Out of the Silence: After the Crash

by Eduardo Strauch Urioste

Communication between us had been stripped of every triviality, becoming at once simpler and more powerful.

But we weren’t interested in hearing technical explanations of any kind. We wanted only to leave.

In this game of chance, we could place only one bet, and the result would be either life or death.

Every crumb, every scrap of food, which under normal circumstances would have passed unnoticed, now took on unknown depths. It became a gift, an almost ceremonial moment of satisfaction.

Eating meat that was still wet and bloody was a very difficult challenge that not everyone could overcome. Dominance over one’s thoughts is arduous and constant work, which requires rigorous discipline.

The mind, initially responsible for the rejection of the idea, later—when it became a matter of survival—had the power to become the instrument capable of separating the actions themselves from the cultural weight they carry with them. It was up to us to control our minds in the interest of sanity and hope, as these things were as essential for survival as food.

Some time later we learned that precisely those mothers and girlfriends being addressed in our rudimentary telepathic messages were the ones who, throughout our entire absence, never doubted for a single moment that we were alive.

There comes a moment when you get used to the environmental conditions, no matter how harsh they are.

someone always lifted the spirits of the others, even though the next day the roles may have been reversed.

that quiet but continual battle between fear and hope was exhausting for us.

And in both cases my fear was justified, but even so, it was useless.

You can’t know when fear is truly justified, but in any case, it is always lost energy, useless strain. Yet even so it seems unavoidable in any situation of risk and uncertainty.

In that tiny spot in the vast cordillera that we were leaving behind, I had learned the most important lessons of my life.

Life seemed to be reminding us yet again that we are never completely safe and that risk is an integral part of life itself.

I plant a white rose, In June as in January, For the true friend Who gives me his hand openly. And for the cruel one who tears Out the heart with which I live, I plant neither thorns nor nettles; I plant a white rose.

It’s difficult to explain how I could, in the days following the rescue, maintain a happiness so intense that it didn’t fade even for an instant.

Every simple act of daily life had increased in value for me in an extraordinary way.

It would have been easy to reassure her, to tell her yes, and leave the truth of the matter for later. But I felt that the intensity of our reunion would not permit those delays, and so I answered her: “No, Mom, there are no rabbits or birds at that altitude. We ate the dead.”

He revealed everything that had happened, with simple and straightforward words, including the way we had sustained ourselves.

It seemed that all the knowledge I had carried down from the mountain, instead of helping me, was hindering me in ordinary life. I had to reconcile both worlds, and that was not an easy task.

I was in the realm of the lost or the unreachable, covered in that merciful breath of goodness with which the dead are often remembered, their flaws forgotten and only their virtues exalted.

They chose to keep walking, when that seemed to be nothing but a way to die.

In our relationship with nature, love alternated with hate from one day to the next.

Nature could be violent or contrary, but it was never illogical.

But nature is neither good nor bad, it simply is. So perhaps its only indisputable quality is its magnificence.

We had to manage it carefully so that it wouldn’t become desperation.