Crossing the Chasm

by Emily Lim (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find USA

I would not be able to hear an approaching predator over the roar of the water below and the crinkling of the bivy bag my youngest slept in. We are miles from help, in the backcountry of Zion National Park. I didn’t expect to find myself lying in the sand, with nothing but the Milky way above me, a Mylar sheet for a blanket. Suddenly, I hear the sound of retching and sit up to see my eldest daughter throwing up what little food she has had. She knows how vulnerable we are, how far from the nearest road, doctor or cell tower. She fears mountain lion or bear; I fear flash flood. Fifteen hours earlier we had set out on a day hike. A lottery hike that I had tried to win for years. When I finally scored the winning lottery ticket, I invited two friends to accompany my family of four on a canyoneering hike that would test us in unexpected ways. The day had been picture perfect. As we hiked through forests, over slick rock, and down-climbed through boulders the size of cars, it felt like we were the only people in the world. After hiking for hours we got to the water obstacles which would involve rappelling and swimming. I had read that the water temperature was in the mid-forties, but nothing prepared me for the chest-compressing shock of the freezing water enveloping my body. I forgot how to breathe. Our progress was slowed by the frigid water. We were falling further behind a timeline we didn’t know existed. The toughest obstacle came in the final canyon. I was in early-stage hypothermia, violently shaking and gritting my teeth to keep from biting my tongue. This last rappel would put us down in deep water, with a 15-foot swim to get out. I could not do it. My limbs would not follow my commands. Descending a rope into water, trying to unhook a carabiner with blue hands, keeping my head above water--these were things I was incapable of doing. Someone in our group spotted another rappel point across the canyon. It would put us down in ankle deep water after a 20-25-foot rappel. It was the obvious choice, except for one thing: in order to get there, we had to jump across a four-and-a-half-foot ravine. This chasm was formed by a rushing creek that crashed into a waterfall below us. Deteriorating rapidly, I was in no condition to coach my eleven-year-old daughter through this. Without discussion, my husband jumped across with no safety rope. Events were set in motion then, as members of our group tossed him a rope and we decided to harness up with enough slack that we could leap across. The next moments come in and out of focus for me now. I remember the two friends we brought with us, who were now bringing us with them, coaching my youngest daughter through her fear. I remember seeing my husband across the chasm, as steady as he always is in an emergency. With extreme clarity, I remember watching my eldest daughter jump across this impossible distance to show her sister it could be done. I remember my heart leaping into my throat as my youngest, with tears streaming down her cheeks, jumped over the abyss. My jump, I can’t recall with any detail. Nor can I remember how we descended the other side. The decision to stop hiking and sleep was made long after dark. With no supplies, we created a make-shift camp next to the relentless water that had pushed us to our limits that day. As my family sleeps, I watch the Milky Way move overhead. I have never felt so alive, so connected to my family, friends and the earth. I didn’t expect to find myself here. But I did. I found myself to be stronger than I ever knew. So did my girls. As the sky starts to turn purple in the East, I wipe a spider from my daughter’s hair and whisper in her ear, “we are going to be okay.” Then I think to myself, we are going to be better than okay.