Hang On

The sunset is magnificent. One of those stand up and shout ones, like on the west shore of Maui. It wings out from the horizon, soaring above and behind, enveloping the rock and snow with energy and life. It is like the perfection of a pair of figure skaters exploring and complimenting the pentameter of the other, swiftly, line by line, yet in dogged unfolding waves of color and silent song. I lift my arms. I joy in wordless sounds of perfect fulfillment enveloped in the pink of the snow’s response to the poetry of sky.

As my partner and I absorb the three dimensions of the light show I teeter, losing my balance. At the exquisitely wrong moment my right foot slips, I go down like sliding into home plate. Slowly, my fingers clawing at the ice. Slowly, heels, then toes, digging for any purchase, arching my back for leverage. Slowly, in slowest motion, my feet slide out into space. Then, with an abrupt shift, my hands leave the edge.

I don’t really understand time dissonance. This is where an entire accident unfolds in slow motion until you hit whatever was coming at you. Or how you turn around twice and fifty years have passed in an instant. We move from an endlessly droning afternoon classroom in the fourth grade when, without warning, it’s our child in that classroom. It unwinds without hurry. Until it doesn’t.

I’m not sure of the mechanics of how I arrived here. I’m wedged between a one-inch-thick tree growing from the cliff face and a billiard ball smooth section of vertical rock. The tree splits, agonizingly gently, bending, splintering with the tiniest of “pops” in the screaming silence. “Shows over”, says the sky, rolling its beauty up until it is a line on the horizon like a 1950s black and white tv where the picture goes off, a white horizontal line is left, which squeezes to a dot, and then, winks out.

Shaking, I’m also shivering. I don’t think they are the same thing. I’m not dressed for the sudden descent of cold. My pack is up where I left it. A few small pebbles tumble out from around the tree root. Sand, really, but they sound like cannon balls rolling down the face. A slow, itchy, bead of sweat tickles down my spine. Another crawls down my forehead and into my eye. Balanced on the sapling I dare not move. Pop! With extreme caution and the least possible motion I slide my hand into my – Pop! – pants pocket. My knife.

I can’t see the ground in the dark. Who knows, maybe if I fling myself off into the air I’ll land in a deep soft drift. Unlikely since the snow is not fresh. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. It is forever yet only seconds. Adrenaline is flooding my brain. “Action! Action! My breathing is ragged as though I’ve been crying. Pop! What if I just go for it? Begin scrambling up the face, feet and hands moving like cartoon feet, spinning wildly. Maybe I’ll get traction like the climber in Free Solo. Pop!

Our bodies are a high flying ten ring circus in these moments. A symphonic blend of adrenaline, from the adrenal glands positioned just above the kidneys, is sent out like infantry storming a castle wall, sensory fireworks shoot behind the eyes, an immaterial finger pushes a big red panic button in the brain. The heartrate wins an Olympic high jump as the beats rat-a-tat-tat in increasing tempo. The liver, like a jazz bass player, dumps glucose into the bloodstream to fuel the fight or flight. Time speeds up. We see everything everywhere and all at once. I need to pee. The body is saying, “jettison anything that holds you back”. The brain stumbles at this wondering what people will think if I wet my pants. Then “Go! Go! Go! The branch snaps.

Time, time, time. Tick – tock… What is time? The broken branch repeats its flight out into the dark over and over like an action in a strobe light or an LSD caused motion tracer. There is no sound but a distant muffle. Sound trapped in a coffin. I feel its vibrations from frantic scratches clawing for open air. Lungs gulp. With the suddenness of a light switched on in a nighttime basement the world slams back into being. Somebody screamed. Someone sounds like they are breathing with a plastic bag over their head. One hand is holding a broken stump. Two feet are hanging in air. One hand holds a knife. Tiny pebbles rumble like monks chanting to a god. The knife drops away.

I remember once hearing about a car accident in a small mountain town in California. A pick-up slid across black ice and rolled a few times. Flames immediately began to spread as fuel spilled. It happened on the edge of town, and this sheriff happened to be parked right there. He was a burger, french fry, and donut kind of cop. Corpulent, and easy at motion. Yet he leapt into stunning action, arriving at the first groans of the victim. He grabbed the door handle, pulled the frickin’ door right off the truck! He was able to rescue the person away from danger until help arrived. He had that same symphony playing Flight of the Valkyries on steroids that was blaring in this biology.

A silent snake of rope slithered by. A voice as from the wrong end of a megaphone was playing like an old 78 record. “Grab it!”. From pure luck, because of the sunset, we had not yet coiled the rope after our ascent of the cliff face. My, now favorite, buddy was moving for it as I toppled. My hand found the lifeline and with hardly a blink I was laying back on top, gasping, and heaving like a fish out of water.

Heartrate drops. Breathing becomes more regular. Muscles relax. I would like to take a nap, but we’ve still got to hike out. I’ll need to hang on a little longer.