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The Mountain That Doesn't Care About Your Resume
Here's something that took me a while to understand about risk: it doesn't care how impressive you are.
Kate Matrosova had climbed Mount McKinley. She'd summited Kilimanjaro. She ran marathons for fun and was a world-class judoka. In 2015, this remarkable athlete decided to do a training hike in New Hampshire's White Mountains — a region she'd been to before, just a day's drive from her New York City home.
She planned to knock out four summits in one day. Madison, Adams, Jefferson, and Washington. Ambitious, sure. But she was Kate Matrosova. She'd done harder things in her sleep.
Her husband dropped her off at the trailhead that morning. She'd packed exactly what her plan required — nothing more, nothing less. Everything else was back in her apartment in Manhattan.
And then the mountain laughed.
A Day That Should Have Been Cancelled
The forecast that day was vicious. We're talking negative 20 degrees Fahrenheit with winds hitting 100 miles per hour — and gusts up to 125. That's not hiking weather. That's "maybe consider staying in bed" weather.
Mount Washington, the centerpiece of her planned route, is often called one of the most dangerous peaks in the world. Corey Fitzgerald, a New Hampshire mountain guide, has said it's the eighth deadliest mountain on Earth. The weather there can go from "brisk" to "trying to kill you" in the time it takes to check your phone.
But here's the thing: Matrosova had decided she was doing this hike. She'd mentally committed. And once we're locked into a plan, something strange happens to our brains. We stop seeing new information as reasons to reconsider. Instead, we start seeing it as obstacles to overcome.
She didn't get the weather alert texts on her phone. She didn't see messages from her fiancé that might have given her pause. By the time conditions really started deteriorating, she was already committed. She had momentum. And momentum, it turns out, is one of the most dangerous things on a mountain.
The Sunk Cost Fallacy Hits Different at 6,000 Feet
I want to talk about something that risk management expert Ty Gagne has studied extensively — and that I think about way more than I probably should.
It's called "sunk cost thinking." You probably know it from relationships or careers: you've invested so much time/money/effort into something that you keep going even when every rational signal says turn back. The classic example is sitting through a terrible movie because you already paid for the ticket.
But on a mountain, sunk cost thinking wears a different face.
Matrosova had driven up from New York. She'd taken time off. She'd committed to the plan. Her gear was exactly calibrated for this specific route. When she encountered early warning signs — bad weather, tight timing — her brain didn't see them as reasons to abort. It saw them as challenges to push through.
"The cascade of red flags we ignored or marginalized over the course of the outing" — that's how Gagne describes it. One small problem becomes two. Two becomes three. And by the time you're in real danger, you're so deep in the hole that turning back feels like admitting defeat.
The cruel irony? She was training for Everest. A mountain where every decision is life or death. You'd think that would make her hyper-aware of risk. But maybe — maybe — all that training made her overconfident in her ability to handle whatever the White Mountains threw at her.
Hubris is a hell of a drug.
What Goes Wrong, Goes Wrong in a Chain
Gagne, who's written a book about Matrosova's final climb, talks about how things don't usually go catastrophically wrong all at once. Instead, they go wrong in a chain.
You start a little behind schedule. No big deal. The weather's a little worse than expected. You'll make up time. You're feeling good — maybe slightly tired, but adrenaline's doing its thing. By the time you're above treeline in whiteout conditions with the wind trying to rip your face off, your decision-making is already compromised.
And Matrosova was alone. I want to be careful here because solo hiking is valid and meaningful to many people. But Gagne makes a point that sticks with me: having another person introduces a "helpful type of friction." Someone to say "hey, maybe we should turn around." Someone to offer an alternative you hadn't considered. Someone to break the spell when you've convinced yourself that continuing is the only option.
That friction? It's not weakness. It's safety equipment.
The Lesson That Isn't About Mountains
Here's where I think this story matters for people who will never climb Mount Washington.
Gagne works with groups now, using backcountry examples to teach decision-making. And he asks people to do something simple: replace the mountain with their workplace, their home, whatever they're passionate about.
Because the dynamics that get us into trouble at 4,000 feet? They exist at sea level too.
Think about that project at work where you kept pushing even though the signs were bad. The relationship where you stayed too long. The business idea you poured everything into even as warning bells rang.
The human factors are the same. Commitment to a plan. Sunk cost. Momentum. The way we rationalize red flags instead of responding to them.
And here's what I've come to believe: competence makes us more vulnerable, not less. The better we get at something, the more we trust ourselves to handle whatever comes up. Until something comes up we can't handle.
The Simplest Piece of Wisdom
There's a line near the end of Gagne's reporting that I keep coming back to. He points out that climbing a remote Himalayan peak requires months of preparation and tens of thousands of dollars. Once you're committed, you can't just walk away — there's too much invested, too much at stake.
But a hike in New Hampshire? You can leave without worrying about sunk costs. You can simply come back another day.
A warmer month. With a friend. With a guide. After more training.
Just take a moment. You'll have time to try again.
That's not weakness. That's wisdom.
And it's a lesson that applies whether you're standing on a windswept peak or sitting at your desk on an ordinary Tuesday.
The mountain will always be there. You won't get a second chance to walk away.