River in an Ocean of Stars

They say that freezing to death is one of the better ways to go. After your body is done fighting off the inevitable, after the blood flow to your extremities has been reduced or cut off altogether, after your organs begin to shut down, one by one, you just fall asleep. The process of freezing, in and of itself, sounds undeniably painful, but the release when you get to a certain point, the falling asleep part; well, if you have to go, there are worse ways.

Like drowning. Speaking from experience, drowning is chaotic, violent. Your body struggling against the inevitable with the ancestral instinct for survival passed on throughout a thousand generations. Unwilling, unable, to do anything other than battle an entire oppressive, lethal element until it claims you as another victim for its insatiable depths. Freezing seems almost peaceful in comparison.

Unfortunately, I currently am fighting against both of these scenarios. I don’t recommend either one. Drowning hurts. Currently, so does freezing. Drowning in freezing cold water. There is no peace, no sleep, which is good, because I very much do not want to die. I have no idea which direction the surface is. Potentially problematic. It is incredibly dark. I have no concept of how deep I am. I remember the survival rule of three: three minutes without oxygen, three days without water, three weeks without food, and that’s pretty much it. Only you can lose consciousness from lack of oxygen in less than three minutes. How long have I been under? I can’t remember, can’t think. How did I even get here? Thinking is hard. So is swimming. I kick my legs and flail my arms some more, almost experimentally. My brain screams in protest. Dully, I register a sharp, unpleasant sensation in my hand. Pain? Pain. Cautiously, slowly, I push my hand towards the source once more. I am met with an unyielding mass, somehow colder than the water around me.

The icy surface of the frozen pond.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’m saved from a decision by not being able to really do either. Turns out, being underwater is fairly limiting. So close to survival, to freedom, yet it is out of my reach. It almost would’ve been better to drown at the bottom. Hope out of sight. Somehow slightly more dignified. I can see the sunlight filtering through the frosty, glass-like sheet. It’s pretty. And cruel. Taunting. My movements are slowing down. So is my heart rate, I think. I know I have much, much less than three minutes remaining, but somehow it is still plenty of time to think about how I ended up here, trapped under the ice like an Arctic seal without its breathing hole. Honestly, it’s almost funny.

My whole life, I had always wanted to see the Aurora Borealis. The Northern Lights. I would spend hours surfing the Internet, looking at pictures. Reading books that describe the phenomenon, watching movies set in the Arctic Circle. Studying the exquisite explosions of green light, with shadows of purple and blue, twisting between and below an ocean of stars. Fantasizing about what it would be like, how I would feel beneath the ethereal glow. Pictures are supposed to be worth a thousand words, but all pictures did was increase my desire to go and see for myself. I knew no picture, no movie, no book, could ever do it justice. My interest was never scientific; I was content not understanding how it happens, or why. I didn’t want to write an article. Truthfully, I didn’t even want to take any pictures myself, though I knew I would. I just wanted to go and see and be absolutely awestruck. Maybe find a piece of myself somewhere between the snow and the vibrant night sky.

So, I started saving money and planning my trip. I could afford to give myself ten days. Ten days, ten chances to catch the elusive Northern Lights in all their otherworldly glory. I would travel alone, stay in a safe yet economical hotel, and join a guided group heading out to see the lights. Ten to fifteen strangers, united by the same purpose, the same fascination. Witnesses to a primordial marvel, and to one another’s experiences. All it took was a few days of travel and a few connecting flights for me to be closer than I’d ever been to my dream. By the time I got there, I couldn’t believe it was real. I had finally made it. I would see the Northern Lights.

My first night, I checked into my hotel, confirmed that my gear was ready to go for the next day, and opened my email. At 7:08 pm, a message from the guide had come through. The subject line read “EMERGENCY-READ ASAP.” Apparently, the company the guide worked for was going through some serious and last-minute overhauling following the death of a woman on a Northern Lights tour a week or so ago. They were shutting down for the time being. They were so very sorry, but all tours had been cancelled for the foreseeable future. Full refunds for the trip would hit bank accounts in 7-10 business days. Additionally, due to the severity of the accident that had befallen the ill-fated woman, all of the companies in the area offering treks out to see the Northern Lights were temporarily shut down.

I sat on the edge of the twin-sized mattress, cheap springs groaning underneath my weight as I collapsed onto the bed. I wondered if a person could drown on dry land. I wanted to scream, to cry, to rage, but I couldn’t seem to catch my breath. I was utterly devastated. Years of dreaming for this moment, only for it to be snatched from me at the very last second. I didn’t sleep at all that night. I mourned.

Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the jet lag, but by morning I was no longer grieving. I was packing. I would go myself, experience the wonder of it all alone, and this trip wouldn’t be wasted. I had a map, I had all the right equipment, and, most importantly, a foolhardy determination to get what I came here for.

I made it a day and a half. Turns out, snow effectively covers frozen ponds as well as the forest floor. I had no idea I was walking on water, in a way, until the ice broke and I found myself sinking like a stone under the weight of all my gear. Precious time was spent in shock, not registering what had happened. It was a full ten seconds before I could move at all, unbuckling straps and trying to make it back to the spot I had fallen in, which was now nowhere to be found. Cold so demanding, so overwhelming, I could barely think. Freezing and drowning. Drowning and freezing.

I try to beat on the shelf of ice with all of the little strength I have left. I wonder if the cold or the water will take my first. Two ways to die, one way to go. I stop hammering the ice, not by choice. There is a third way, you know. Not drowning, not freezing. Wasting. It is a slow, cruel way to die. Withering and whiling away years of your life, looking at pictures instead of chasing the real thing. At least I will not shrivel in on myself. At least I tried, even if I freeze. Even if I drown.

It doesn’t hurt anymore. I’m not even cold. It registers, somewhere in my mind, that this is a very bad sign. I can’t muster enough feeling to care.

And then the world around me explodes in a shattering of ice.