100 Foot Valley
written by: Vivek Subramanian
As I entered the Appalachian National Trail, a thick mist clung to the air, wrapping the landscape in an eerie fog. The park ranger, standing by the entrance, looked up and asked if I had a reservation. I handed him the confirmation, and after a quick glance, he nodded.
“Alright,” he said, his voice steady but carrying a hint of caution. “Make sure you drive safely. And don’t leave any food or trash outside—bears have a nose for it, and you don’t want to invite them unnecessarily.” He paused, his gaze drifting to the misty woods. “You can sleep in the open park, but be mindful of the bears.”
His words, simple but foreboding, lingered in my mind as I drove deeper into the park. The weight of his warning hung in the cool air as I parked my RV near a quiet valley, where the land sloped steeply down about a hundred feet. The crisp air felt like a balm, and I unloaded my gear, ready to cook.
The sound of a nearby stream beckoned, and I decided to catch my dinner. The water was so clear it looked like glass, and before long, I had a fresh catch of fish. Its silvery scales shimmered in the fading light as I carried it back to my campsite.
The fish sizzled on the grill as I peeled potatoes, the skins curling beneath my knife. The fire crackled, and for a moment, the simplicity of it all—the cool air, the smell of woodsmoke, the hiss of cooking food—lulled me into peace. But beneath that peace was a familiar undercurrent, an ache I couldn’t quite shake.
As the fish cooked, I sat down and reached for my phone. It lit up the darkening air, its glow casting a pale light over my hands. My fingers moved with practiced precision, opening a tab I knew too well. The screen filled with flickering images, their rhythm pulling me in. For a moment, I felt a rush—a fleeting sense of escape—but it dissolved as quickly as it came, leaving only the hollow ache behind.
The food burned slightly on one edge, and I scrambled to pull the fish off the grill. The charred smell mingled with the scent of the forest, an unpleasant mix. I ate in silence, chewing mechanically, my thoughts elsewhere.
When the meal was done, I cleaned my utensils with a detachment that had become second nature. The quiet night stretched out, vast and empty, and I opened my notebook, checking off tasks with stiff precision, and “World’s best” poem was written.
The pull of the valley had been strong, its steep drop both terrifying and tempting.
I closed the notebook and stared at the fire, feeling the emptiness inside me swell. The images from my phone flickered in my mind’s eye, not as a comfort but as a reminder of how little they offered anymore. The edge of the valley called again, a magnetic force I couldn’t resist.
The radio crackled suddenly, breaking the stillness. The park ranger’s voice came through, tense and urgent. “A woman,” he said, his words clipped, “at the bottom of the hundred-foot steep valley.”
The words jolted me. I looked toward the valley, where the mist had thickened. I saw it now, the rocks at the bottom, sharp and unyielding, and the lifeless body crumpled in the shallow pool below.
My body.
The realization settled over me like the mist. I stood there now, untethered, watching as the scene unfolded below. The park ranger’s voice faded, his words swallowed by the quiet. And for the first time in a long time, I felt calm. I was free.
But freedom, it seemed, was nothing like I had imagined.
Time stretched oddly in this state. I watched as flashlights pierced the darkness, their beams sweeping across the valley floor where my body lay. Voices echoed—urgent, professional, somber. Park rangers and emergency personnel descended the treacherous slope with practiced efficiency, their movements careful and measured.
I drifted closer, curious. There was no fear now, only a strange detachment as I observed them checking for vital signs. One ranger, the same who had greeted me at the entrance, knelt beside my broken form. His face was grim, his eyes reflecting something beyond professional concern—a weariness, perhaps, or resignation.
“Same spot,” he muttered to his colleague. “Third one this year.”
His words rippled through my consciousness. Third one? The knowledge should have disturbed me, but emotions felt distant now, like echoes from across a vast canyon.
Then one of the medics shouted, “I’ve got a pulse! It’s faint, but it’s there.”
A jolt of surprise. I wasn’t dead? The calm detachment I’d been feeling suddenly wavered.
“Get the backboard,” someone ordered. “Careful with the neck. Possible spinal injury.”
I watched them work on my body with strange fascination. Oxygen mask, cervical collar, IV line inserted with practiced precision. They spoke in clipped, professional phrases that carried urgency beneath their calm.
“Lucky the water broke some of the fall,” one said. “These rocks usually…” He didn’t finish the thought.
As they prepared to transport me, I found myself drawn back to my campsite. The fire was dying, orange embers fading to gray ash. My notebook lay open, the pages fluttering in a gentle breeze. I tried to focus on the poem I’d written—”World’s best”—but the words seemed to belong to someone else now, someone I barely recognized.
The rangers methodically collected my belongings, cataloging each item with respectful efficiency. One picked up my phone, now dark and silent. He pressed the power button, and the screen illuminated. I watched as he navigated through it, searching for emergency contacts. He paused, his expression shifting as he noticed the tab I’d left open—an online support group for depression. Posts and comments from people like me, searching for connection, understanding, relief.
“Got a name,” he called to the others, his voice softening. “And someone we should call.”
