(Disclaimer: I am an employee of BMS. The opinions expressed here are my own.)
Do you ever wonder what leadership skills are required to advance an idea from concept to the precipice of regulatory approval? In this guest blog, Dr. Kristen Hege, senior vice president of Early Clinical Development, Hematology/Oncology & Cell Therapy at Bristol Myers Squibb (BMS), describes a harrowing tale hiking in the Sierra Mountains and what it taught her about leadership.
For background, Kristen has been working on cell therapies for more than two decades (link to BMS profile here, Nature Medicine interview here). As a post-doc and, eventually, head of clinical development at a now defunct Bay Area biotech company in the 1990’s, she did research on genetically engineered T cells and hematopoietic stem cells to redirect the immune system to specifically target and kill cancer and HIV-infected cells. More recently, Kristen was part of a team who published a pivotal study of a BCMA CAR-T therapy, ide-cel (or bb2121) in patients with relapsed and refractory myeloma (link to NEJM article here).
But here you will see another side of Kristen, who is widely revered among her biopharma peers as an adventurer par excellence. Some leaders welcome new interns with a box of donuts; Kristen welcomes interns by taking them hiking in the Sierras!
As a teaser, her spectacular misadventure taught her to prepare, gain perspective, search for possibilities, chart a path forward, and persevere.
Lessons Learned from Misadventure – Kristen Hege
Why is it that most adventure stories are actually chronicles of misadventure? This is because we usually learn far more from our challenges and setbacks than our easy wins. These stories of misadventure, resilience, and creative problem solving resonate more and provide profound life lessons and cherished memories.
Two summers ago, my husband Gib and I planned to spend a week over 4th of July backpacking with friends. Unfortunately, the previous winter was one of the biggest snow years of the century and the Western mountain ranges were still snowbound in mid-July. We booked and then cancelled a trip to Banff National Park when the weather forecast predicted continuous rain and snowstorms and pivoted to more familiar stomping grounds in the High Sierras of Northern California. While the terrain was still covered under 10 feet of snow, at least we had basic familiarity with the area where we had backpacked many prior summers. Our friends backed out and decided on a road trip in the sunny lowlands over the snowbound High Sierras.
Gib and I planned our 6-day trip with three days traversing familiar trails and 3 days branching out into new territory covering a 60-mile loop. We were experienced backpackers with good equipment and a GPS locater and satellite map to navigate across hidden snow-covered hiking trails (including an SOS button to summon Search & Rescue crews). Nevertheless, we headed out with some trepidation.
On Day 1, we entered the wilderness on a familiar sandy access trail. By mile 7, we had gained 1000 feet of elevation and hit the snowfields. The hiking trail was no longer visible and covered by 4 – 10 feet of snow. The going was slow as we had to stop every 15 minutes or so to check our ‘blue dot’ on the GPS navigation system and make sure we were still on (or at least over) the trail. We came to several creek crossings that were easy shin-deep streams in previous years, but this year contained glacially cold water reaching our waists. This gave us some pause, but at least the water was relatively still, the outside temperatures were warm and our gear was in waterproof bags – onward.
On Day 3, we headed into unfamiliar terrain, climbing out of a lake basin into Sierras High Country. There was no point in following the invisible switchback trail so we just booted straight up the side of the mountain with our hiking poles doubling as ice axes, exhausting but still doable. We came to the next lake where the lakeside trail was covered by a 30-degree wall of snow dropping directly into the ice-bound water. One slip would send us plummeting into the partially thawed but still icy lake. This was the first ah-hah moment. Do we continue the loop or retrace our 3-day path and return the way we had come? Was this an acceptable level of risk? If we slid into the lake, would we be able to climb out? At least the water was only 3-4 feet deep on the edge of the lake, the lakeside terrain flattened out a bit beyond the 100 foot steeply angled snowbank and the avalanches were coming down on the far side of the lake. It turns out that my husband is a creative problem solver, but I am the more confident optimist, so I looked at the snowfield, dug a few cautious steps into the sun-thawed crust of snow, and convinced myself it was doable. I went first and carefully booted my way across that snowy incline while Gib watched nervously. Once I made it across, he followed, singing to himself to cut through the anxiety.
