This,
from 2005….After over 25 years of high-risk outdoor pursuits—ropeless technical
rock climbing, solo off-trail exploration, working alone deep in the
backcountry as a wilderness ranger—I had several potentially serious accidents
in very remote locations within a span of only fifty days. During that same
period an acquaintance, who had engaged in similar activities for decades, died
in an avalanche. While recuperating from my third accident, which could easily
have been fatal, I was doing a lot of pondering and wrote this long piece as a
type of therapy and for catharsis. Warning: contains graphic violence.
Part I Escape From Death Valley
Death
Valley averages less than two inches of rain a year. Thanks to our latest El Niño cycle, by late March more than triple
that amount had already fallen. A monumental eruption of blooming plants was
receiving lots of media attention and the park was experiencing record
visitation as a result. Having seen this not-to-be-missed spectacle before, around
equinox I drove over from Lone Pine to spend a whole week simply wandering
about, flower-gazing. My only real plans were to disappear (as per usual) into
seldom-seen canyons but made a final stop at Furnace Creek for water and gas. Unfortunately,
it happened to be Friday and the village was teeming with people from many
nations. So, with tanks full, I pointed my truck south to escape a Yosemite-like
human crush. Yet another Pacific storm was on its way; Telescope Peak and other
of the Panamint Range’s higher summits were already hidden in cloud.
Alluvial fans surrounding the entire valley, usually
so parched-looking, were covered by expansive fields of brilliantly hued
flowers. Badwater was temporarily the shore of an immense puddle with kayakers
paddling across reflections of lavender mountains. Scores of tourists were
wading or walking barefoot, carrying their muddy shoes; it was a crowded but otherwise
heavenly scene. I drove strictly in third gear—my modus operandi whenever visiting Death Valley—to safely allow
long-held gazes at truly sublime scenes. Cars blew past me constantly (or I’d
pull over and let ten go by) but in time turned off on a bumpy dirt road that
continued south, paralleling Amargosa River.
Though still flowing in stretches it was a mere trickle
compared to January, when this normally bone-dry wash briefly became a real river
and turned Badwater basin into a latter-day version of prehistoric Lake Manly. I
followed it for a dozen miles before parking near the crossing (picking a spot just
off the road where it was possible to avoid crushing too many little plants). Menacing
clouds descended, obscuring mountaintops on the valley’s eastern side as well. A
sweet breeze rose just before it began sprinkling. To find brilliant colors in austere,
scent-free desert landscapes further enlivened by the heady smell of moist soil
and green plants will kindle authentic gladness; one aspect of a phenomenon I
call “the oasis effect.” Dramatic coastlines with crashing waves, lush alpine meadows—wonderful
as they are—can’t bestow the matchless sensations granted by finding precious water
where there should be none.
This was what I’d come for. If it didn’t flat-out
rain I’d pack for an over-nighter into the nearby Owlshead Mountains and take
off in the morning. This little sub-range is a favorite “forgotten place.” Mostly
granitic with some basalt-flows, it lacks any valuable minerals. Consequently,
there’s been no mining…therefore, no roads. Not a single spring. No trees. It’s
truly one of the most desolate,
lonely bunch of ragged hills one could hope to find—purest desert wilderness.
Right now, though, they had a green and lively luster. It’d been some years but,
during previous trips with a friend, I’d visited two unnamed canyons so picked
a different one this time. It led to what looked (on my topographic map) like a
small basin-like valley rimmed with granite outcrops.
It started raining lightly again in the morning and
I almost decided not to go. But the
weather didn’t look to get much more serious so finished loading my pack and
walked due west just as the light rain stopped. It was about five miles to the
mouth of my chosen canyon. Got to the Amargosa shortly after leaving and
followed it north (downstream) for several miles. Where it disappeared below ground
I walked on firm mudflats with an amazing array of patterns and textures in the
cracked and drying surfaces. Some places were covered with what felt, under my
boots, like corn flakes. Others, tortilla chips. Still others, like Hershey
Bars (the old-style, thin kind). When the river reappeared I’d clamber up on
its bank and wade through exceptionally tall desert sunflowers—twice their normal
height—that dusted my thighs with golden pollen. All this, a couple of hundred
feet below sea level in North America’s dryest locale.
Left the river and started up a gentle alluvial
fan, through different varieties of multicolored gardens, toward my canyon’s entrance.
It was still two miles away and I aimed for an obvious round-topped outcrop
near its mouth that vaguely resembled a skull. There were shadows on the crag’s
face for eyes and what appeared to be a grotto for the leering grin. An hour
later I scrambled inside and found what was almost surely a Shoshone grave
site: one end of the little cave was covered by a sizable heap of basalt rocks hand-carried
from a nearby lava flow. Old bones under
that pile, I mused.
Heading up-canyon the sun finally made its
appearance and lit up a wash full of palest grey gravel, bordered by granite
boulders weathered golden-brown. These hills were cloaked with brittlebush, shrubs almost obscured by a profusion of lemon-yellow
flowers. Easy strolling, thanks to my not-so-heavy backpack. It’s quite
possible that no one had visited this canyon in ten or twenty years…maybe more (since
it had absolutely nothing to recommend it aside from a profound obscurity). But
on this day it was as dramatic and scenic as any corner of Death Valley National
Park. Got up into the little basin which proved to be a convoluted badlands cut
through thick layers of coarse sand. A dark squall swept in from the west and I
hurried to find shelter. Minutes after it started to sprinkle I spotted a
shallow cave just above the wash with enough room to sleep in
and, while it rained, smoothed its sandy floor and laid out my sleeping bag.
The moist air was delicious and right before the sunlight returned there was a
rainbow.
I still had several hours of daylight so continued
up to the crest—two or three more miles—for a look into the broad valley on its
west side (another amazingly remote place I’ve eyed on the map and wanted to
visit). The brushy hillsides were covered with boulders large and small. This
oven-baked rock was exceptionally crumbly; but not like Alabama Hills granite (even
though it’s quite similar and also thoroughly baked). When I stepped on it,
weathered-out crystals would crumble off under my boots.
Didn’t get up top until shortly before sunset. My
plan was to loop back, down another canyon, and even though I had my map (absolutely
essential…) it would still be tricky finding camp in the dark once I got back
to those confused badlands.
So it was time to cover some ground; for stretches
I was jogging or jumping from boulder to boulder. This rock was appallingly
brittle and treacherous—I’d never seen anything quite like it—and repeatedly
admonished myself to watch every step.
It was warm and quite humid. Dripping sweat, I abandoned the ridgetop to
descend a steep gulley that dropped into
the new side canyon. It was nothing but jumbled boulders so I was hopping from
one to another. That’s how it was when everything changed.
This had been an exceptional day—the river and its intriguing
mudflats, endless scented gardens, a
burial cave…the solitude and silence…such dramatic weather and lighting. Doing what
I love most: exploring pristine wilderness. Up until that one instant in time I
was utterly focused, fully immersed, and cruising right along.
