When I turned fifty years old, I traveled alone to Guana Island in the British Virgin Islands. One morning, I began a hike up a small mountain, without water or a way to contact anyone. Though it was mid-July and promised to get hot later, I figured I’d be up that mountain in no time. I was wrong. The climb was steeper and more difficult than I’d expected. I told myself it was good to be alone because I could stop every few minutes to catch my breath without feeling that I was holding back a partner. About three-quarters of the way up, I became so hot and tired that I knew I wasn’t going to make it to the top. A trail sign pointed to a more direct route down the mountain and I started my descent, which proved to be even steeper and rougher than I expected.
I fell.

In my shock and panic, I grabbed at a small bush/tree. It ripped out of the soil, uprooted, and I slammed into the earth, hitting my forehead and cutting a gash in my leg.

I turned around, certain that I wouldn’t be able to manage the more dramatic descent, and headed back down my original path. Every two steps, I stopped and crouched low, fighting the dizziness that nearly overwhelmed me. The sun shone through the trees, dappling shadows that were harsh and hot. I made it to the bottom of the mountain and stepped out onto the dusty dirt road, which I needed to follow back to the hotel. It was deserted and merciless in the direct sun. I vomited and lay down along the road, unable to continue for twenty minutes or so. Ultimately, safely back in my room, I realized that I’d suffered a concussion.

Everything appeared to be unchanged when I returned home.

Soon after my return, I went to the Public Library, as I did every ten days or so. After choosing a pile of the most recently published novels, I headed for the check-out counter, passing the cart with books ready to be re-shelved. Sometimes I glanced at those books, but not often, since my arms were usually full. That day, the day of all days, I looked in the non-fiction section, where I seldom-to-never looked, and saw John Edwards’ One Last Time, the story of his development and career as a medium who sees and talks to dead people.

Not an interest of mine, or not any more than for most of the public, who might have a minor curiosity about such shenanigans. This was before the influx of reality shows, and the programs — both fiction and fact — about mediums, talking to God, etc., I picked up the book.

I glanced at the introduction. I added it to my pile of books and continued on to the Check-Out counter.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Tags: hike, mountain, one last time, psychic