"Nightmare on the Cliff: My Sleepwalking Fall in Red River Gorge":
I’m Ryan Campbell, a 27-year-old from Cincinnati, Ohio. Back in early September 2014, I thought a camping trip with my friends in Kentucky’s Red River Gorge would be a blast—a chance to unplug, hike, and soak in the wild beauty of the mountains. Instead, it became the most terrifying night of my life, a nightmare of falling off a cliff, clinging to life, and praying for rescue. This is my story, raw and real, based on what happened, with no ghosts or spooky stuff—just the gut-wrenching horror of nature and my own body turning against me.
The Grays Arch Trail in Red River Gorge was our pick, a place famous for its rugged cliffs, sandstone arches, and dense forests. Me, my best friend Jake, his girlfriend Sarah, and our old high school buddy Mike piled into Jake’s beat-up Jeep, laughing and blasting music for the three-hour drive from Ohio. The air got cooler as we climbed into the mountains, and when we parked at the trailhead, the view hit me hard—rolling hills, trees glowing red and gold in the fall light, and a sky so clear it felt like you could touch the stars. “This is gonna be the best weekend ever,” Sarah said, tossing her backpack over her shoulder. I grinned, already picturing campfires and cold beers.
We hiked a mile to a clearing near a cliff edge, about 60 feet above a rocky slope dotted with bushes and boulders. It wasn’t a sheer drop, but it was steep enough to make your stomach lurch if you peeked over. “Sweet spot,” Mike said, dropping his gear. We pitched our tents, mine a faded green one I’d had since college, right near the edge for the view. The ground was hard, packed with roots, and the air smelled of pine and damp earth. As the sun dipped, we built a campfire, the flames crackling and spitting sparks. Jake passed around beers, and we roasted hot dogs, the grease sizzling as it dripped into the fire. “To epic adventures,” Jake toasted, raising his can. We clinked drinks, laughing.
I mentioned my sleepwalking over dinner, something I’d done since I was a kid. “Happens maybe once a month,” I said, shrugging. “I usually just wander the house, no big deal.” Sarah raised an eyebrow. “You sure that’s safe out here?” I waved her off. “I’ll zip my tent tight. Don’t worry.” Mike smirked, tossing a stick into the fire. “Just don’t sleepwalk off the damn cliff, dude.” We all cracked up, the idea so ridiculous it felt impossible. The night deepened, stars blinking through the trees, and the wind carried soft hoots from owls. Around midnight, I crawled into my sleeping bag, the ground cold beneath me, and drifted off, lulled by the forest’s hum.
Then, in the dead of night, it happened. I don’t remember unzipping my tent or stepping out. Sleepwalking’s like being a puppet—your body moves, but your mind’s gone. One second I was dreaming, the next I was falling. The ground dropped away, and I was plunging through the dark, air rushing past like a scream. My heart slammed against my ribs, stomach twisting as I flailed, grasping at nothing. Stars blurred above, spinning wildly. I thought, This is it. I’m dead. Then—crash—I slammed into something prickly and springy, branches snapping under my weight. I was tangled in a rhododendron bush, its thick leaves scratching my arms, my legs dangling over a steep slope. Pain exploded in my head, warm blood trickling down my temple, stinging my eyes. My back ached, sharp and deep, like someone had driven a nail into my spine.
I gasped, choking on panic. “Where… where am I?” My voice was a hoarse whisper, barely audible over the wind. I blinked, trying to focus. The cliff towered above, my tent a tiny shadow against the moonlight. Below, the slope stretched down, littered with rocks that glinted like teeth. The bush was holding me, but it creaked, roots straining in the loose dirt. If it gave way, I’d tumble straight into those rocks. My hands clamped onto the branches, knuckles white, my arms shaking from the effort. “Help!” I yelled, but my throat was raw, the sound weak. The forest swallowed it, indifferent. My phone, my flashlight—everything was back in the tent. I was alone, bleeding, and terrified.
