Outdoor travel: Being in the "V Zone"

　　I always think about one question: Is the journey of life prearranged, or do we just go with the flow? Or is it entirely in our own hands? The questions I ponder are the same ones philosophers have been exploring for thousands of years.

　　In recent days, I heard about another mountaineering accident on Mount Siguniang, which deeply moved the hearts of every mountaineering enthusiast—those about to set off or already on their journey. It also brought back some of my own climbing experiences. My connection with the mountains is a mix of chance and inevitability. I come from the mountains, and after several years of special forces reconnaissance training and professional athletic skill training, I participated in planning and organizing multiple wilderness activities and outdoor cross-country challenge events. I still vaguely remember my first climb—it was to scale Yunnan’s Haba Snow Mountain, known as the "Flower of Gold."

　　It was a meticulously planned and well-organized climbing expedition. The team included nationally certified high-altitude guides, high-altitude doctors, high-altitude photographers with multiple high-elevation climbing experiences, and chefs. Over twenty of us gathered from all directions, traveled through Lijiang, and bumped along thrillingly through Tiger Leaping Gorge in a double-cab "Isuzu," arriving at Haba Village at the foot of Haba Snow Mountain. The first time I looked up at Haba Snow Mountain, peeking through the clouds, I was overjoyed. A rugged mountain trail leading to the base camp connected terraced high-altitude vegetation zones. To adapt to the high-altitude environment, most of us chose not to ride horses but to climb lightly equipped, with supplies transported by caravan, following the advice of professional coaches. After resting at the base camp for some days, the organizers conducted the final pre-summit training session on a large snow slope as planned. Under the guidance of professional high-altitude guides, everyone began practicing skills such as walking on snow, self-arrest techniques, rope work, and the use of ice-climbing equipment. The accompanying high-altitude doctor continuously monitored everyone’s physiological indicators, such as blood oxygen levels, from the start of the climb. The organizers also implemented very strict rules: anyone who failed the individual technical assessment or showed unstable physical conditions was not allowed to climb above the base camp, and the doctor had the final say on whether someone could continue. After rigorous technical and physiological screenings, nearly one-third of the team members were stopped at the base camp. I was fortunate enough to earn the right to continue. On the day of the summit push, relying on my good physical reserves, I charged all the way to Camp C1 at 4,900 meters and began setting up camp. At this point, the guide warned me to conserve energy and not get too excited—too excited, I said. Unconvinced, while setting up the camp, I sang loudly and even moved a bunch of rocks to turn my campsite into an unbreachable "fortress." About an hour later, everyone finished setting up their tents, and a few teammates invited me to play "Double Up" (a card game) inside the cramped high-altitude tent. After a few rounds, my stomach started acting up—I felt nauseous and began vomiting. Eventually, when it was my turn to play, I told them, "Wait, I need to throw up." I opened the tent flap, stuck my head out, vomited noisily, rinsed my mouth with snow water, and then continued playing... until I couldn’t play anymore. The doctor came over and advised me to rest and be observed. As night fell, I stayed alone in the tent, suffering from a headache and nausea, unable to lie down or sit comfortably. I took altitude sickness medication. At dawn, as the main group began their summit push, I started to feel better—the nausea had mostly disappeared, and I felt fine. When it was my team’s turn to climb, I even vowed to reach the summit. But my enthusiasm was quickly shattered by the climbing leader and the doctor: I was told, along with a few others suffering from altitude sickness, to be escorted down by the guide to the base camp at dawn. At the time, I didn’t understand—my fitness was definitely above average among the group, so why couldn’t I summit just because I felt a bit nauseous? I was quite upset. After repeated insistence by the guide and persuasion from teammates, I had no choice but to descend. On the way down to the base camp, my nausea gradually faded with the descending altitude and the sound of my footsteps, and I began to feel refreshed. Along the way, I saw snow lotuses and natural quartz crystals I had dreamed of. After several hours, we who called ourselves the "remnants of the defeated army" descended back to the base camp.