About
to take another leap, I had a look at my next landing and judged the boulder sound—a
sort of hasty-but-conscious calculation that’s made hundreds of times on a day
in such traitorous terrain. It was in a narrow slot between two larger blocks
and when my full weight came down, the end broke off, crumbling like a giant
dirt-clod. There was a lot of momentum behind my 170 pounds when the trapdoor
dropped.
To my left
was an inclined slab the size of a small tabletop. Falling only a couple of
feet, my left thigh slammed into the slab’s edge, which was about the width and
curve of a baseball bat, absolutely bristling with razor-edged crystals. At the
same time, my left arm—instantly reaching to catch my fall—raked that jagged
edge from wrist to armpit. I heard (but it was as if someone else heard) a fleshy thud! along with a horrible, grunted
exhalation and found myself awkwardly splayed over this angular boulder, but
just as suddenly was standing again, knowing I could still walk. All this seemed
to happen in one fluid motion. An electric surge flooded my entire body—the first
of several. This one, sheer relief bursting through a dreamlike adrenaline haze
that had taken over while the slow-motion fall was in progress. All in one…long…moment.
When I saw my arm, another surge; this one a strange
blend of relief and nausea. The inner surface of my arm had been thoroughly
cheese-grated and I looked on—with astonishment—as blood began welling, started
to drip, and then rained in fat drops. A dime-sized chunk had been partially torn
from the heel of my palm—just the thick skin, though—and like a wild animal I
instinctively gnawed off the ragged flap with my incisors. (I’ve done this
before; you have a few seconds before the pain arrives and it needed to
go—loose pieces of dead skin tissue around a wound promote infection.) The soft
inside of my biceps was cherry-red and raw. Because of my forearm’s state it
wasn’t obvious that the real bleeder was a deep, inch-long slice beside my
elbow. But my upper thigh had taken the brunt of impact; I could feel a large,
mushy bulge—already swelling—through my thin nylon pants but couldn’t see blood
yet so thought it was only badly bruised. (This deep contusion proved to be the
most serious injury.)
There was nothing to do but press on so did just
that. Move! Get going! All I had with
me was the map, binoculars, a snack, and a pint of water (all gone).
I’d travelled a good ten miles already; had a
couple more to reach camp. There was a compelling urgency to find the bivouac before
dark. Aside from that, I knew everything was going to work out fine. But my
mind—in a fever of calculations, conjectures, and instant-replays—kept
returning to the chilling notion that if my knee
had crashed into that slab instead of my flesh-padded thigh I’d be crawling
instead of striding. It was with a limp, but I was striding….
I paused where I’d planned on exiting this canyon
to start traversing back toward the campsite. My map agreed. I was saturated
with sweat and trying to hold the arm overhead to slow its bleeding. There was
a rope of coagulating blood running down my arm to the elbow, concluding in a
stubby “blood-cicle” which quivered like jello. Incredible stuff, I thought, but…can’t
have that. With two fingers I squeegeed down my arm and most of the goop
dribbled off. (That’s when I first saw the gash by my elbow.) This left me with
a goodly dollop of maroon-colored pudding on my fingers and I flung it into the
sand, licked off the digits like a spoon and spat out a wad. Seeing what I’d
just done unleashed a wave of nausea. But I remained completely calm.
Finding my gear was going to be tricky and, because
I was “going against the grain” of the badlands, had to constantly climb in and
out of steep-sided gullies. I finally cut my earlier tracks—a major relief—as
the first stars were beginning to gleam and ten minutes later spotted my little
cave up ahead. One more weighty pressure lifted. Thankfully, from this point on
most of my road would be fairly smooth. The moon, past half-full, had already been
up at sunset and now gave off plenty of light.
I had no first-aid kit; never carry one. Even
during my ranger years I’d never traveled with one, knowing that the sort of non-critical
situations these small kits are designed for could be adequately served with the
roll of cloth adhesive tape I always carried and a bandanna or T-shirt until
real help was reached. Band-aids and little gauze pads aren’t much use in serious
cases. (Ironically, I’d recently used up my roll of cloth tape without replacing it but did have antibiotic ointment.)
There were several quarts of water to dump so I
rinsed off some blood, assessed damages, and applied some antibiotic ointment.
I dropped my pants for a look at the thigh and found that my cotton undershorts
had absorbed most of the blood oozing from a ½”-wide puncture wound that sat
atop a mushy, purple dome. Pain coming from that quarter had been of a dull
sort, easy to ignore with all the more pressing concerns. I’d smashed my upper
quadriceps, which was bleeding internally. One of those razor-edged crystals
had punched the hole. (Oddly, my pants weren’t ripped.)
A thick chunk of skin was peeled back from the hole
and, since I couldn’t reach to gnaw it off, I compulsively started yanking at
the thing, which was fairly painful. Amazing!
Had no idea skin was this tough. It’s like leather! It refused to come off,
even after five or six tries. (Later, nipped the flap off with nail-clippers.) But
suddenly, I was able to see myself and quit, feeling something akin to
embarrassment. That was weird, Tim.
This was one of those moments where I caught an
objective glimpse of myself from the outside; it’s a function of being in what
I refer to as “survival mode” and have confronted this disquieting phenomenon
during other desperate episodes. When under extreme stress, an astonishingly calm
and hyper-rational part of your being can take control to insure efficient,
purposeful action. But this can elicit the odd sensation of feeling like an actor
in a movie while simultaneously—and with cool detachment—you find yourself watching
the performance, which may include another part of yourself that’s
screaming or doing something bizarre. Many people have experienced this.
After hastily repacking I started down, still
adrenalated but all business…still in survival mode. The truck was about six
miles away. Just minutes after I got going there was a 40 foot tall dry
waterfall (a common feature of desert canyons) that I had to skirt but
otherwise this was one of the levelest, gentlest washes I’ve ever traversed;
mostly flat gravel and a few sections of water-carved basalt bedrock, winding
between big boulders. An almost giddy joy caused by my good fortune eclipsed
various pains and I even stopped to admire lovely scenes in the wash or while
wading through those fragrant, thigh-high sunflowers. Later, along the river
flats, I trod upon corn flakes and tortilla chips and relished the peculiar sensations
underfoot. Everything was so…vivid.
Using the silhouette of a prominent point near the
river crossing, it was a cinch to locate my truck and when I saw its whiteness
begin to materialize, there was one more swelling wave of relief. This has gone really well! Not crawling! I’d
been moving almost continually for well over twelve hours and had covered close
to 18 miles.
Surveying the bloody mess under my camper’s harsh
overhead light just made me feel incredibly fortunate, even while I stunk of
blood and fear-sweat. The shattered boulder…no one could foresee such a peril.
The escape had gone flawlessly; I’d been so
lucky. But kneeling on the floor I looked in my little mirror and saw the
eyes of some wild animal—wide open and glistening with charged intensity—staring
into mine.
I cleaned myself up using wet paper towels, changed
clothes, put a big bandage over the still-bleeding elbow cut, and drove. It
took 45 minutes, driving much faster than yesterday, just to get back to the
blissfully smooth pavement. Then a dreamlike ride past Badwater, Furnace Creek,
Stovepipe Wells…over Towne Pass and down into Panamint Valley. (No one else
abroad, lending this exodus even more of a twilight-zone feel.) Then the final
long grade from Panamint Springs to the top of Darwin Plateau. I’d gone far
enough and at 3:30 a.m. pulled off on a dirt road near the Saline Valley
cut-off.
