Touching the Void - a harrowing and heroic account of a climbing accident in the Peruvian Andes - was more than a film to me. Sitting in a Sheffield cinema and watching Joe Simpson, a climber from this city, trapped in a deep ice crevasse with his leg horribly broken, I began to notice an uncanny resonance with my own life. It wasn't only that I am an ex-climber and both our accidents happened in the Andes, but also because, when he was contemplating his imminent death, he found himself musing with perverse pleasure that he had no desire to return to God after abandoning the Roman Catholic faith of his youth.
Like Joe I am an ex-Catholic, having become an atheist in my late teenage years, preferring the uncertainty of science to the conviction of religion. Also, like him, I had to face death and chose to live.
My wife, Val, tells me I was in a dreadful state that day in Bolivia, the day after I broke my neck in a freak accident. I was in the two-bed intensive-care room of the Clinica Alemana in La Paz, my mouth choked with tubes: one for the ventilator helping me to breathe and another providing some noxious gruel masquerading as food. I had pneumonia and my temperature was out of control.
Despite the danger, Val and my son were excluded from the room and had to spend a terrifying night clinging together in their hotel, fearing that I would die. They had been told: "I'm not sure he's going to make it."
In my delirious state, I was oblivious to all this. But later that night I became aware that something was wrong. My room was full of women, doctors and nurses (the male consultants only popped in now and again for a few minutes), and I heard the rhythmic sound of them beating their clothes. Then they started to chant, "Oh, Señor Guiton, Señor Guiton." I was alarmed, but mainly curious. Was this keening, Bolivian-style? They had all gathered at one end of the room, out of sight.
The confusion was replaced by an eerie lucidity. Alerted by the chanting, I began to monitor my condition. Most of all I was very, very tired. The lights were on so, when I closed my eyes, I expected to see the usual prickling orange light on the back of my lids. Instead I saw jet-black cumulus clouds boiling and roiling in from the sides, threatening to cover all the visible space. Somehow I knew that if they succeeded, I would die. I remember thinking: "Oh, so this is what death is like!" The urge to relax and let it happen was overwhelming. I felt no fear. But then, incongruously, the Spanish phrase "Dos hijas y un barón" popped into my mind.
A week or so before, I had crossed the border between Peru and Bolivia. Ours was the third bus to arrive at the crossing, so we had to wait. I could see Lake Titicaca over the brow of a small hill and strolled over for a better view. I saw an old Indian resting on a stone. She wore the traditional dress of Altiplano Indian women: a thick, flared knee-length skirt over woollen tights, a flannel shirt and woollen cardigan and, perched on top of her head, the ubiquitous bowler hat. I fell into a halting conversation with her and soon she asked me if I had children.
"Yes," I replied, "dos hijas y un hijo" (two girls and a boy). She corrected me: "Dos hijas y un barón!" (two girls and a young prince). He wouldn't have survived long if he had tried that on with his sisters.
This was the phrase that came to mind as I lay dying. It jolted me awake and I forced my eyes open in the belief that this would keep the clouds at bay. How could I think of dying, just like that? I wanted Val with me, and I wanted to see the story of my children unfold. I kept my eyes open for what seemed like hours, only allowing myself to blink hastily when necessary, until I felt safe enough to sleep.
It was then, like Joe Simpson, that I realised I had not been tempted to reach for God, as the priests of my childhood had always maintained I would. Had I allowed myself to go, I would have died an atheist. I can't remember when the keening stopped.
In the morning my wife and son were finally allowed in to see me. They were limp with anxiety. The doctor had promised to contact them by phone should anything happen in the night, but my son later told us he had seen him toss the scrap of paper containing the hotel phone number into the bin.
