Failing adventures has kinda become my ‘thing’. Not on purpose, it just sort of happens. Over Christmas this year I failed to reach the summit of the highest peak in North Africa, Mt Toubkal in Morocco. I hadn’t fuelled my body enough and was too weak to make the summit. And in April last year, I failed the biggest adventure of my life to date; a 250km hike along the remote wilderness of the Drakensberg Grand Traverse. An incredible trail that crosses the border of South Africa into the landlocked country of Lesotho. My knee became injured and I made the heartbreaking decision to leave the hike early. Hell, even today I’m writing this after failing to get to the top of a mountain in Switzerland because I underestimated the snow depth and had to turn back due to safety concerns.   I’m on a trip to Europe at the moment, but even in Australia failure seemed to follow me. I tried to solo wild camp at Kosciusko but was joined by a family who, despite having the other 6,899m² of Kosciuszko National Park to choose from, settled just four meters from my tent. Oh, and during an adventure race in Lake Macquarie, I had a panic attack so bad that my teammate had to run ahead and collect a couple of checkpoints alone, while I fought to get my breath back.