I had no reason for my terrible feeling of dread—and that was part of the problem. From the moment my boyfriend, Tim, and I arrived in Tajikistan to climb two 7,000-meter peaks, something felt off. It wasn’t a fear I could name; it was more like a constant, unnerving hum.
A helicopter dropped us off, landing on a jagged glacier that would serve as our base camp and a refuge from avalanches from the surrounding peaks. The helicopter flew far too low, skimming ice that looked sharp enough to tear it open. You could see the glacier from inside because there was a gaping hole in the back—a panel was missing, a sign of its age.
Once the helicopter left, we were alone with a handful of other climbers, to be collected a month later. It was 2018, and Tim and I had organized our expedition independently, as I often do. Handling it ourselves meant greater responsibility, but it also kept costs down. The Pamir mountains aren’t as well-known as the Andes or Himalayas, but they are extremely remote and ticked all the boxes for what we look for in a climb.
On paper, the plan was simple. The reality was different. The route was far more technical than the limited accounts and climbing logs we’d read online had suggested. Every day involved steep ice climbing, unstable slopes, crevasses, and a very real deadline—if you weren’t off certain ice walls by about 4 p.m., the ground would start melting beneath you in a giant landslide. Avalanches were common most days, and rockfalls narrowly missed us, though such hazards aren’t unusual in climbing. Even the fixed lines—ropes set up to assist climbers—turned out to be unusable; they were more like garden twine. Luckily, we had brought our own rope and gear.
But it wasn’t just the difficult conditions that unsettled me. From the moment we were dropped off, something hadn’t felt right, and that feeling never went away. It wasn’t fear of failure or letting others down—I’d turned back or dropped out of climbs many times before. It was something quieter, harder to define. We were operating with more uncertainty than we’d planned for, so every decision felt heavier. Something was telling me we needed to get off the mountain.
I promised myself and Tim that we would climb cautiously. The first peak, Korzhenevskaya (known as Ozodi Peak since 2020), proved too dangerous to justify continuing, and we turned back at about 6,800 meters. It just wasn’t worth it.
Back at base camp, we waited for the helicopter to pick us up, but the flight wasn’t booked until August 12, five days away. I kept asking the local coordinators if we could leave early, but they were reluctant to change the schedule. Most people spoke only Russian. We were isolated and tired, but I had to accept that we would just have to wait.
Then, the day before we were due to fly, we heard the distant thud of rotors. Another pickup was landing—but not for us. I remember feeling deflated. Then someone shouted my name. Unexpectedly, they said that if we were quick, we could squeeze in.
We packed in a blur and ran. I was coughing hard with every step from altitude sickness and exhaustion. Even base camp had been a brutal experience, with no creature comforts at all.
As we took off, the helicopter barely cleared the peak of the glacier where we had been stationed. Tim and I held hands the entire flight, and when we landed safely, I felt something I hadn’t felt in weeks: safety and quiet.The next day, the same helicopter returned to pick up the remaining climbers. We later learned the devastating news that it never made it back. The flight we had been scheduled to take crashed into the glacier, killing five people. The 13 survivors were found only after spending a terrifying night alone among the wreckage. Tragically, two of those who died had been sitting in the exact seats we had occupied—the two at the very back. The tail struck the edge of an ice tower and sheared off, taking those two seats with it and sending the aircraft into freefall.
Back in London, life went on for Tim and me. We had been on many expeditions before, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how this trip to Tajikistan had felt different from the very beginning.
Since then, I’ve learned always to listen to my gut, no matter what. I know it’s normal to feel nervous before an adventure—in fact, it’s often helpful. It sharpens your senses and pushes you to fill in any gaps in your preparation. But I’ve also learned that fear and intuition are not the same. Fear is loud and wants you to stop; gut instinct is usually quieter and doesn’t always explain itself. It simply asks you to pay attention.
Now, if something doesn’t feel right, I don’t ignore it. I understand how important it is to speak up and take action, even when it might seem unreasonable. You may not always get another chance.
Into the Wild by Lucy Shepherd is published by Penguin Michael Joseph on 16 April (£25). To support the Guardian, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
Frequently Asked Questions
Of course Here is a list of FAQs about the personal story A moment that changed me I was desperate to get off the mountain and that gut instinct saved my life
General Understanding
Q What is this story about
A Its a firstperson account of a hiker or climber who while on a mountain experienced a powerful urgent feeling that they needed to descend immediately even if there was no obvious danger Listening to that instinct likely helped them avoid a sudden lifethreatening event like an avalanche storm or rockfall
Q What does gut instinct mean in this context
A Its a deep physical feeling of dread or certainty that something is wrong often coming before your conscious mind can logically explain why Its your subconscious picking up on subtle warning signs you might not actively notice
Q Is this a common experience for outdoor adventurers
A Yes Many experienced climbers hikers and survivalists have stories of a sixth sense or strong intuition that prompted them to change plans which later proved to be a critical decision
The Experience Psychology
Q What might cause that kind of gut feeling on a mountain
A Your brain can subconsciously process many small signals a sudden silence in animal noises a strange shift in wind patterns a barely perceptible change in snow texture a feeling of unease in your group or even subtle atmospheric pressure changes before a storm
Q How is this different from just being scared or anxious
A General anxiety is often vague and worrying about what ifs A true gut instinct in survival situations is typically a sharp clear and compelling message to take a specific action that feels different from background nervousness
Q Can you train yourself to have better gut instincts
A You cant force the feeling but you can train yourself to listen to it This comes from gaining experience in the outdoors which helps you subconsciously recognize patterns and from practicing mindfulness to notice your own internal signals
Practical Application Advice
Q How do I know if its a real gut instinct or just fear holding me back
A Ask yourself Is this feeling a vague fear of the challenge or a
