SECTION A

READING
Read the following extracts carefully and then answer Section A in the Question Paper.
Text One: Things I Learned from Falling
In this extract, the writer, Claire Nelson, describes what happened to her when she went hiking alone in
Joshua Tree National Park in California.
DAY ONE: TUESDAY
Two of my old friends from London — Natalie and Lou, who were now living in Joshua
Tree, California — asked if I wanted to house-sit for three weeks. I didn’t hesitate to say
yes and planned lots of solo hiking. In particular, I wanted to tackle a day-long hike that
led to a huge congregation of palms hidden deep in a valley. 5

I deliberately chose a Tuesday, when I knew the trail would be quiet, got out my calendar
and wrote underneath 22 May: Lost Palms Oasis. I gathered anything I thought I might
need: sunscreen, an oversized T-shirt, comfortable boots, a camera, painkillers, Lou’s
wooden hiking stick.
Lunch was a bagel slathered with avocado, a hard-boiled egg and a chocolate-chip bar. 10
And finally — enough water to last the day. I also sent Lou a text: ‘Hey, do you have a
daypack I could borrow? Gonna do Lost Palms Oasis.’
Once I reached the park, I picked up a map from the visitors’ centre and asked for
directions to the start of the trail. ‘Enjoy the hike,’ the ranger called out. There is no way I
could have known this man almost became the last person I ever spoke to. 15

From the top of a boulder stack, 10 feet above the southern Californian desert, the valley
fell away, rolling for miles; it was breathtaking. To carry on I had to figure out where the
trail continued and pick my way around rocks.

Often, the most dangerous moves are the ones that don’t feel like it: there are no red
flags, no alarm bells. Everything during those next few seconds happened so fast, yet 20

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each movement left a clear etch in my memory. My right foot slipping. The desperate
flutter as the fingers of my left hand scrabbled for something to hold on to, but found
only rock, as flat and smooth as an ocean-worn pebble.
It seemed to happen so slowly, almost gracefully, yet in real time it was no more than a
few seconds. A slide and a brief scuffle of dust. With that, I slipped off the edge. 25

I remember the sound my body made as it hit the ground.

A sharp crack. Then the white heat of pain that stabbed my body. I tried to scramble to
my feet.
Get up.
But each time I crumpled. 30

My pelvis was broken. Every time I tried to sit up it felt like someone had replaced my hip
bones with a bag of broken dinner plates.
Help.
I yanked my rucksack towards me, scrabbling for my iPhone, my hands shaking as I
dialled 911. 35

I saw words flash up: Call Failed.

No. No no no.
I held the phone high in every direction. My heart banged in my chest. I was miles from
a signal. Miles from the road. Miles into the middle of nowhere. I screamed into the sky
– HELP ME! PLEASE! I heard the echoes dissolve into the rocks until all that was left was 40
silence.
Using the stick, I was able to drag my things around me. Having them close making me
feel safer. Above me a hawk had begun to circle — a dark arrow hovering way up high.
Fear ran cold through my blood as I considered where I now fell in the chain of desert
life. Potential prey. 45

I would leave a video message, just in case. My phone wouldn’t do but I had a digital
camera. ‘This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,’ I said. ‘I’m so scared, I need to get out
of here. And in case I don’t, I just want to say I love you all.’ Speaking into the camera gave
me something to do, as if sharing what I was going through meant that, for one brief
moment, I wasn’t alone. 50

The heat pressed down hard. My spare T-shirt was draped over my thighs and knees
and the map over my shins. Lying there, hopeless, it was hard not to dwell on my life.
I thought about the amount of time I’d spent – wasted – flicking through the internet.
Hours on social media, scrolling through Instagram. Life thrown in the bin.
As the dark set in, so did the cold, settling over my body like a damp shroud. Wearing 55
only my vest and shorts, my limbs were exposed to the plummeting temperature. I was
facing what I knew would be the longest night of my life.
Fear does crazy things to a person because I became convinced that I could see snakes.
I moved my trembling hands to my phone and switched on the torch but there was
nothing there. 60

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DAY TWO: WEDNESDAY
I must have fallen asleep eventually because at some point, I woke up.
So it really happened.
This hadn’t been one of those nightmares.
At 8.51 am, my phone screen went black. My little lifelines were falling by the wayside. 65
I had no idea how fruitful it was to scream for help; I just did it anyway to release the
driving desperation and fear that pounded through my body.
Crawling on my belly like a devout religious pilgrim, could I find my way to freedom? This
was an impossible idea. The pain was unendurable; my body was as good as glued to the
ground. 70

Dehydration is agonising. I had been rationing what water I had. My mind abused me
with a vivid fantasy slideshow of refreshments. Chilled water. I thought about a can of
Diet Coke — heard the crack and fizz as the can was opened, imagined the bubbles
fizzing against my tongue.
The cold and lonely hours loomed large ahead, a gaping yawn of blackness. 75

No, no, please no…

Not another night.
DAY THREE: THURSDAY
Dawn. Discomfort had reached a vicious peak.
One thread of hope I was holding on to was the fact it was now Thursday. Time was 80
edging tantalisingly close to the weekend, when there were sure to be more people in
the park.
But as the heat intensified, my strength slowly ebbed away into nothing.
It was dusk, the sky now shaking away the last embers of sunlight. Another night. My
third. I prayed that I would sleep through most of it. Unconsciousness would shorten 85
the time spent feeling frozen with both cold and fear. Dawn could never come quickly
enough.
DAY FOUR: FRIDAY
I woke up. Still alive.
By the afternoon I was drifting in and out. 90

Semi-conscious.
Weakening.
Woozy.
I heard something.
It was very distant. 95

It was the beating of a helicopter.