Every sound made me jump—the rustle of leaves, the snap of a twig, the distant howl of a coyote. My mind raced with worst-case scenarios. What if a bear smelled the blood? What if the bush broke? My fingers ached, nails digging into the bark. The cold sank into me, my teeth chattering, my thin T-shirt and sweatpants no match for the night. Blood kept dripping, pooling in my ear, and my head throbbed like it’d split open. “Someone… please,” I muttered, not sure if I was praying or begging. I tried to shift, to ease the pain in my back, but the bush swayed, and I froze, heart pounding. Don’t move. Just hold on.
Up at camp, Jake woke around 3 a.m., needing to pee. He stumbled out, zipping up his jacket, and noticed my tent flap flapping open. “Ryan? You out here, man?” he called, his flashlight beam cutting through the dark. Silence. He ducked into my tent—empty, my sleeping bag crumpled. “Guys, wake up!” he shouted, banging on Sarah and Mike’s tents. “Ryan’s gone!” Sarah scrambled out, her hair a mess, eyes wide. “What do you mean, gone?” Mike joined them, rubbing sleep from his face. “His stuff’s here, but he’s not,” Jake said, voice tight. They fanned out, shouting my name. “Ryan! Yo, where you at?” Mike’s voice bounced off the cliffs, unanswered.
Sarah’s face paled. “The cliff… what if he sleepwalked?” Jake’s stomach dropped. He sprinted to the edge, nearly tripping on a root, and swept his flashlight down the slope. The beam caught a flash of my blue T-shirt, tangled in the bush, my face ghost-white and streaked with blood. “Holy shit, Ryan!” he screamed. “He’s down there! He’s alive!” Sarah fumbled her phone, hands shaking so bad she nearly dropped it. “911, now!” Mike urged. She dialed, her voice breaking. “We need help! Our friend fell off a cliff at Grays Arch Trail! He’s stuck in a bush, bleeding. Please, hurry!” The operator was calm, grounding. “Stay where you are. Keep him talking if you can. Rescue is on the way.”
Jake leaned over the edge, shouting, “Ryan, we see you! Hold on, man! Help’s coming!” His voice was the first thing I’d heard in hours, faint but real. “Jake… I’m so scared,” I croaked, putting everything I had into being loud. “I don’t know how long I can hold on.” My arms were burning, muscles screaming. “You’re gonna be okay!” Sarah yelled, her voice shaking. “Just stay strong!” I wanted to believe them, but the bush groaned, a branch snapping under my weight. I bit back a scream, tears mixing with the blood on my face. Please, God, don’t let me fall.
The wait was torture. My friends kept shouting encouragement, their voices my only lifeline. “Talk to us, Ryan! You still with us?” Mike called. “Yeah… barely,” I managed, my throat dry as sandpaper. The cold was numbing my fingers, making it harder to grip. I kept picturing the rocks below, imagining my body broken on them. Every minute stretched, my hope fading. What if the rescuers couldn’t find me? What if they were too late?
Finally, after what felt like years but was about three hours, I heard new voices and saw headlamps flickering above. The Wolfe County Search and Rescue team had arrived, their ropes and gear clinking like a promise. “Ryan, I’m Tom, with the rescue team,” a steady voice called. “We’re coming down to you. Hang in there.” I wanted to sob, relief crashing over me, but I was too weak. “Hurry… please,” I whispered, my voice barely a breath.
Tom rappelled down, his boots crunching the slope, his headlamp blinding me for a second. He was in his 40s, grizzled, moving with calm precision. “Hey, Ryan, you’re doing great,” he said, kneeling beside me. “Where’s it hurt?” I winced as he checked me. “Head… back… everywhere.” Blood matted my hair, and my spine felt like it was on fire. Tom’s hands were steady, checking my pulse, shining a light in my eyes. “Looks like a bad cut and maybe some spine damage, but you’re tough. We’re gonna get you out.” He strapped a harness around me, careful not to jostle the bush. It creaked, and my heart stopped. “It’s holding,” Tom said, his voice firm. “We’ve got you.”
