downcanyon

Before the sunshine veers up the north wall, I pan the camera from the view of the bright pink and carroty-orange undulations twenty yards downcanyon, to my calf absorbing the precious warmth of my only direct sunlight.

127 Hours Aron Ralston 2004

I eagerly dig out my digital still camera for the first time and take a series of pictures: a close-up of my arm disappearing into the rock; a detail of my anchor system that suspends me in my harness; and two self-portraits—one looking downcanyon, and one from above my left shoulder that shows me with the chockstone.

127 Hours Aron Ralston 2004

Alone once again, I walk downcanyon, continuing on my itinerary.

127 Hours Aron Ralston 2004

Recoiling from my sudden liberation, my left arm flings downcanyon, opening my shoulders to the south, and I fall back against the northern wall of the canyon, my mind surfing on euphoria.

127 Hours Aron Ralston 2004

When I gaze downcanyon over my left shoulder at the heavenly array, the colors seem to radiate from the sandstone surfaces, not just reflect off of them.

127 Hours Aron Ralston 2004

On the downcanyon side of the boulder, my hand and wrist form a fourth support where they are caught in the grip of this horrific handshake.

127 Hours Aron Ralston 2004

A half mile later, several side canyons drop into the Main Fork where we are walking, as the walls open up to reveal the sky and a more distant perspective of the cliffs downcanyon.

127 Hours Aron Ralston 2004

A dozen mosquitoes and a mild but gritty downcanyon breeze usher in the morning, and after two hours of both ignoring and swatting at the nagging insects, I have daylight to console me.

127 Hours Aron Ralston 2004

From over my right shoulder, the light from downcanyon dances on the screen, a comely canary-yellow glow.

127 Hours Aron Ralston 2004

About twenty feet downcanyon, an S-shaped log is jammed between the walls.

127 Hours Aron Ralston 2004