I’d escaped.
Woke up a few hours later feeling pretty much as
expected. I headed straight for the Frickel’s house up in the Alabama Hills where
Gayle (my good friend and personal physician—she’s a nurse-practitioner) did
“second-aid.” By then it was too late for the few stitches my elbow cut needed
so it was a gauze, tape, and band-aid job after all.
Later that day I drove down to Ventura to heal the
body and do some thinking.
While
inhabiting one world, I live in another inside my mind and long ago found them
both beyond real understanding. I try to figure things out, take well-informed
guesses when necessary, and have learned to live comfortably within a tenuous
framework we call “reality.” What upholds me is the beautiful intricacy of The Creation
and a sense of order, or harmony, that underlies all its chaos. Strange forces
and influences are at work here. I don’t know what these things are and I don’t
believe it necessary to try and explain with words or even concepts. I have a
deep-seated faith in the Universe’s unfolding as it should and have consciously
placed myself at its disposal.
My openness
to Life is how I “explain” all the strange things that happen to me: perfectly
timed events, improbable meetings in obscure places, the metaphoric quality of many
odd occurrences…and also those periodic collapses that usher in my next life-phase.
From a tender age I began to formulate a myth with Tim as its central figure
and hero. I can say with some
objectivity by glancing at the places and ways I’ve lived, and the things I’ve
done, that Tim is a favored child of the Universe. Repeatedly, I’ve seen my
worst times lead me through twisty turns to a place I’d dreamed of. I feel, deeply,
that this life is my one chance, a true gift, and that it all counts for
something. Long ago, Lorenzo introduced
me to a concept of “luck” divorced from its usual associations with fortune and
chance. It’s better to be lucky than rich
or good lookin’ is one of his most famous aphorisms. I consider myself both
fortunate and exceptionally lucky—entirely
different matters. The unending string of strange events and connections tells
me not that I’m right but at least on the right path. This gives me a special breed
of self-confidence.
Part II A
Big Loss Informs My Musings
After
a week in Ventura with family my two deep wounds finally scabbed over and new
skin was beginning to form over the chunk taken out of my palm. The thigh contusion’s
bruising—garish shades of yellow, purple, and green—spread downward all the way
to my knee and the whole upper leg was painful to even a gentle touch.
A dozen times a day I’d play a little movie in my
head in which I’d landed on my knee instead and been forced to crawl out. Having
read the book Touching the Void—in
which a fallen climber (thought to be dead) has to crawl for miles across
glacier ice and talus with a compound fracture—it was easy to conjure that bleak
scenario. In an instant I could visualize my shattered leg, the excruciating
pain, the terribly slow pace, the thirst. At best, I might’ve made it back to
my campsite (where there was a gallon of water) by the next day. My hands and
knees would be hamburger, with six more miles to cover. Not a single person had
even known I was in Death Valley. Throughout any day I’d sporadically be visited
by these flashes, shudder with revulsion, and at the very same time exult with
a silent ha ha haw! because I’d
dodged the bullet—once again. One more time.
Now I was off the hook for, oh, maybe years to come: bad luck all played
out. Never once did I feel that what’d happened was a “bad” thing; only
gratitude for how easily I’d escaped, for having such a powerful experience so
successfully concluded.
Another aspect of this was similarly paradoxical:
when you engage in any risky and dangerous activity, the odds of something eventually
going awry are continually mounting. I’ve faced this cruel truth all along and,
in recent times, looked squarely at the notion that—sooner or later—I would
fall; it was inevitable. Too many things can go wrong in the wilds. Somehow I’d
survived all those years of unroped solo climbing but this obviously didn’t
mean I couldn’t die as a result of tripping on a stone or twig while off alone in
some obscure wilderness. That’s why I felt so very fortunate. I’d gotten off
easy: The luck held is an expression
Hemingway used under similar circumstances.
The most bothersome element of all: when that
boulder shattered I was doing everything right. Fully aware of lurking pitfalls,
over and over I’d repeat this mantra in my head to help keep the edge: YOU CANNOT SCREW UP! NOT EVEN A LITTLE BIT! That
Owlshead rock felt odd underfoot in the same way a snowslope can feel “funny” just
before an avalanche cuts loose. I’d never had a big chunk of granite break in
half under me as if it were made of clay; but neither was I terribly intimate with
traveling over rocky terrain that sees ground temperatures of 200° F. during
the hottest summer days, with its crystal constituents subject to different
expansion and contraction rates.
I hadn’t expected to reach any conclusions or
receive new wisdom and headed back to the Eastside, still beat-up, with an
ambivalent lease on life. Started off with short walks and wasn’t surprised to
find myself somewhat wobbly on talus—a little hesitant.
Exactly a week after getting back to Lone Pine I
went to the annual Easter party at my friend Jim Macey’s sprawling place on the
outskirts of Keeler, near the shore of Owens Lakebed. This is the premier assemblage
of eastern Sierra geologists, other scientist-types, artists, and iconoclasts
of all stripes. Local friends. A couple of hundred people will pass through (many
of us camping nearby) and it lasts four long days.
I drove over on Saturday for the pre-party campfire
jam session. Cheery reunions and great music; golden hours. Until a cell phone
rang, after which someone hastily departed and the whispering began. A friend
sidled up and stopped me cold by saying, “Will Crljenko died in an avalanche on
Mt. Tom. It happened this afternoon. Denise just got the call and headed back
to Bishop to be with Frances.” (Frances is…was…Will’s wife.) The party ended
right then for me and a few others. Shortly, I wandered into the shadows, drove
to a nearby campsite and stewed over this grim news.
On occasion, I’d quip that Will wouldn’t have been able
to avoid fame if his name wasn’t nearly impossible to spell (C…r…l…j…!?) and so hard to pronounce (so
far as I can tell it hovers between curl-janko and crull-janko). He was only
52, still at the top of his game. By the mid 80s, Will was already legendary
among local outdoors-people for his Olympian efforts in the high Sierra—on
slope, peak, and crag. He was a top-level skier, in particular, and during my
winters working at Rock Creek Lodge the staff would pass around rumored reports
of his (often solo) backcountry exploits. Crazy stuff; first-descents of narrow
chutes on skinny, cross-country skis (instead of fat alpine boards) with
potential death-falls. Marathon tours. He was an iron-man; without doubt
competitive to some degree, but was known for his self-effacing humor and humility,
clearly wishing to avoid celebrity. He was quiet and shy but very funny. I
barely knew Will but he was obviously a true mountain-brother, though in a
league of his own.
I’d known Frances since first moving to the Owens
Valley and, when we’d meet, would talk about her husband as if he and I were
close. We were, in spirit; both of us
had our own agendas but with congruent styles, outlooks, and backcountry ethics.
