Aron Ralston - Between a Rock and a Hard Place

“Wednesday morning at nine o’clock. I’m curious how the sleuthing is going for everybody out there. Hopefully, somebody figured out how to pull the credit-card report and figure out where I’ve been, like to Grand Junction and Moab and from there.” I involuntarily dart my eyes back and forth, up and down, then stare blankly down to my left foot. Tilting my head, I speculate, “Maybe the NPS ranger at Horseshoe made a report about my truck being there, I don’t know,” and conclude with a shrug.

I remember that a couple of items back in Aspen will need to be sent to other people, so I give a few more directions for my parents.

“Anyhow, the bike in my room in Aspen belongs to John Currier, who lives just a few houses up the street from Erik Zsemlye. All these addresses and names you should be able to find on my PalmPilot, which is in the glove compartment of my truck. Also, the sleeping bag that’s in my cubby at work belongs to Bill Geist, he’s paid for it, so maybe you can get it to him, part of the Denali thing.”

Last on my mind for this go-round with the tape are a few of my favorite memories. “I’m thinking about 7-UP in a Styrofoam cup,” I explain, and take a long blink to conjure up the image one more time. I let out a tiny moan, then move on with another drink memory. “Five-Alive at Grandma Anderson’s house. Some of my favorite beverages going down on the list now. I’m thinking through it.”

I am gasping for breath between sentences and decide that I’ve had enough stimulation for now. Once I have shut down the video camcorder and stowed it on the chockstone shelf, I update my hour tallies in my head: 96 hours of sleep deprivation, 90 hours that I’ve been trapped, 29 hours that I’ve been sipping my urine, and 25 hours since I finished off the last of my fresh water.

While I am running the numbers, the raven flies over my head. I seethe with envy for the bird’s freedom.

On a lighter note, I count up that it’s been four days since I used toothpaste or a toothbrush. What I wouldn’t give to break that sabbatical. With a week passed since I last shaved, my whiskers are a quarter inch long. Rubbing my hand around my chin and neck, I wonder how long my beard will be by the time I’m found-it’ll keep growing for a day or two after I die-maybe a half inch or more?

Time has lost its meaning. Counting up the hours and days is now simply record-keeping. The exercise evokes no emotional response, only a matter-of-fact acknowledgment: “Oh, OK, so that’s how long I’ve been here.” By midmorning, I am not checking my watch anymore. I don’t want to see how quickly the day is passing, because I know what will come tonight, and I’m hardly looking forward to it. It seems best that I ignore time. I can’t speed it up or slow it down; I can only absorb the surreal impressions that swirl in my head, delayed imprints of the walls, telltale trails of the mental claustrophobia that comes with such a long time without sleep, constricting my thinking and shutting down my rational processes one by one.

Suddenly, I have a new idea-what about using a rock as a wrecking ball to smash into the chockstone and potentially remove more of the sandstone from above my hand? Or maybe this is an old idea. Have I thought of this already? I can’t remember. It is brute force compared to the tactical precision with which I could peck at the boulder with my multi-tool, and that lends a positive angle to the theory. At least it’s something different.

I extract a melon-sized rock from the pile at my feet. While supporting my body with my left arm pressing against the escarpment of the canyon wall, I use my legs to roll the bowling ball up onto the ledge at my knees. Once I realize its awkward mass, I’m hesitant. If I lose control of the stone, it will fall directly into my lap or even onto my foot. At twenty-plus pounds, it’s unreasonably large for the job, but I make an attempt, first hoisting it onto my left shoulder and then heaving it forward onto the chockstone in a pulverizing explosion of grit and chalky sandstone. Sure enough, the rock bounces off the chockstone and lurches with the push of gravity for my feet. I jerk my legs out of the way, and it falls back into the pile. The smart thing is probably to leave it there. The stone’s impact did little to demolish the chockstone; the majority of the dust raised by the collision came from the rock I threw, not from the boulder. I need a rock of harder composition than the chockstone. I hunt around and discard from contention each of the remaining rocks near my shoes. This is the obstacle that halted my brainstorming efforts three days ago.

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.