Do it Scared
Note to reader: I have not used the real names of my ski patrol colleagues.
“Oh shit, the show is on,” says Harry, an eager ski patrol in his early twenties, when we hear one of our fellow patrollers on the radio. A colleague has arrived at a nasty scene—a 14-year-old flew up in the air and landed on their head—and is requesting more equipment and patrollers. As Harry puts it, “This is a big one.”
The equipment must come from higher ground, down to the scene, and there are usually only a couple of patrollers above this scene. Harry and I look at each other and then blast off; we can quickly get to the chair lift that will deposit us above the scene and put us in a position to bring additional equipment if needed. With adrenalin running, we get to the chair lift and sit down, now in no control of how long it will take to be in a position to assist. We wait.
Harry says it again: “This is a big one. This is a big one. Holy shit, holy shit, this is a big one.”
I come clean: “Harry, this is my first big one.”
Harry and I have crossed paths many times over the last few months. He knows I’m a new patroller, learning to do the job. This is a paid gig for him, and he’s been working here all season. I’m one of the new volunteer patrols that arrives every other weekend to help swell the patrol numbers as the number of skiers and snowboarders grows with the weekend. We do the same job, but he’s far more familiar than I with handling “a big one.” I’m trained in advanced first aid, but I’ve never used it in the scene unfolding as we made our way up the chair lift.
I offer this: “Harry, if we need to go and we’re on the scene, and you can see that I need to do something different to be helpful, feel free to give me instructions. Or If I’m doing something wrong. There will be no hard feelings.”
Harry is the kind of young person, thirty years younger than me, who feels compelled to call me ma’am. Weeks ago, I asked him to stop, and we’d been laughing earlier in the day when he’d catch himself, then try again to say what he wanted without the ma’am. I am his senior in age, but he’s my senior on the mountain. After some verbal bumbling, he acknowledges what I’ve said and then offers his dad’s words as we made our way, in an achingly slow fashion, up the mountain: “If you can’t fight the fear, do it scared.”
We sit for several more minutes on the chair lift, with his dad’s words hanging in the air. We can see the scene. We see another patroller arrive with a toboggan and another with the vacuum mattress they’ll use to immobilize the skier. Another comes with oxygen and a trauma kit. Another shows up to be an extra set of hands. They have everyone and everything they need, and our ride continues to the top.
The chair lift ride. Credit: Tim Ellis.
Our initial job is done; to get to higher terrain so we could help if needed. We now have another job, to stay put and be prepared to respond in the event of another injury since the patrollers usually in this location have all departed. After a burst of adrenalin, our day proceeds with quiet and eventually, we make our way back to where we started.
The next morning, as the crew of patrollers heads out to the mountain after our morning briefing, I take a moment to talk with another patroller in their early twenties. Like Harry, Imogene works here every day. We’ve not worked together before, and we’re heading into the terrain where Harry and I helped out the day before—and where an avalanche is possible.
Again, I come clean: “I know nothing about avalanche rescue. I have a shovel and a probe. I know how to use a shovel, but I do not know how to use a probe. If we end up in a rescue situation, I will need instructions, and when you tell me what to do, I will not be offended. Just tell me. I’m game to help.”
Imogene’s response: “F@$% yeah!”
It’s not that long ago that I was scared to think about what I did not know about being a ski patrol, let alone declare it. I’ve been thinking about these two exchanges with my fellow patrollers, marvelling at my comfort with putting my lack of knowledge and skill on display. In exploring this with a friend, I realized that in disclosing my lack of experience and skill, I was helping my colleagues do their jobs better. If we were called upon, they understood what they could or could not expect from me. They also had permission (if needed) to give instructions to someone thirty years older.
Without thinking of it consciously at the time, my disclosure would help us work better as a team, which means we would be far better able to help our patients. When it’s “a big one,” working well together means saving limbs and lives.
The alternative to disclosure is silence. If we ended up on the scene, without disclosure, I would have to pretend I knew what I was doing. I would have to fake it and hope for the best. If I got caught, I’d have another choice: own up to my mistakes or defend myself and fight back.
To be the best patroller I can be, I must be comfortable knowing what I don’t know and sharing that information. What I don’t know or haven’t done before is not good or bad; it is critical information for my teammates to have. Silence feeds the defences of my ego while eroding my ability, and our team’s ability, to save the limbs and lives of our patients.
“I will continue a practice of radical honesty.”
My ego taking a back seat wasn’t a conscious choice on my part. The words flew out of my mouth, and the reactions of my colleagues are the impetus for this reflection. My body is remembering their reactions—Harry is rarely at a loss for words, and the excitement in Imogene’s “F@$% yeah!” was palpable.
I am surprised that I was not scared of displaying my lack of experience. I’ve come a long way from the conversations I had with myself six months ago when contemplating taking the training, then in training. I was afraid of having what I did not know to be displayed—when no one except me expected me to know. (That’s what training is for, after all.) I felt vulnerable, as though my soft belly was exposed to claws. Thanks to Harry’s dad, I now have the words to describe my choice: I did it scared. “Doing it scared” seems to be a way to step beyond feeling vulnerable.
On and off the mountain, I will continue to feel scared, and I will continue a practice of radical honesty with myself and have those inconceivable conversations with myself that lay out the truth of feeling scared (or frustrated, angry or sad). I will also practice radical honesty about myself with the people around me. The more honest I am, the less scared I feel.
Reflection
What is one action you are fearful of taking at this time?
What is scary about taking that action?
What could you gain by not taking that action?
What could you gain by doing it scared?