This evening I got to talk with a man who fell 1,000 feet down Mount Washington and lived. He broke his femur, his knee, his hip and his wrist but never lost consciousness. He told me about thinking he was going to die, about yelling “HELP!” in a pathetic attempt to save his life, and about someone hearing him just before they skied away. He told me about looking down at his wedding ring as he waited to either be rescued or die and missing his family. He told me about screaming and swearing at his rescuers as they pulled on his broken leg to move it back into line. He told me about feeling he’d let his mentors down.
It was a last minute interview, squeezed in after a story before I left for the evening. It made me want to cry and to vomit. I have stories piling up, but this one is going to move to the front.
That 40 minute interview reminded me of something: I love my job. I hadn’t forgotten that, but I came home feeling that more than ever. Some stories just scream to be told.