I nearly died.

That's right. I almost died last winter when I lost my footing and fell down a cliff side. I remember walking with my friend Pete across the ridge when the ledge suddenly gave away...he had fallen first while I barely had a grip on the rock myself.

There was a crunching of bones as he hit the cliff face repeatedly on the way down. He was screaming until the third impact with the rough rock, I guess his neck had finally snapped.

All I know is I couldn't stop the flow of tears from coming. I met Pete when we were very young, five to be exact, on our first day of school. We were inseparable by the time our parents picked us up.

Throughout the years, we ended up having at least two classes together. In high school, we signed up for the same ones, even culinary. His love for cooking started then.

Before I knew it, we were on our way across the stage to get our diplomas. It was bitter sweet, but we knew that it wouldn't be the last time we saw one another.

It wasn't until a month later Pete and I decided to go hiking that winter before the snow had fully taken over the Rocky Mountains. A risk, yes, though not the only one he talked me into. He loved the thrill of heights.

Yet now, I wish we would have stayed home. Or, at least gone when the snow hadn't been blowing us across the ice-covered rock. A storm had unexpectedly sprung up, the most dangerous of the winter months. It was the same one that caused my friend's death and my near follow.

As I was hanging on the ledge, with the slow motion cracking of ice and rock, I thought of how quick my death would be. I secretly wished it would be fast and painless, not like Pete's. Every crunch against the rock must have been horrible...

The last thing I remember was my fingers slipping from the slick rock and the first impact against the cliff face, then blackness.

You know what? I didn't die. Impossible many would say, and I agree. It was most certainly extraordinary I lived. I'll tell you all about it.