this style of climbing, and also other styles of adventure and whatnot, with very serious respect. It sounds kind of old and crusty to say that because it does sound like I’m saying “Don’t do any of these things!”
Mark Twight talks about being in the Valley and being up there and how climbers always wanna be up on the wall, and how, eventually, you have to return back to the Valley. And I think everybody needs to take that to heart, I suppose—that you can’t always be after it. You can’t always be on the top of your game.
I actually feel that a lot sometimes, whenever I’m in between these big things that I do and that I come back, and it’s like,
(sighs)
I come back to all the things I would have lost and I feel like I wanna quit. Like, I don’t wanna do this anymore. Which is a surprising feeling ‘cause I’ve always felt that I’ll never quit and that I’ll always do it.
And yet, whenever you’re up there, all of that goes away and that’s part of what makes it so addicting—is that whenever you’re down on the ground or in your bed staring at the ceiling, you think about everything that could have went wrong, but didn’t.
But when you’re out there, enjoying a really good day—it’s the opposite. You feel these fantastic feelings of accomplishment, of success, of beauty, of something that’s rare and unordinary and that you would only get a handful of opportunities in your life to experience.
And then, this want to drink more of it. And then, you go back to the Valley and it doesn’t feel that way anymore. So, I think it will get harder ‘cause—
(pauses)
—one thing that’s great about coming back from a big adventure is you appreciate everything that you left behind so much more, like simple things. Like, just my cat hanging out with me or a nice meal or a nice sunset. The present moment becomes so much more valuable because the ordinary is no longer boring or not enough. It’s the opposite. It’s everything and you feel this gratitude for having it.
And the more of that you build up, the more of that gratitude you have for your surroundings, for the sheer unlikeliness of being alive and getting to experience these amazing things, the less you want to risk them.
And I don’t blame people that fall out of this sport, especially as they get families and kids that they love and want to be around for, because at the end of the day, I think that that stuff is just more important.
Hansjörg Auer, who is late, said that the more he climbed, the more he focused on quality over quantity. I don’t know what’s gonna happen to me in the future. I certainly hope that I’ll have a long life and I intend to have a long life. I intend to climb until I’m 102.
But knowing that that might not be the case, it draws a lot of inspiration, I think. I think the worst thing you could do is have all this grief and not find inspiration. ‘Cause there is inspiration in there, and if you look for it, you’ll find it.
(KK): As humans, we have an innate ability to react to traumatic loss by finding new ways to grow, thus, resilience is a common type of grieving. Grief and resilience are, in fact, not mutually exclusive and one can shape the other.
And in reflecting on loss, Artem has found meaning in it. And while his dreams and objectives and will to live life to the fullest keep growing bigger, the paradox that the mountains bring him tags along for the ride.
Climbing has made leaps and bounds since alpinists once hammered nails into their boots and technical tools have helped revolutionize the sport. But with rising temperatures of climate change, rockfall danger increases daily, and people like Artem understand this unique relationship with danger every time he bucks the odds.
Because there are no guarantees of safety in this dangerous game, no consolation for those lost, or the families and loved ones they leave behind. And maybe this is just a part of that game. Because as long as mountains exist, there will always be those willing to climb them.
(AV): So, my plan with Michelle, at least with her ashes, is to continue doing things that I knew she wanted to do. I still intend on going to Siberia and going climbing in the Chukotka. I intend on going back to the Alaska range. I intend on going to Patagonia. I intend on going to the Himalayas.
What’s important to me is seeing it and being able to take my friend there and experiencing and kind of savoring that love for the beauty that exists in the world. And I don’t know why. I just feel like there’s this necessity to do it because this is the only opportunity I will ever have to do it—ever. And that really gives it a lot of personal value.
The things about her that I admired and love—I want to stay in this world. I want it to be passed on to other people. It can’t die off. And that’s what I think culture is. I think that’s why it’s so important—is ‘cause when we pass that onto other people, we can preserve the good things in life by remembering people and ideas and what they stood for.
(KK): You’re listening to For the Love of Climbing Podcast. This episode is in memory of Michelle Xue, and her climbing partner Jenny Shedden.
The Climbing Grief Fund connects individuals to effective mental health professionals and resources, and evolves the conversation around grief and trauma in the climbing, alpinism, and ski mountaineering community.
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Until next time.
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