Dancing with the Edge: A Second Chance at the Summit

They say life can change in a heartbeat, but I learned March 7th, my dad's 75th birthday; that it can also change in the split second it takes for tires to meet black ice.

That Saturday morning started as a "bluebird" Colorado dream. The sun was out, the San Juan Mountains were draped in fresh snow, and I was buzzing with the kind of excitement that only a road trip through the mountains for a mosaic workshop can bring. I was headed to Mancos to create a mosaic horse—a project that felt so aligned with my life at the funny farm—before spending the weekend with one of my best friends Lauren in Durango afterwards.

I’ve driven these mountain passes for 25+ years driving through snowstorms over mountain passes, no problemo. I felt prepared in my trusty 4×4 2003 Toyota aka "The Princess Palace", even though a tiny voice of hesitancy whispered in the back of my mind after a storm passed through the mountains the past 2 days before departing. A friend in Ridgway called the night before warning me the roads were icy and they had gotten a lot of snow. I brushed it off and got up at the crack of dawn to get chores and snuggles in so that I could leave early and take it slow.

I wrapped up chores and finished organizing my hefty stead for the trip and set off for a weekend of creativity & connection. Little did I know my life would be flipped upside down that day I drove out of the funny farm.

Everything I owned was tucked into the back of that truck; it wasn't just a vehicle, it was my mobile sanctuary. I live in a built out van on the farm so my storage unit was my trusty Toyota.

Before I left, I spent the night singing to Friday (Emmy's foster mom struggling with some health issues) and giving massages to her and baby Emmy, making sure they felt loved before my short trip away. (Horses on the farm) 

I second guessed myself after the snow and ice report thinking maybe I should stay and hunker down to be around for Friday and Emmy.

"It’s okay," I told myself. "Go do the workshop and have a much needed adventure. You’ll be back to the farm Sunday for more snuggles." Advocacy work has been heavy and I needed some levity and fun.

The drive through Ridgway was breathtaking. I was cruisin along, soaking in the jagged peaks and the wide-open sky. I even remember thinking right after Telluride Mt Resort, “Hot damn, the roads are actually great!”

Minutes later, just before the turnoff to the town of Ames & Illium Road before the summit of Lizard Head Pass, the world slipped away.

The Slide into Silence

The fishtail happened in slow motion. First sliding toward oncoming traffic, then a correction toward the embankment—a 200-foot drop with no guard rail. I tried to pull it back, but the ice had made the decision for me. As I blazed toward the edge, I shut my eyes and heard the words: "This is it." 

Everything went black.

The truck rolled at least three or four times—the most violent seconds I have ever endured—until I plowed into a stand of trees. When I opened my eyes, the silence was deafening. I slowly looked around at my belongings scattered in the snow and realized with a jolt of shock: I guess this isn’t it; Let’s fucking go.

Adrenaline is a strange miracle. Despite a broken scapula, three broken ribs, a punctured lung, and a serious concussion, I pulled myself out of the wreckage "Dukes of Hazard" style. I was in my slippers, no hat, no gloves, standing 200 feet down a cliff in the freezing mountain air.

The only thing I knew was to survive.

Angels and Prayer Flags

As I scrambled back up the embankment, I saw something that stopped me in my tracks: the mosaic bear skull I had spent weeks creating to submit to an art exhibition in Idaho. It was sitting there, completely undamaged amidst the chaos. I grabbed it, clutched it to my chest and kept climbing towards the highway above; my hope for help.

At the top, I met my first angel: Ginger, a nurse who stopped her car and stayed by my side. She helped me breathe when it felt impossible. She was a compassionate witness and lifesaving support, calling 911 and helping me find my phone down by the site of destruction where I almost lost my life.

I was in shock, not thinking straight and hiked back down to help her look for my wallet. My brain was firing in every direction paniked and thinking, "How will I get all of my things back, how will I get back to Montrose for work Monday, and how will I make it to Denver next weekend for Latino Advocacy Day and how the hell am I going to call dad today, his birthday to share this news." Amongst the whirlwind of thoughts rushing through my scrambled brain I heard Gingers voice;

"NO- do NOT come back down here," but it was too late, I was half way down. Still full of adrenaline guarding me from the pain that would soon sneak up and make the second hike up excruciatingly painful and hard.

The firefighters arrived and worked the scene, looking down at the "yard sale" of my life scattered on the hillside making sure we were ok. They came down to assist and we all cracked a few jokes about the shitshow of my belongings scattered from top to bottom of the embankment with items hanging in trees and swaying in the wind.

Three beautiful handwoven garments of clothing I brought back from Oaxaca were snagged in the branches of a tree above the wreck—hanging there like colorful prayer flags and reminding me of my dream.

In that moment, I heard a whisper: "Your dream is coming. Your project will happen in Oaxaca. Slow down, child, and trust you are meant to be here.” 

I've been busting my butt to save up to build a tiny house off of the coast of Oaxaca since 2021 after buying a lot off the Pacific coast near Mazunte. I have a dream to help rescue animals, grow my own food and have an art studio and space to create and to write; to live simply and out of the rat race while being in a place that makes my heart dance and soul shine.