The team above started pulling. The rope tugged, and I inched up, branches scraping my skin, rocks digging into my legs. Every jolt sent pain shooting through me, and I gritted my teeth, trying not to cry out. “Almost there, Ryan!” Jake shouted from above. The cliff edge seemed so far, the night endless. It took an hour, each second a battle to stay conscious. My head swam, vision blurring, but Tom’s voice kept me grounded. “Stay with me, kid. You’re doing awesome.”
When I finally reached the top, hands grabbed me, pulling me onto flat ground. I collapsed, gasping, tears streaming down my face. Jake was there, his eyes red. “You scared the hell out of us,” he said, voice breaking. Sarah hugged me, sobbing. “Don’t you ever do that again.” Mike just shook his head, looking like he’d seen a ghost. “Thank you,” I rasped to Tom, who gave a small nod. “Just doing my job. Glad you’re okay.”
A helicopter was waiting nearby, its blades thumping. They loaded me onto a stretcher, the night sky spinning as I was lifted in. The flight to Lexington’s hospital was a blur, my mind stuck on the fall, the bush, the rocks. I’m alive, I kept thinking, like it wasn’t real. Doctors swarmed me, stitching a gash on my scalp, X-raying my back. “You’ve got chipped vertebrae, a concussion, and a lot of bruises,” one said, adjusting his glasses. “But you’re lucky. That bush caught you just right. Without it, you’d have hit rock, and…” He didn’t finish, but I knew. I shivered, picturing it.
Jake visited the next day, slumping in a chair by my bed. “Man, I thought you were gone,” he said, rubbing his face. “When I saw you in that bush, all bloody… I’ve never felt so helpless.” I tried to smile, my face stiff with bandages. “Guess I owe that bush a fruit basket.” He laughed, but it was shaky. “No more camping near cliffs, alright? I can’t handle that again.” I nodded, my chest tight. “Deal.”
Lying there, I couldn’t stop replaying it—the fall, the creak of the bush, the cold dread of waiting. The hospital’s sterile smell, the beep of monitors, it all felt so far from the wild Gorge, but the fear stayed with me. Sleepwalking wasn’t just a quirk anymore; it was a threat. I started seeing a specialist, got meds to keep it under control. I haven’t camped near a drop since, and I don’t know if I ever will.
That night changed me. It showed me how thin the line is between a good time and a disaster, how fast everything can slip away. I’m grateful for that bush, for Tom and his team, for my friends who didn’t give up. But the memory of hanging there, alone in the dark, with nothing but a creaking branch between me and death—that’s a chill I’ll never shake.
"Whispers in the Blizzard: A True Tale of Terror on Mount Hood":
I was 17, a junior at Oregon Episcopal School, when I joined the Mount Hood climb in May 1986. It was part of our Basecamp program, a rite of passage for us kids. For weeks, we’d trained hard—swinging ice axes into frozen slopes, strapping crampons to our boots, practicing knots until our fingers ached. I was nervous, my stomach twisting, but the idea of standing on the summit, 11,240 feet up, made my heart race with excitement. The night before, we gathered in the lodge at Timberline, our gear piled in heaps. Father Tom Goman, our chaplain, stood by the fireplace, his voice warm and sure. “Tomorrow, you’ll conquer the mountain,” he said, his eyes bright. “This is your moment.” I believed him. We all did, even as the wind rattled the windows.
We started at 2:30 a.m., 20 of us—15 students, two teachers, Father Tom, Marion Horwell, and our guides, Ralph Summers and Dee Zduniak. The air was sharp, slicing through my scarf, but the sky was clear, stars glittering like diamonds. My boots sank into the snow, crunching with every step. We were roped together, our headlamps casting shaky beams across the slope. My breath puffed out in clouds, and my backpack straps dug into my shoulders. Brinton Clark, my best friend, climbed just ahead, her braid swinging under her hood. “This is it, Lorca,” she whispered, grinning. “We’re gonna make it.” I nodded, my chest tight with hope and fear.
