My Story

We walked so exhausted that even our shadows, stepping on purple carpet spreaded by expiring Sun rays, hung on our necks, strengthening our torment yet. With monotonous, tiresome rhythm we moved forward slowly but stubbornly towards the last stage of our mountain wander – Krzyzne Pass, from where it was only four more hours of walk to get the shelter-house.

      There were two of us, enthusiasts wishing to ascend the most difficult route of Polish Tatras without any acclimatization, directly after taking a break from our daily work behind computer.

      Apart from exhaustion, we were pinched with thirst as well, because our clearly insufficient supplies of water have been running out very quickly since we have climbed on Granaty. I swallowed down saliva loudly, clearing for a moment my throat from ubiquitous dust getting into my mouth in unknown way and I stopped to take a deep breath. A few seconds later I overheard a rumble of falling stones and muffled swear said in fluent, noble Polish language.

      I turned around slowly, cause I did not want to exhaust the rest of my energy. Peter lied down in the middle of the path with unnaturally bended leg. His face, previously reddish from an effort, now became pale and his squeezed jaws showed that Peter made a great effort to not scream. “I have probably broken my leg” he said after a moment. “Show me” I answered and I came to him vividly pushed by my born curiosity. I had never seen before any broken bone.

      Peter took out a knife from his backpack and cut his trouser leg in two. There was an enormous hematoma on the level of his calf. And it was becoming bigger and bigger, totally deformating his limb. Peter touched it with his finger and screamed loudly out of pain. Somewhere in the distance a flushed bird fluttered its wings. “Get out of the route” I reminded him for regularity, however I was sure that nobody is following us. We were the last who that day had left for a journey on Orla Perc....