“I’ll Take You to The High Cliff!”

As a seasoned mountain guide, I can tell a potential jumper relatively easily. There's something about them, a mixture of sadness, determination, and detachment in their movements and on their face, that singles them out. I've been taking people to hike and climb the mountains for over 30 years now and had a fair share of jumpers to deal with.

I wish there was some psychological test or a contract for the people to sign before they go on a group hike. Or perhaps a pledge, like "I promise not to try to end my life during the group hike." Maybe I should introduce that for my groups when they book the hike. Although, as I said, I’m pretty good in identifying them now. In all my time, only one actually slipped through the cracks of my attention.

Today, I’m taking a group of 18 younglings who are about to turn 18 or just turned 18, to a canyon with a zip line and excellent hiking trails of intermediate to high difficulty. I marketed it on my social media as “18 for 18.” Only two of the 18 knew each other. I like organizing trips like that, specially themed and targeted at young people. Their enthusiasm is contagious and I love being around them, feeling recharged.

This one was different, though. While we were riding our bus to the mountains, I gave them lots of team-building exercises: in 18 minutes, write and perform a new Birthday song, tell 18 funny stories or jokes in 18 minutes, sing a song about sweet 18, solve a riddle in 18 seconds, etc., you get my drift.

She never engaged in any of this silliness, just looked out the bus window, staring at the road. I gave her space and didn’t try to pull her in, but noticed that at one point she was wiping off her tears. When you are 18, everything seems overly dramatic, so I just let her be. Maybe she just needed to be alone in a group of strangers.

When we were hiking to the zip line, she was either too far ahead or trailing behind. I kept an eye on her again, but the trail was pretty straightforward and she had nowhere to stray away.

We finally got to the zip line. I have a standing agreement with the line operators to skip the queue for my groups as I tell them in advance when we are going to be there. But even with that, it takes time for everyone to be strapped into the seats, put the helmets on, check the safety belts and receive the instructions.

While the others were queuing up for all that fun, she strayed away and went to the edge of the canyon. I kept my watchful eye. When she got dangerously close to the edge for my comfort, I noticed that fleeting expression all jumpers have when they contemplate stepping off the edge: determination and despair. By how close she was to the edge, I could tell she had no fear of heights. It was definitely not her first time standing so close to free fall, staring down.

I snuck up on her as quietly as possible, stopped about two feet away so that I could grab her by her windbreaker if needed, and quietly and calmly asked, “Are you ok? You don’t seem to be enjoying any of this…”

She turned around before I could finish my sentence and said with steely determination in her voice, “Stay where you are. Don’t come close. I just want to...”

Ignoring her orders, I came up to her and planted myself firmly next to her on the edge. “… to fly?” I pretended to finish her sentence, then gently patted her on the back, “I don’t feel any wings there.”

She looked at me like I was crazy, saw me smiling and said, annoyed by my silly trick, “No, to jump to my death.” Her eyes sparkled with hatred and determination.

I calmly peeked down, pretending to expertly assess the distance, and said, “it’s too low.”

“What???”

“The mountain is too low. Not much height for the fall, it will be too painful and ugly on impact.”

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“You’ll tumble and break every bone you have on those big sharp rocks. When you finally get to the bottom, your face will be so beat up your own mother will not be able to recognize you.”

That seems to have had some effect. Not sure if because she is afraid of damaging her pretty face or because she pictured her mother’s pain. I’ll take either for now.

“You are saying this as if there’s a better place to jump,” she finally says with a typical teenage snark.

“Of course there is. About 20 miles from here, there’s a high cliff that I can take you to if you want. I’ll leave you there alone, you’ll jump and it will look like an accident. I’ll find you later and call in the rescuers to retrieve your body,” I’m still trying to keep my cool.

“What???” She looks at me in disbelief, “Why would you even offer me that?”

“Two reasons. First, if you fall from a cliff, there’s a high probability that you’ll die not on impact but of a heart attack mid-fall, which means you’ll land dead and relaxed, like a rag doll, with a minimum damage to your body,” I’m saying this calmly and matter-off-factly, so that she can picture the graphic details in her mind. I pause.

“And second?” she asks quietly.

“Look at those people,” I point to our group, excitedly getting ready to ride the zip line to the other side. “Do you think they came here to watch the suicide side show? On their birthday, nonetheless?”

She bites her lips and finally breaks down crying. I give her a shoulder hug and carefully lead her off the edge.

“Is it a broken heart?” I ask gently.

She nods and sobs, wiping away her tears.

“Wanna tell me about it?” I lead her to two large boulders nearby, sit her down and face her, sitting on the other one. It’s going to be a long cry talk, I know that as an empathetic friend of my youngest 16-year-old daughter.

She pours her heart out about this boy she met in college. They were going out steadily for three months, she was madly in love with him. And yesterday, on her Birthday, she saw him kissing another girl. And of course it had to be her best friend from high school. Eternal teenage drama.

She drops her face into her hands and cries, “Why did he do this to me?”

“Boys do stupid things sometimes.”

“Aren’t you going to say he is a jerk for doing so?”

“Nah, I’ll leave that to your mom. I’m just a mountain guide,” I smile at her.

“But it hurts so much!”

“I know, sweetie.” I move to her side, draw her in and let her cry on my shoulder. I hold her tight and strike her hair. Dejavu, I just had to do that for my daughter like two months ago. Again, eternal teenage drama.

“It’ll be ok, sweetie. Believe me or not, it’ll pass.”

“Nooooo,” she cries, raising her head to face me, “it’ll never pass. My heart is broken forever.”

“I’ll tell you what, if you don’t feel better in a week, I’ll personally take you to that cliff I told you about.”

She looks at me in astonishment, “will you really do that?”

“Of course. For now, wipe your tears and let’s go celebrate your birthday with the group, they must be wondering what we are doing here.”

She even rode that zip line.

Exactly a week later, I called her, “Do you still want me to take you to that cliff?”

“No, thank you,” she said in a lot more cheerful voice. “You were right, I do feel better.”

“And the boy?”

“Out of my life, together with the traitor friend. I’m focusing on my studies now.”

“Good for you, I wish you all the best,” I say, about to hang up.

“Wait,” she says and I can hear her biting her lip. “Would you have really taken me to the cliff if I didn’t feel better?”

“Of course, I’m a man of my word. There’s a waterfall there so beautiful you’d fall in love with life again. Besides, do you really think I talked you out of it the first time so that you could do it on the second try?”

“So sneaky,” she says and gives me her beautiful tinker bell laugh. “Thank you, for everything.”

“You are welcome, sweetie.”

“May I go hiking with you again, sometime?”

“Of course, the schedule of my group hikes is on Facebook, you can always sign up there. But only for hiking, no more silly business!”

“I promise,” she says and I hang up.

She would never know how many times I had to variate the same pitch: some respond to the mid-fall heart attack, some - to their mother not recognizing their beat-up face, some - to group trauma from witnessing a suicide. It almost always works, except for that one time. And even then it was an accident, I couldn’t get to her before she slipped because of the gust of wind…

***

Author’s note: I have not submitted this to the Small Kindness challenge because I’m not that girl. The guide is very real, though, one of the most experienced and reliable mountain guides in Kyrgyzstan. If you ever end up in Kyrgyzstan, ask me for his number. He is our own best Sherpa.