Contemplating Mortality on Thin Ice
My wife, Kasia, and I found ourselves at the brink of a frozen river, where the fragility of life stared back at us. The map had optimistically indicated a footbridge, yet all that lay before us were jagged ice slabs, protruding at bizarre angles, as though the river had shattered, shifted, and refrozen.
Beneath this icy crust, the faint, muffled rush of water could be discerned.
We had been skiing for two and a half hours, navigating the backcountry of the Adirondacks this past January, and now faced a dilemma. Our planned route was a loop, almost complete. The air was frigid. Crossing the river promised a short, easy ski back home.
Turning away meant retracing our steps for another two and a half hours, much of it uphill. Did I mention we were both approaching 50? It’s a perilous age, where muscle memory can easily conspire with hubris and self-deception, leading to poor decisions.
This moment, in many ways, was the essence of our expedition—to break free from the mundane routines of middle age. Seriously, when did excitement become finding a four-pack of extra-fine wool blend socks at Costco for $16.99? (Though, admittedly, that is somewhat thrilling.)
Kasia and I had been together since college, a solid 28 years. Our relationship had been steady—no affairs, no impulsive career changes, no midlife crises. Yet, perhaps the challenge of crossing this precariously frozen river was, if not a crisis, then a summons. Maybe we sought this moment, unknowingly.
Initially, I was firmly against the crossing, for all the obvious reasons. Kasia, however, was slightly more open to the possibility. Kasia is amusing in this respect. A professor at a medical school, her worldview is generally anchored in logic. Imagine if Dr. Spock had a tenacious Vulcan daughter who loved scientific journals, the Arctic, and Ironman competitions—there you have my wife.
Yet, occasionally, she gets this glint in her eyes. It’s a slightly unhinged look, a whisper of summit fever. It’s eerie, oddly alluring, and incredibly frustrating all at once.
Together, we probed the ice with our ski poles. It felt solid enough. Our 100-pound golden retriever, Milo, clad in his sporty orange hunter’s vest, also explored the ice’s edge, then glanced up at us with a look that seemed to say: You can’t be serious.
The entire scene evoked a powerful déjà vu from half a lifetime ago, when we stood at the brink of another treacherous waterway. We were in our late 20s and newly married, hiking the Kalalau Trail in Kauai, Hawaii. It was an arduous 11-mile trek to a secluded beach, where we’d camped for a few days.
On our return, two miles from completing our journey, we encountered the Hanakapiai stream. We had crossed it on our way in, but recent heavy rains had transformed it into a raging river. Across the way, a large group of backpackers stood, apparently too frightened (and too sensible) to attempt a crossing.