When we made it around that lake, we breathed a sigh of relief, convinced that the worst was behind us. We booted up another steep incline to a higher lake that was still completely covered by snow and gingerly made our way across the massive snowfield that looked like swiss cheese, pockmarked with 1-2-foot-deep holes separated by narrow snow ridges. It turns out that small brown twigs on a white snowfield in the High Sierra summer sun quickly melt the surrounding snow creating large snow pits everywhere – who knew? We explored different strategies; attempting to walk on the ridges between the pits was faster, but we risked slipping into a snow pit and twisting an ankle. Stepping in and out of deep snow pits, on the other hand, was exhausting and took its toll quickly on your hip flexors. There was no perfect solution, so we rotated techniques; the going was slow.
On Day 4, our backpacking loop hit the south side terrain and the snow coverage lessened. We even saw the sandy trail a few times (more of a sandy-bottomed stream that we waded through, but close enough) and started to make more rapid progress. There was a raging creek on the side of the trail, but we didn’t have to cross it until we came to a meadow; it was wide and cold but navigable. All good. That night we camped lakeside on a sandy patch between sunbaked granite instead of snow and breathed a sigh of relief. This felt like the home stretch; we ate our freeze-dried dinner, drank some hot licorice tea, and watched the sun set over the Sierras from our private lakeside campsite with a ‘Ritz Carlton’ view. Life was good.
And then came Day 5. The visible south-facing trail quickly disappeared as we descended into the north side canyon wall above Cherry creek. The trail was non-existent, buried under 6 feet of water and steeply angled snowbanks. The first significant creek crossing through a meadow turned out to be chest deep. We held our backpacks over our heads and figured, worst-case scenario, we just swim across and tow our packs behind us. We would only be in the glacial water for 10-15 minutes; that wasn’t long enough to die of hypothermia. We forged onward.
The canyon walls got steeper after that, and the “creek” was a loud, raging torrent below us. We had to hike higher and higher up the canyon walls to get to terrain that was shallower in pitch and didn’t risk slipping off a cliff into the creek below. We were high above the trail in the thick and steep wooded snowbound forest. The problem with snow in the woods is that there are many hidden objects and weak layers. I “post-holed” into a 3-foot deep snow pit on the edge of a downed tree and snapped one of my carbon fiber hiking poles in half (not to mention banging up my shin and knee). It was hard enough to traverse this terrain with hiking poles for balance; it would be impossible without them. This is where Gib’s creative problem-solving skills came in handy. He found a small straight stick approximating the internal diameter of my pole, stuck it into either end of the broken pole (think of putting a rod into a fractured femur as a mental image), wrapped the fracture line with duct tape (in my emergency kit), and braced the whole thing by wrapping in lightweight rope from top to bottom. The splinted pole had a bit of flex at the fracture line but held my weight; onward.
The next 3 miles were the most formidable terrain of the trip. Each step was an effort, and crossing this area required intense concentration to avoid slipping or post-holing. The woods were snowbound, shady, and cold despite the dry granite and sun on the far canyon wall. We had a singular goal: reach the creek crossing at the canyon’s bottom and cross over to the sunny southside trail. Despite rapidly increasing physical and mental fatigue, we maintained our focus on this goal and carried on. The sound of the creek below us was intimidating though. Unlike the others, this creek crossing was still in the steep canyon and we didn’t know if it would be navigable given the massive snowmelt and high water levels. Each time we came near the creek, we looked for other “off-trail” creek crossings, but nothing looked particularly appealing.
