What we call a 'crisis' is actually a subjective judgement. If you don't think you are having a crisis (though you might escape death purely by luck) then you aren't having one. Other people could regard a number of my experiences as 'crises' though I do not see them that way, and vice versa. It's like when people say I am brave to walk alone in the mountains - to me there is no courage involved.

It would be a big mistake to see a crisis as being necessarily a physical emergency. Thus divorce, bereavement, losing one's job, having a mental breakdown, and going bankrupt are crises, just as much as a medical emergency, car accident, a crime scenario or a wilderness misadventure. I define a crisis as whatever we perceive as a major threat to us or to something important in our life.

Looking at the crises of Sangbeto, I noticed that in no case did anything bad actually happen (losing money is not so bad provided one still has more than one needs). The same is true of my four crises. When the things we fear come to pass it is usually not as bad as what we feared.

I think that point 11 in the Adventure article needs enlarging. Not only is Plan B one of the most important of all the survival tips, but one needs to think of Plan B before setting off into the wilderness, jumping out of the plane or investing in a business venture. In the case of a wilderness expedition, this may involve taking a mobile phone, getting information about alternative routes and refuges, or leaving word to say where you are going. Obviously, clothes and equipment appropriate for a possible emergency should be part of one's preparations. Note that in crisis situations both our access to information and our room to manoeuvre are normally reduced, hence the importance of having a prior Plan B. Another weakness is that Point 10 seems to refer only to interpersonal communication. I think it should be given a far broader interpretation to include our suspicions that something is not as it should be, or that the situation is more dangerous than it seems.

One could also add to the list: getting necessary information (both before and during the crisis), being flexible, being resourceful, using lateral thinking, asking for help, making decisions and being able to act without sufficient knowledge of outcomes, being in the moment, seeing it as a challenge to grow from rather than as a problem, and taking a holistic approach, ie seeing the wider picture.

It is interesting to look at the death of Christopher McCandless in "Into the Wild". This is a true story that has been made into a book and a film. It is a rare and interesting instance of non-survival that has been well documented in his diary by the person in question. Christopher ventured alone into Alaska, and while he was clever and resourceful, he perished due to a combination of poisoning, lack of food and a river in spring-time flood. Firstly, he was in denial of the dangers of making a solo incursion into the wilderness. Secondly, he did not balance the risks with the rewards of his adventure. Thirdly, he failed to understand the linked system of climate and river water height. Fourthly, and crucially, he had no Plan B, no alternative means of survival other than wading across a river.

Unlike Christopher, my life has been fairly uneventful. Yet I was surprised that I managed to list eleven crises, four of which are described below.

My parents lived in Paris during 1976. By the time I joined them for a few weeks that hot summer I had been out of university for some 18 months. There was a maths degree to my name, but it did not qualify me for any specific position. I had not found a proper job, as I didn't know what to do with myself. While I was in Paris, my father put considerable pressure on me to go to Cleveland, Ohio to do a PhD in large-scale system modelling, a subject I knew almost nothing about. He was enthusiastically involved with environmental projects at the time and he wanted to draw me into this activity. My father was in close contact with an academic who co-wrote the second report to the Club of Rome, Professor Mesarovic in Cleveland. It seemed likely that I would be able to enrol in the degree because of this personal connection. The idea was that doing the PhD would place me at the cutting edge of environmental science and that I would subsequently get a job in Australia using my new qualification. I succumbed to this pressure and began making arrangements to go. However, the decision tormented me. On reflection I realised that the long separation from Carla, my partner whom I loved, would do great harm to me emotionally and possibly end our relationship. The prospect of living in Cleveland didn't appeal and neither was I keen on the course itself. On top of this, I had serious doubts whether I was intellectually capable of doing it. So before returning to Australia I changed my mind. My father was furious.

This was a basic crisis for me in that it related to the direction of my life. It's hard to guess how my life might have turned out had I gone to Cleveland, but in hindsight, I doubt that a PhD in system modelling would have made me employable in Australia. So had I bowed to my father's ideas I would probably have been no better off work-wise after finishing the PhD than before it. To make matters worse, I did not really have an interest in the proposed area of study. It was my father's passion, not mine.

