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Part 42 - Breathe

Take a moment to notice.

· yoga,mind,body,joy,consistency

I say, breathe in, breathe deeply, let it go.

J. Statham

I felt it pool around me. It was in my eyes. I could taste it. My chest was covered in it. I tried to breathe, but nothing happened. When breath finally moved, it moved in fits and starts - the rapid, staccato breath of adrenaline and fear. Sand and rock stained brilliant red in a growing circle.

I'm not sure of all details. Some of it has returned over time, but the actual moment I knew I was falling has never fully come back.

I remember my underhand grip on a flake of rock the size of a car tire. I remember matching feet to hands. I remember the tire-sized rock shifting, slipping out and back, into my lap. I remember a rush and a back-flip and ... I remember coming to in Dave's lap. I remember the look on his face. I remember the free flowing blood, so much blood.

I remember the crash of breath that filled my lungs. The gasping. The gasping. The involuntary tears. The smell of sweat. I remember Dave screaming, like a child, "Rocks to cabin! Rocks to cabin! Rocks to cabin!"

The cabin lay about a half mile down a steep slope. By trail, 10 minutes. By direct line, 7 minutes. It took the guys 5 to reach us.

Mike saw it. Sort of. Saw me up there. - High on the face of Steamboat. Sharp end of the rope. - Took a bite of sandwich. Looked back and I was gone.

When he heard Dave's scream across the meadow, everything went hyper. Stokes litter. First aid kit. Radio. Run.

I remember Seth holding my hand. I remember Yvon and Tim staving the flow of blood with compression. Then bandages. I remember the green wool army blanket. I remember the onset of pain and the taste of copper pennies. I remember more tears. I remember being afraid.

There was a neurosurgeon in camp. He flashed a pen light in my eyes. There was a suburban ambulance and there were two medics waiting. They bolted the litter to the floor. There were a million ruts in the track, to the gravel, to the pavement, to the hospital.

I remember the breath becoming easier. I remember breathing again. I remember the pain and the absolute - unadulterated - joy of the taste of oxygen.

I remember breathing.

I remember breathing.

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