The earth shook when she died. No metaphor, that: a person who has fallen three thousand feet hits the ground with considerable force, and the lip of the cliff at El Capitan stands that far above the meadow. She set off car alarms. Those who watched her fall felt the tremors through the soles of their shoes.
She was no suicide. Three had jumped before her, had touched down lightly in the meadow to applause. From the ground, her lover watched her fall. A thousand feet fallen and no chute billowed out behind her. Then two thousand, and then?
Then the earth shook.
I have watched her jump two dozen times the last few days, three dozen, replaying her last steps again and again. There is something in the way she jumped that compels me, and I have watched the way a mouse might watch a snake, an infatuated horror in me. Advance it a frame at a time or let it run undissected: no matter. No delicate swan dive, this. There is no focus on tight form or presentation, save that needed to get to the edge without stumbling. (You do not want to trip on your way to jump off a kilometer-high cliff.)
The void was there and she flung herself at it, flung herself hard and unhesitating, as if the void was her last chance.
Eight years this month since Jan Davis fell, eight years since she flung herself into a well of air. Eight years since the earth rose up to take her. Which of us can equal her grace in meeting it? The void comes around to snatch each one of us in turn. I fling myself up at mountains rather than down from off them, but my end is as inevitable as hers.
The trick is not to hesitate, to step off deliberately and strong. The earth rises up and one must greet it.
Hadn’t heard this story. Mr Google informs me—
She set off car alarms.
That detail de-abstracts the story for me, makes this account vivid. Armor-piercing detail.
as a mom, this is my nightmare. that my kid may try a stunt, and everything fails. smash. all gone. i can’t see a bit of grace in it, although i hope those who loved her could find some.
your end, chris, i hope, will be more gentle, less stupid.
your end, chris, i hope, will be more gentle, less stupid.
kathy, if someone knows and accepts the risks and possible consequences, I don’t see that as stupid. You do what you do, to live.
Mind you, as a non-parent, maybe that’s a bit too easy for me to say.
there are means of expression that might get you flamed on the internet. and there are other means that might get you smashed.
i have a lot of respect for gravity. some might say, too much. i’m concrete in my thinking, that way.
My wife doesn’t camp so I do long day hikes to get my wilderness fix. I used to head out alone on 10, 12, 16 mile hikes with little more than a backpack full of water and some moleskin. One February, while on a business trip to Boulder, I woke to eight inches of powder, clear skies, no wind, 10 degree predicted high. I had decent boots, bought a cheap backpack for water, packed a sweatshirt, dry T-shirt, and within an hour and a half I was heading into the hills. Worked up a good sweat—always do—and made it about eight miles relatively easily. I paused for lunch. Drank the last of my water. Didn’t bring much. It was cold, right? I then noticed the frozen sweat, the increasing shivers. Headed back as clouds formed. My footing became very uncertain while I became more and more reckless. Began to sleet. I started running. Pinched the skin on the back of my hand. Stood up like a little shark fin.
Made it to my car. Not sure how I did it but drove back to the hotel with the heater on full. Got to the room. Drank lots of water.
Since then I take enough gear and food to stay out overnight and then some, regardless of the weather or length of hike. The other day I did an “easy” 7 miler up Mission Peak. My fellow hikers included little old ladies in sandals carrying umbrellas. I had to look a bit silly with my relatively large backpack. But it’s my way of mitigating—not eliminating—risk while doing something I love.
Our ends will come in their own ways, regardless of how we live. The most reckless person may die in bed. The most careful in a horrible accident. The trick is to find a balance you—and ideally your loved ones—can live with until there’s no more living to be done.