Between a Rock and a Hard Place - Aron Ralston [123]
Sometimes when I am climbing, I get stuck at a difficult section because I keep trying the same move the same way and, not surprisingly, keep failing. At that point, I often realize I’m not seeing all my options—I seized upon an obvious choice without taking in the full spectrum of possibilities. Looking around, I might see a foothold that allows me to position my body higher, or a handhold that was previously out of my field of vision.
What am I missing here? What have I ignored because it wasn’t obvious? Arching my head back until I’m upside down, I can see several palm-sized stones lodged over my head in the debris compacted around the large chockstone behind me. There, slate black with a slight reddish tint, an egg-shaped stone stands out from the others; it doesn’t seem to be sandstone but a mineralized layer. Though it may not be harder than the chockstone, it’s more likely to be of similar hardness, and there’s the chance it will be the break I need. Reaching up above my head into the kangaroo rat’s chockstone nest, I pull out the rock. Another stone falls and almost hits me on the head, glancing off my shoulder.
Damn falling rocks. There should be a sign.
The black rock in my hand is the weight of a shot put. It’s perfect. I can lift it without straining myself, and smash it into the boulder without letting go of it. Why it took me so long to turn around and look in the nest for such an opportunity, I can only attribute to the lethargic numbness that diverts and confounds me. Still, taking new action is an accomplishment in itself.
My left hand quickly bruises from absorbing the recoil of each blow of my handheld hammer. After dozens of hits, I have to stop. The damage to my left hand is too great.
Calculating that the diminishing likelihood of my survival has reached its bottom limit, I pick up my video camera to tape my last requests. I begin speaking, my voice taut; I can hear the exhaustion plaguing my efforts to remain coherent.
“It’s two P.M. on Wednesday afternoon. It’s getting close to four days since I dropped in this hole. Some logistics still to talk about. Cremation is probably a good idea, considering what will probably be low-quality remains after this is over. If it’s still appropriate to have pallbearers, I’d like for my friends Jon Heinrich, Erik Johnson, Erik Zsemlye, Brandon Rigo, Chip Stone, Norm Ruth to be pallbearers, and Mark Van Eeckhout as well.” I have named most of my closest friends, more than will be necessary to carry me to my final resting place, but I want to include as many as I can.
While I’m considering whether I have anything else to say, the tape runs out. I rewind it and then start it playing from the beginning. The images enthrall me, and I enter a rapturous state, like a child watching Sesame Street. I have a miniature television in my hands! I entertain myself for an entire hour with the tape that I’ve made. The subject matter is rather dismal, but I enjoy watching the moving pictures of myself, though for some reason my mind critiques my messages to my family, correcting and editing as though I’m going to do a second take. What an inane concept. I image directing myself: “OK, that was good, Aron, but this time say it with feeling.” Ridiculous.
I stop the unit and then rewind it a second time so I can record again, taping over my footage from Mount Sopris with a more urgent message about dividing my remains to be scattered at some of my favorite and special places across the United States.
“I was talking about a