By dawn, we were high, past 10,000 feet. The mountain stretched endless around us, all snow and rock, the air thin and biting. But the wind had changed, growing meaner, whipping snow into our faces. My goggles fogged, and I wiped them with numb fingers. Ralph stopped us at 11,000 feet, his face grim, half-lost in his parka. “We need to turn back,” he shouted, his voice barely cutting through the wind’s howl. “This storm’s getting bad.”
Father Tom stepped forward, snow crusted on his beard. “We’re so close to the summit,” he said. “Let’s push a little further. The kids deserve this.”
I glanced at Brinton, her eyes wide, her lips pressed tight. “Should we go back?” I whispered, my voice shaking.
She hesitated, her breath hitching. “Father Tom knows best, right? He’s done this before.”
I wasn’t sure. The wind screamed like a wild animal, and the snow was a white wall, blinding us. My toes ached in my boots, and my fingers felt like wood. But Father Tom was our leader, our guide in more ways than one. We trusted him. So we kept climbing, higher into the storm.
It was the wrong choice. The blizzard hit like a fist, slamming us with ice and wind. Visibility dropped to nothing—I could barely see Brinton, just a blurry shape on the rope. My heart pounded, each beat loud in my ears. Ralph’s voice cut through, faint and urgent. “We’re off course! We need to stop!” Father Tom shouted back, “We’re lost! Dig in! Snow cave!”
Lost. The word sank into me, cold and heavy. We were on Mount Hood, 11,000 feet up, in a killer storm. My hands shook as we grabbed our shovels, hacking at the snow. It was wet, heavy, sticking to our gloves. The wind clawed at us, trying to rip us off the mountain. We dug for what felt like hours, carving a tiny cave, just big enough to cram inside. My arms burned, my face stung from the cold. Finally, we crawled in, 18 of us packed like sardines, our wet clothes freezing to our skin.
The cave was dark, the air thick with our breath. The walls were uneven, dripping icy water. The wind howled outside, a banshee shaking the snow around us. I hugged my knees, my teeth chattering so hard I thought they’d break. My toes were gone—numb, like they didn’t belong to me. Brinton pressed against me, her shoulder bony under her jacket. “Lorca, you okay?” she asked, her voice small.
“I’m scared,” I said, my throat tight. “What if we don’t get out?”
“We will,” she said, but her eyes were glassy, uncertain. “We have to.”
Father Tom knelt at the front, his hands clasped. “We’re safe here,” he said, his voice steady but tired. “Rescuers will come. Let’s pray.” He started a prayer, but the words felt hollow against the storm’s roar. Marion Horwell, our science teacher, passed out a granola bar, breaking it into tiny pieces. “Eat slow,” she said. “It’s all we’ve got.” I chewed my piece, the oats sticking to my dry tongue. It tasted like sawdust.
Hours dragged on. The cold was a living thing, creeping into my bones. My fingers wouldn’t move right, stiff and useless. Someone coughed, a wet, rattling sound that made my stomach twist. Molly Schula, a senior, huddled across from me, her face pale, her lips blue. “Why didn’t we turn back?” she muttered, her voice sharp. “Ralph said to go down.”
“Don’t start,” Marion snapped, her eyes flashing. “We’re here now. Focus on staying warm.”
“She’s right,” another kid, Erik, whispered. “We should’ve listened to Ralph. This is crazy.”
“Enough!” Father Tom said, his voice breaking. “Blaming won’t help. Stay strong.”
But the anger hung in the air, thick as the cold. I felt it too—a knot of fear and regret. We’d trusted Father Tom, and now we were trapped. The cave felt smaller, the walls pressing in. I heard a voice calling my name—Lorca! Lorca!—soft, like my mom’s, but far away. I froze, my heart hammering. “Did you hear that?” I whispered to Brinton.
