The
air was biting cold and his breath came out in thick plumes of air. He was
breathing heavily and even at this temperature he was sweating under his thick
mountain coat. It had been six hours since the snow stopped. He had made good
progress – the second checkpoint was nearly in sight now. Still, night was
coming fast and he couldn’t risk a night out in the open.
Ever since that bloody guide had been
spooked and turned tail and ran, Old Christopher has been fighting a losing
battle. Perhaps he should have listened to the coward after all. Nonsense, he’d
been in worse situations than this before and, by God, he’d live to see worse.
Still now wasn’t the time to think about all that, he needed to get to the
checkpoint and soon.
He hoisted his trusty pack and
trudged forward through the deep snow. Each step was harder than the one
before. Hours of walking had started taking their toll miles back. Now he was
running on reserves. If he could just make it to the checkpoint he’d have a
nice fire and a swig of Scotch to set him straight.
He walked towards the crest of the
nearest rise and took in the view. The pale sun had started to set over the
bleak, white landscape. All he could see was the rise and fall of grey spikes
from the white snow. Who knew mountains could be so painfully dull?
Suddenly, he heard a sharp cracking
sound. That wasn’t good. Quickly he started forward once more. The cracking was
getting louder. It seemed as though it was getting closer and closer. That’s
when the ground started to crack. He must’ve wondered onto a glacier hidden
under the snow.
The icy floor gave way about two meters
from him. Close call there, that would’ve been it for Old Christopher. Unfortunately
the crack was in his way and he had no choice but to jump across it.
He unfastened his pack, collected
his worn pick-axe from the pack and stuck it in the snow. Then he heaved the
pack across the gap. It landed with a heavy thud in the snow on the other side.
Well, if he could throw that old heap the distance then hauling his grizzled
body across it would be child’s play.
Old Christopher rubbed his hands
together for luck and grabbed his axe from the snow. He took a few steps back
and sized and caught his breath. He took two great bounding strides and leapt
forward. The bear of a man cleared the two meters easily.
He landed with a dull thud in the
snow followed immediately by a loud snapping sound. The ground beneath Old
Christopher gave way. He clambered at the snow and smashed the axe into the
snow hoping it would hold.
The axe held firm and for a moment
he was dangling above the crevice like a loose weed. Then he started to slip.
The axe held strong but Old Christopher must’ve put on a few kilos since his
last adventure because his grip started slipping.
After a few precious moments he lost
his grip and fell. The descent was short lived and he landed with a soft
crunch.
Old Christopher took stock of the
damage. He felt fine but a little dizzy. He tried to stand up but his legs gave
out under him. Blast, he must’ve broken a leg falling. As he lay there he felt
his vision start to cloud over.
Sitting on the cold floor of the
crevice, he took a weathered hip-flask from his inside pocket. The inscription
read ‘My Dearest Christopher, may the wind always be at your back. Love,
Daisy’. He unscrewed the cap and took in a long, slow whiff of the eighteen
year old scotch.
‘Well’, he thought ‘now’s as good a
time as any I suppose.’ He lifted the flask back and drained the contents.
He sat back against the icy wall
with a contented smile on his face and then everything went black.