The Heart of a Latina

The journey from the mountain to the Telluride Med Center was a blur. When the EMS guy asked me to sign off permission to be taken by ambulance, I told him I needed a minute to call my best friend Ximena who lived on Illium road to see if she could give me a ride to the Med Center; I was terrified of the cost to go by ambulance. He looked at me sideways, not recommending that but letting me try. Thankfully she didn’t answer; likely she would have and at the time I didn't know the severity of my injuries.  Little did I know, Ximena and her daughter drove by the scene, not knowing it was me being rescued, on their way to ski that bluebird beautiful day.

Being rolled into the Telluride Med Center felt surreal and like slow motion. I offered a slight smile and wave to the staff as they pushed me by into the Emergency Room. 

The Medical team was incredible from what I remember; a mix of shock and heavy duty pain meds leaves things a bit blurry. It was a quick stop for a thorough assessment, CAT scan and diagnosis. The nurse helped me contact my dad, a message no father wants to receive much less on his birthday. After the cat scan I called him; my throat tight, heart racing and pounding with fear and a heaviness looming over me, barely getting my words out when I heard his voice. The tears ran down my cheeks when he answered and I sobbed telling him the news. 

It was a miracle I was alive and I knew it despite the shock and pain meds impairing my cognitive functioning. Everything in my brain was slow and fast at the same time; I watched the lips of the ER doc and heard the words blurring together when the sounds rolled out, "You have a broken scapula, 3 broken ribs, a pneumothorax (punctured lung) and serious concussion. We're sending you to Montrose Hospital by ambulance." In that moment I surrendered and stopped trying to fight the reality I had entered. I couldn't help but fear what the cost of all this would be despite having insurance and hoped it would be a quick stay at the hospital. 

The ride up to Montrose was a blur of incredible medics and the passing view of blueskies and snowcapped mountain backdrops out the ambulance window. 

Flashbacks of the truck reaching the edge of the cliff played every time I closed my eyes, replaying the scene for the next 36 hours.

One of the paramedics offered me some soothing words of wisdom that this experience had a silver lining to it that would be revealed with time. After her pep talk she grabbed my arm and told me how badass I was to have gotten myself out of the truck and up the embankment for help. I remember her blonde hair and the shape of her face and hope I can find her someday soon to hug her; those words meant the world in that moment.

Sixty six miles later arriving to the ER in Montrose. Another entrance with a half smile, teary eyes and little wave to the staff as I entered, helpless on the stretcher. Another series of xrays and catscans to check the status of the punctured lung. Laying frozen in the room waiting, the ER doc entered and informed me the pnemothroax (punctured lung) grew and my lung was collapsing so they needed to do a surgical procedure to insert a chest tube. 

That's when I got scared.

Tears came to my eyes. I wanted someone or something familiar by my side. My toughness was fading and I was overwhelmed with fear. I was still in a daze not entirely grasping the fact that my life was at risk. He told me the procedure was painful but they would give me a small dose of sedative as they had to get my left arm over my head for the procedure (my left scapula broken).

As the sedative wore off during the surgery, the pain was excruciating. They were doing the final "push" to breakthrough the lung wall and I felt everything. I couldn't hold back the tears and the sounds that helped soothe the pain that came out uncontrollably. The anethesialigists assistant coached my through encouraging me to breath; I thought of all the times I facilitated breathwork and was on the other side; I trusted him and knew firsthand the power of breath so I stayed with him.

Finally the tube broke through the chest wall and the procedure ended.

The room fell silent and everyone gathered around the bed. A voice cut through the silence, one of the nurses asking if I was bilingual because, in my most vulnerable state, I was speaking only in Spanish.

As my friend Ximena later told me: "Girl, your heart beats Latina." It’s true. Even when broken, my heart knows where its home is.

The Message in the Metal

Lying in the hospital bed for the last four days, replaying that flash of darkness over the cliff, the message has become crystal clear; I touched the edge of death and danced with her down a mountainside in a carcass of metal that should have killed me.

There is no more "fucking around."

Life is fragile. 

It is precious, it is short, and it can be reclaimed by the earth in a split second. 

What's ahead isn’t just a new chapter; it’s a second chance to recreate my life in total alignment with the dreams I’ve been holding onto for too long; shadowed with the paralysis of the fear of failing, overdue on my time playing small in this world. 

I am still here for a reason and I believe there is something around this corner for me; uncertain how it will look. But I am trusting that the sweet spot of discovering it is not in gripping "the wheel" but rather, learning to surrender and let go of control and let "life" work it's miracle through me just like it did March 7th when I danced with the edge; I am certain the path will unfold towards this new second summit ahead.

Passion fueled and fired up

My mosaic work with Tierra Azul, my writings, supporting animal rescue work, my time in Oaxaca—it’s all part of a path I am now running wild towards  with everything I have; arms wide open (ok, I'm visualizing the arms open wide until I can open them!)

Thank you for being on this journey with me and for witnessing my story.

Life is a miracle. Don't wait for a cliff to start living it. 

Up and onward ya'll; vamos.

Yours truly, Amy- XXX