“Hear what?” she asked, frowning.
“My name. Someone’s calling me.” I peered at the cave’s entrance, where snow swirled in the dim light. Nothing. Just the wind, playing tricks. Later, I thought I saw a shadow move outside—a dark shape in the blizzard, tall and thin. My breath caught, but when I blinked, it was gone. The storm was messing with my head, making me see things that weren’t there. It was creepy, the way the mountain toyed with us, like it wanted us to break.
By the second day, we were fading. The cold had stolen our strength. My legs cramped, my head throbbed. We’d run out of food, just a few sips of water left in a shared bottle. Father Tom’s prayers were whispers now, his face gray. Ralph made a decision, his voice firm. “I’m going for help,” he said, pulling on his gloves. “Molly, you’re with me. You’re strong enough.”
“You can’t leave!” I cried, panic clawing my chest. “You’ll die out there!”
“We have to,” Ralph said, his eyes locking on mine. “It’s our only shot. Stay here, stay alive.” Molly nodded, her jaw tight, and they crawled out, disappearing into the white.
The cave felt emptier without them. We waited, the hours blurring. My mind drifted to home—my mom’s lasagna, the way my dog curled up on my bed. I wanted to cry, but my eyes were too dry, my tears frozen. Brinton leaned against me, her breathing shallow. “Tell me we’ll make it,” she whispered.
“We will,” I said, forcing the words out. But I wasn’t sure I believed them.
On the third day, I heard shouts—real ones, not the wind’s lies. My heart leapt. “They’re here!” Brinton gasped, her voice cracking. We screamed, pounding the cave walls with our fists. Snow fell away, and light poured in. Rescuers in orange jackets dug us out, their faces grim. They pulled us into the storm, wrapping us in blankets. I stumbled, my legs useless, my feet like blocks of ice. The air stung my lungs, but I was alive.
They found nine bodies that day. Father Tom, Marion, seven of my classmates—they were gone, their faces peaceful in the snow, like they’d just fallen asleep. I sobbed, the sound raw and ugly. Brinton clung to me, her tears freezing on her cheeks. The rescuers carried us down, their radios crackling. In the hospital, they told me I had hypothermia, frostbite. I lost two toes, the skin black and dead. I didn’t care. I was alive, but the mountain had taken so much.
The school was a ghost town after. We held memorials, planted trees, sang hymns, but the grief was a weight we all carried. My nightmares came every night—the wind’s scream, the cave’s walls closing in, those shadows in the snow. People asked why I kept climbing after that, why I became a guide. I tell them it’s for the ones we lost, to teach kids to listen when the mountain warns you. Mount Hood is beautiful, but it’s cruel. It doesn’t care if you’re brave or scared. It just waits, cold and patient, for you to make a mistake. I’ll never forget the storm, the fear, the voices that weren’t there. They weren’t ghosts—just the mountain, reminding me how small we are.
"Trapped in the Blizzard":
I was fifteen, my heart racing with excitement, when we set out for the Cairngorms. It was November 1971, and our school group from Edinburgh was buzzing about the adventure. Eight of us—six students, plus our instructor Catherine and her assistant Sheelagh—were ready for a two-day trek across the mountains. I’d never been so far from home, and the thought of climbing those rugged peaks made me feel alive. The air was sharp, the sky a pale blue, and the mountains loomed ahead, their snowy tops glinting in the weak sunlight. I thought it would be a story to tell forever. I didn’t know it would become a nightmare.
