Skeleton Gorge

         

Writer's Cramp: Story of getting lost while hiking in the mountains.
Word count: 949.


Skeleton Gorge.

It started out as a good idea. Well, as good idea as any can be when you’re smoking that slow boat to China.
It took us two hours to get from sitting in his bedroom, listening (and acting) to Cypress Hill’s “Hits from the Bong” to walking up Skeleton Gorge, a mammoth pathway of stairs leading up the back of Table Mountain. All we remembered to take was our smokes, and a 2 litre of bottle of coke, filled with more Wellington’s brandy than actual coke.
We got to the foot of the stairway, the blocks taking me up to my knees. I remember thinking, I’m never going to make it to the top, but when your friend next to you hands you the end of the joint, those thoughts tend to fade away.
So we started, and hiked ourselves up those granite blocks. It’s hard to take in the dangers, or surroundings, when you’re concentrating on taking that next step in front of you while laughing at yourself for being an idiot for agreeing to this in the first place.

We hiked for about half an hour when my friend called for a break. We sat on the steps, swigging from our drink and cautiously cleaning our stash, not wanting to lose any stray heads in the wind. After rolling, and lighting, I took a drag and looked up. That was when reality kicked in and I dropped the joint.
The sky was getting dark, it was hard to even see it through the canopy of trees. I looked down and couldn’t see the bottom of the stairway. What I did see sent the chills of hell into my bones. We had walked up this pathway and there we no safety banisters, nothing to hold on to. On one side was the mountain; on the other was a drop. A fall of I don’t know how far, but if you hit the rocks at the bottom, you’d be dead, of that I was sure.
I looked at my friend, but he still didn’t seem to notice anything was wrong. Looking at my watch, I cursed myself for being an idiot for a second time, there was no way we’d make it down before darkness fell, and in that Gorge, the darkness was overwhelming, and let’s not mention the stories the papers covered a while back.
In a state of panic, I swatted the joint out of my friend’s hand. He looked at me with a confused and angry expression but before he could say anything, I blurted out the time and pointed towards the sky. It took a moment for realisation to dawn on his face, but when it did; I saw the colour drain away.
He looked back with frightful eyes, the paranoia kicking in. Standing up, he accidentally kicked our drink and the 2 litre bottle went flying over the edge. We watched in shock fascination as it fell, and then explode as it hit the rocks below.
In mute agreement, we hurried down the Gorge, forgetting my stash lying on the stair. We walked quickly, but the sun started to fall and with it came the cold. My fingers were beginning to ache, and the joints in my knees held fast. The combination of cold, paranoia and fright turned my body into a robot and I couldn’t move flexibly. In mere minutes the darkness descended.  I stopped walking and stood with my back pressing against the mountainside, pushing myself as far away from the edge as I could. Holding my hand in front of my face I could hardly make out the outline of my fingers.
Fearful, I called out my friend’s name. A reply came from far away, some ways back up the stairs. He must have been walking slower than me, which seemed impossible to me as I walked less than a snail’s pace.

Then I heard the yell and the scuffle of feet sliding. Sound echoed dramatically in the Gorge, and I knew it came from above. I heard my name, and knew my friend was in trouble. Taking a breath, I bounded up the stairs as fast as I could in the dark, keeping close to the mountainside, calling my friend’s name. I came upon him moments later and my heart stopped in my chest. He hung over the edge. All I could make out where his white hands clutching at something on the granite block. I leant down quickly and grabbed at his wrist, yelling that I have him. I pulled up, but nothing happened. I yelled again, asking if he had a foothold, but no reply came. His hands were stuck fast around the object he held, a tree root I thought. Hearing no reply, and still holding on to his wrist, I cautiously stuck my head over the edge of the stairs and looked down. That’s when I saw the white eyes. Something pulled at my back, grabbing my jacket. I tried to twist and see what was going on, but too late. I was lifted and thrown backwards over the edge. I passed the white eyes on the way over and saw a small white face staring back at me. A small person was perched on the side of the stairway, holding on to the edge, watching me. It was not my friend. That was my last thought before the realisation of the fall hit me, and I screamed. I don’t remember the impact of the fall, but I know that before I hit the rocks, a little part of me had already died. What starts out as a good idea is not always the best one.