It started out like any other weekend. My friends and I were to complete the Tongariro Alpine Crossing, a infamous 9 hour hike through Mount Ngauruhoe and Mount Tongariro. A lot of locals warned me about the threat of doing this in winter but I was too consumed with excitement at the thought of seeing snow for the very first time. Never mind that I had never hiked in my life, the adrenaline I felt all week could surely see me to the top, or so I thought.
I remember disembarking from the bus onto the snow covered road. It was hard and made crunching noises as I jumped about on it and when I finally reached down to touch it, it just felt like block of shaved ice. How disappointing. I presumed it would be more powdery, easier to pick up, softer to the touch.
Not long after, with all the necessary equipment strapped on, we were off. The first hour seemed relatively easy but my feet were tiring from how difficult it seemed to walk through the snow. I barely glanced up to admire the incredible white scenery before me as I paid extra attention to where my feet landed with each step. Thoroughly focused and still the ice made me lose my balance on more than one occasion. I was starting to worry about the uphill climb on the horizon.
As expected, I started to fall behind the pack. Climbing past narrow ridges and steep steps made by hikers before me proved not only tiring but difficult. I was starting to get short for breath as we approached the third hour of the hike.
My mind kept hitting a wall. I didn't want to go any further but I also didn't want to quit. My friends urged and kept calling out to me but I was losing energy too quickly in this climate to keep up.
I finally reached the treacherous 'Devil's Staircase'. An extremely narrow and steep hike up about 200m before we would finally make it to some much needed flat land.
A quarter of the way up the staircase and I missed a step, stumbling to my left. As my gloved hand touched the icy slope, I slipped further, sending me face first sliding down the iced mountain slope. Everything happened in a second and my brain could not process the events but fear consumed every inch of my being as I began to gain momentum and slide at greater speed. To my left and right, there were rocks, rocks that could quite easily slice through my falling body. I didn't dare shut my eyes and maybe 7 seconds into my fall, I saw a large boulder approaching me fast. I slammed my hip bone hard onto the boulder as I came to an alarming halt.
It's like nature knew how uncomfortable I was with it and spat me off the mountain as punishment.
I lay there, pain stricken, unwilling to move. All I could see was the bright blue sky above and then I began to pray. I had never prayed for my life and so it seemed foreign asking to be saved. I couldn't think of anyone or anything. My mind was blank and all I could manage was a prayer chant that I learnt as a child. I didn't know if I was saying it right and I didn't know if anyone was listening but I said it out loud anyway.
Within a minute, my guide had rushed down to my side. He checked for blood, then checked my pupils. He poked and prodded for a minute, eager to asses the damage as I lay there, motionless, tears streaming down my face. I was too afraid to move and risk falling some more.
My friend eventually reached my side and when I saw her tear brimmed eyes, I began to cry some more. She held my hand and assured me the worst was over but I knew it had all but just begun.
I was bruised badly on the left hand side. My ribs, my hip and my thighs felt the constant pang of pain as the guide propped me up against the boulder. I sat up slowly and when I saw the view below, panic started to rise again and I cracked into tears once more. I wanted to get off the damn mountain, I wanted to close my eyes and teleport on out of there.
My guide assured me that nothing was broken and that we should head back to camp. Two guides held me on either side as they dragged me back onto the path. The surge of adrenaline must have helped as I proceeded to race through the pain back down the mountain. Each step sent a shooting pain through my left leg but I seemed numb to it after awhile. My body wanted to escape so bad that the pain in my mind had shut down.
It took us another 3 hours to reach the bus.
I headed straight back to the backpackers to assess the damage. I was swollen all over. Red patches threatening to turn purple with time but overall I seemed okay. The worst of my ordeal seemed to be behind me.
Days later, as the bruising fades and the scratches heal. I am more devastated about the fall then ever. For the first time in my 27 year life, I had to face the question of death. It birthed a new fear, one I had never experience before and made me question just about everything in my life.
I felt the shadow of death lurking in the background, unwilling to leave, forcing me to take precaution with every move I made next. I wallowed in self pity the first two days, scrutinizing all my loose ends. Blaming the misdeeds and unjust way I was living my life. It was slowly eating me up inside.
Now it's been barely 5 days since the accident and I feel lighter but the weight of death still hangs in the balance, just not as visibly any more. I think it may not disappear now that it has shown its hungry fangs, forcing me to evaluate decisions a little better and to appreciate the now a little stronger.
Never have I been more happy to be alive.
*The rock that saved me.
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