We gathered at Lagganlia Outdoor Centre, our backpacks stuffed with sleeping bags, food, and extra socks. The room smelled of damp wool and instant coffee. My best friend Tommy was tying his boots, his curly hair poking out from under his wool hat. “Think we’ll see a stag up there, Robbie?” he asked, his grin wide. I laughed, slinging my pack over my shoulder. “Maybe, if it’s not too cold for them!” My other friends—Sarah, Jamie, Liz, and Peter—were joking nearby, their voices loud with nerves and excitement. Catherine, tall and no-nonsense, clapped her hands. “Alright, everyone, listen up! We’re heading to the Curran shelter for the night. It’s a tough hike, so stay close and follow my lead.” Her voice was firm, but her eyes were warm. Sheelagh, younger and softer-spoken, adjusted her scarf. “It’ll be fun,” she said, though she sounded like she was trying to convince herself.
The first day was hard but thrilling. We left the centre, our boots crunching on frosty grass, and started up the mountain path. The Cairngorms were breathtaking—jagged peaks stretching into the distance, patches of heather poking through the snow. The wind was cold, nipping at my ears, but I didn’t care. I felt strong, my breath puffing out in little clouds. Tommy walked beside me, pointing at a distant ridge. “Bet we could race to that,” he said, nudging me. I rolled my eyes. “You’d trip in the snow, clumsy.” We laughed, our voices echoing in the quiet.
By late afternoon, my legs ached, and my pack felt heavier. The sun was sinking, painting the snow pink and gold. We stopped near a small ridge, where Catherine decided we’d camp for the night. “Good work, everyone,” she said, unfolding her map. “We’re on track. Tomorrow, we’ll reach the shelter.” Sheelagh handed out hot cocoa from a thermos, and we sat in a circle, sipping it while the wind howled softly. Sarah, her blonde hair tucked under a hat, shivered. “It’s freezing already,” she said. Jamie, always the joker, grinned. “Just imagine the stories we’ll tell back at school!” I fell asleep in my tent, the cold seeping through my sleeping bag, but I was too tired to care.
Morning came, and everything changed. I woke to a gray sky, snow falling thick and fast. The wind was louder now, a low moan that made my stomach twist. I crawled out of my tent, my breath catching as snowflakes stung my face. The others were already up, packing quickly. Sheelagh’s face was tight, her hands fumbling with her gloves. “This is bad,” she muttered to Catherine, who was staring at the map like it could save us. “We need to move,” Catherine said, her voice steady but her eyes worried. “The shelter’s not far. We’ll be fine if we stick together.” I glanced at Tommy, his face pale under his hood. “You okay?” I whispered. He nodded, but his lips were pressed tight, like he was holding back fear.
We started walking, single file, into the blizzard. The snow was blinding, swirling so thick I could barely see Catherine’s red jacket ahead of me. My boots sank with every step, the effort making my thighs burn. The wind screamed, pushing against us like an invisible wall. My scarf was caked with ice, and my fingers ached inside my mittens. “Stay close!” Catherine shouted, her voice muffled by the storm. I grabbed Tommy’s sleeve, afraid we’d lose each other. Sarah was behind me, her steps slow. “It’s too cold,” she mumbled, her voice shaky. I wanted to say something to cheer her up, but my teeth were chattering too hard.
Hours dragged on, and we were lost. The shelter never appeared. My legs felt like they were made of stone, and my chest hurt from breathing the icy air. Catherine stopped, her face grim as she checked her compass. “We’re off course,” she admitted, her voice low so the wind wouldn’t carry it. Sheelagh’s eyes widened, snow clinging to her eyelashes. “Should we dig in? Wait out the storm?” she asked, her voice high with panic. Catherine shook her head. “No, we keep moving. We’ll find it.” I wanted to believe her, but doubt gnawed at me. Tommy leaned close, his breath warm against my ear. “How much farther, Robbie? My feet hurt bad.” His voice cracked, and I saw fear in his eyes. “Not long,” I said, though I had no idea. I just needed him to keep going.