Had I not been almost exclusively a solo traveler it’s likely we would’ve at
least occasionally shared adventures. Will and I lived too far apart to become
regular social acquaintances but had many friends in common. We met in person at
Lorenzo’s 60th birthday bash in April, 1995 and finally went on our
first and only hike together just two years ago. That day, a half dozen of us
walked up into the Inyos to visit an Indian cave containing some unusual
artifacts. On the walk Will and I chatted like old pals. Not long before this,
I hadn’t even known he was also an avid
amateur archaeologist (me, too…), a passionate desert rat (ditto), or that we’d
both stumbled on many of the same obscure Indian sites.
Will and Frances were childless but had a wide
circle of exceptionally fine people for friends. After years of grooming slopes on Mammoth Mountain--a night job so that he could play by day--he went back to school and became a radiologist at Bishop Hospital and was
also the dobro player in a local bluegrass band.
News of his death on Mt. Tom spread through the
community instantaneously. Will was one of our best; it was a terrible loss.
And, tragically…an unnecessary one.
He’d been buried under at least ten feet of snow. They
were a party of seven, only three of whom were caught, but one woman died and another
was injured in a second avalanche. All were expert skiers and carried
electronic rescue beacons, shovels, and probe-poles—standard equipment for just
such emergencies—so were able to locate the victims and dig out their corpses. (The
other woman, who I knew somewhat, had only been partially buried. She was able
to ski out with a broken ankle.)
My recent brush with mortality made this disaster
even more deflating. The vision I carry of Will’s friends digging and digging,
then all of them huddled around those deep holes, weeping, is vividly in my
mind. Will’s cell phone rang several times; everyone could hear it as they took
turns digging—he was late, his wife was worried, knew something had gone wrong,
and she’d been calling. After they’d pulled his body out it rang again. One of
them answered. So that’s how Frances found out.
As
shocked as we all were, no one was completely surprised. By virtue of the sheer
amount of time he’d spent doing risky things in the mountains, Will had been a
marked man for years. The broad chute of Elderberry Canyon on Mt. Tom—a fine,
long run—was clearly visible from his own living room window and for miles
around. I’m guessing he’d descended it at
least two dozen times. Will Crljenko departed this world doing what he loved
most, in his backyard playground. (A few years ago Galen and Barbara Rowell
died within sight of their residence,
too, on the very last leg of a long journey home—from Siberia, of all places—when
the small plane piloted by a friend ran into powerlines and crashed on its final
approach to the Bishop airport.) In the face of such cruel tragedies we try to
reduce them to something graspable by saying trite things like, “It was their
time to go.” That idea may capture a seed of truth but…I’m not so sure. Fate is
too readily invoked when discussing needless deaths.
I do know
Will needn’t have died that day (unless, of course, it was indeed his “time”).
Having never heard the story’s finer details I can’t claim to know all the true
facts but, based on personal experiences, have some conjectures and possible
insights.
One critical factor in this accident was a known
instability hidden deep within the snowpack (which was very thick after well-above-average
winter precipitation). Earlier, unusual conditions had created a layer within
the pack that could suddenly “collapse,” triggering an avalanche. Local skiers
were well aware of this hazard; a month or so before, one of Will’s best ski
partners was caught in a small slide caused by that unstable layer and,
luckily, was only partially buried…instead of six feet under.
Mt. Tom is a prominent mountain, rising directly
behind Bishop. Elderberry Canyon, curving down its huge east face all the way
to desert scrub, is accessed by ascending from below (using climbing skins) and
is considered perhaps the classic ski
descent on an eastern Sierra peak. Of the seven, only three were locals. The
other four hailed from Montana. Pure conjecture: it’s only natural to treat
out-of-state guests to your very best. The whole group could tell the snow was
funky. Apparently they’d dug a test-pit to look at the pack in detail and
discussed turning back more than once but opted to continue upward. I can’t
help wondering if they’d pressed on, not out of any competitiveness, but because all of them were committed to a grand
day tour. Seven is a large group for big backcountry descents; larger parties move
slower, unavoidably. They didn’t start down (from about 12,000 feet) until
after 1 p.m. but should’ve been cutting turns probably no later than 11 a.m. Those
two extra hours allowed meltwater to percolate down, lubricating the unstable
layer.
Will was fourth to drop in. He triggered the first avalanche
and his companions watched a nightmare unfold. Of the three skiers below, one
was able to zip out of the slide’s path; one took a thousand-foot ride and came
out on top uninjured; the third—Christine Seashore of Darby, Montana— like
Will, was buried deeply. But none of this had to happen. They could’ve left earlier,
started down sooner or turned back. Group-influenced pressure may have caused
the small voice of prudence to be ignored.
Despite the risks he took during all those solo
exploits, it cost Will Crljenko his life to have the added safeguard of multiple
partners on that sad day.
Part III
Further Musings and Another Hard Lesson
After
a few more days of recuperation it was “back to work.”
Greg, his wonder-dog, Althea, and I took a big day-trip
into the heart of the Saline Range—low mountains that separate Saline and
Eureka Valleys (and, like the Owlsheads, are devoid of surface water, trees, and
roads). After the long drive and rambling for miles through open desert
scrubland we stumbled into a narrow, no-name, no-place canyon that led to an
amphitheater. At its head was a dry waterfall and, below it, a pool of murky
water held in a natural bedrock “tank.” Fresh lion prints there in sandy mud. The
surrounding walls of vertical basalt were covered with petroglyphs, and a
bleached bighorn ram skull with half-curl horns was laying in the wash. This place had a palpable aura and we ended up
dallying too long. Then, on the way back—as a cap to this excellent day—we
found a coyote den in a little fissure with seven squirming, brand-new pups.
With miles yet to go, we ended up slightly lost, trying to find Greg’s truck in
total darkness with our headlamps. (Althea found it for us.) It’d been one of
our most inspiring trips ever into these desert ranges, a stirring example of
wonders still to be found in little known, out-of-the-way places.
The next day was a wake celebrating Will Crljenko’s
amazing life. Very few know what it’s like to live so richly…that it comes at a
cost. He died with his boots on.
Following that I left immediately on an overnighter
up onto the Winnedumah benches, east of Independence, with two friends to revisit
favorite Indian sites. The day after coming down, went on a hike in the Alabama
hills with Gayle Frickel. The day after that
I drove out toward Darwin for another short backpack; this one into the
Nelson Range—another waterless place where virtually no one goes backpacking.
My winter activities had been curtailed while being
stranded for two weeks at Saline Hotsprings in January (when successive storms completely
blocked both passes to 2WD rigs) then marooned in Ventura most of February,
waiting for those roads to melt-out so I could go reclaim my pickup. But a fine
spring was under full steam.
Me, too: aside from the odd rest day, a couple of
gatherings, plus that week on the disabled list, I kept going on long walks
into places-no-one-ever-goes. My chronic foot-problem—a type of nerve cyst—started
worsening this last year but the sporadic pain it causes hasn’t held me back. Aside
from the neuroma in my left foot and a lingering (but mild) lower-back strain that
flared up on occasion, I was in tip-top shape.
A few years ago I had to leave the shack on Granite
View Drive when it was sold and resumed living out of my camper. Since becoming
a “houseless person” again, with so much free time, so few responsibilities, and
no partner (other than my cat, Lucy) I’ve dedicated myself to Walking the
Earth. More avocation than hobby, this has become, by default, my raison d’être. Just in this region—so many places yet to visit, so much yet to see. Walking along the
Nelson Range crest had been a priority for years.