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Then, as clear as a bell.
‘…WE’RE SEARCHING FOR A MISSING HIKER.’
I screamed, ‘I’M HERE!’ but the helicopter was leaving.
Please come back. 100

Who knows how much time passed after that. And then the words I will never, ever
forget.
‘CLAIRE, WE SEE YOU. WE’RE GOING TO GET YOU.’
I sobbed under the weight of the relief that rained down on me, flooding me with a
single realisation: 105

I am going to live.
RECOVERY
A few people had noticed I was quiet on Instagram. They began texting me, then Natalie
sent friends to the house to check on me. There they found my calendar note – Lost
Palms Oasis. Confirmation of the text I’d sent Lou. Then police found the car. 110

All this time, I had never really been alone.

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 Text Two: From 127 Hours: Between a Rock and a Hard Place
In this extract, the writer, Aron Ralston, describes his experience of a rock-climbing accident in
a canyon.
I come to another drop-off. This one is maybe eleven or twelve feet high, a foot higher
and of a different geometry than the overhang I descended ten minutes ago. Another
refrigerator chockstone1 is wedged between the walls, ten feet downstream from and at
the same height as the ledge. It gives the space below the drop-off the claustrophobic
feel of a short tunnel. Instead of the walls widening after the drop-off, or opening into a 5
bowl at the bottom of the canyon, here the slot narrows to a consistent three feet across
at the lip of the drop-off and continues at that width for fifty feet down the canyon.
Sometimes in narrow passages like this one, it’s possible for me to stem my body
across the slot, with my feet and back pushing out in opposite directions against
the walls. Controlling this counterpressure by switching my hands and feet on the 10
opposing walls, I can move up or down the shoulder-width crevice fairly easily as long
as the friction contact stays solid between the walls and my hands, feet, and back. This
technique is known as stemming or chimneying; you can imagine using it to climb up
the inside of a chimney.
Just below the ledge where I’m standing is a chockstone the size of a large bus tire2, 15
stuck fast in the channel between the walls, a few feet out from the lip. If I can step
onto it, then I’ll have a nine-foot height to descend, less than that of the first overhang.
I’ll dangle off the chockstone, then take a short fall onto the rounded rocks piled on the
canyon floor.
Stemming across the canyon at the lip of the drop-off, with one foot and one hand on 20
each of the walls, I traverse3 out to the chockstone. I press my back against the south
wall and lock my left knee, which pushes my foot tight against the north wall. With my
right foot, I kick at the boulder to test how stuck it is. It’s jammed tightly enough to hold
my weight. I lower myself from the chimneying position and step onto the chockstone.
It supports me but teeters slightly. After confirming that I don’t want to chimney down 25
from the chockstone’s height, I squat and grip the rear of the lodged boulder, turning to
face back upcanyon. Sliding my belly over the front edge, I can lower myself and hang
from my fully extended arms, akin to climbing down from the roof of a house.
As I dangle, I feel the stone respond to my adjusting grip with a scraping quake as my
body’s weight applies enough torque4 to disturb it from its position. Instantly, I know this 30
is trouble, and instinctively, I let go of the rotating boulder to land on the round rocks
below. When I look up, the backlit chockstone falling toward my head consumes the sky.
Fear shoots my hands over my head. I can’t move backward or I’ll fall over a small ledge.
My only hope is to push off the falling rock and get my head out of its way.
The next three seconds play out at a tenth of their normal speed. Time dilates, as if I’m 35
dreaming, and my reactions decelerate. In slow motion: the rock smashes my left hand
against the south wall; my eyes register the collision, and I yank my left arm back as the
rock ricochets5; the boulder then crushes my right hand and ensnares my right arm at the
wrist, palm in, thumb up, fingers extended; the rock slides another foot down the wall
with my arm in tow, tearing the skin off the lateral side of my forearm. Then silence. 40

My disbelief paralyzes me temporarily as I stare at the sight of my arm vanishing into an

implausibly small gap between the fallen boulder and the canyon wall. Within moments,
my nervous system’s pain response overcomes the initial shock. Good God, my hand. The
flaring agony throws me into a panic. I grimace and growl … My mind commands my

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body, ‘Get your hand out of there!’ I yank my arm three times in a naive attempt to pull it 45
out. But I’m stuck.
Anxiety has my brain tweaking; searing-hot pain shoots from my wrist up my arm. I’m
frantic, and I cry out … My desperate brain conjures up a probably apocryphal6 story
in which an adrenaline-stoked mom lifts an overturned car to free her baby. I’d give it
even odds that it’s made up, but I do know for certain that right now, while my body’s 50
chemicals are raging at full flood, is the best chance I’ll have to free myself with brute
force. I shove against the large boulder, heaving against it, pushing with my left hand,
lifting with my knees pressed under the rock. I get good leverage with the aid of a
twelve-inch shelf in front of my feet. Standing on that, I brace my thighs under the
boulder and thrust upward repeatedly, grunting, ‘Come on…move!’ Nothing. 55
1
chockstone: a stone that has become wedged between rocks
2
tire: American spelling of tyre
3
traverse: cross
4
torque: rotating force
5
ricochets: bounces off
6
apocryphal: doubtful, untrue

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Source information:

Text One adapted from Things I Learned from Falling, Claire Nelson, Aster, an imprint of Octopus Publishing
Group Ltd
Image One: Nina B. Shutterstock/PAL
Text Two adapted from 127 hours – Between a Rock and a Hard Place, Aron Ralston, Simon & Schuster
Ltd 2010

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