BY ERIcA GRoSSMAn My breath was growing shorter and the clouds had started to sweep overhead. I was exhausted but made it back to the ridge, but then it became difficult to tell if it was even that same ridge. I was lost. Really lost. The same lost that you experience in the grocery store as a child, separated from your parent. Your stomach drops and, after racing up and down every row twice, you conclude that you’re doomed to wander those aisles for all eternity. Except this time there were no aisles of food and suspect strangers. There wasn’t anything but rocks and dirt and the peaks and valleys that suddenly seemed ugly and jagged. In third grade, we had been given an inclass “survival” exercise that placed us in the middle of the jungle with only a few items in our possession and a long list of Choose Your Own adventure-style options to get out of the situation. No matter what you chose, your selection yielded the same fruitless result: death. All of your grand plans for getting rescued backfired. There was only one option in this bizarre exercise that resulted in your eminent survival: stay put. The message was clear—you can’t survive on your own, and no one will find you when you’re constantly on the move. I can’t make a fire without matches and I don’t know how to filter water using plants. But that afternoon I used the only logic I knew: Stay put. I had convinced myself. I couldn’t find a trail on my own. My dad would surely come back for me (right?). He’d never find me if I was wandering up and down and up and down the rocky terrain. So I waited. And waited. And no one came. I yelled. “HELLO?” “HELLO?” “HELP?” I mustered my boldest shouts, but my voice crippled at the end. I was yelling to no one. The clouds swept over, heavy with water, and ISSUe ThE fIfTh the dark began to settle in. That’s when I really noticed that my feet were soaked, and that I wasn’t wearing much: underwear, now-wet socks, partially wet jeans, a long-sleeved shirt with a T-shirt over it, a light hoodie, boots, and a knit hat. With the first drop that made a mark on my jeans, I got nervous. I pulled out the red poncho. It was long. It had a hood. It would keep me dry and, presumably, save my life. My hair started to rise, sticking to my face in strange places. It was a bad sign. Mt. Antero is one giant natural lightning conductor. Because of its mineral composition, it’s known throughout Colorado as a hotbed for gem enthusiasts and lightning storms. Hikers are encouraged to summit early in order to get the hell out before afternoon storms bring electricity. It was well into the afternoon. Which came first and for how long each lasted I can’t exactly know: rain, lightning, wind, snow, cold. I’d never seen a bolt of lightning crash like that, loud enough, bright enough and close enough to feel it. My hair stood up and an uncomfortable tingle vibrated just below my skin. I was becoming more and more aware of how cold I was with each gust of wind. I built short walls around me, piling every rock light enough to lift just high enough to crouch underneath. It helped break the wind, and the movement made me feel a little warmer, if only temporarily. I was confused. Had my dad even bothered to come back looking for me? (He had.) Had I been forgotten? (I hadn’t.) What would I do tomorrow? (Head back down in search of a trail, I think.) I had plenty of water but no food. I was hungry already. I thought I had seen light on the next peak over, some flare of civilization, but it was too far away to matter. Campers, I figured. If I could just make it through the night, maybe I could head in that direction when the sun came up. I had given up on the idea of being found. There were a lot of things to think about. I thought methodically about my next steps. I thought about my family, I thought about my friends. But mostly I thought about how cold I was and how I might be able to get less cold. I thought about how this might be my last night. That maybe the cogs in my body machine would freeze, get stuck. And then piece by piece, the whole thing would come to a screeching halt. And that the increasing stiffness in my hands, my legs were just a sign of this inevitable end. It was a dull panic. There was no sleep. I was too cold, too paranoid. I waited. shivering violently. The storm would end. There would be another sunrise if I just waited. As soon as the sun had crept up enough to spread light onto the rocks near me, I rushed for it. I stumbled and immediately fell, my hand hurting after breaking my fall on a rock. I hadn’t expected the cold, numb stiffness of my feet to interfere with my ability to walk. But I regained my composure and made a new home on a flat rock in the sun. I laid like a lizard, turning frequently to try and thaw every part of me. It grew warmer and warmer, and I worshipped every moment of it. I had just devised a plan for tackling a route down, “stay put” be damned. My problem was my feet. And that’s when I saw them—people. They were climbing on the next mountain over, distinguishable by their distant movements. I started to yell. “HELLO.” I heard my voice, excited and weak. I yelled again, desperate but more hungry with each attempt. “HELLO.” “HELLO.” With nothing to block it, my voice traveled far. I could hear it slinky down the valley. “PLEASE!” I screamed with tears in my eyes. Nothing. “HELLO.”
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