April’s weather had been excellent thus far and I
knew there’d be a few residual snow-patches for drinking water; this was an
ideal opportunity. Drove out on the Saline Valley road, parked along Lee Flat, and
finished loading my pack. I planned to hike about seven miles on the crest,
bivouac twice, then make a long loop back to my truck.
The weather had
been unseasonably warm but, without warning, a cold-front barreled in almost
immediately after I left. A bitter wind blew for two solid days.
Why
all this traveling-alone? It’s always
frowned upon and considered the height of irresponsibility. In particular, why
go to remote places and not tell anyone my plans?
I’ve enjoyed going off unaccompanied all along and do
it for several reasons:
The first is practical. Especially during my six
months of not-working, I have lots of free time for exploring. Most people don’t
have this luxury. In addition, my trips are often fairly spontaneous or
hastily-planned to take advantage of exceptional weather. I simply wouldn’t set
out on lots of these outings if I weren’t willing to go alone.
Second, many potential partners wouldn’t even enjoy
my typical jaunts; I go off-trail in little-known desert locales, often when the
days are short and nights long. They often require carrying a gallon or two of
water. Some friends refer to my trips as “death marches,” due to much steep,
rugged, brushy terrain. My natural inclination is to travel steadily for stretches but then take long breaks
while checking out archaeological sites or old mines and it can be unfair,
subjecting others to my shifting paces and whims.
Third, and most important: traveling solo is by
preference. It makes possible an entirely different kind of experience.
Backpacking or hiking with others often turns into a purely social event with
ceaseless talking. Which is fine, but to become genuinely connected with the
natural environment, being alone is almost imperative; you not only see and
hear much more, but actually become part of
your surroundings. This creates space to think about, feel, and reflect on all
the things that are so immediate and real.
Lastly: because traveling alone is risky. Going solo forces you to be fully
attentive and vigilant in everything you do. Being self-reliant teaches
valuable lessons and offers many intangible rewards. It lends any day a finer
edge, sharpens the senses, and underscores our personal responsibility for all
the choices we make and things we do—something worth being reminded of. I
believe taking deliberate risks makes life sweeter.
Gamblers and risk-takers seem to share some gene
that influences their decision-making process. Conservative types find it very difficult
to justify voluntarily taking actions that can result in loss of money,
property—or lives—while the opposing camp accepts uncertainty and risk as an
essential (or at least unavoidable) part of being alive. The risk-taking paradigm
is utterly foreign to those who believe taking chances should be avoided whenever
possible, so this voodoo-logic I’m about to employ in explaining my stance
isn’t likely to sway the opinions of anyone with that outlook.
For years I’ve gone rock or mountain climbing, on short
backpacks, without telling a soul of my plans or when I’d return. I view this
practice as a sort of insurance by
significantly upping the commitment factor. Heading off into the wilds, I’m never
naive about the consequences of any error or lapse in judgment. And Will
Crljenko certainly wasn’t. Agreeing to play by nature’s rules, with or without
partners, can get you killed in a wide variety of ways. Mountains don’t care is another of Lorenzo’s pithy aphorisms. Its
corollary—No mercy, no malice—captures
the stark reality of what you risk by entering the temple. Going alone requires
a mindset of utter confidence that you won’t make a serious mistake. Mark Twain
gave us the risk-takers’ creed: “Put all your eggs in one basket…and watch that basket!” [his italics]. But
we know that things can and will and do go wrong. By definition, it’s a risk
we’re willing to accept.
Selfish? Terribly. (More on this, later.)
Other times, I’d give a friend a detailed itinerary
and specific return-time. Or sometimes I’d leave a note on the truck’s
dashboard. But the fact is that no one (not any of my friends, at least) is going to call out a rescue the evening I
don’t return. Or the next morning; they’d assume there was some problem or I’d
gone too far and wouldn’t act until maybe midday. That note I’d left might not
get read until my truck had been there a week or more. None of this was of
consequence; I wouldn’t have embarked without feeling certain of returning under
my own steam—even if at a slow crawl.
But these last few years, feeling the odds
mounting, I began leaving word with friends or a note on my dashboard though…not
always. When I walked into the Nelson Range, no one had any idea of my
whereabouts. I’d crashed less than three weeks before and my reasoning was that
I’d had my bit of bad luck, had my semi-epic, and could now get back
to being “focused and flawless.” One step
at a time. My good fortune would hold up. That was the idea but I ended up
dead-wrong. Again.
Just
as that cold-front and its strong winds arrived I took off on this walk, heading
east for several hours through a true forest of Joshua trees, then north up a
winding canyon cut through basalt, to the granitic backbone of this little range
(a spur of the Inyos, bordering Saline
Valley’s southern end). The terrain was genial; instead of rock-hopping on the
exposed ridgeline I was able to stroll across level benches (formed by faulting)
with occasional big views looking down into Saline Valley and across at the Racetrack
playa. Delightful mixed-forests of pinyon, juniper, and Joshua tree with a few
boulder-gardens thrown in. At sundown, having walked about nine miles, I began
to look for a sheltered spot and found an overhang that made a fine windbreak. Beneath
it was a Paiute homesite—a crude semicircle of stones. After clearing away some
rocks and pinyon cones (plus thousands of woodrat pellets) I laid out my
sleeping bag where, long ago, others slept. Only yards away there was a snow-patch
for meltwater.
The wind blew all night long. My shelter faced due north.
I slept warmly but hadn’t brought real cold-weather clothes. I got up and made
tea then tried to find a place with sun but out of the stiff breeze. No luck,
so I went back to make breakfast and begin packing. It was still below freezing
and fairly gusty even under the overhang. Cold and stiff, I spent half an hour
on my knees making more tea, chewing granola, and getting organized. There was
nowhere to sit; the ground was covered with woodrat dung so I was squatting
uncomfortably. I reached for something and felt an electric twinge zip across my
lower back—a grim harbinger. Oh…no. In
my mind, my own voice calmly spoke those two words, without any emotion. Just
like that [snap fingers here] I was
injured, perhaps badly. The nagging muscle strain (which originated back in
November) had spasmed. I still had several miles to go on the crest—the
trickiest part—followed by a rubbly descent of 2000 vertical feet plus five
easy miles back to my truck.
In a way, I’d lucked out…again. This spasm wasn’t
like others, where further movement was not an option. (If it’d been a bad one,
I’d be immobilized for three days.) In minutes it became evident that, not only
could I continue, but my pack’s semi-rigid frame—with its tight waist-belt—would
provide ideal support. Also, I carry painkillers and muscle relaxants for just
such emergencies. It could’ve been much worse.
Later, traversing the range’s 7700 foot highpoint,
I was crouching in a full gale, between powerful blasts. There was still pain
but the Vicodin helped take away some of that wind’s bite. The sun was shining
and I was finally warm again, with a single goal—my pickup. Head out of the
noose, it was just like coming down from the Owlsheads: I felt keenly alive,
brimming with gratitude. The narcotic no doubt was responsible in part. (I
hadn’t taken any that night but did have adrenaline coursing through my
veins). Again, I had enough energy, enough enthusiasm, to pause and admire
views or particularly venerable Joshua trees…was genuinely happy just to be
walking through high desert country. After a couple more miles a distant white
speck appeared. Relief. The speck became a white dot, gradually grew, and
turned into my truck.