The challenge for me in this crisis was to control my destiny (2), rather than letting my father or circumstances dictate what course my life would take. In the end, I resolved to make a concerted effort to find a job back in Australia, which is what I did. I sent off 74 job applications and soon began my career in computing. Clearly, the essential thing was to create Plan B (11), and this I did. The stumbling block I faced during my crisis was that I did not have any counter-proposal to make in answer to my father's solution. To make the right decision I needed to not be in denial (3) regarding the effect that going to Cleveland for 2-3 years would have on my relationship with Carla. I also needed to balance the gains versus the costs of taking up the PhD (9). Making the right decision was largely a matter of following my heart (10), ie putting my relationship with Carla first.

I had created this crisis in the first place by neglecting to take charge of my life (2) and by not doing the next right thing (1). Before I arrived in Paris I had no life plan, not even Plan A, let alone Plan B. In effect I was in denial (3) regarding the need to do something about the direction of my life.

Carla and I were staying at Binna Burra, a lodge set in a rainforest on the Queensland-NSW border. This morning I set out by myself to reach a mountain called Egg Rock, which is visible from the Lodge and less than 2 km in a straight line. I had tried to reach (and climb) this mountain two days earlier, but had abandoned the attempt due to being delayed by a lantana thicket. Setting out at 9.40, I took a trail map, a jumper and an orange, with no other food or water and no compass. There is no trail leading to Egg Rock, so I planned to bush-bash. I started out on one of the trails then switched to following a mostly dry creek bed. Seeing that my progress was too slow, I abandoned the goal of reaching Egg Rock. I was happy to just get a river walk up Bellbird Creek. At one point I noticed a piece of coloured plastic on a log inches from my hand. It was a two-metre yellow-grey snake. This gave me a shock. I don't think I felt any fear at the time, as it happened so suddenly and the snake was not aggressive. I don't know whether it was poisonous or not, but you don't muck around with snakes in Australia. I retreated.

I continued up a fairly steep hill covered by ferns and fallen logs. I was now more careful, spreading the ferns with a stick to make sure I didn't step on a snake. Proceeding laboriously, I reached the Lower Bellbird Track at 4.15. Now I made an unwise decision - to bush-bash my way to another track. I knew that the Bellbird Track wound around and I wanted to find a short-cut. This idea looked OK on my map but a topographical feature stood in the way: a cliff. I reached its base and walked along it to find a breach or a climbable section. Soon I was faced with the choice of going back down or negotiating a tricky section of the escarpment. I decided for the latter. By using a handy root I crossed the difficult part, where I couldn't rest my weight on my feet. A little further on, it became even more difficult and I was forced to turn back. At this point, considerations of reality intruded: it was 5.45 - fifteen minutes till it got dark. I belatedly realised that there was no chance I would make it back to the lodge by 6.15, as I had promised Carla. I became determined to get back down to the track as quickly as possible. As if to protest this decision, my legs suddenly gave way like rubber. I briefly got cramps in both. I pushed on, keeping my bottom on the ground and using my arms to propel myself. Inevitably, I had to cross the same ledge that was so difficult on the way up. I couldn't find my root - there seemed to be nothing to hang onto. I waited for inspiration to come. Presently, I did find a root, though probably not the same one. I let my feet drop, hanging on only to this one support, with a six metre almost-sheer drop below me. The root began to give way, but I somehow negotiated the crossing before it could expire. I continued downwards with an iron resolve to reach the track before darkness.

Now a 20 metre wide thicket of lianas blocked my progress. Since I was on an incline I adopted a seat-of-the-pants method of descent. If lianas rose up above me I would flatten them with my legs and continue sliding. At 6 I was back at the track and noticed I had lost my jumper, which I had tied around my waist. It was a cloudy moonlit night, so I could see the track just well enough to stay on it. More good luck soon followed in the form of a sign. However, I could not read it, as it was now dark. Fortunately, it was incised, so that I was able to trace the letters with my fingers. It said, "Binna Burra 3.7 km", this at 6.15, so all I had to do now was follow the path. By far my greatest fear was Carla's wrath at my lateness and her loss of trust in me. I didn't fear the dark, despite some unidentified loud noises, the possibility of snakes on the track and the risk of falling off the path (which I did once). At one point I thought I saw torches but they were glow-worms.