　　There seems to be some inexplicable “connection” between altitude sickness and the elevation one is at. Back at the base camp, those of us who had been like "dead fish" at Camp C1 suddenly had sparkles in our eyes again, competing for the only telescope to peek enviously at our teammates charging toward the summit. At that moment, the guide who had escorted me down suddenly whispered in my ear: "If you had listened to me yesterday afternoon, you would be summiting now!" Instantly, my face turned as red as my neck... Suddenly, a voice came through the walkie-talkie that stunned me: "So-and-so female climber has summited!" Looking toward the sound, it was the base camp commander’s walkie-talkie. What shocked me was that the seemingly weakest young girl had actually summited first?!

　　It seems that in mountaineering, the altitude you reach has nothing to do with gender or sheer enthusiasm, but everything to do with knowing yourself, controlling yourself, and scientifically managing your condition during the climb.

　　Six hours later, the teammates who charged to the summit began descending to the base camp one after another, and each climbing team started to count personnel and supplies. Soon after, the team leaders and the overall commander held a closed-door meeting. When it ended, I noticed they all looked tense, so I cautiously asked the guide and learned that one support team member was missing from both the summit registration list and the post-descent base camp tally. Ten minutes later, the entire base camp grew restless. Everyone began recalling the details of their time on the mountain. Quickly, a teammate around 40 years old remembered that when he reached the snow line, his crampon broke. A staff member—let’s call him "so-and-so"—decided to give the teammate his own crampons and then descend himself. Because the climbing group had spread out and they were the last team, no one noticed. The expedition leader acted immediately: "So-and-so must have gotten lost while descending below the snow line to the base camp." They launched a search and rescue operation for the missing person. Everyone prepared lighting, energy supplies, and cold-weather gear, and gathered experienced climbers and those in good physical condition to split into teams to conduct a thorough search of cliffs and descent routes below the snow line. And so, I climbed again from the base camp to Camp C1. With the lessons learned from before, I was more cautious this time, performing various technical maneuvers under the command of the team leader and searching along the way. When we reached C1, we carefully examined the area where "so-and-so" had described changing his crampons, based on descriptions from a few senior guides, and determined the missing teammate’s descent direction and route. We followed the route down in search until we reached a flat area at 4,300 meters, but found no trace of him. According to the prior plan, we returned to the base camp. After each team reported finding no signs of the missing person in their assigned search areas, most agreed that since he had substantial wilderness experience, he must have gotten lost while descending below the snow line and continued all the way down to Haba Village. By then, about five hours had passed since his descent. Calculating the distance from the snow line to Haba Village, he should have arrived in about an hour. We decided to wait another hour and a half—if he was safe, he would surely call the base camp from Haba Village via satellite phone. If not, it would mean he was in danger or worse, and we’d take further search measures.

　　That was the longest hour of my life. Everyone anxiously watched their climbing watches, counting second by second... Finally, after an hour and fifteen minutes, the satellite phone at the base camp rang out cheerfully. The commander snatched up the phone. It hovered by his ear as everyone held their breath and stared at him—eyes wide open, and then, with a deep sigh of relief, his brows relaxed. Everyone understood: the missing teammate had made it to Haba Village.

　　The next day after descending, I asked the missing teammate about his experience that day. He described it solemnly: after changing his crampons at the snow line, he descended alone. When he reached Camp C1, he faced several paths leading downhill and didn’t know which one to take, so he chose the middle one. As the altitude dropped, he felt increasingly uneasy—the terrain didn’t match the path from the base camp to C1. He realized he was lost. He walked a few hundred meters farther down when he suddenly heard the sound of a mountain stream. Based on his wilderness knowledge, he decided that following the stream would lead him to a village, and from there, he could find a way to contact the base camp via phone. So, with nothing to lose, he followed a small path along the stream, pushing through the bushes. The moment he emerged from the forest, he felt saved—a village with smoke rising from chimneys stood before him. He ran toward it, found the home of Old Zhao where the team had gathered before the climb, borrowed a phone, and made the call we had waited for what felt like ten years.

　　That Haba Snow Mountain climb was organized by a qualified outdoor activity provider, with multiple professional high-altitude guides and doctors ensuring safety. It was a professionally organized climb that fulfilled the long-cherished dream of reaching the snow-capped peaks for everyone involved. Yet, thinking back on my own climbing experience and the "lost and found" of my teammates, I still get goosebumps.

