The Park Radio Told Us To Get Off The Ridge And Nobody Ever Sent That Message

I lead school groups. It is the best job in the world and it will give me a heart attack.

We were on a ridge, sixteen kids, three adults, clear sky, forecast fine.

At 13:40 the handheld crackled and a voice said our group name — our actual booking name, which is not a thing a stranger would know — and said: "Descend now. North side. Immediately."

I said, "Say again, over."

Nothing. Static. Then nothing at all.

I made a decision that I have been thanked for and questioned about ever since: I turned sixteen tired teenagers around and took them off the ridge, north, fast, and they moaned every step, and one of them cried.

Forty minutes later the weather came in. Not "got worse". Came in. The temperature dropped, the cloud sat on the ridge, and there was hail and a wind that I have only felt twice in my life. On that ridge, with those kids, in what they were wearing, we would have had a very serious problem, and I am choosing my words carefully because two of the parents read everything I write.

Afterwards I thanked the ranger station for the call.

They had not made a call. They had no record of a transmission. They were not even on that channel that afternoon; they were dealing with a vehicle fire on the other side of the park.

The other two adults heard the voice. All three of us heard it. The kids did not, because kids do not listen to radios, but three adults heard a voice say our booking name.

I have kept the handheld. It is a cheap thing and it works fine.

I do not have an explanation and I have stopped trying to build one, because the only thing an explanation would do is make me feel clever, and I would rather feel grateful.

Somebody or something used our name and told us to get down and it was right.

I still do the job. I take the north route now, always. The kids still moan. That is fine. Moaning is the sound of everyone being alive.