Eight Years of Travel Have Changed My Tolerance for Risk

It's actually a bit lower than before. It might be because I've seen what happens to folks who take greater risks.

For the audio version of this article, read by the author, go here.

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In our first year of nomading, Michael and I spent part of the summer in Bansko, Bulgaria — a winter ski town that was fast becoming a year-round destination for expats and nomads.

On Saturday afternoons, the local ski resort opened the chairlifts to give people access to the alpine hiking trails, and one day, Michael and I joined a group of fifteen or so nomads for one of these excursions.

Up in the mountains of Bulgaria.

But high on one of those mountain hikes, someone pointed off-trail and said, “You know, I bet if we headed this way, we’d end up back down in town.”

Some of the group was intrigued, but I looked to where this guy was pointing, and yeah, the town was probably down there somewhere — but there was a pile of massive boulders between here and there.

Plus, it was already late afternoon, and the chairlifts would soon stop running. And did I mention we were high in the mountains?

So I said, “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

What I meant was: Are you people out of your freakin’ minds?

“Oh, come on,” someone else said. “It’ll be an adventure.”

But Michael and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes. And before long, the larger gathering split into two groups: most of us returning to the chairlift, but a group of six or so heading off over those boulders.

Photo by Chinmay B on Unsplash

I thought these folks were complete idiots, but they were all adults, and I didn’t know any of them well. What could I do?

That night, I wondered what became of them, but it wasn’t until the next morning that I learned they hadn’t made it back to town until four AM. That pile of boulders had turned out to be something of a sheer cliff, and by the time they realized how dangerous a climb it was, they were already halfway down with no good options.

Two people went to the hospital, one with a twisted ankle and another with symptoms of hypothermia. It was a good thing no one died.

No one thought it had been “an adventure.”

Scientists have long known that some folks are drawn to risky activities specifically because they’re risky. The sense of danger releases pleasurable chemicals in their brains.

You know, like serial killers.

And I’ve long known I am not drawn to activities like that. It must be partly because I don’t get these chemicals in my brain, but it’s mostly because I want to go on living, preferably with the use of all my limbs.

Even before I became a nomad, there were people in my life who had a risk tolerance that was some degree of different from mine — and I was always some degree of appalled by the choices they made.