The Slide

It was someplace in the mountains above Lamoille. Maybe higher than I should have gone. The air was thin but good. The lake below was blue and deep, and I had wanted to see it up close. But I had taken the wrong step.

The shale had gone out from under me fast. No time to catch myself. No time to think. I pitched left and lost my stick. It was gone, and then I was gone too, sliding. The pack weighed me down, making it worse. The ground broke away and carried me like a river, taking me down and down.

I kicked hard to stop. It didn’t work. The mountain was winning. The drop was close now. It was coming. I thought: This is it, how it happens. So I threw my arms and legs wide, like making a snow angel, and everything stopped.

I lay there, breathing hard, feeling the shale trickling past me. It whispered as it went. A little more, and I’d have gone with it.

I sat up slowly. Two, maybe three feet away, the ground ended. I shivered. My hands shook. Not a place for shaking hands. I picked the rocks out of my clothes, my skin, my hair. Sat for a long time, listening to the tinkle of the shale as it settled.

The climb back was slow. My legs burned. My hands bled. I had to dig my way through the shale, testing each step. The trail was gone to me, but I kept moving. Had to. The sun was getting low when I found the path again.

I made camp on the trail, where it grew wide. The ground was hard, and the wind was coming, so I left the tent in my pack. I pulled the shale from my skin, one sharp piece at a time. Some deep. Some not. Then I curled up in my bag in between two rocks and let the night take me.

In the morning, the sun came over the peaks and found me. I let it warm me before I moved. Everything hurt, but that was fine. Hurt meant I was still here. I dressed slowly, then started the long walk down.

I never made it to the lake and never went back. And that’s fine. I survived, and that’s enough.