Several days later, I was almost pain-free. This
back injury was no big deal; I’ve been prone to sudden neck- or back-muscle spasms
since high school. Every four or five years my back seizes up so badly I
literally can’t walk. But aside from Piute Meadows it’s only happened once
while I was out in the boondocks….
It was terrible. This was in 1989 during a week-long
professional horse-packer training and we were deep in the backcountry. Taking
my tent down one morning, I reached up and twisted wrong. Oh, no! Had this happened “at home” I’d have been bedridden. The two-day
ride back over those rocky trails, with the unavoidable twisting in my saddle and
horrible jolting, was the most brutal pain I’ve ever endured. So there’s long
been a terror that something like this might happen again.
A
week after the Nelson Range debacle I was all healed and it was right back to
attack-mode with an overnighter into the Saline Range from Eureka Valley—25+ miles
of rough terrain. I found more petroglyph sites plus a couple of classic
limestone grottoes (one containing a piece of pitch-lined basketry—part of a
water flask). Again, no one knew where I was; I’d told two friends, separately,
but only a vague plan—no mention of when I was coming out or that I’d check in
again. They were both long-time hiking partners and knew not to feel any
responsibility…that I’d just been sharing news.
This typifies of my approach to mountaineering
during the last quarter century: I’m on my own. It’s exactly the same, if no
one knows my whereabouts or if I’m with someone; I would never take extra risks just because I had a partner along.
The rest of April was a succession of full
day-trips. Half those were with friends passing through and groups of us
visited several of the region’s very finest treats. And I went on several more forays
of my own into remote corners of Inyo County to discover new natural wonders and
historic sites. High times….
Part IV
Life is Frail…I Make Mikey’s Top-10 List
Even
with the death of an incipient friend and two personal collapses, March and
April had been an unprecedented run. A big part of it was rebounding from two
months of being constrained by lack-of-truck. Then, this spring’s inspiring
verdure lent each day spent outdoors an almost hallucinogenic edge.
Another factor was an urgency brought on by my
worsening neuroma. It’s almost as bad now as before the surgery, and may
require another, more permanent fix (in the form of simply severing the
offending nerve, which would leave me with two toes I can’t feel). Plus: at almost
47, my places-to-visit list keeps getting longer while time grows shorter. All
in all, I’d been on a roll; excursions into a dozen desert ranges, each with wonderful,
unanticipated features. I was extremely fit. And inspired by an amazing collection
of people who—in short order—came together at the Keeler Easter gathering, Will
Crljenko’s wake, and then Lorenzo’s 70th birthday party on the last
day of April (where we all danced like happy fools). These and other merry
meetings, sandwiched between crises, had turned this into one of my life’s more
potent chapters.
It was hard
tearing myself away from all these soulful happenings but a visit with family was
overdue so right after Lorenzo’s bash I drove down to Ventura.
For
several years my brother, Steve, and I have taken a spring trip to the eastern
Mojave, where a few isolated ranges rise out of the surrounding desert to over
7000 feet. This time we decided to head back for a second try at Kingston Peak.
(Last May, without a map, we missed its
true highpoint.) These mountains are notable botanically. There’s a small grove
of white fir, for example, just below
the actual peak—one of only three occurrences in these Mojave mountain ranges.
Just getting to the summit ridge (as far as we got last year…) is a three hour bushwhack
through chaparral followed by two more miles of boney granite ridgeline with craggy
outcrops and more brush to skirt.
We did the
long drive from Ventura through those oddly disturbing towns of Victorville,
Barstow, and Baker and then 30+ miles of partially-paved and gravel roads, past Horsethief Spring (where John C.
Fremont once camped) and on to Tecopa Pass where we stayed at our same spot on
a broad tailings-pile below the old mine.
Next morning, an early start. After the first hour
it was obvious this was going to be a long haul and a hot day. We walked in a
dry creek bed but when the brush became too dense would have to climb out and
thrash around or scramble over boulder piles. It was already very humid so we
hid in shade-patches whenever possible.
We popped into a small clearing—only a few yards
wide and long but the only open, flat spot we’d seen thus far. We’re always watching
for birds and Steve spotted something interesting that, from where I stood, was
hidden from view behind the top of a large boulder. Raising my binoculars, I
took a step back to get a clear line of sight.
This is a commonly used maneuver when birding; you
might or might not take a quick glance down to check the footing and sometimes
take multiple backsteps, staying in balance while blindly feeling for obstacles
with your heel.
I only took one short step backward before my right
heel fetched up against a partially buried rock. With the lovely Lazuli Bunting
now in view I shifted my weight evenly between both legs without knowing there was a leafy plant growing above
the little stone; its leaves effectively turned into grease. The rock’s surface
was aslant and my foot skated right off.
Completely unbalanced, trying to catch myself, I staggered and collapsed awkwardly
right onto what was little more than a pebble.
I wasn’t really hurt but, given recent events, this
stumble left me fairly shaken. It wasn’t the first time I’d tripped under these
circumstances but usually there’s a chance to recover before actually going
down. In this instance I fell awkwardly and certainly could’ve been injured by landing
on something sharp. As it was, I’d literally reopened an old wound—a measly scratch,
but I’d cut into delicate, new skin covering the place that’d been torn off my
left palm in the Owlsheads.
I thought
I was done falling down! This was becoming downright creepy. Dusted
myself off and, muttering angrily, started up the canyon’s steepest slope.
Steve probably didn’t know how much that tumble shook me and I quickly put it
away.
Rain had recently fallen and it was extremely
humid; sweat was pouring out of us both. We’d not counted on this and brought
only a half gallon of water (plus a small can of fruit juice) each. By the time
we crested I’d already finished one quart. The two miles of ridge took hours more
with lots of ups and downs and brush. Fortunately, not much rock scrambling but
there was almost no easy terrain getting to the summit.
We finally made it; had a bite and a sip, and visited
the stunted white firs before turning back. This time, we stayed closer to the ridgeline’s
crest or on its other side; this proved easier and went much faster. (I did take one wrong turn and we backtracked
to reach a small plateau near the dropoff point for our canyon.)
To be accurate, this “plateau” was just a flattish portion
of the frequently narrow ridge, without boulder outcrops. It’d been an open
pinyon grove prior to having burned in a lightning-fire ten years or so back. Brush
had partly grown back in but there was still much open ground; aside from
having to weave through a virtual maze of charred and fallen pinyon snags this
was perhaps the easiest stretch we’d crossed all day.
We were just then intersecting the range’s
east-west trending crest. Unnoticed by me, Steve had apparently paused to look
at something and was maybe three minutes behind; if I dashed over to the edge,
a quick appraisal might reveal a more direct path back down. I doubted this alternative’s
feasibility but could take a peek just in case; in the time my little detour would
take, Steve would catch up and we could continue the way we’d come. It was
getting late and we had a long way yet to go.
