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I am anxious for this
annual hiking trip. It is a tradition. Committed to the yearly escape,
I have trained with the best and purchased reliable equipment. I am ready.
It is the first months of summer. Arriving to the campsite after a long drive,
my companions and I agree to start out early the next morning. I awaken
to the smell the wet earth through the mesh windows. The sounds of night
are subdued just before dawn. Morning has not broken and the dew clings
to the cliff. Scrambling through my pack for a flashlight, I decide to
go ahead, vowing to stay on the path we marked.
As I walk higher, the surroundings and crisp morning air quickly entrance
me. Trees dripping from the night's bath are punctuated by a hawk flying
above. They beckon me to continue. My emotions answer the call. I
realize my craving to reach the top as the clearing displays the point
I will conquer. Pack adjusted, I ensure my knots are faceted appropriately.
Filling my lungs with the gift of the pines, I start my assent. It is
invigorating. I know I am alive. My cleats slip on the still damp, but
roughly protruding surface, heightening my will to triumph. I am a
skilled and experienced climber and I thrive on this solitary
challenge. My senses propel me upward. The call of the heavens
becomes intense as I rise. There is harmony. I am one with the
world. Beads of sweat already forming on my brow I pause to dry my
face. My palms sting from the salty sweat in my newly broken skin.
Slamming into the hard surface, I hear a snap on my twisted, confused
journey down. I jolt to a stop, suspended. I am spinning and struggle
to focus and so stop the nauseating pendulum motion. The rush is
easing and I realize the tremendous sensation in my leg. The choice
that once seemed so beautiful has turned out to be dark and deadly.
I look down and see the endless, rushing water canyon below. There
is warm blood trailing into my blurred eyes. What am I to do? How can
I remove myself from this situation? Where is my knife? Have I become
the eagle's pleasure? The voices beckon, but they are no longer above.
The waters call me, and I cry out to drown their entreaty. My mind
refuses to hear. I pull myself up again. Ignoring the pain in my mangled
leg, I realize the necessity of bloodying my fingers. The sun is over
the trees now and I am swimming in my own sweat. The salt stings and
blurs my vision. My sock is soaked with blood. A slight breeze whispers
past, cooling me. I pause for a moment in feigned relief. Not much of a
break is yielded for fear of the watery grave. I am alone.
I regain some glimmer of minimal strength and struggle toward the peak.
I no longer feel my dissected leg. I am frightened by the assumed condition
of the life-rope anchoring me atop my beloved summit. Solitude is no
longer a blessing but now a curse.
If I can only get help...
I can.
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