Why Loving the Mountains Means Learning Wilderness Medicine

Outdoor adventure carries real risks, and wilderness medicine may be the difference between a close call and a tragedy.

Mount Whitney in the Eastern Sierra Nevadas. Credit: Riley Hester

The rhythm and flow of the mountains are a presence I find myself constantly craving. Early alarms, headlamps flickering in the dark, stiff legs that haven’t yet forgiven yesterday's miles. There's a familiar comfort in the repetition of steps and breath, where mental clutter dissolves and the only focus is the simple, steady motion of moving uphill. Everything becomes quieter and sharper at the same time. 

And yet, it's not just about the calm. There’s something addictive about testing limits. Just look at Alex Honnold, who recently free climbed a skyscraper on live television. The pull to reach higher, to cover more remote terrain, and to move past what feels comfortable is irresistible for those accustomed to adventure. There is a particular kind of magic that comes with increased risk. I have found myself in multiple situations where the scale of danger exceeded my better judgement, yet I am quick to forget this fear and focus instead on the thrill of the story.

Until recently, I felt extremely at peace with this love of risk. My parents, however, were less convinced. They encouraged me to take a Wilderness First Responder course, hoping that if something were to go wrong, I would at least have some idea of what to do. At the time, it felt like over-caution—unnecessary, I thought, considering my experience and competence in the outdoors. 

Nevertheless, I heeded their advice and came to campus a week early to complete a Wilderness First Responder course through Pomona’s Outdoor Education Center (OEC). I expected to learn some basic skills—bandaging, maybe CPR. Instead, each day after class I walked home replaying scenarios I had just learned about: uncontrolled severe bleeding, spinal injuries, altitude illness, hypothermia. We ran simulations of chaotic accident scenes—packing deep wounds, stabilizing a “patient” with a suspected shoulder injury without moving their spine, and improvising splints and litters from backpacks and skis. The training was designed to feel real, with limited supplies and time pressure.

I kept asking myself how I had made it through so many trips without knowing any of this. What if someone I had been hiking with had been bitten by a snake miles from the trailhead? Would I have known when a headache was just exhaustion—or the beginning of something life-threatening at altitude? The more I learned, the clearer it became that my safety owed less to control or competence than to luck.

Prior to the OEC training, I had considered myself completely prepared in the outdoors. I made sure to carry many layers, enough snacks and water, iodine to filter water, headlamps, and phones with AllTrails maps downloaded. Sure, all of that preparation is important, but I had miscalculated: I was counting upon my gear and fitness alone to keep me safe. At the time, I thought that preparation meant being ready to feel uncomfortable—a feeling I expected and even welcomed—not necessarily being ready for what could go wrong. 

That difference is exactly where wilderness medicine matters. It isn’t about fear-mongering or expecting the worst; it's about acknowledging that if something does go wrong outdoors, the stakes are higher and help is farther away. A twisted ankle or dehydration on campus is an inconvenience, yet those same complications miles from a trailhead might be life-threatening if you don’t know how to assess, stabilize, and evacuate safely. 

The risks aren't abstract or hypothetical. Many of us have had friends or family forward us the same headline: “Three Hikers Found Dead on California’s Mount Baldy.” 

What makes devastating news—like the headline from Baldy—especially unsettling is that it’s rarely the result of a single catastrophic mistake. Beyond a lack of basic outdoor training, these tragedies often are a result of something the outdoor community doesn’t like to confront: ego. The outdoors rewards confidence and grit, but those same traits can propel us into poor decision-making. Peer pressure, summit fever, and the desire to prove ourselves can cause us to ignore warning signs, stay out too long, or take risks we wouldn’t be able to rationally justify. I am the first to admit that I love to push my limits and hate having to back down from something. 

But outdoor leadership isn’t just about fitness or enthusiasm. It's also about awareness: of the people we move with, the environments we pass through, and the moments when something begins to shift for the worse. I've known multiple people at the Claremont Colleges who’ve had scary encounters outdoors, close calls with weather, and injuries that could have escalated. But when everyone makes it back safely, those experiences tend to fade with time.

As a campus community, we need to take wilderness medicine more seriously. Consider attending a wilderness safety workshop at the OEC or taking a Wilderness First Aid or First Responder Course. Be sure to always clearly communicate trip plans and work to understand region-specific risks.

Wilderness medicine doesn’t fully eliminate the risk or dull the magic of being outside. Loving the mountains and craving adventure means respecting them—and respect demands preparation, not just for the summit, but for everything that happens along the way.