So I put it in third gear (a fast walk, almost jogging)
and started cutting through the burned-over forest, taking a circuitous path.
The snags had been reduced to their trunks and main limbs—it’d been a very hot
fire. Many had subsequently toppled. I came to one fallen snag whose trunk I
could simply step over. Before taking that step I cast a quick glance over my
shoulder to see how far back Steve was.
And in that instant I fell. I know exactly what happened—saw it all, very
clearly.
The sandy soil was loose and and sort of fluffed-up
from “frost-heaving.” This results when soil, saturated by melting snow, is
repeatedly frozen at night and thawed during the day. When finally dry, it’s quite
airy; footprints are deep impressions.
There were a few stones and cobbles mixed with it.
My last footstep was directly onto a half-buried, plum-sized cobble that I noticed,
but didn’t bother trying to avoid, recognizing it’d just be pressed harmlessly into
that spongy soil.
But I didn’t know—couldn’t see—that it was lying
directly above a larger, flat-topped rock. As my weight came onto that little
round cobble I felt it make contact
with a solid surface. Too late: it was just like the marble on the kitchen
floor: my right foot shot back, right out from under me, and I plunged onto my
knees, arms outstretched with that lightning-fast instinctive reaction to catch
any sort of fall. I “saw it all” and had plenty of time—instantly, everything happening
in slow motion—to feel astonished by finding myself falling!…again! Glancing back toward Steve had nothing to do with
it; that glance was comparable to shooting a look in the side-view mirror
before changing lanes and I was already facing forward again while going down.
There was no time to react more than throwing out my arms to take the brunt.
My left forearm, with my entire mass behind it moving
at 5 m.p.h., collided with the tip of a charred pinyon branch. All I “felt” was
the sensation of my inner arm being scraped from wrist to elbow—no pain
whatsoever—before collapsing onto my left hip. Getting back to my knees, the
first thing I saw was what I’d fallen on: that branch had been reduced to a
foot-long spike and was protruding upward from the trunk, pointed straight at
my throat. It was only about an inch wide at its terminus, which had burned in
such fashion that its looked like the beveled tip of a chisel. There was some
weird shiny substance wrapped around it. I was puzzled. Hunh? Wha…? Then, aware that I’d probably scraped myself pretty
badly, raised the arm—bending it back from the elbow so that my left hand was
by my chin—for a close look. I was fully expecting to see some damaged flesh at
very close range, but was utterly unprepared for what I saw.
My forearm was flayed wide open.
As if it were coming from someone else, from someplace
else, I heard myself speaking softly but with desperation: Oh, no…oh, no…oh, no! and the whole world closed in; all that
remained was a blossoming terror. (But behind it, watching, was that calm and
dispassionate witness again.)
As if through a magnifying glass I saw a clean incision
over six inches long and maybe a half inch deep. Worse, that wooden chisel had sliced
at an acute angle through muscle tissue; this wound’s depth wasn’t the main
issue—bleeding to death was. It’d all happened so fast that, in the instant
before blood started gushing, I saw what’s actually “inside” my arm. Wow! It’s like chicken! I thought it would
look more like beef. The silent witness was surprised by this fascinating
insight.
Steve, a hundred yards away, hadn’t seen me trip. I
yelled, “I’m HURT!…I’m hurt BAD!” He
looked up…raised his binoculars. Still on my knees, I held up the arm and saw
his body stiffen and mouth fall open in obvious horror. It seemed impossible
that this was happening, so unreal. One of the most repulsive things we can experience
is seeing our own flesh torn and bleeding profusely. (Disbelief seems to be a common
first reaction.) Before I could do anything Steve was there, engaged in his own
drama.
Despite the
frightful stream I could tell right away that, miraculously, no major artery or
vein had been severed. Near my elbow was a protruding lump and, next to it, a
shallow depression. (The silent witness found this curious as well.) I assumed the lump was a chunk of broken-off
wood so, knowing that pain would be arriving shortly, tried to knead it out. Nothing…but
so much blood! And we were so far
from help.
Of course, I didn’t have a first aid kit and still
hadn’t replaced that used-up roll of cloth athletic tape. The only thing
available was my nylon windshirt so, with blood streaming, together we wrapped
it tightly around the wound and tied it up with the sleeves. This worked fine—would’ve
been even better with tape, especially with us being so rattled and shaky—but it proved a more-than-adequate
bandage (validating my notion that in emergencies you’ll be able to get by using
what’s on hand).
In only five minutes or so our evacuation was almost
under way. Last thing, I surveyed the scene. The charred branch’s tip was
wrapped in that weird, filmy substance—like sausage casing—and I realized it
was fascia tissue (a thin membrane that separates bundles of muscles, allowing
them to slide freely against one another). There was a ghastly amount of blood.
Little puddles were soaking into the sand.
Both of us were nearly frantic. Right off, we had
to get over a big, rocky outcrop but couldn’t recall the way. I forged ahead,
close to panicking, then spotted our tracks. After that short stretch the rest
was mostly downhill and, somewhat calmer, stopped to drink my last water. We
were both already significantly dehydrated. But my case was serious (because of
the blood-loss) and Steve didn’t hesitate when I asked for the rest of
his—almost another cup. I assured him that we were going to get out but had to keep it together. The upper canyon
was very steep with lots of loose scree and talus. I tried to hold the arm up over
my head to slow the bleeding and grasped it with my right hand but, even with this
direct pressure, could feel the “bandage” becoming more saturated. Entirely focused
on making it to help, the pain barely registered—was just a distraction.
This was new territory; I’ve nearly died in the
mountains quite a few times with the crises lasting minutes or only moments…but
we were hours away from help. We’d
been hiking and sweating profusely for over nine hours, had eaten little, and still
had three miles of rough terrain ahead with lots of bushwhacking. I’d warned
Steve that there was some likelihood of
my going into shock; not to panic if it happened, and what to do if I fainted.
We were out of the sun at last but it was still hot.
Reaching the truck took two more hours (but
would’ve taken at least thirty more minutes if we’d been going our normal pace).
I arrived first; got into the camper and blissfully guzzled a full quart, then took off
my blood-spattered clothes. During the last hour we’d formed a strategy and, after
my brother had his own long drink, got to it.
With a wet rag, swabbed off some of the gore. Steve
cut athletic tape into “steri-strips” and bravely—he’d readily admit being very
squeamish—taped the swollen and curled-up flap of meat roughly back in place. This
hurt. Naturally, my blood flowed with renewed vigor; I mopped it up with the
rag while he worked. Steve—his face a picture of revulsion—kept apologizing
when I’d yelp or groan. Together we wrapped a plastic produce-bag around the entire
forearm before adding layers of paper towel, another bag, and more tape. At
this point, as expected, I ran out of adrenaline and could feel my body again so took a second Vicodin. I
climbed into my truck’s passenger seat (one of the first times ever…) and
settled in for the long ride. We both kept sucking down water and bolted a few
cookies.
It took over an hour to get back to the I-15
freeway.