　　Linking this to the recent Mount Siguniang accident, the deceased is gone, and we hope they rest in peace in the pure snow. But this tragedy was also a mix of chance and inevitability. The chance was the "wind" from an amateur climbing supporter; the inevitability was that the climber did not register the activity, did not hire a qualified high-altitude guide, and acted on the fiery enthusiasm they had upon first arriving at Mount Siguniang. The combination of chance and inevitability brought the family and friends of the deceased face-to-face with the cruelest ice.

　　Thinking back to my Haba Snow Mountain climb, with a certified organizer, certified high-altitude guides, experienced high-altitude doctors, systematic technical training, a well-planned and tightly organized activity, risk prevention plans, and double personal and activity insurance to transfer risks—all of these formed a professional and systematic activity and risk management system. Yet, even with this nearly perfect "firewall," despite having a narrow escape, some problems and risks still occurred. The bloody lessons from the mounting number of climbing accidents in recent years tell us that every time we go outdoor climbing, we must prepare carefully, think things through, and guard against potential dangers:

　　First, understand and familiarize yourself with the comprehensive situation of the climbing destination, including geography and local customs. As Sun Tzu said, "Know the enemy and know yourself, and you can fight a hundred battles without disaster." Only by fully understanding the climate cycle of the climbing destination can you scientifically choose the best climbing period. Only by thoroughly understanding the terrain can you develop all necessary action plans, such as required climbing techniques and equipment. Only by understanding the local culture and customs can you minimize disturbances to local residents and gain their understanding and support. In short, the more detailed your knowledge of the local area, the more meticulous your plan will be, and the closer you’ll get to achieving your goals.

　　Second, build up your physical stamina. Stamina refers to an individual’s strength, speed, endurance, flexibility, and agility. Whether you’re an organizer or participant in mountaineering, you must treat stamina as the foundation of all climbing activities. Organizers should arrange reasonable stamina-building schedules based on the overall climbing timeline and design feasible exercise plans tailored to participants’ different work environments, setting phased goals and urging participants to follow through. Participants should combine their own physical condition with the constructive stamina plans provided by organizers, complete phased goals as required, and focus on gradual progress.

　　Third, prepare climbing skills. This means the ability to apply climbing techniques, such as walking on snow slopes, self-arrest, rope work, rock climbing, and ice climbing. Both organizers and participants should develop learning and practice plans based on detailed information gathered from preliminary site surveys. For those planning to undertake more challenging climbs, individuals can enroll in systematic climbing skill training offered by relevant national agencies. Upon passing assessments, they may also obtain authoritative industry certifications.

　　Fourth, prepare materials and equipment. Neither organizers nor participants should underestimate the impact of equipment on climbing. Proper and high-performance gear can protect climbers. Choose practical and cost-effective climbing equipment based on actual conditions such as weather and geography observed during preliminary surveys.

　　Fifth, unify knowledge with action and act within your abilities. During the climb, follow instructions, don’t show off, and act within your limits. Also, keep organizers informed of your real-time stamina and high-altitude adaptation status so they can make timely action plans.

　　Sixth, seek professional support. Whether traveling independently or joining a group, choose a formal service provider or individual with relevant industry qualifications. According to data from the China Mountaineering Association’s research group on mountaineering accidents, nearly 90% of domestic mountaineering incidents since 2005 have been caused by illegal organizers (such as online groups)—unqualified individuals organizing activities via posts on websites. Due to a lack of professional knowledge, risk control awareness, and scientific execution plans, many precious lives have been cut short. Moreover, after accidents occur, disputes over liability are common, and the risk-bearing capacity of organizers is almost zero, making the pursuit of justice a marathon. Therefore, choose qualified service providers—not just select them, but verify their credentials. After selecting a provider, ask them to provide professional service contracts, protection plans, and risk control plans, and require them to purchase team and individual insurance to enhance your risk resilience.

　　Seventh, prepare for other professional needs. Such as food, nutrition, hygiene, pest prevention, and personal medications. Additionally, inform your family and friends of your "whereabouts and plans" so that those who care about you always know where you are, what you’re doing, and what you need.

　　In short, only with complete preparation can you have a perfect activity; only with foresight can you have an extraordinary experience.

　　Just as I believe, the journey of life is not something we figure out as we go. Only with ample preparation, planning, and arrangement can we stay away from depression, sadness, helplessness, and embarrassment, and embrace a brighter future.

　　Outdoor travel: Being in the V Zone.