I arrived in Bariloche and fell into the arms of an Argentinian, in the least romantic way possible. I sat hunched on a rock overlooking the hiking capital of Argentina. I’d come to trek, camp, and explore. In that moment, I couldn’t even stand.
“Are you OK?” My friend asked.
I wanted to say, “Yes, don’t worry.” But, I had to admit: “No, no I’m not.”
An hour after arrival, my friend and local hiking group organiser had led us down three steep flights of stairs to a rocky beach. We hopped from boulder to boulder. The surrounding mountains were pressed between grey skies and a mirroring lake.
It looked so much like Howe Sound in Canada. I felt at home, my guard went down.
It was the first time in weeks I wasn’t wearing grippy, ankle-supporting boots. I’d worn cheap, slip on sneakers. Slip on, slip off.
I felt free.
Whoosh. As I stepped on a rock, my left foot slid behind my right. I dropped straight down with legs crossed. Unfortunately, the rock behind me was curved.
While my legs twisted one way, my back was yanked the other on impact. You know when you stretch dough apart and all the filaments tear? That’s how it felt, deep inside my hip.
Harder than rocks
Everything was silent. I went to stand. Nausea, blackness, and a primal sense of injury froze me in place. Something was very, very wrong.
“But you barely fell…” My friend and I were both confused how exactly I could be so injured. Part of me still hoped to walk it off. One, two, three. He pulled me up by the elbow.
Standing was OK. My body felt ice cold and alert. I recognised shock setting in. The second I shifted weight forward to walk, darkness took hold. I gagged and almost collapsed.
Nerve pain.
Suddenly, I had to depend on someone else: someone whom I’d just met. Merely inconveniencing another person made me feel sick, much less burdening someone.
I am independent and take care of myself. I wondered how many people I’d pushed away unknowingly, clinging to this comfort zone.
It had taken all my willpower to admit something was wrong. Now, I had to ask a near stranger to help me.
It was not a small task either. We still had to make it up the cliff-side staircase.
“Umm,” he looked at me and back at the stairs. “Get on my back.”
Oh my god he has to piggyback me. Despite the shock and pain, my face burned red with shame.
He lumbered up the staircase while I tried to stay conscious and latched onto his shoulders.
The level of embarrassment and complete vulnerability that my grip on being “independent,” shattered. It simply wasn’t useful at this point.
This was happening. And when I opened my eyes, the world wasn’t ending. No one was disappointed with me or telling me how much I owed them. Who knew?
“Thank you,” I repeated over and over.
Next chapter
While my friend ran to get his car, I sat on a stone retaining wall. I looked out over the lake. Mountains that I would never hike shimmered across the water, like a mirage.
“Well,” I thought. “Plot twist!”
My roomie and I used to say this whenever things went wrong unexpectedly.
Why was this happening for me? Believing that this was leading somewhere, connecting to a bigger story, felt less hopeless. Plot twist tapped into a curiosity about the future, as opposed to total despair.
Also, it was so damn silly that it destroyed the illusion that this situation was all important.
At the hospital, a male nurse stretched me out on a bed.
“You’re so tall,” he said. I didn’t fit on the stretcher. I’m average height in Canada, but here locals often remarked on my stature.
The clinic took X-rays, just in case.
“Can you get a wheelchair for the blonde?” My doctor asked an assistant to whisk me off to the waiting room.
Suddenly, I was a tall blonde! It felt like they were talking about a different person.
Ashley was an average height brunette.
Yet, if Ashley could sometimes be a tall blonde, maybe she could also be both independent and ask for help when it was needed.
“You’re not broken,” the doctor said practising her English and being unintentionally profound.
Wine heals all wounds
My friend was incredibly generous and made sure I had food until I could hobble out to fetch my own.
Instead of hiking, I was confined to a couch with a hot bottle of Malbec between my legs.
It sounds sensual, right? But I didn’t have a hot water bottle so… I improvised.
Since I had time to write, I wrote. I imagined all the amazing things that would come my way, each time with a little less skepticism.
A few days later, I shuffle-slid into a bar. A group of travellers were meeting up.
“Hey, I’m Paul,” a Texan gave me a bear hug. He’d driven from Canada to Buenos Aires in a van-life reality show 10 years before.
“You know, in Argentina, I’m a tall blonde,” I joked. I told him about my revelations.
“You tried on a different Ashley,” he said. “It’s an interesting exercise to try on other definitions of ourselves, like an outfit. It helps us see how they’re all just ideas, we can change them.”
We talked psychology and storytelling and personal growth for an hour. He was a professional coach for business leaders. He helped people overcome beliefs and habits that weighed them down.
“What I look for, I tend to find,” I explained how I was trying to enjoy my down time. “I’ve been writing a lot, but I feel I need a mentor at this point.”
The badass club
Paul laughed in my face like I’d told a joke. My eyebrows raised.
“Join the badass club! My friends are coming to visit. One is a published author and tango dancer and the other is a Lonely Planet writer raising her kids in an adobe mountain house.”
My mouth hung open. Two female authors, both living the lives on their terms, happened to be arriving this weekend.
“Crash with us, I’m house sitting this gorgeous lakefront home.”
My other dilemma had been finding a new place to stay. My friend had already done so much to help me. I’d reached a limit of how much I could take.
Paul also turned out to be a wine connoisseur. He was leaving Argentina and had to clear out his cellar. That weekend our badass club wined, dined, and danced (I could shimmy from side to side) on the lakeshore.
I learned about Malbec, Tannat, and Cabernet Sauvignon, and all the important brands to know in an Argentinian wine section.
Paul was also me in man-form. We finished each other’s thoughts and helped each other work through a few stuck points, me with psychology, him with coaching exercises.
Day by day
Some days, the bad ass club would drive around the surrounding hills of Bariloche. Other days, I’d meet a fellow traveller and we’d take the gondola (and charcuterie/wine) to the top of a mountain.
I was still adventuring. I’d met some inspiring people. I’d even gotten some counselling.
I started writing a novel.
Over a month later, I could walk with a limp. My “trail wife,” who I’d first met when we’d hiked Torres del Paine together, was arriving in town.
She’d been cycling South America and because I’d fallen, she’d had time to catch up.
Our unexpected reunion ended with a hike in Bariloche to Refugio Frey. We threw snow at the summit on a frozen alpine lake.
In my wildest hopes and fears on the day that I fell, I could never have predicted this. I’m a terrible psychic.
I still feel ill when I think of that fall. I’d never been in so much pain. It took about six months before I was walking comfortably again.
And yet, I’d joined the badass club, learned all about Argentinian food and wine culture, and crossed paths with my trail wife once more.
Plus, I got to be a tall blonde for a few weeks.
I gained so much from stopping. Asking for help is a bit easier now. All I have to do is remember clinging onto a stranger’s back, and I laugh. My comfort zone knows a new limit.
It made me a better human.
I certainly fell hard that time in Argentina — and I think it knocked some sense into me