Scratched, bruised, parched and exhausted, I reached the lodge at 7. To my great relief and surprise, Carla had not been very worried and wasn't angry at me at all. One of the staff had planned to mount a search party for me at 7.30. My first desire was to have the orange juice I had been dreaming about. I drank six glasses then two "poppers" and some water.

Up until 4.15 my walk had been fine - difficult in places but not a cause for anxiety. Later on, my main fears were spending a night outdoors (it rained heavily later that evening), the embarrassment of being rescued and Carla's reaction. I had felt very forlorn stuck on that cliff and I knew then that only my own efforts and determination would get me out of the mess I had gotten myself into. My mantra during the crisis was, "You got yourself into this, now get yourself out of it" (4). I felt at all times that I was in control of my destiny (2).

Overall, I stayed focused and was determined to find the path in the near-darkness (1) and remained positive, believing I would get home that evening (5). I stayed cool and was not afraid, though, maybe I should have been (13). I created this crisis by thinking I could navigate through the national park without using the trails and I had given no thought to the timing of nightfall until just before it happened (3). I had pushed the risk factor unnecessarily without commensurate rewards (9), not to mention the stress and worry I caused Carla. I failed to have a realistic Plan B (11) and even my Plan A was pretty vague. Overall, I was lucky I didn't get into more trouble than I did.

I was walking in the Alps, doing the Tour of Monte Rosa, a mountain on the border of Switzerland and Italy. Having summitted the Breithorn that same morning, I decided to do another solo climb. So I continued walking on the hard snow of the glacier for about 4 km, to the base of the 19 th highest mountain in the Alps, Mt Castor. I kept up a good pace and became tired as the ascent steepened. Stopping a few times to catch my breath, I soon reached what I call a "no fall zone", where a close focus on properly planting my crampons was required. The snow slope steepened further, reaching about 45 degrees. Then, unexpectedly, I was on the summit ridge, which is about 40 metres long and 30 cm wide. I felt anxious walking this gauntlet, as there were 45 degree snow slopes on both sides of the narrow ridge. A fall down either side looked potentially fatal. A largish crevasse was on the right, though I didn't see it at the time. Now my mind was highly focused - on taking the next step without stumbling. I applied the rule, "Don't look up, don't look down. Just find a safe place to put the next step." (4) This is truly 'being in the moment' and indeed it worked well for me. There is no time to be frightened when you are purely focused on putting down your foot. It reminds me that all forms of fear amount to living in the future, rather than in the present.

I reached the summit of Castor (4226 m) and stood just beyond the peak, where there is room to pause and look around. This climb was the highpoint not only of 2005, but of all my mountain excursions of this lifetime. I had been higher before, but I'd never been on such a spectacular mountain. Doing two 4000 m peaks in one morning with more than 1000 m of ascent in the snow was tough - quite enough for my level of fitness.

As I was considering the prospect of descending the way I had come up (not without anxiety), I met Cor and Ruud, whom Carla later dubbed my "guardian angels". These two are highly experienced but friendly Dutch climbers, to whom going up Castor was just a morning stroll. They had bigger plans. Ruud told me that my planned descent to the Ayas refuge was dangerous in the afternoon due to melting snow bridges on the crevasses. Indeed, it was so sunny that I was soon too warm walking in just a skivvy and denim jeans. There was no wind and the next day I woke up badly sunburnt. Ruud kindly suggested that I follow them (unroped) down to the Quintino Sella Refuge, where I had planned to go the next day. One of the benefits of walking alone is that you can make quick changes of plan, so I took their advice. The path on the yonder side of Castor was extremely inviting, wending its way up and down crests just above the clouds.

