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Illustration by Alex Deadman-Wylie
On my first overnight backcountry ski trip, a rule was established: You get one cry a day.
What started as a joke in 2021 between my boyfriend and I has evolved into a mantra for life.
Kees and Claire Memorial Hut is a three hours ski-touring trek from the town of Whistler. By popping through the backcountry gate and dropping into the backside of Whistler mountain, you can access acres of mountain terrain inaccessible by chairlift.
But that day, I ignored every nutrition rule of endurance sports despite being an avid runner and dismissed Andrew’s repeated suggestions for a break, determined to make lunch our reward upon arrival.
Halfway to the hut, I flopped down and cried, a pile of wet Gore-Tex. My ego bruised and my poles splayed across the track. I had never seen tears in any of the Arc’teryx ads for the “technical layering system” I was wearing, it was waterproof but not tear-proof. I was breaking the brand of the stoic, mountain athlete. I swore I’d never backcountry ski again.
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Then I ate a handful of Sour Patch Kids candy, perked up and shuffled myself the rest of the way. I have loved backcountry skiing ever since.
Debriefing over quesadillas later that afternoon, I reflected on all those steep hills and steeper learning curves. I insisted to Andrew that crying when you’re frustrated is cathartic. By doing hard things, I had earned the right to cry. Andrew replied with validation, reassurance and a compelling counter-offer: “Okay, but only one cry.” And so the mantra was born: One Cry a Day.
We negotiated the fine print over wine – what constitutes a cry? Tears falling off your face. If someone spots it behind the goggles, it counts. What if I didn’t cry today, can I save my cry for tomorrow? Yes, frugality pays off. What happens if I use all my cries on Day 1? You’re out of luck.
At the time it was just a hypothetical debate as the winter sun set behind the peaks at 3 p.m. The kind of silly, debate-for-debate’s-sake conversations that are a staple of a camping trip or a long car ride. But as the years passed, the joke became a bylaw. Each time a friend joined us in the backcountry, we’d brief them on the gear, the terrain and the crying policy.
Over the course of many more trips, we continued to gamify our vulnerability. The Cry Scoreboard has followed me across mountain ranges and borders, and I’ve cashed in on more than one occasion. A couple of years ago, in Telluride, Colo., I used all my cries for the four-day trip on Day 1, after skinning 1,400 metres of elevation and 16 kilometres over Imogene pass to Mount Hayden Lodge. The lodge’s owner laughed over dinner as he informed us that we were the only “crazy kids” that had done that in the lodge’s history. My tears were immediately vindicated.
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Last season, we skied the Spearhead – the 42-kilometre horseshoe-shaped mountain range connecting Blackcomb and Whistler – in a day. I surprised myself (and Andrew) by not crying once. Thirteen hours of skiing and not a single tear was shed. This was likely more reflective of dehydration than fortitude, but I’ll take it. The daily-cry quota, just like my emergency kit, was there in case I needed it. But on the hardest day of all, the vault stayed closed.
On trips now, we’ve all stopped justifying our tears. The explanation is baked in: Doing hard things is hard. If someone cries, you get comfort, of course, but also a few jokes. Someone inevitably yells: “There it is!” Someone else will rattle off the group’s Cry Scoreboard for the day while digging in their pockets for a treat. We just let each other let it out. You get a few minutes to collect yourself, eat candy and we all move on – physically and emotionally. It’s the perfect blend of acknowledgement, support and a little humour. The cries rarely last longer than a minute.
I used to think that crying was a sign that I didn’t belong in the backcountry and that a successful trip was one where my quota went untouched. I thought crying meant I was defaulting on my right to be there. I now see it differently, and the mantra has moved off the slopes. Just like in sports, real life – relationships, work – tends to carry the same expectations of performance. We’re encouraged to be infinitely resilient and perpetually composed. Just like the Arc’teryx ads, we’re marketed a vision of adulthood that is supposed to be vacuum-sealed against stress.
But the “One Cry a Day” rule isn’t about the tears; it’s about the permission to be overwhelmed and recognition that it’s a natural byproduct of doing hard things. It’s a reminder that life doesn’t have to be performed perfectly to be enjoyed.
Some days you bank your cries, and some days you’re bankrupt by noon. The goal isn’t to be the person that doesn’t cry, it’s to be the person who knows that a cry is just a pit stop and not the end of the road.
Alexandra LeVoguer lives in New York.