Four Lives Left

If humans have nine lives as do cats, I have about four left. The first was used when my appendix ruptured, spewing venom in my body and giving me life-threatening peritonitis at age six. The second flew by at camp when I got trapped under water with a canoe on my back and couldn’t raise my head to get air til I broke the paddle with my stomach muscles. A misstep on a Half Dome icefield in Yosemite National Park constituted the third life gone. The car hit last year while in a crosswalk might count as the fourth. And the fifth is marked by a stupid hiking mishap on Tuesday.

Generally, traveling alone is fine. You meet new people more readily, you are more likely to go off the beaten path, and you have complete freedom. But I was very worried about hiking alone. I really didn’t want to risk the exposure of being a female alone or the chance of hurting myself and not having anyone to lend and/or go summon help. But in Arthur’s Pass, it seemed a reasonable thing to do. First of all, I had in my pack a route map, space blanket, compass, whistle, extra clothes, raingear, extra water and food, water purification tablets, and Steve’s Survival Kit in a Can. And my experience on other trails has been that the traffic is so heavy you couldn’t be alone for long if you wanted to be. But most importantly, I had registered my intended hiking route with the park personnel, who come looking for you if you don’t come back and sign back in. With park personnel advice, I had selected a route suitable for an invalid (back problems – we’ll get to that in another story) – not too steep, not too far. Apparently, they neglected to tell me, however, that this wasn’t a route for stupidheads, as I apparently became with each step.

All was going fine. I sucked on my inhaler. I took my time. I stopped for lunch at a marvelous lookout and wrote in my journal as I gazed on a far-off waterfall. I drank plenty of water. I reveled in the no-snake policy of New Zealand. I was having a lovely time. Then I got to the Danger! sign. I sat down on a rock and pondered its warning, which was something to the effect, “Rockfalls probable beyond this sign.” I surveyed the situation. The trail had at this point left the forest and was essentially on rocks next to a steady stream. From my vantage point, the rocks likely to fall were on the other side of the stream and there seemed to be both lots of warning and lots of space, not to mention several large boulders regularly spaced that one might duck under. I determined that if I kept to my side of the stream, there would be no problem. As I walked, I reminded myself – out loud – that there were a lot of people who would be really mad at me if I hurt myself. So, I said, as I carefully stepped, “Let’s be smart about this. Walk slowly, watch your step, keep an eye on the right hillside, and if it looks dicey, turn around.” And thus, I proceeded carefully, but apparently I was leaking important brain cells with every step.

Happily walking along, I prided myself on being able to track the trail’s rock carrion (how is that spelled?) markers. Then I noticed, the markers were on the other side of the stream. This confused me, because I recalled no crossing and yet they were there and I was running out of trail on my side of the stream. At this point in the movie, you would all be yelling, “Turn around!” or at least calling for Lassie to save the day. But bravado having replaced good sense meant that I decided I should cross the stream. I looked for a safe place to cross. I was very clear that I would not step on any rock even splashed with water. I took one gingerly step on a rock and felt my foot slide and congratulated myself on the retreat from that crossing. Again, speaking to myself out loud, I said, “No, that’s exactly the kind of thing we’re not going to do!” However, at this point my brain was taken over by a teenaged boy. “I know, we’ll build a crossing!” So, I found a few flat, dry rocks and placed them just so, so I could cross. Which I did with ease, failing to make any note of where this point was (anybody recognize this as foreshadowing?). I continued on my trek, happily spying an unusual New Zealand parrot-like bird called a kea, waterfalls, a fake glacier, and the increasingly narrowing of the streambed. At a certain point, I determined it not safe to continue, despite excruciating curiosity, and turned around to go back. But I couldn’t find a safe place to cross back over the stream. No worries, as they say here, certainly somewhere downstream will be a place. Yet, with each spot, there was no safe crossing. I was determined not to take chances. My available flat space got narrower and narrower. And still I saw no safe crossing. What’s more, I now had a stream coming in from the side to contend with. I carefully stepped across it successfully, and surveyed my situation. It looked bleak and I was starting to get scared.

At that moment, I recalled words my former beau and good friend Joe had left me with as we said our goodbyes before I took this trip, “Remember,” he said, “Wherever you are, I’ll always be in your backpocket.” To summon courage, I called to him, “Joe, I need you in my backpocket NOW.” And I summoned each and everyone of you who worries about and watches over me, “I need help. I need to get out of here safely.” I talked myself through each step, a constant patter of encouragement and caution, out loud – it had to be out loud to be real. Then I saw the way, but I had one tight spot to maneuver through first. I examined the footholds and handholds closely. I tested the first foothold – it seemed solid. The handhold was large, beautifully shaped, jutting out with an obvious gripping point. I said a few more words of you can do it, girl and stepped out.

I was not prepared for what happened next. The handhold completely pulled out of the hillside. It was an enormous rock that by all accounts should have been solidly attached and yet, here it was falling on my foot and tumbling down into the creek. And as it pulled out, the hillside began to follow it in a mini-avalanche of gravel and stone. I remember having enormous surprise, “wha???!!” and then self-reproach, “Oh damn, I’m going to fall and bust my head on those rocks and really be in a pickle.” And then somehow – to this moment I don’t know how – I executed the most amazing ballet of avoiding being hit by rocks, AND staying upright on a rapidly disappearing hillside. A pas de deux with falling rocks – leaning backwards, regaining my balance, and moving forward as quickly as I could on footholds that materialized out of nowhere. I emerged on the other side of this rockslide intact, one foot a bit battered from the fickle handhold, and my heart pounding. I said prayer after prayer thanking every angel of you for keeping me safe, and I thanked my ballet training, which – once again (how do you think I leapt onto that car that hit me?!) – saved me from great harm. I kept moving, hunting for that crossing, and steadily talking, over and over, saying you’re smart, you can do this, you will be safe, you are a dancer, you have great balance, you can make this crossing, you have good visual mapping abilities, you can pick out the necessary rocks and access the length of the jumps. And so I did, and finally made it across the stream safely.

And as I got to the Danger sign, I was tempted to add to the sign’s words, “Rockfalls probable,” my own – “especially when humans are present.”