A Brush With Death

While Yerevan, Armenia, had a fantastical charm, I also craved to see what the rest of Armenia had to offer. The amazing MISTI-Armenia ambassador, Khachatur, invited me to hike one Sunday, and I saw no reason to refuse. Little did he know that the last time I hiked was 3 years ago. Perhaps an unavoidable quality of my youth is that I am attracted to challenges like moths to a flame. While there is nothing in particular to prove, like a mountaineer planning out their next ascension, my conquest is putting myself in unbearable situations.

I had arrived at the trailhead with the hiking group and Khachatur when I realized my first mistake. I was the only one on the team with shorts and a T-shirt. All my hikes in the US were unbearably hot, so I didn’t bother with extra layers. The chilly winds and clouds didn’t faze me, since this surely wouldn’t be how the trip ends. Yet, my seatmate on the bus to the trailhead insisted on lending me her jacket. Secretly, I was grateful because I didn’t appreciate the cold.

The hike began like any other hike. Khachatur encouraged me to socialize and talk to other members of the hiking group, but I was feeling people shy, especially since I didn’t know Armenian. Besides, I had other goals in mind: to be at the head of the hiking group. I ought to be a fast girl after all.

The gentle slopes of the hill eventually revealed the most gorgeous lake in the distance. The landscape of this excursion, green hills beyond green hills, was unfamiliar but alluring. The trees I am used to never showed up. I achieved my goal of being at the head of the group fairly quickly, but our guide wasn’t particularly great company. The tranquil surroundings soften my spirit, and I begin to find conversation elsewhere with a sweet Armenian girl. The hike was calming, albeit cold. I was swept away by the natural beauty and fell into a peaceful routine of walking, talking, and taking pictures.

We were almost summiting when a cloud of fog made it difficult to see beyond the person in front of you. Khachatur asked me if I had a raincoat. I’ve never encountered rain on a hike before so I didn’t think to bring one. At his insistence, I wore his. The extra layer of plastic did stave off the cold from my legs since my shorts were not long enough to cover them. At this point, I was cursing myself for not wearing long pants.

Our group traveled like a stretched-out snake. No one wants to get lost in this fog. Slowly, the rain started to fall. The world is a grim, gray painting. We attempted to summit for longer than I liked, but eventually, the weather conditions turned us around. The rain beat down harder as we scrambled down the mountain. My legs were freezing and hurting from the rain splatters. To everyone’s surprise, the rain gave way to hail. The scrambling intensified. Tiny pieces of ice fell like needles on my legs. Every step came with a thousand jabs on my body. I only had on a T-shirt, my busmate’s light jacket, Khachatur’s poncho, and shorts.

Suddenly, I felt a pull, and I crumpled down. The sweet Armenian girl I was talking to during the hike held me in her arms. Turns out, our group was huddling behind a small hill to wait for the storm to pass. The girl tried to warm my hands up. I was not in any position to refuse her help. Although frozen, I was deeply moved by this stranger-turned-friend’s compassion.

We continued our descent because the storm wasn’t letting up. My vision became a disjointed combination of hail, shifting figures, and the plastic hoodie of the poncho waving in the wind. The pain was not stopping. The cold was not stopping. The panic, to the extent I can feel it in my numb body, was setting in. Is this the end? This seemed like a gray way to die. My legs hurt so much, and I crouched down to cover them so the ice would stop assaulting them. A guide pulled me up, “What are you doing? Keep moving!” I couldn’t keep up. He’s moving too fast.

Khachatur found me and said, “How are you doing?” “My hands are freezing”, I replied. What if I lose them forever? He put my hands under his shirt and gave me one of his hiking sticks. He supported my arm as we tried to make our way down the hill. The green and grassy slope seemed to be filled with white pearls. A beautiful sight if one can ignore that falling is just one slip away. My hands are not warming up. My legs are turning into rubber sticks. Every step felt like the last one.

After an hour, the hail has finally thinned. I fell. My leg spasmed. I looked at it for the first time and was alarmed. Why are there hives all over my legs? Why am I getting an allergic reaction? Am I going to lose my legs? A sliver of reason shone through my panic; of course, the bumps must be the hail shards.

Someone used his palm to push the ball of my foot. The muscle spasm eased. Eventually, I can walk again. Another hiker gave me their spare hoodie. Finally, I am feeling a bit of warmth. After the spasm, I could only take small steps, but we have so much more to go. My legs are numb. The pearl fields seemed to taunt me.

I fell again. How am I going to make it back? From the middle of nowhere, a jeep appeared to be driving toward us. We started waving. “Hey. Hey. We need help.” I watched from the ground where I fell as the jeep got closer. My hiking group said, “Let her go, let her go”. Khachatur picked me up from the ground and carried me to the back of the jeep. Khachatur recounted the situation to the two people who picked us up in Armenian, and they laughed the whole way back to town. I wasn’t sure if Khachatur said anything funny, but I can’t help but feel anger towards our saviors who made light of our predicament.

Back in town, Khachatur got some tea for us and asked the store lady to look after me while he got cleaned up. She was not a doctor, and couldn’t help me with my red cauliflower legs. But all I can think of is one thing, “I would really like some socks”. She disappeared while I held back my tears. She returned with the socks, black and clean. I tried to pay her, but she wouldn’t take it. My tears welled up again. I never knew that dry feet could be so comforting.

Eventually, everyone started showing up at the rest stop, haggard with hair sticking out. After a while, someone said, “I thought that was going to be the end”. Yes, me too. Me too.

I thought the takeaway from this event was appreciating life after a brush with death and the power of Mother Nature. That certainly was one thing I learned. But, reflecting on these moments made me realize that I wouldn’t have survived without the kindness of total strangers. Everyone pushed me a little further towards life.