Around 5pm we finally reached the intended creek crossing on the map. As we came down the canyon bank toward the creek, the sound of the water intensified. Unlike the relatively calm meadow crossings we had navigated to date, this crossing had rapids and white water and looked nothing like the trivial creek crossing of previous summers. Below the crossing was a downed tree with branches obstructing much of the creek and below that was a waterfall. The risk of falling during the crossing and becoming snagged in the downed tree or clearing the tree and being carried over the waterfall was high. We stopped to regroup and weigh our options. At that moment a fellow backpacker, one of the first we had seen on the trip, appeared on the far side of the creek. He yelled to us and asked if we were planning to attempt the creek crossing. His family had decided to camp for the night on the far side of the creek and then turn around the next day rather than attempt a crossing. But, and this is important, he did have a climbing rope and would be willing to help us with a rope-assisted crossing if we wanted to try. Gib and I regrouped and weighed our options: 1) we could attempt the creek crossing that afternoon with rope assist and continue to our intended lakeside campsite, 2) we could spend the night on our side of the creek and attempt a rope-assisted creek crossing early the following morning when the water level might be lower, or 3) we could spend an extra day backtracking along the snowy canyon wall, find a “better” creek crossing higher up and accept a 20-mile detour back to the trailhead. We decided to sleep on it.
We scrambled back up the canyon wall until we found a flat ledge wide enough to pitch our tent, ate our last freeze-dried meal and spent the next 2 hours engaged in a complex and nuanced strategic conversation weighing the pros and cons of each imperfect choice, our motivations and personal levels of risk tolerance, and how best to mitigate the risk of the different options. Gib brainstormed ideas for rigging a rope assist system (he is a former competitive sailor and rigging ropes is in his blood) and how we could “test the waters” by using this system to ferry our backpacks across the creek first before we attempted to ferry ourselves. We figured that we could craft two harnesses out of the suspension lines that we carried to hang our food, but debated whether we should put these around our upper thighs and waists (eg, like a rock-climbing harness to optimize our center of gravity) or around our chests (to ensure that our heads would stay above water if the current pushed us down and under the whitewater). We opted for the rock-climbing configuration (my choice). We acknowledged that even with the 20-mile detour, there was no guarantee that we would find a safer crossing, we would be short on food if we extended our trip by an extra day, and we wouldn’t have the benefit of a man with a rope on the far side of the creek. It was time to choose. I opted for the morning creek crossing and used my powers of optimism to help get Gib over the hump; he eventually concurred. Once we made our decision, I felt a sense of calm; now, it was all about focus and execution; the time for doubt was behind us. I crawled into the tent and fell asleep. On the other hand, Gib was still riddled with anxiety; what if our plan didn’t work, what if one of us died, how would he live with himself if it was me, how would he explain it to our daughters. Gib barely slept.
In the morning on Day 6, we rose early, packed our gear, ate a quick energy bar, and headed back down to the creek. The first letdown was that the creek’s water flow didn’t look much different from the previous afternoon, so much for that theory. We had one last debate about our options and then agreed to stay the course and proceed with our current creek crossing plan. We got out our emergency whistles and blew them to attract the attention of the couple camping on the far side of the creek. They showed up a few minutes later with their climbing rope in hand. While they had a rope, it quickly became apparent that they had no idea how to use said rope to assist us with the crossing. Gib instructed the rope man to walk upstream, attach one end of the rope to a rock, and then throw the rope across the creek while holding tight to the far end. Gib would wade out along the shallow rock bar and try to snag the rope with a long stick before the current got too swift. The rope thrower could then wind the far end around a tree and hold it tight (like a rock-climbing belay). We would attach the other end to our makeshift harnesses and pendulum ourselves in an arc through the current using the force on the rope as a counterbalance against the power of the water. The first 3 attempts at throwing the rope across the creek came up short and the rope cascaded rapidly down the rapids out of reach. On the 4th attempt, Gib snagged the rope with the stick and pulled it in – our first small success. Step two was to loop the far end of the rope around a tree and tie the near end to my backpack and then ferry the backpack across the creek. This went remarkably smoothly, and the backpack bobbed through the rapids and sailed in a nice arc to the eddy on the far side of the creek. This crossing took less than a minute, and the backpack was none the worse for wear. This small success buoyed my confidence as I figured that even if I stumbled and fell in the rapids and my head was held under by the force of the water, the rope would ferry me across to the far side before I had time to drown.
