One Step for Life A Miraculous Deliverance   by Paul William Fleming   It was a cool and bright November day in the Rockies about 60 miles from Casper, Wyoming. One of my friends had a cabin up at 8,000 feet in those mountains, and eight of us were there to hunt elk. The hunting was bad, as there had not been a big snow storm to get the elk moving out of the high country. I hadn’t seen one all day.    Nevertheless, we had come to hunt and so we had each set out in a different direction, looking for elk. I decided to climb to the top of a rocky outcrop sticking up about 70 feet, with a panoramic view of a lot of country. The access to the top was easy from the back side, but I decided to make a frontal attack as it was much more of a challenge. Carrying my rifle in one hand and climbing with the other, I made my way up the almost vertical face of the rock, and finally hoisted myself onto a ledge about 60 feet above the base. Suddenly I realized I could go no further. The ledge where I found myself facing a huge boulder that stood about seven feet and sloped upward like an egg. It was smooth, with no possible handholds, no place to brace my foot for a step up and over it.    It didn’t take me long to realize I was in a terrible situation. The precarious ledge I stood on extended only about two feet from the base of this boulder. Below me was a sheer drop — there were no trees at all, but a deep rocky pit that had not been visible on my way up, as boulders were piled up ten feet high all around it. To my left, the ledge dead-ended at another enormous boulder with about five inches of space between them. I thought about ramming my foot in there, but was afraid it would get stuck — and then there would be no hope. To my right, the ledge ended abruptly at another huge rock with no chance of finding any handhold between them. I wondered if I could climb back down, but that was out of the question. I would never find the footings and would almost certainly fall into the pit.    If only there were something to get hold of above — but there was not. Back and forth I went, desperately examining the configuration of rock that held me prisoner. I looked for a flat stone I could wedge into that crack and make into a step, but there was none. My heart was pounding like it had never done before. I finally decided that I had to try an impossible leap straight upward, onto the rock that faced me, even though it was much too high and far too smooth to hang onto — yet not to hang on would mean to tumble backwards into space. But there seemed to be no other chance. Okay, then, I said to myself, I might as well die trying, so ONE, TWO, THREE — JUMP! My legs would not obey. I tried again, but as before, my legs refused to move.    I understood that I couldn’t stay on that ledge, and that any attempt to get of the ledge would probably kill me. I thought of firing my rifle as a signal, but it was hopeless — an entire mountain stood between me and the others. My friend, the owner of the cabin and land, had never had a serious accident among his guest hunters, and that made me sorry for him, too. I knew that once I fell into the pit, nobody would ever find me in time to save me — and anyway, the fall would surely kill me. I closed my eyes, praying not for deliverance but to make peace with my God, to make a final act of contrition. There was not a sound, no voices speaking to console me. I opened my eyes and looked around once more.    To my utter amazement, the space between the boulder on the left had silently widened and a big flat rock was wedged horizontally about 20 inches off the ledge, making an ideal step. I put my left foot onto it to test it. It was solid! Something told me to use this step and then reach up as high as possible on the right side and jam my rifle stock down into a likely crevice, using the barrel as a handhold. This gave me another 18 inches, just enough to pull myself over the upper bulge of the rock in front of me. I reached back and retrieved my rifle, and then started inching my way upward, through a crawl space that stretched about 20 feet in front of me. I made my way on my hands and knees over the rough rocks, and at last clambered out and found myself at the top of the outcrop — I was free. My elbows and knees were all bloody, but I was so happy to have escaped that I felt no pain, only elation to be alive.    I climbed back down the rocky hill on the easy side and went back to the cabin. I thought for sure that my seven fellow hunters, who were sitting at the table playing cards, would notice my bloody condition, but no one did. They were too engrossed in their game. Thinking they would ridicule me, I didn’t tell anyone about my foolhardy adventure.   For many years I wondered about this experience — why had I been granted this miracle? My life had not been saintly. I’d done my share of selfish and inconsiderate things. Still, something must have earned me that gift of grace. One thought kept popping into my mind. I remembered how, when I was in the service during the war, a poker game had ended in tragedy. Here’s what happened:    My best friend was married and had a little boy. He proudly showed me photographs of him and his wife. He was a good man but a poor poker player and had borrowed close to two thousand dollars from me on IOU’s, hoping that he could keep playing and recover. He started to write IOU’s to other players and continued to lose. He was a captain on flying pay, and if he had quit playing, he could have paid everyone off in about 18 months. Unfortunately, just two months before the war ended, he was killed in a flying accident. About three weeks later, I received a letter from his widow offering to pay his debt. I knew I would hate myself if I took money from her so I wrote back, saying he owed me nothing and if she sent me a check I would tear it up. The other IOU holders were all waiting to see what Fleming would do, since I was by far the biggest creditor. They all tore up the IOU’s when they saw my example. That was an enormous amount of money for me to lose at that time, but I never regretted my decision.    Was it this act of generosity that had saved me from dying among those rocks on the hunting trip? I wanted to think so — but I had seen enough good men die in the war, and after, to make me doubt that God’s justice was as simple as that. I pondered this for a long time, still wondering what had made me worthy of a miracle . . . and then one day I recalled something else, something from my Catholic upbringing that suddenly made sense of everything.    Many years before, the Benedictine nuns at my high school had taught us about Sister Margaret Mary Alocoque, a nun in seventeenth-century France, whose visions of the Sacred Heart of Jesus became known as the “Twelve Promises.” These were Christ’s assurances to Sister Margaret Mary that He would reward devotion to His Sacred Heart with everlasting life. Of special importance was the great promise of the last Sacraments and final repentance, a promise made to those who would receive Holy Communion on nine consecutive First Fridays. I was so moved by the story of Sister Margaret Mary that I resolved immediately to attend Mass and Holy Communion on the Nine First Fridays of that very year, and I did this again some 15 years later.    At last my deliverance from death in that rocky pit made sense to me. God can and does work miracles from time to time, even for a sinner like me. I owe my life to the Nine First Fridays — the smartest move I ever made.     © Paul Fleming & Michael Fleming Casper, Wyoming July, 2000   top of page   other essays   e-mail to Mike   Fox Paws home page