By afternoon, the blizzard was a beast. The wind roared like it was alive, slamming into us with every step. Snow piled up to our waists, and I had to lift my knees high just to move. My fingers and toes were numb, like they didn’t belong to me anymore. Sarah stumbled, falling to her knees. Her face was blue, her eyes half-closed. “I can’t feel my hands,” she whispered, tears freezing on her cheeks. Catherine dropped beside her, rubbing her arms. “You’re okay, Sarah. Just keep moving. We’re almost there.” But Sarah’s head lolled, and I saw something in her eyes—like she was already fading. I grabbed her arm, pulling her up. “Come on, Sarah, you can do this,” I said, my voice desperate. She tried, but her steps were weak, like a puppet with cut strings.
Night fell, and we couldn’t go on. The cold was a knife, slicing through my clothes, my skin, my bones. Catherine made us dig a trench in the snow—a shallow pit to shield us from the wind. We crammed inside, eight of us pressed together, our breath steaming in the dark. The cold was unbearable, making my whole body shake. Tommy was next to me, his teeth chattering so loud it hurt to hear. “We’re gonna be okay, right?” he asked, his voice small. I nodded, my throat tight. “Yeah, Tommy. We’ll make it.” But inside, I was terrified. I wanted to scream, to run, to be anywhere but here. Instead, I hugged my knees, trying to hold onto the little warmth I had left.
The night was a blur of pain and fear. The wind screamed, piling snow over our trench until it felt like a grave. I heard whimpers, then silence. Sarah wasn’t moving. I shook her, my hands clumsy. “Sarah, wake up!” My voice was hoarse, raw from the cold. Her face was still, her lips blue. Catherine crawled over, her flashlight shaking in her hand. “She’s gone,” she whispered, her voice breaking. Gone? The word hit me like a punch. Sarah, who’d laughed with me just yesterday, was gone. Tommy sobbed, his face buried in his scarf. I felt tears burn my eyes, freezing before they could fall.
Morning came, but the storm didn’t stop. The trench was half-buried, and we were weaker, hungrier, colder. Jamie and Liz didn’t wake up. Their faces were peaceful, like they were sleeping, but their skin was hard as ice. Each loss was a weight on my chest, crushing me. Sheelagh’s voice was barely a whisper. “We need to move. We’ll die here.” Her eyes were red, her face gaunt. Catherine nodded, her lips cracked and bleeding. “Help is coming,” she said, but it sounded like she was begging the sky to make it true.
We crawled out of the trench, the blizzard still raging. My body screamed with every step, my vision blurry from exhaustion. Tommy leaned on me, his weight heavy. “Don’t leave me, Robbie,” he mumbled, his words slurring. “I won’t,” I promised, though my own strength was fading. Catherine led us, her steps slow but stubborn. Sheelagh stayed at the back, her voice faint as she called, “Keep going, just a little more!” But the snow was endless, the cold a monster that wouldn’t let go.
I don’t know how long we stumbled through the storm. My mind was foggy, my body numb. Then, through the white haze, I heard a shout. “Over here!” Shadows moved in the snow, growing clearer—men in bright jackets, their faces grim but alive. The mountain rescue team. My knees buckled, relief flooding me like warmth I’d forgotten. “We’re saved,” I whispered, my voice cracking. But when I turned to Tommy, his eyes were closed, his body limp in the snow. I shook him, screaming his name, but he was gone, too.
They carried us down the mountain, wrapping us in blankets that felt like fire against my frozen skin. Catherine and I were the only ones left, barely alive. My fingers and toes were black, my heart shattered. Five friends—Tommy, Sarah, Jamie, Liz, Peter—gone. Sheelagh, gone. The hospital was a blur of white walls, beeping machines, and nurses’ soft voices. They saved my life, but nothing could erase the memory of those mountains.
I learned later that the storm was one of the worst in years, a freak blizzard that caught everyone off guard. It changed things—new rules for treks, better training, safer gear. But no rule could bring back my friends. I still see their faces, hear their voices. I dream of the snow, the wind, the cold that stole them away. I survived, but a part of me is still up there, lost in the Cairngorms, where the blizzard held us in its grip and wouldn’t let go.
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