At one point in the descent they told me to jump over a one metre wide crevasse. Had I been walking alone I would not have suspected any danger. I naively asked Ruud why the crevasse was not marked as part of track maintenance. He replied that there was no maintenance of tracks on glaciers. The first climber of the season establishes the track and it disappears after a snow-fall. Soon we descended into the clouds and visibility was about 30 m. At 2.30 we arrived at the Quintino Sella Refuge, at 3585 m. I put my heel spur into the snow for 25 minutes and watched the little birds foraging for scraps. I nearly forgot to have lunch but managed to score a delicious ham roll from the welcoming lady at the counter. I bought us all vini caldi and asked Ruud a heap of questions about mountaineering. He told me that it is dangerous to walk alone on glaciers due to invisible crevasses. He also advised me to get an ice axe and to do a climbing course. To my credit, I later applied all his advice.

On the ascent I did the next right thing (1) and trusted my instinct that I would be able to negotiate the narrow ridge (10). The balance of risk and reward (9) was tricky, as it looked dangerous, but the reward was the highlight of all my mountaineering. I didn't overly celebrate the summit but took Ruud's advice regarding the descent (7), which was the right thing to do (1). I let them make Plan B (11) for me. I kept my cool throughout (13).

On setting out I was in denial (3) of the objective dangers - falling down the slope or disappearing into a crevasse. In particular, I had neglected to provide myself with an ice axe and a roped companion, which is standard practice for glacier travel. That morning I had no Plan B (11), neither for the ascent nor for the descent. Even Plan A - to climb Castor - was a spur of the moment decision. If not for the good fortune of meeting Ruud and Cor, this adventure could have finished badly for me.

In Croatia, Carla and I took a ferry from Dubrovnik to Cavat, a small town on the coast with a scenic bay. It was a beautiful day and we went for a pleasant walk along the shore. Presently, we sat down on a bench for a few minutes, before continuing on the promenade. As we ambled on I suddenly got a shock. No camera. I must have put it down somewhere, but where? I felt panic, or close to it. Then I remembered that I had put the camera down on the ground next to the bench, as carrying the heavy digital SLR over the past few weeks had worn me down. We rushed back to the bench, which was about 100 metres behind us. No camera. There were now two possibilities, either a tourist had picked it up, or it had been taken by a thief. If it was the former then I had some chance of getting it back.

We did all we could think of to retrieve the camera (1), but it soon became clear that my expensive camera, with 1200 photos, was irretrievably lost (3). I could not believe that I had done something so utterly stupid, especially after having heard two nearly identical stories from other tourists. I had been so convinced it would not happen to me. In fact, I had been paranoid about losing my camera during the past seven weeks. Only today, on our last full day of the trip, did I relax, and in a matter of five minutes, the camera was lost.

I took it as a lesson to let go of material things. Past a certain age, life is a catalogue of loss. The challenge is to absorb loss without letting it ruin one's peace of mind. I also took it as a lesson not to be so attached to taking photos, to my equipment, nor to being an artistic photographer. To take myself less seriously. It also illustrates how easily possessions can come to own me. It even occurred to me that I may have subconsciously wanted to lose the camera in order to learn to let go. Beyond this, it was a lesson in enjoying life, in enjoying our day in Cavat despite my misadventure. I decided that I would not allow this incident to spoil the trip and not even to spoil the afternoon (5). Carla said that she admired me for not letting it spoil my day, despite the obvious upset and my being rattled. I am pleased that I was able to contain the upset in my mind and still enjoy what was present. I actively sought to dampen my strong feeling of loss. We went for another walk after lunch, and I managed to derive pleasure from this. I stayed cool (13) and managed to surrender to the inevitable, while not giving up in my efforts to regain the camera (14).

I kept replaying the event in my mind and wondered what if I hadn't sat down on the bench, or not put down the camera etc. These obsessive thoughts were useless and I tried to suppress them. The recurring thoughts were a kind of denial of reality (3). Luckily, I had a Plan B - a pocket camera I carried in case of theft or malfunction of my main one (11).

This may seem like a minor event, but at the time it was a powerful shock. Being a keen photographer, I was deeply upset to lose my prized camera, and even more so about the thousand photos from the best part of the trip. I was as much shocked by the suddenness and seeming impossibility of the event as by the loss itself. What confused me was that the camera bag with the heavy telephoto lens was still around my neck.