I lay sprawled on the snow, once again startled by the suddenness of becoming tangled in my new unwieldy accessories. Picking up my glasses, I regained my bearings and began the awkward process of standing up on slippery, freshly waxed cross-country skis. After taking a moment to catch my breath and take in the frosted trees surrounding me, I continued down the trail.
For now, these falls are synonymous with my Nordic skiing experience: inevitable and a part of the learning process. With the addition of this weeklong Dartmouth Outing Club trip to West Yellowstone, I have around 40 days of Nordic skiing under my belt. I feel like I’m “getting the hang of it,” so to speak. My skiing still looks like a duck waddling back and forth, but I’m shifting into what I’ll call the “Capable Novice” phase.
Pizza-ing my way through Yellowstone
As a rower, the word “Novice” has unshakeable associations with the sport. In other contexts, “novice” implies near-complete inexperience and can be borderline insulting. But in rowing, one’s “novice year” is simply the year spent learning the basics along with a group of other beginners. It’s probably the most “fun” year of rowing, when everyone leaps into a new activity and bonds over the triumphs and mishaps of a new sport. Because of this association, I qualify myself as a novice in almost every activity I pursue.
Outside, though, being a novice is risky. There are practically infinite stories of inexperienced outdoorspeople hurting themselves or otherwise ending up in dangerous situations (Think Jerry of the Day). That’s where the “capable” part becomes important. Climbing, for example, can be extremely dangerous without proper knowledge. Indoor climbing gyms — where many people learn today — can foster a false sense of ease about one’s ability to climb safely outdoors. While gyms are a wonderful and accessible way to start climbing, they minimize the unpredictability and risk of climbing, leaving beginners oblivious to real-world hazards. Outside, it’s not enough to learn a few knots, watch YouTube clips, buy some ‘draws, and send it.
I’m fortunate to have worked with skilled climbing partners and had more formal climbing education, both of which have given me the foundation of safety (i.e., capability) on rock, from bouldering to trad multipitch. I haven’t done a crevasse rescue or used an aid ladder, but I know enough to keep myself and others with me safe at a basic level. The reality of climbing outdoors is that no matter how sturdy your anchor, you’ll still die if you get hit by a boulder the size of a car. But given the factors within my control, I feel sure in my ability to move on rock and manage risk to a level that I’m comfortable with.
Pushing the bounds of risk and reward is seen by many as an important and gratifying part of the climbing experience. For me, though, reducing risk to a comfortable level frees me to focus on the other aspects of climbing I love, like the tactile joy of fingers finding purchase on rock or bonding with others outside. My most cherished climbing memories are not the times I battled through a chossy climb or skipped clips. Instead, I picture the excited approaches, times spent with partners on scenic belay ledges, or decompressing over tea in baby Nalgenes back at camp.
The thing is, by the standards of climbers, I’m not actually good at rock climbing. But I’m capable enough that I can climb outside and not be a danger to myself or others. To me, that’s enough to set the stage for a joyful outdoors experience, freeing me to focus on the inherent pleasures of an activity.
