The wind will not stop. Gusts of snow swirl before me, stinging my face. Through half closed eyes, I glance down at the void of air under my feet. Oh shit oh shit oh shit, the sour taste of panic rises in my throat. I begin to hyperventilate and I can feel every muscle in my body stiffen. All that is holding me to the mountainside, all that is holding me to the world, are a few thin spikes stuck half an inch into a smear of frozen water. Below is thirty-six hundred feet of air, and I am balanced on a house of cards. My head spins as I imagine myself plummeting like a ragdoll into the abyss.
Come on snap out of it. The last thing I need right now is to freak myself out. The blizzard continues to rage on around me. There’s no way that I can climb down in these conditions. It would take way too long and I don’t think my fingers can last much longer.
I wipe the frost from my goggles with a stiff mitten and scan the wall above me. About 25 feet up there appears to be a small ledge. It might just be big enough to pitch my bivy to wait out this storm. It doesn’t seem like I have any other options.
I swing my right axe into the ice, CHINK. Sounds solid. I tug to see if it will hold, but the numbness in my hand makes it impossible to tell. I decide to trust it and shift my weight to the right side. Left axe, solid. I shift my weight to the left. Next, my right foot. I kick the ice trying to get the tip of my crampon to bite, CRRRAACK. A block of ice the size of a refrigerator separates at the toe of my boot. I watch in terror as the chunk slams into the wall below me, shattering into a thousand crystals. The remnants quickly wash away into the whiteout. Jesus Christ.
I take a deep breath to bring myself back together. Again, with the right foot. This time I look around carefully before committing to the kick. I feel the tip of my crampon stick. Solid. I shift my weight on my right side. I fall into a hypnotic rhythm — swing, swing; kick, kick; swing, swing; kick, kick. Before long, I’m peeking over the lip of the ledge.
I hoist myself up and over the edge. Through the veil of the whiteout I can make out a faint orange glow in what looks like a shallow cavity in the side of the mountain. Wh- What the … There’s no way. Hesitantly, I walk towards the ghostly illumination.
The walls of the den shield me from the wrath of the storm. Inside is a shriveled man with a squirrely grey beard, staring deeply into a small fire. He is crouched over the flames, with his arms wrapped around his knees. His clothes are tattered and seedy, showing the deterioration of age, almost as much as his face. Heavy bags weigh down his lifeless yellow eyes, coated with an empty gloss.
“What a wild storm,” I stammer, “You’ve got the right idea starting a fire.”
No response.
“I thought I was the only one crazy enough to be out here in this weather.”
Nothing.
“How the hell did you even start a fire anyways? There’s no damn trees up here.”
The senile old man continues to stare into the fire.
Feeling slightly irritated, I walk up beside the old man. I lean down to his level and put my ear to his mouth. I want to check to make sure he’s breathing, maybe the poor bastard froze to death. I feel a faint breath and a chill shoots down my spine. The hair on my neck stands on edge.
“You can’t hide in the mountains forever.”
I jolt backwards and land flat on my back. Startled by his voice, I struggle to mutter a response.
“S-So you can hear me?” I mumble.
“Running away will not solve your problems.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Silence.
“Hey, old man! Hello?”
The reflection of embers dance about his bitter, yellow eyes. My gaze shifts to a sizable scar set within the dark circle under his right eye. The bolt-shaped mark looks just like the one that I got as a child when I fell on the corner of the dining room table.
Mountains make poor receptacles for dreams,” he says as he rotates his body to face me. “If you stay out here you will end up like me.”
I notice a beam of light reflect off of the pendent on his neck. Attached to black twine is a pressed silver disc, with a pattern of holes punched through. If it wasn’t so dull and rusty, it would look just like my pendant of the Orion constellation.
The old man starts to hobble towards me. He places his hands on my chest and pushes me over the ledge. As I spiral downwards, the last thing I saw were his glossy yellow eyes from above.
——-
I drift in and out of consciousness as I lay motionless on the ledge. Drifts of snow pile up around me as my body rapidly shuts down. The cold is so painful, I don’t think I can endure it for much longer.
There is no cavity in the mountain. No old man with a fire. I am completely and utterly alone. The onset of hypothermia is irreversible now. Death is upon me. Beyond shame, I cradle my head in my arms and embark on an orgy of self-pity. Shivering convulsively, I whimper frozen tears.
With all of the energy I have left, I let out a hysterical cry, “I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die!”
Josh Schildknegt is a sophomore studying Recreation, Park, and Tourism Management at University Park. He likes to fill his free-time with an abundance of adventure-based outdoor activities including backpacking, mountain biking, and rock climbing. Josh is currently enrolled in a creative writing class, which has really sparked his passion for writing.