Over the Edge: Reflections on Selfies, Hand Prints, and Solo Travel

About a year ago, an article popped up on my Instagram feed about the discovery of a new cave with early history cave paintings, one of which was a handprint. This is not unusual. Handprints are a common form of cave painting. What stuck with me was that the consulted archeologist, when asked about the single handprint, shrugged and said the hand-print maker was perhaps only trying to say, “I was here.”

A Recent Event

I dubbed this past Tuesday “Waterfall Day” and set out to see all six waterfalls near the town of Kerikeri in one day. It was a beautiful day—sunny and still—and I hardly passed anyone on my walks. At each of the waterfalls, I was able to avoid any self-consciousness from spectators as I set up my tripod and took photo after photo of the waterfall. And, of course, me in front of each waterfall. Sitting, standing, facing the camera, and looking away. I was going to see six waterfalls after all. I couldn’t have the same pose in each picture.

I had ordered my day so that I saw what I supposed would be the least impressive waterfalls first, and thus ending with the ones I thought would be the best.

And I was right. The very last one was absolutely the best waterfall. The water spewed over the rocks in a lovely cascade. And, best of all, the cliffs around the waterfall looked like grey-to-black ombre building blocks with natural steps and places to sit. Picture it: dark grey rock that looks almost laser-cut against clear water and the roar of the waterfall. I set up my tripod and ventured out onto the rocks. These were definitely going to be my best photos yet.

As I was packing up, I spotted a path to the top of the falls, so I scooted up there and found another perfect spot to take photos. I set up my tripod, grabbed my Bluetooth remote (so I can click the camera button from far away) and then clambered up next to the falls. It was the perfect shot of the waterfall and me.

Click. Click. Click.

I was grinning. This had been such a beautiful day with so many wonderful waterfalls. I climbed back from the edge, then bounded toward my tripod. From about ten feet away, I watched…

I can still see it in my mind.

In slow motion.

There was not a breeze to be felt where I was, but somehow someway, a puff of air caught my phone just right and the whole tripod (phone still attached) tipped and tumbled off the cliff.

It felt like a dream. Like I should wake up and flop my head back on the pillow and breath out a sigh of relief that hadn’t actually happened.

But it wasn’t a dream.

I ran to the edge of the cliff and saw the tripod on the rock below, only a small part of the top laying out of the water. But my phone wasn’t attached to it. I’m sure my phone was knocked loose and flung out into the water.

My heart raced, my eyes probably wide as full moons. Fire raced down my spine, but what was there to do?

I ran down the trail, climbed over the rocks at the cliff base way faster than I should have. I tore my shoes and socks off and waded onto a rock shelf to cross to the rocks below the falls where my tripod was. My phone wasn’t on the rocks, wasn’t resting innocently nearby, wasn’t by some miracle tucked just out of sight.

With my adrenaline surging, I climbed up the cliff where my phone had fallen, searching crevices and the back of each rock shelf, hoping beyond hope that the hand of God or a lucky bounce had deposited it here, among the blocky cliffs, and not in the water depths below.

With my adrenaline surging, I scrambled up the next natural shelf and realized I was on top of the cliff again. I had climbed right back up to where the tripod had stood initially. Honestly, it’s all a blur. I’m not sure how I did it.

When I turned to climb down, I saw that my tripod, too, was gone. Sucked into the water. (I should have grabbed it previously, but really, my mind wasn’t on the $25 tripod—my phone was top priority).

I clambered back down the cliff and slipped into the water, thinking I’d feel around on the ground for both the tripod and my phone.

Well… that didn’t happen. Apparently there were no more rocky shelves and definitely not a silty bottom. From there, the stone dropped away so I didn’t touch bottom. Instead, I bobbed down into the water with a gasp, the tips of my ear lobs getting wet. [Later, the host at my hostel told me no one knows how deep the water is there. Despite it being a popular swimming hole and cliff jumping area, no one has ever touched the bottom.]

So now I’m soaked. And frantic. And panicked. And so angry with myself. Why did I walk away? Why didn’t I make sure the tripod was secure? Why didn’t I grab the stupid tripod when it was lying half submerged only two feet from me? Because at least that would have been one less thing sinking to the bottom of the hole, even if it was the far less important part of the pairing.

