Avoiding bad experiences requires good judgment. The irony is that good judgment is usually gained through bad experiences. I learned this the hard way in the dead of winter, 1994, during an unplanned bivouac at 13,000-feet on Washington State’s Mt. Rainier.

My partner Jack Lambert and I left our 10,000-foot high camp at 6 a.m. after spending a brief night there. Steep styrofoam snow squeaked under my crampons, and the sun rose to greet us. Higher, the wind increased and we slowed way down, hunching over our ice axes for balance. My balaclava and goggles were encased in ice from my labored breath, which froze instantly. Hours later, when we reached the crater rim, I crawled toward the summit to avoid being blown off the mountain. One day earlier I’d been at sea level in Seattle. Now I was at 14,411-feet, where I remained for less than a minute.

As we staggered down the glacier roped together the wind intensified, and we were enveloped by whiteout. At one point Jack walked off the edge of a ten-foot snowdrift ripping me off my feet. Without visibility we couldn’t possibly get down safely. We were forced to bivouac.

Jack and I sat down in the snow together … and waited.

In an exceptional display of bad judgment we didn’t carry the following items (any one of which would have increased our safety immensely): shovel, bivy sack, stove, sleeping bag. The main problem with our open bivy (other than the mind-numbing cold) was that we couldn’t find shelter. We climbed the Gibraltar Ledges, a direct and technically easy route, so a lightweight snow shovel would’ve allowed us to dig a large enough hollow or snow cave to escape the wind. Instead, we pathetically scraped away at the slope with our ice axes but they were no match for the wind and snow, which refilled our work as quickly as we hacked away.

Ice caked the inside of my clothing, two layers deep. The wind blasted snow into every zipper, pocket, and sleeve of my pitiful armor. Even the lightest bivy sack would have partially blocked the wind, creating a cocoon of relative warmth. A bivy sack apiece on winter alpine climbs is crucial.

On any outdoor adventure water is life, and the ability to melt snow on winter climbs is vital. A stove would have had us swilling hot liquid all night, keeping our core temps closer to normal. We could have eaten a proper meal as well, rather than gnaw on icy bagels.

Finally, a sleeping bag – though not essential – would have been luxurious. Unless you’re planning to camp however, you probably won’t want the weight and bulk of a sleeping bag per person. One bag per climbing team is plenty for survival, as long as you have a shovel, stove, and bivy sacks. Jack and I could have stuffed into one bag simultaneously, used it as a blanket, or swapped it back and forth.

After the ordeal I wrote in my journal about the bivy:

My body vibrates with cold that penetrates my inner being. I close my eyes; suddenly a tent appears that we can crawl into, and a ring of stones with enough wood for a warm fire ... “Chris!” Jack’s voice is distant. “Don’t fall asleep or you won’t wake up.” He’s right. I flex my arms, my torso, my legs, then wiggle my fingers and toes. Thank God I can still feel my digits. Time stands still in a barren dreamscape. I cough up blood, a symptom of pulmonary edema. Jack’s toes are frozen.

After ten dark and desperate hours the horizon glowed orange and the wind calmed enough for us to descend. I stood up feebly, like a newborn horse. The lack of coordination alarmed me. We hobbled down the mountain for hours, reaching our high camp 25 hours after leaving it. Two climbing rangers stared at us like we were ghosts; they couldn’t believe that we’d survived near the summit. Five of Jack’s toes and both of his thumbs were black with frostbite. Miraculously, I was unscathed.

Despite many egregious errors regarding both strategy and equipment, we survived after all. The indispensable gear that kept me alive included a heavy, hooded down parka, Gore-Tex jacket and pants, plastic double boots, two pairs of socks (one thin synthetic, one thick wool), Dachstein mitts (dense, old school mittens made of boiled wool) and Gore-Tex mittens, two balaclavas (one thin synthetic, one thick wool), and ski goggles. Of course, the gear and clothing I had in 1994 is obsolete today, having been replaced by lighter, warmer, and more effective items. But even the best gear in the world won’t save a fool on judgment day.

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