‘Could you please shift the camera back a bit?’
‘All facial redness will be rectified in post-production.’
‘It’s not that.’
‘This is not a BAFTA nomination. Just relax. Remember, you’re not a Nobel nominee. This isn’t about you. People want to hear a story — an authentic, unpolished, raw, and most importantly, true story. You’re free to speculate, lose your train of thought, and discuss free associations. We’re looking for a person — we concentrate on memories and how the human mind operates, not on encyclopaedic accuracy. We know you’ve only been to the mountains a few times in your life, and we don’t necessarily expect geographic precision in terminology… Just speak, that’s all.’
‘Just speak,’ I remind myself, picturing the camera or the forehead of a friend. I start, confident that I won’t be interrupted.
‘That story lingered in my mind. It was one of many from that long evening, yet I could envision it as though I had witnessed it myself. The storyteller was my slightly older brother, who was also the eyewitness. He trekked through the mountains. Some 200 metres ahead of him, a young man clad in a white T-shirt walked in front of his female companion. Then… he appeared to be running — no, speeding, as if overtaken by something. He glanced back at his wife. He was unstoppable. The woman attempted to quicken her pace, but it was evident to anyone that the distance between them was increasing, becoming insurmountable.
Seconds later, it became evident he was caught in an avalanche, or at least that’s what one might call a sudden surge of snow propelling a person forward at incredible speed, still on his feet, until he reached the edge of a drop and plummeted onto the rocks far below. The woman somehow managed to follow him at a steady pace and eventually reached him after a while.
Minutes later, a rescue helicopter hovered above the site. A rescuer descended on a rope, secured her safely, and deposited her approximately 200 metres away. She then made her way down the mountain. Meanwhile, the man’s white T-shirt had turned scarlet red. One could imagine that upon reaching the mountain shelter, she would have learned the devastating news.’
I recognise that it was merely a warm-up, and I will now truly begin my story:
‘I remember how the snow sparkled under the moonlight in the high mountains. It was a magical experience — one I cherish in my memory. I can vividly picture how the snow glimmered beneath the moonlight among the peaks. It was truly enchanting, something I hold dear, with no desire to relive what produced a profound respect for the mountains.
We were well-equipped. I travelled with a group of young people, even though they were considerably older than I. Indeed, I was the youngest of them all. The boys were experienced and well-prepared, and I must say, they proved to be true gentlemen.
Our trek was intended to last four hours. It was cold yet sunny when we set off, and we were in high spirits, feeling relaxed. We walked for nearly three hours when snow began to fall. The temperature dropped from -5°C to -10°C, though it felt more like -15°C well before it actually reached that point. We estimated we had about an hour left. We zipped up our coats, donned an extra pair of gloves, and pressed on. We climbed one hill, then another — now the terrain should be flat.
But the trail started to vanish. The snow grew deeper. On the path, it reached our knees; if you stepped off, you would sink up to your waist. More often than not, someone would get stuck, and we had to assist them. The boys found it challenging to navigate in the poor visibility.
We had been walking for seven hours by then. The lads started carrying the rucksack of an Englishwoman who was with us, but to be honest, she wasn’t the only one struggling at that point. Eventually, they decided we would leave most of our rucksacks behind — reaching the nearest mountain guesthouse was our priority.
The initial cries and prayers grew increasingly frequent. We pressed on. The boys occasionally gathered around us, rubbing each other’s backs for warmth and reassurance. I recall becoming mired deep in the snow. Exhausted, I managed to free myself and said, “I’ll just take a short break… I’ll catch up.”
The moment I closed my eyes, I encountered something akin to a mirage. My friend shouted at me, “Yeah, right, and you’ll freeze to death! Move along!”
At that point, it was no longer about exhaustion. The snow was too deep for a snowmobile to reach us. We had to keep moving until we arrived at a location where our English friend could be transported further.
We began to see lights in the distance. Although it was still a long walk, at least we had a destination. We continued moving forward. Suddenly, the eldest among us collapsed face-first into the snow. We lifted her. She had been the strongest of us all, and now she had fallen.
An hour before we reached safety, my glove got stuck in the snow. When I pulled my right hand out, my fingers were stiff, and I couldn’t straighten them enough to fit back into the glove. I shoved my hand into my pocket and carried on. In the end, our friend was taken to the place we had all been striving to reach. That final hour was uncomfortably silent. Everyone was focused, moving like compliant soldiers.
When we arrived, the mountain rescue team examined our hands and feet. They referred to it as moderate frostbite when certain areas of the body changed colour but did not turn black (as black indicated dead tissue). Some individuals had frostbite on a thumb, while others had it on an ear. For me, it affected both my heels and my right hand. Not particularly enjoyable — I couldn’t hold a pen! I couldn’t even write my name for a month until sensation returned.
We had to remain in the mountain shelter for a while. The following morning, the avalanche danger level was reported to be extremely high.
You never forget a morning like that — when you can’t feel your toes, heels, or even your hands. You step outside and behold an absolute masterpiece of nature — the serene, tranquil, and majestic mountains. At night, the snow glistens silver, the moon shines brightly, and you feel overwhelmed with awe, vibrantly alive, and grateful.’
‘If you ever have nightmares, what do you dream about?’ His question jolted me out of the vivid scene I was revisiting at that moment.
I never recalled my dreams, or so I believed until now. In truth, I gazed at my right hand, overwhelmed by a fear I attempted to conceal once I recognised it. My French manicure was done in the purest shade imaginable, and he looked directly at it when he asked, ‘Have you ever painted your nails black?’
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