Kathy and I came within a few feet of not making it to age 20.

When we were just out of high school, my girlfriend (now wife) and I decided we wanted to join the Mazamas, a climbing club in the Portland area. One of the membership requirements was successfully summiting a glaciated peak, so we took the club’s mountain climbing class which culminated in a Memorial Day weekend climb of Mount Hood.

Our group of 10 left Timberline Lodge before daybreak and headed up the mountain on what promised to be a beautiful clear spring day. While Mount Hood is not the most difficult peak to ascend, it is still a technical climb. Our gear included crampons, ice axes, helmets, ropes and harnesses, and we picked our steps carefully as we climbed, crossing over crevasses, traversing glaciers, and kick-stepping up snowfields.

As we neared the final ascent, our group was roped together to move carefully across an icy slope. Kathy and I were in the middle of the string when we heard the universal warning shouted from far upslope “Rock! Rock! ROCK!”

We looked up to see snow, scree, rocks and boulders kicked loose by another climbing group and careening downslope directly toward us. We tried to move out of the path of the tumbling debris, but Kathy and I found that we were stuck; our fellow climbers on opposite ends of the rope had stepped quickly out of the path of the falling rocks, leaving Kathy and me dangling on the rope like puppets on a string. Our only hope was to hit the ground in a fetal position and pray.

The rocks, snow and ice rained on us. Closing my eyes and tucking my head, I felt a sudden jolt as the rope violently tugged me in Kathy’s direction. She felt the same coming from my way, and then the debris fall ended, leaving us half covered and shaken but otherwise unharmed.

We heard members of our group yelling out “Is she OK?” and “Is he OK?”

They were asking about us — because there, lying directly on the rope between us was an easy-chair-sized boulder. Three feet either way, the rock would have crushed one of us.

After gathering our collective wits, the group disconnected from the rope and pulled it out from under the boulder, roped up again, and successfully finished the climb to the summit and the descent back to Timberline.

Kathy and I decided mountain climbing was not for us.

I have been thinking a lot lately about these kinds of backcountry adventures, spurred on by different articles I have read about experienced backcountry adventurers being caught in an avalanche, attacked by a mountain lion, or falling from a rock face.

Our public land backcountry gives us the opportunity for all sorts of experiences that need no one else’s permission. The thrills that await us are limited only by our imagination and daring. Caving, rock climbing, skiing sheer mountain faces and snow chutes, multi-day backpacking treks, even just sharing space with bears or lions; each allows us to experience living on the edge, however we choose to define it.

Some think that facing these sorts of challenges is foolish, others feel it is what makes them fully alive. They thrive on experiences where the outcome is not assured, and where preparation, physical condition, experience, training, equipment, and yes, even a little luck might come into play.

I have reached the point when I no longer crave the adrenaline rush that comes from daring mother nature. At the same time, I respect that others thrive on this type of adventure, and I am grateful we have public lands where we can immerse ourselves in the untamed world.