Dawn was approaching when they finished securing everything. The mist had thinned, revealing a landscape of breathtaking beauty I had been too numb to truly see. Sunlight began to pierce the canopy, casting dappled patterns across the forest floor. I followed as they carried my body up the steep incline, strangely moved by their care and urgency.
At the top, a small crowd had gathered—hikers and campers awakened by the commotion. Their faces registered shock, concern, curiosity. Among them stood a woman clutching a thermos, her eyes red-rimmed and haunted. Something about her pulled at me.
“Another one,” she whispered to her companion. “I was here last summer when…” She trailed off, unable to finish.
I drifted closer, drawn by her words.
“They should close this spot,” her companion replied, voice tight with anger. “Put up barriers or something.”
“They’ve tried,” the woman said. “Signs, fences… people find a way if they’re determined enough.”
As they loaded my body into an ambulance, I noticed something I had missed before—a small memorial near the edge of the valley. Weather-worn flowers, faded photographs, handwritten notes protected in plastic. Tributes to others who had ended their journeys at this beautiful, terrible place. Some hadn’t been as lucky as I apparently was.
I hovered there, reading the messages left by loved ones. Names. Dates. Ages. Fragments of lives cut short. And among them, words of anguish but also forgiveness, love, and desperate pleas to others considering the same path: Wait. Reach out. Stay.
The sight stirred something within me—not regret exactly, but a sadness for what might have been. For the connections I had severed, the help I had refused, the beauty I had been blind to.
Then something pulled at me—a strange tugging sensation. The world around me began to blur and fade. The memorial, the ambulance, the forest—all receding like a tide drawing back from shore.
Pain crashed in next, sharp and overwhelming. Beeping sounds, harsh fluorescent lights, voices I didn’t recognize. My eyes fluttered open to a hospital ceiling, white and sterile. A nurse noticed my movement and stepped closer.
The world went silent first—no heartbeat, no breath, no hospital machines—just a quiet that felt like the universe holding its breath. Then came the separation, my consciousness lifting from the broken shell of my body like steam rising from warm earth, and I watched from above as doctors worked frantically over the still form that had been me moments before. But I felt no fear, only an overwhelming sense of release as I moved toward something that defied every word I’d ever learned—a light that wasn’t harsh but infinite, not bright but complete, pulling me forward with the gravity of pure love. Time became meaningless as I entered that radiance and felt every wound in my soul being gently unwound, every scar being kissed by understanding, every moment of earthly pain revealed as necessary threads so beautiful it took my breath away—though I had no breath to take. In that space between worlds, I was held by something vast and tender that knew every secret shame, every hidden fear, every desperate prayer I’d whispered into dark nights, and loved me not despite these things but because of them, because they had carved me hollow enough to hold this impossible grace. When the choice came—stay or return—I felt the weight of unfinished words, unwritten stories, hands I hadn’t yet held, and chose the harder path back to breath and heartbreak and hope.
“Welcome back,” she said, her voice gentle but professional. “You gave everyone quite a scare.”
My throat felt raw, words impossible. My body was a catalog of pain—broken bones, bruised organs, lacerations. But I was alive. Somehow, impossibly, I was alive.
Over the following days, I learned the details. The shallow pool had indeed broken my fall just enough. A fractured spine, broken ribs, punctured lung, concussion—serious injuries, but not fatal ones. The doctors called it miraculous. I wasn’t sure what to call it.
A week into my hospital stay, a visitor arrived—the ranger who had greeted me at the park entrance. He stood awkwardly by my bed, hat in hands.
“Thought I’d check in,” he said simply. “See how you’re doing.”
I managed a weak nod, still unable to speak much around the pain in my throat.
He cleared his throat. “Listen, I don’t know what you were going through that night. Not my place to ask. But I’ve seen that valley claim too many people.” He hesitated, then added, “There’s help available, you know. If you want it.”
He placed a card on my bedside table before leaving. Later, I picked it up—contact information for a support service, specializing in trauma and depression.
As the weeks passed and my body slowly began to heal, I found myself thinking often of what I had seen during that strange in-between state. The memorial by the valley. The woman who had witnessed a similar scene before. The messages from loved ones left behind. Had it been real? A hallucination? A dream?
It didn’t matter, I decided one morning as a physical therapist helped me take my first painful steps since the fall. What mattered was that I had been given something rare—a second chance, yes, but also a glimpse of the ripples we leave behind. The connections that exist even when we feel most alone.
Six months later, I returned to the Appalachian Trail. Not to the valley—I wasn’t ready for that yet—but to the entrance where it had all begun. The same ranger was there, surprise registering on his weathered face when he recognized me.
“Didn’t expect to see you back here,” he said honestly.
“Neither did I,” I admitted.
We talked for a while. About the trail, about recovery, about the support group I had joined. Before leaving, I handed him something—a laminated page containing the poem from my notebook, rewritten and expanded. Not “World’s best” anymore, but “Second Chances.” He promised to add it to the memorial.
As I walked back to my car, the air was clear, no mist obscuring the landscape. I could see for miles—mountains rolling into the distance, trees swaying in the breeze, the vastness of a world I had almost left behind. The ache was still there inside me, a companion I was learning to live with rather than escape from.
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