The closest medical help was in Las Vegas but when
I started talking about getting a motel room, smuggling Lucy in—as usual, my
cat had accompanied us on this trip—and somehow coming up with a litter box,
Steve assertively vetoed that plan and insisted we seek help in the direction
of home. So we made for Barstow instead—almost a hundred miles away—which was
only slightly farther. (I was more concerned about possibly inferior small-town
medical care.)
We finally spotted a blue sign with big, white “H,”
took the next offramp, and followed more of them to a poorly lit parking lot on
some Barstow back-street. We walked through the emergency room doors a little
after 10 p.m. There’s not many places in California where it takes three-hours to
reach an emergency room; from Tecopa Pass to Barstow happens to be one of them.
An Egyptian surgeon, Dr. Abbas (who’d spent all twenty
years since emigrating at this one hospital) sewed me up with assistance from a
gigantic intern, “Mikey.” Both were impressed with my gruesome wound, saying
they don’t often see lacerations this bad. In fact, the jovial intern—a local-boy
and former football player—told us that mine had shot straight to #2 on “Mikey’s
top-10 list,” though it was a distant second behind some guy who’d been scalped
by going part-way through his windshield in a collision.
The doc injected lidocaine into a bunch of places
and began to work.
Lying on my side with arm bent at the elbow—hand by
chin—I couldn’t really see (and didn’t want to) but as Dr. Abbas pulled the
flap wide open to pluck out debris with his forceps, I could see raw meat
almost up to the second joint of his gloved fingers. He pulled out chunks of
charcoal—showing me a few choice specimens—and flushed out smaller bits with a
squeeze-bottle of sterile water before sewing me back together; one layer of
stitches inside (using dissolvable thread) and another out. Steve sat in a
chair, also not watching. Dr. Abbas, friendly and chatty, said that I’d been
extremely fortunate to have not severed any major vessels and that my muscles
hadn’t been cut so much as separated.
The bulging lump was one muscle that had been
severed and its lower end shriveled into a knot. (No mention of possible reattachment….)
The whole job took only a little over an hour but,
with paperwork and waiting on either end, we walked back to my truck just after
midnight—seven hours after impact. All that was left was the dreamlike 200 mile
drive to Ventura.
I finally crawled into my sleeping bag right about
first light on a new day.
Part V…Trying to Make Sense of the Senseless
It’s
been three weeks now and I’m healing up well but will have nasty scars—inside
and out. There’s been plenty to think about.
In the space of a month and a half I suffered three
potentially serious accidents in some of the more remote corners of California.
All three required hasty self-rescues. In my 26 years of mountaineering and
off-trail exploration I’d previously had to evacuate once (April 1981) after
falling on a solo peak-climb in Rocky Mountain National Park.
(On snowshoes, coming down off the mountain in a
whiteout, I broke through a snow-bridge and tumbled head-over-heels into the “moat”
surrounding a little bluff. In the process I somehow impaled my left thigh on a
ski pole’s blunt tip, a deep puncture-wound that needed a few stitches. But I
had no insurance and was virtually broke at the time so treated my wound with iodine
ointment instead. This early misadventure earned me a good story and one of my
first battle-scars.)
As mentioned, many odd things happen to me and,
while I don’t try to attribute any particular meaning to them, do notice. There
were curious features regarding my recent disfigurements: my Kingston Peak
“trip” reinjured two specific places damaged in the earlier accident. And the
tight cluster of mementos on my left thigh.
The grotesque scar on my forearm runs directly over the shallow incisions—a
dozen thin, pink lines—acquired in Death Valley. In addition, when my arm was filleted
I also nicked the deep Owlsheads’ scar near my elbow and it bled some (as had
the freshly-opened scar on my palm from that day’s earlier, portending tumble).
And I hadn’t mentioned this yet: on Kingston Peak, when collapsing onto my hip
after being impaled, I somehow poked another hole in my thigh; didn’t even
notice it then and never knew what’d caused it. This was nothing compared to that awful contusion but it was fairly deep;
deep enough to leave a permanent scar just a few inches from the small, purple
depression that looks like a bullet entry-wound. And, just a few inches from
both—forming a neat, almost equilateral triangle—is my reminder of the 1½” gash
that I sustained in that fall up near the Continental Divide, 24 years ago.
All these wounds are on my left side and, in fact, the wide majority of my scars and injuries have
been to my body’s left half.
If
one examined my person carefully they’d find scores…maybe several hundred
scars—most of them tiny; some not so tiny.
Between climbing, rangering and day-to-day abuse, the
surfaces of my knuckles have all been replaced many times. Pale dots and lines,
everywhere, on my hands and arms
where I’ve been torn and bled from hand-jams (climbing), bush-bites, bike
wrecks, major cat scratches, and encounters with barbed wire (among many other
sharp things). Shins, as thrashed as my hands; legs scored by countless spiny
bushes and rock-scrapes. Various road-rashes. Plus a few whose origin I can’t
recall.
Some of the better ones: A goodly cut on my scalp
from an inattentive belayer dropping me on my head. A chunk out of my knee
where I fell, while skiing, onto an invisible rock. A thumbnail-sized splinter
of steel from a wood-splitting wedge that lodged in my chest. A constellation
of scars near my right elbow resulting from a mule slamming me into a boulder,
an unfriendly horse that reared up and stomped me, and one of several bike
wrecks.
Then there’s the surgical scars: two repair-jobs to
fix different kinds of nerve- damage in my left foot, and a pin installed in a
badly-broken left ankle when I was 17.
I’ve also broken a bone in the back of my hand and
my tailbone in separate skiing falls, my thumb in another, and dislocated a
shoulder after falling on a short climb (boulder route) when a hold broke. For
years, before I started wearing boots and shoes with higher tops—for ankle
support—I was prone to ankle sprains; had a number of bad ones. And there’s
countless pulled muscles, back spasms and neck strains.
In a word: I’ve
played hard.
The list of my various injuries and wounds is long.
The list of near-misses is longer still; read out in full, anyone would think me very accident-prone. I disagree, and really
do believe I’m not in denial.
As a mountaineer—and particularly as a solo rock
climber—I’m extremely cautious and capable of remaining intensely focused for
long periods. I’d have been dead long ago if I weren’t and have spent a
significant portion of my waking hours, even compared to many climbers,
traveling over terrain that can kill or maim with the slightest misstep. (I climbed without using
ropes and equipment for most of my twenty-year climbing career. A racecar
driver can crash going 200 m.p.h. and walk away from the flames; for a solo
climber, a single mistake is his last. There are no “accident prone”
soloists…not living ones, at least.)
Something
else is going on. My theory:
I’ve taken so many hits, not from being accident-prone,
but because I seem to have a disdain for my mortality; a sort of benign death
wish.
As a child I was self-confident but neither
athletic nor competitive. I was a natural-born philosopher, though, and by
puberty had a well-formed code of ethics that was already at odds with my Christian
upbringing. From about seven on, knew I was different from all my peers. This
has never changed
I
left off here….No surprise that I gave up after staring at the blank page for a
long while, right when it was time to finally delve into what exactly makes me
tick; why, for so many years, I’d subjected myself continuously to hazardous
situations where actions had potentially dire consequences. Nine years have
passed and much has changed in my life. Perhaps, with the new perspectives, I
can finish this chapter.