We both agreed that I should cross first, partly because I was more confident in our success than Gib and partly because my safe crossing would lessen his anxiety and make it easier for him to follow. He used his knot-tying skills and a carabinier to attach my makeshift harness to a loop in the rope. Without hesitation, I stepped out into the current. The immediate sensation was both scary and comforting. I could feel the powerful force of the rapidly flowing creek water against my lower body, but at the same time, I could feel the taut counterforce of my harness, attached to the rope, attached to the tree on the far side of the creek. This gave my feet a more solid footing, as when I leaned back against the rope, my feet were driven firmly into the rocks on the bottom of the creek. Slowly, I sidestepped my way in a perfect arc, facing the current head-on as I gingerly ferried myself across the creek while staying focused on maintaining my center of balance with each small step. Soon enough I was on the far side, upright and intact, bordering on euphoric—success number two.
We then moved onto Gib. He snagged the rope again after several failed attempts and ferried his backpack across the creek. Success number three, but this one was tinged by fear as, if he didn’t cross successfully, he would be stranded on the far side without any gear facing a 20-mile reverse hiking detour. Somehow in the next attempt at the rope throw, Gib snagged the far end, but the rope thrower accidentally let go of the near end and it catapulted downstream. This was a little too close for comfort as we came very close to watching the unanchored rope cascade over the waterfall with Gib stranded on the far side of the creek. After a few further attempts to throw the rope in the reverse direction and stern but calm instruction from Gib to the rope thrower not to let go of the far end of the rope when throwing it, we succeeded in having the rope attached to the tree and Gib attached to the rope. It was now his turn to cross the creek. In typical Gib fashion, he elected to sing out loud while crossing to dampen his fear. There were no hiccups, and soon he too was on the far side of the rapids and walking into the quiet eddy.
We high-fived and hugged the nice couple with the rope and said our good-byes as we still had 12 miles between our location and the trailhead and a few more snowfields and creeks to cross. It was at this point that the mental state between Gib and me pivoted. I had a sudden feeling of overwhelming fatigue; the need for laser-like mental focus and undoubting self-confidence to suppress the anxiety that might impede calm execution of the agreed upon plan had passed and left behind pure psychological exhaustion, combined with a backlog of stress in its wake. Gib, on the other hand, had been burdened with fear and anxiety all through the night and the morning’s rope throwing, backpack ferrying and creek crossing activities and now felt a sudden release, resulting in a state of anxiety-free euphoria. We laughed at our different strategies for facing and executing on difficult challenges, picked up our backpacks and started hiking.
So, what did I learn from this misadventure in the High Sierras? A few salient lessons for sure.
First, one can never be too prepared. We now carry a real rope on our backpacking trips, and I have watched countless you-tube videos on rope-assisted creek crossings and have learned how to better assess the risk of water crossings.
Second, when faced with unexpected setbacks and difficult choices, where all solutions are imperfect, it is best to sleep on it and tackle the problem again in the morning with a fresh perspective.
Third, taking the time to compile and vet all possibilities and risk mitigation strategies with as many views as possible is essential, as a half-baked strategy just might kill you.
Fourth, once you have settled on a path forward, we all have different mental strategies to ensure flawless execution in a high stress environment. Find your own path, whether it be temporarily locking the door on free-floating anxiety until the risk has passed or using that anxiety to bring out your best self, whatever it is, find what works for you and then practice it.
Finally, don’t let challenges and setbacks get you down; they often become our most cherished memories. Perseverance is crucial.
That backpacking trip remains one of my favorites and has settled into a family classic of wilderness misadventure.