Not Reckless—Relentless: The Alpine Power of Creative Vision

By Wyatt Jobe, MTI Athlete

After a brief and humbling introduction to an Alaskan winter season, I found myself pulled under by the weight of its terrain. The winter was relentless, and the average mountain in Alaska felt vertical in every direction. Access was convoluted and often shut down by logistics before a line could even be scoped, and anything below M5 was typically buried in snow, buried in risk, or simply too technical for my comfort level. Alaska forced a reckoning—not just with physical limits, but with the depth of my own confidence. 

I wanted to break into the ski mountaineering scene up there, but every time I floated a line or idea, I was met with caution, skepticism, or straight-up dismissal: You can’t do that, You’ll get caught in an avalanche, That’s not how it’s done here. The unspoken rule seemed to be: follow the standard descent, ski the one “safe” line someone drew on the mountain a decade ago—as if  there’s only ever one way down. Any deviation from the norm felt unwelcome, like creative decision-making was a liability instead of a strength. Eventually, I started to believe it. I got anxious, hesitant, and stuck in my own head—trying to reconcile the way I wanted to move through the mountains with what people told me was possible. 

Without a solid seasonal patrol job to anchor me, and feeling boxed in by both the terrain and my confidence, I packed my gear and pointed it south. Colorado wasn’t the plan, but it was accessible, and it paid. I showed up with a ski mountaineering kit, a week’s worth of clothes in a carry-on, and a desire to perform better. After my first week patrolling at a backcountry resort, I borrowed my sister’s car and headed straight to the trailhead beneath Torreys Peak. I didn’t know the route names, didn’t need to. I wasn’t chasing anything in particular—I was chasing mental clarity. 

The basin was delivered. The ridge—exposed, serrated, compelling—pulled me in immediately. Later I’d learn it was Kelso Ridge. At the time, it didn’t matter. The conditions were rare for February: solid, consolidated snow sewn into stone. An unprecedented greenlight. 

Climbing felt intuitive, almost surgical. The knife-edge sharpened my focus, and every move felt like a line from a language I hadn’t spoken in months. When the ridge gave way to a view of the north face, the Emperor Couloir stood out to my psyche like obviously that’s the route. I dropped lower for a better angle on the choke—tight, steep, aesthetic. It spoke to me. I didn’t ask if it would go—I knew it would and would figure it out if it didn’t. 

I traversed along the features, looking for what felt right. I committed to the north face via a rocky sub-ridge, picking through mixed terrain where snow plastered the holds and rock weakness was abundant. I picked my way up the ridge in what felt very natural, building confidence and attempting to want a little more exposure, I traversed into an exposed slab, and the exposure hit hard. Unroped, front-pointing on frosted schist, I could feel the consequence in the scraping of my crampons, as I sought anything to feel more secure. I froze for a second, mind running through every warning, every voice that told me not to try things like this solo. 

I started picturing the fall—bouncing down rock, tomahawking, the whole thing. But then the visualization flipped. I could see my next placements. I knew what would stick and what wouldn’t. The climb unfolded in my mind before I even moved. A few more tool swings and I was out of it, pulling onto steep snow and positive terrain. The relief hit like a wave. 

The doubt I experienced wasn’t mine alone—it was the collective voice of every critic who’d said I shouldn’t. I saw myself fall. I saw the whole thing unravel. 

The final ridge offered clean snow and a natural finish. The summit came and went with the apex of the climb happening 20 minutes prior— All the summit offered was wind, silence, and recognizing something deep in my chest finally settled. 

The line rode smooth, fast. Looking back up, I felt this mix of disbelief and clarity. I had no plan, no beta, just the stubborn urge to move the way I needed to. That’s what made it work. That’s what self-doubt had stripped from me—and what I had to take back. 

A few days later, back among the usual Camp 4 vibe of the resort, I mentioned the climb. The response was immediate: That’s not the standard route. You’ve gotta boot the couloir if you want to ski from the top. 

They thought I was asking for beta. They didn’t realize I was offering a report. That moment hit harder than expected. If I’d had that conversation before the climb, I might’ve listened. I might’ve deferred. I might’ve said no. But I didn’t. 

That day wasn’t about tagging the summit—it was about self-expression. Reclaiming personal vision. Shaping terrain into something that matched my internal narrative. In that space between doubt and commitment, I found something sharper than any form of ambition. 

We don’t climb because we’re ambitious—we climb because we’ve shaped a creative vision so relentless it refuses to stop at the edge of what’s reasonable. When we trust it—fully, irrationally—it becomes the most honest form of movement we have. 

Most of us won’t be the first to summit anything. But we all encounter our own limits—epics in controlled settings, claiming routes with names only a small obscure group knows. These moments are no less transformative. In the Alpine, we confront ourselves as much as the terrain. Sometimes we summit. Other times we bail. Either way, we learn. 

To dream big in the Alpine is not foolish—it is foundational. Let your mind wander freely. See yourself succeeding before you talk yourself out of it. Picture the impossible. At first, you might imagine yourself standing atop Olympus Mons, the tallest mountain in the solar system—only to laugh and scale it back to something more earthly. But in the act of scaling back, you’ll land somewhere just beyond what you thought possible. 

This is where growth lives—not in avoiding Delusions of Grandeur, but in refining them. The Intersection of Suffering and Imagination 

Alpine creativity is born in the shadow of struggle. It sharpens in the chosen sufferings, where eyelashes freeze shut and ropes get stuck. Whether it’s a failed ascent, a storm that forces retreat, or the slow realization of unpreparedness, these moments force us to adapt. And in that discomfort, something powerful is forged: a new way forward. 

Our “delusions” become tools—spiritual pitons driven into the psyche—that allow us to push boundaries, redraw lines, and redefine what’s possible. Without them, all we have left is suffering for its own sake. With them, we transform fear into focus and doubt into design. 

Wyatt is a wilderness paramedic and alpinist who spends most of his time in Valdez, AK.