Lessons From The Backcountry

A few weeks ago, I was doing some competitive research and realized a lot of employee advocacy content out there just… sucks. We’ve all seen endless spotlight pieces about the “rockstar” employees of the world, so rather than doing more of the same, I wanted to give the people of Karsh Hagan the microphone — an open space to talk about what they love and what makes them who they are, and in turn, how that makes them so good at what they do. 

Why all this context? We’re launching a series at Karsh Hagan about what makes our employees who they are. What they love to do when they’re outside the office — and why it’s so important to us to maximize our time outside the office, so that we can do the best possible work when we’re inside it.

So to kick things off, here’s my take.

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At the end of 2023, I went backcountry skiing for the first time ever. From there, the natural progression of interest-turned-hobby-turned-obsession took hold. Before I made it back to the trailhead, I was hooked. 

The process of backcountry skiing is deliberate, almost meditative: waking up before the sunrise, packing up gear and double (see: triple) checking that you don’t forget your skins. It starts with skinning up, snow crunching under your skis as the world wakes up. You start cold and warm up as the sun rises, watching your breath freeze in the air. The real fun, though, starts after the grind — a euphoric descent through untouched snow, where gravity congratulates you on the hard work uphill and finally works with you. It’s fleeting and perfect. 

Skinning uphill isn’t fast and it isn’t flashy. It’s a quiet grind that strips away distractions. Your mind wanders at first, then narrows. Step, slide. Step, slide. You start hearing answers to questions you didn’t know you were asking. It’s that process of going into the backcountry, feeling small, and tossing around big questions that made me fall in love with it. It’s about skiing, sure; but being in the backcountry, to me, is also an allegory for the hard stuff in life. 

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It’s where you stand tall in the face of an excruciatingly demanding physical task. It’s where it can be disorienting to parse your own desires and interests from the gatekeepers and old guards who aren’t exactly happy to welcome someone new into their sport. It’s where you figure out how to navigate situations where the margins for error are nonexistent. 

But it also teaches you to stretch the limits of your own capacity and see yourself in a new way. In my eyes, the best way to pursue life is with the same ethereal reverence and curiosity that we pursue outdoor adventures with. You lose yourself. You find yourself. You come back to your own awareness with a newfound sense of gratitude, strength, and capability. 

At the end of the day, being in the backcountry is a constant game of calculus where you’re balancing ego vs. humility, risk vs. consequence, your risk tolerance vs. your partner’s risk tolerance; toeing the line at the edge of your comfort zone and saying a silent prayer to the mountains that you don’t find it. 

That same game of calculus isn’t just for the mountains. It’s the same skillset we bring to work, whether we’re tackling a new project, stepping into uncharted roles, or challenging the status quo. The backcountry teaches you to trust your instincts, listen to the team around you, embrace the discomfort as a sign that you’re growing, and of course, respect the veto. It’s a reminder that the hard stuff — at work, in life, or on the skin track — often holds the most meaning. 

In the end, the lesson is the same: show up curious enough to ask the hard questions, prepared enough to navigate what’s ahead, and willing to grow — even when, especially when, it’s uncomfortable. 

Because when you stand on the summit, breathing hard and looking out over everything you’ve earned, the view is always worth it.

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