Miracle in the Andes: 72 Days on the Mountain and My Long Trek Home

by Nando Parrado

Sobs gathered in my throat, but before I could surrender to my grief and shock, the voice spoke again, and louder. They are all gone. They are all a part of your past. Don’t waste energy on things you can’t control. Look forward. Think clearly. You will survive.

But I steadied myself and eased closer to Susy, wrapping my arms around her as gently as I could, mindful of her injuries and fighting the urge to squeeze her with all my might. I pressed my cheek against hers so I could feel her warm breath on my face, and held her that way all night, gently, but very close, never letting go, embracing her as if I were embracing all the love and peace and joy I had ever known and would ever know; as if by holding on tight I could keep everything precious from slipping away.

In my old life, my ordinary life in Montevideo, the loss of my little sister would have brought my existence to a standstill and left me emotionally staggered for months. But nothing was ordinary anymore, and something primal in me understood that in this unforgiving place, I could not afford the luxury of grieving. Once again I heard that cold, steady voice in my head rise above the emotional chaos. Look forward, it said. Save your strength for the things you can change. If you cling to the past, you will die.

In my desperation, I raged silently at the great peaks that loomed above the crash site, blocking the path to my father, and trapping me in this evil place where I could do nothing to ease his pain. That claustrophobic frustration gnawed at me until, like a man buried alive, I began to panic. Every moment that passed was filled with a visceral fear, as if the earth beneath my feet were a ticking bomb that might explode at any second; as if I stood blindfolded before a firing squad, waiting to feel the bullets slam into my chest. This terrifying sense of vulnerability—the certainty that doom was only moments away—never rested.

If he loves us so much, why does He leave us here to suffer?” “You are angry at the God you were taught to believe in as a child,” Arturo answered. “The God who is supposed to watch over you and protect you, who answers your prayers and forgives your sins. This God is just a story. Religions try to capture God, but God is beyond religion. The true God lies beyond our comprehension. We can’t understand His will; He can’t be explained in a book. He didn’t abandon us and He will not save us. He has nothing to do with our being here. God does not change, He simply is.

I don’t pray to God for forgiveness or favors, I only pray to be closer to Him, and when I pray, I fill my heart with love. When I pray this way, I know that God is love. When I feel that love, I remember that we don’t need angels or a heaven, because we are a part of God already.”

“If you have the balls to doubt God, and to question all the things you have been taught about Him, then you may find God for real. He is close to us, Nando. I feel Him all around us. Open your eyes and you will see Him, too.”

Where, at this very moment, was the woman I would marry? Was she wondering about her future, too—who she would marry and where he might be? Here I am, I thought, freezing my ass at the top of the world, and thinking of you …

“I am ready, Nando,” he continued. “I made my confession to God. My soul is clean. I will die with no sins.” “What’s this?” I laughed. “I thought you didn’t believe in the kind of God who forgives your sins.” Arturo looked at me and managed a thin, self-deprecating grin. “At a time like this,” he said, “it seems wise to cover all the angles.”

“He was only eighteen. But he lived so many lifetimes, had so many adventures, and, macho, he made love to so many beautiful girls.” “Maybe that’s why God took him,” said Numa. “So that there would be a few girls for the rest of us.”

“We may be walking to our deaths,” I said, “but I would rather walk to meet my death than wait for it to come to me.”

“You and I are friends, Nando,” he said. “We have been through so much. Now let’s go die together.”

“Don’t give up, Muscles,” I whispered to myself, and I knew that he wouldn’t. He was forcing himself forward now through stubbornness and the sheer power of his will. As I watched him, I knew I had been right in choosing him as my traveling companion.

I looked out and saw Daniel running toward us. He ducked under the blades and tried to dive into the helicopter, but he misjudged his leap and slammed his chest against one of the copter’s skis. “Carajo!” he shouted. “I think I broke my ribs.” “Don’t kill yourself now!” I cried.

“The sun will come up tomorrow,” he told me, “and the day after that, and the day after that. Don’t let this be the most important thing that ever happens to you. Look forward,” he said. “You will have a future. You will live a life.”

I have no guilt or resentments. I look forward to tomorrow, and I always expect the future to be good. “But how is that possible?” they often ask. “How can you be at peace with life after what you suffered?” I tell them I am not at peace in spite of what I suffered, but because of it. The Andes took so much from me, I explain, but they also gave me the simple insight that has liberated me and illuminated my life: Death is real, and death is very near.

I don’t want to understand these things. I have no interest in any God who can be understood, who speaks to us in one holy book or another, and who tinkers with our lives according to some divine plan, as if we were characters in a play. How can I make sense of a God who sets one religion above the rest, who answers one prayer and ignores another, who sends sixteen young men home and leaves twenty-nine others dead on a mountain?

Now I understand that to be certain—about God, about anything—is impossible. I have lost my need to know. In those unforgettable conversations I had with Arturo as he lay dying, he told me the best way to find faith was by having the courage to doubt.

But it was more than life that was given to us; each of us came down from the mountain with a new way of thinking, a deeper appreciation for the power of the human spirit, and a profound understanding of what a wonder it is—for us, for anyone—to be alive. The ability to be truly alive and aware, to savor each moment of life with presence and gratitude, this is the gift the Andes gave us. A stranger may not notice the special warmth with which my friends embrace their wives, or the tenderness with which they caress their children, but I do, because like them I know these things are marvels.