Remembering the ridge

This is one of the stories from our walk from Tirah to Afghanistan.

We woke up after spending the night on a yellow blanketed hillside.  There was a huge variety of flowers but they all seemed to be shades of yellow.  It was early in the spring.  The night air was really cold.  All I had to protect my babies was my large scarf and my body.  I had wrapped them up with me for the night.  I lay still until my little girls woke up.  It was enough that we were on the bare ground out in the open.

We opened a can of tuna and ate it rolled up with some leaves someone had picked.  The tangy leaves made the tuna really good.  When you are that hungry everything tastes good.  We drank water from the stream, filled the baby's bottle with water and began to walk again.

The mountains were beautiful.  The trees magnificent, the weather brisk enough that we did not get hot walking for hours.  We snacked on wild fruits and berries as we walked.

We came to a spot where we had to cross a ledge that was barely six inches wide and had water running through it.  It was the only way to go.  One by one we crossed the ledge holding the hand of one person while reaching for the hand of the one on the other side.  No one looked down.  It was more than 100 feet down.  The bottom was a rocky tumble of animal skeletons, those whose obvious missteps landed them down there.

I crossed.  Next was my 7 year old daughter.  I looked her in the eye and told her to keep her eyes locked with mine.  She crossed safely.  Next was my almost 4-year-old daughter.  Again I had her keep looking at me and she reached me safely.  Next was my husband.  He had our almost 1-year-old on his shoulders and a rifle in one hand.  I asked him to hand me the rifle before starting.  He said he was fine.  He took one step, then another.  The third was into thin air.  The ridge had given out under him.  He was dangling there with the barrel of the rifle jammed into the muddy soil.  The other hand had our baby by her foot.  No one screamed.  No one even breathed.  Any second I could lose my husband and my baby. 

Two men reached down.  One grabbed my daughter's other foot and pulled her up.  The other grabbed my husband's sleeve and helped him pull himself up.  Once they were safe we all breathed again.  The last few crossed and we sat on the side of the path.  I still could not speak.  I held my daughter and cried.  I had almost lost her.  I knew I would always remember this day.

She is almost 17 years old now.  I still remember the day I almost lost her and thank God for every day of her life.