But there was nothing more to do.

I walked out, soaked to my shoulders, replaying and reliving the experience over and over again. My stupidity. Because it was 99% my own fault and 1% bad luck.

So I lost my phone over the side of a waterfall.

And Then…

I lost my phone over the side of a waterfall.

And the thing I was the most angry about?

Losing all those photos.

I had fifty beautiful waterfall photos as well as pictures from the last three days in the Bay of Islands, because (unfortunately) the wifi at the hostel I was staying at was so terrible that iCloud hadn’t synced for three days.

I have never considered myself a huge photo person. I prefer to live in the moment. I definitely like to take photos, especially of scenery that I think is beautiful. And I’ve certainly started taking more photos since I started this blog about a year ago. But I didn’t think I was picture-obsessed.

But it hit me so hard, loosing those photos. Like a kick in the chest.

I thought I would feel panicked at being in a foreign country with no phone, no GPS, no ability to communicate. I thought the worry would tighten around my chest like a clamp. But I’m good in emergencies, so somehow that didn’t panic me. (I got to the parking lot, asked someone how to get back to town, drove to town, asked someone where to buy a phone, and then bought a new phone. Unfortunately, the store was closing, so I couldn’t set up the phone there, so I did end up driving to my next hostel without GPS and in the dark. I did get lost (for an hour and a half) and when I finally found the hostel, realized I’d driven past it four times). But none of that sat heavy on my chest, none of that made me feel like I’d lost something. But what had I really lost?

The good thing about having an iPhone is that with a little time and a lot of money, I get almost everything back. All of my apps and data and messages can be recovered. I’ll get my life back. But not my photos.

And why, I asked myself a hundred times, were those damn photos so important to me? Even 24 hours later I would replay the slow-motion tumble-fall of my tripod and my breath would get shallow. But why? Why was I so caught up in those photos? In reality, they weren’t anything special. I wouldn’t even have gone to this area of New Zealand if I was only here on a short holiday.

And then I realized that I was mourning the loss of those photos because, even though they weren’t amazing once-in-a-lifetime photos, they were still important. Because I’m traveling on my own. And that means the only way I get to say “I was here” is to have a photo of me in that spot. Photos are the modern-day cave painting handprint.

I can tell you where I went: “I saw Charlie’s Rock Waterfall. It was a block-style waterfall with charcoal cliffs and a swimming hole.” But that doesn’t mean anything. I can’t share that experience with my family and my friends. I can’t share it with anyone who matters when you’re all half a world away. In fact, I can’t share it with anyone. Not today, not tomorrow, not 4,000 years from now (metaphorically). Someone can’t pull up the picture of me and place their hand on it and think (despite knowing nothing about me), “this girl was here. This girl lived.”

So, I’m sure you think I’m being dramatic. And I am, a little bit.

I know that people traveled before phones. Before cameras! For thousands of years, words have been enough to connect people. I am a writer, for goodness sake. I know the power of words to connect and share and create.

But, the loss of my phone is more than those three days worth of photos (some of which really were very cool). It was also a hammer-strike of fear of taking more photos. Of getting too close to the edge (of a waterfall, a cliff, a look-out point, a bridge). A fear of putting my phone in another tripod or on a bench and stepping away. A fear of capturing more amazing moments.

And, ultimately, what a fear of picture-taking leads to, what a lack of photos with me in them truly means (when I am in New Zealand and you all are 7,000 miles away), is to truly accept that I am alone here.

Now

I don’t want to alarm you (you, meaning my parents and grandparents and extended family).

Truly, I am ok. I have a new phone. I am going to keep taking pictures (just more selfies, which are my least favorite kind of photo, but don’t require me to unclamp my fingers from my phone).

Please do not read this as me spiraling into despair or hiding in my hostel too afraid to face the world. I assure you, that is not the case. This was necessary for me to write, necessary for me to think about in order to move past the weird tension in my soul these past forty-eight hours. I needed to think about this, about why something that is, in essence, so simple and so easily replaced, felt instead like part of me was unraveling. Why was the burden so heavy?

And now, I understand.

Which means I can face it.