D e s e r t E x p o s u r e
February 2010
HIKING APACHERIASlip-Sliding Away
Dealing with trauma on the trail.
Story and photos by Jerry Eagan
A few months ago, I wrote an article about the things I carry when hiking ("Hiking How-To," November). I received many favorable responses from folks who normally don't relate to things Apache, but wanted to know more about gear and hiking. When hiking Apacheria, it's important to "be prepared," as the Scouting motto puts it. I washed out in Cub Scouts, but thankfully, one doesn't need to be a Scout to "be prepared" when "alone and out there."
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The area where the author's fall
and slide down the rock face occurred. The total distance from fall to
the truck was about 100 feet descent and 300 feet crawling and "scooting." |
Little did I imagine that not long after that article was published, I'd get the opportunity to strip away theory and put all my preparation to the test.
On Winter Solstice 2009, Dec. 21, I went to a place called "Providence Cone," east of Deming, to search for an elusive petroglyph I'd first seen three years earlier. I'd named it "Kokopelli" and, when I reviewed my previous photos, I thought the place might have spiritual significance on the Winter Solstice.
I'd made an earlier trip to Providence Cone the week before Solstice, searching for that Kokopelli, but hadn't found him. That particular petroglyph was certainly among the most abstract versions of that humped-back, itinerant flute player I'd ever seen. I'd asked several friends to accompany me, but they either hadn't gotten my message or, for a variety of reasons, couldn't make the trip. I saw no reason not to go simply because I'd be alone, but because of that choice, the cosmic tumblers of fate and chance clicked into action.
By enlarging my earlier photos, I saw that I needed to focus more on a side of the "Cone" I'd ignored earlier. With several photos in my field vest, I oriented myself, first, from the area where I parked my truck, and then periodically as I scrambled up the rocks to the location I felt would bear fruit.
I was correct. I went straight to the location of the petroglyph, and, as often happens, found even more artwork in the same general area. After photographing the lot, I sat and meditated on the art before me. It was clear that this particular rock had significance for any traveler seeking water. Conglomerate such as this often holds pockets of water, either in ground-level tinajas or subterranean features. As those small reservoirs overflow, water oozes out of the rocks for days after precipitation. In fact, even though the last precipitation had occurred a week or more earlier, water still stood in the depressions and sparkled from a few places on the surface of the rock.
After several hours spent climbing the lower slopes, I scaled to the top of the ridge and ate my lunch. There were plenty of hawks' nests around, and plenty of hawks as well. I thought I saw an eagle lift off, in response to some clanging rocks I'd sent down the slopes. From the ridge top, I saw all the various landmarks of Apacheria I'd come to know over the past seven years.
Around 2 p.m., I decided I'd had enough. There were a few areas of interest — ledges with grass — that I wanted to explore on the way down. I'd found shiny glass fragments from chipped obsidian — likely arrowhead flakes — in similar spots. As I started my descent, I spied a trough in the rock, which, while looking dicey, didn't look beyond my capability. I thought the move through, and although I had some hesitation, I used my yucca hiking stick to brace the far side of the stretch, put my left foot down in the trough, gingerly, carefully and then, whooooooosh!
The microsecond I began my bobsled ride down that trough, I knew I was screwed. I can't recall if I contemplated digging my heels in, as I'd done many times before, to slow my velocity. But I must have sensed that, number one, there was no caliche-type debris in the trough to dig into, and, number two, that doing so might have turned me "ass over tea kettle" and made matters worse. I did have a thought — "God be with me!" — as I shot down the rock. In the amount of time I spent writing those words and you spent reading them, I went anywhere from 30 to 50 feet down that rocky slope.
The rock was just smooth enough in the trough to provide me with NO traction. My boots, which I'd purchased six months earlier from REI (I buy boots every 18 months, or sooner if I've been hiking over lots of volcanic rock), had already lost sufficient tread to be minus some of their gripping power. I slammed heavily into a ledge below, or else I might have gone even farther down the rock. The inevitable abrupt, blindingly painful, crashing end came soon enough.
I thought I either heard or saw my right ankle snap with a loud pop. In a few seconds, I realized that the ankle was severely sprained or broken. My right foot and ankle were turned at right angles to my leg, and actually even bent a bit back and upward. I devoted a silly second or two to a bargaining qualification: Maybe it's just sprained! I straightened the ankle to conform with the rest of my leg, and in that blinding painful second, knew this wasn't a sprain.
"Well, you've done it now!" I heard myself say. "Help me, God," I thought and said as I looked down the 200-300 feet I'd have to scoot and crawl and otherwise navigate to return to my truck.
Pulling the broken bones back into alignment, I momentarily felt the urge to vomit, and then swooned a bit. But then, fully conscious, feeling the first surge of pain, I acted quickly to retrieve my pack, which had sailed completely over my head at impact. It lay 10 feet farther down the rock, and moving to it caused another powerful jolt of pain. Reaching into the pack, I grabbed the number-one essential item everyone should carry in any kind of hiking pack — fanny, day or overnight pack: duct tape.
At this point, I want to emphasize that shortly after I began hiking in New Mexico, I knew I'd need to develop a series of reaction plans for such occurrences. I've pulled my ankle or leg straight, after a break, a thousand times in my head. There has never, ever, been a scenario where I just remained wherever such an accident occurred, and waited for rowboats or helicopters to come by. All contingency plans for accidents have always been envisaged by me as an active participant, not a victim. Planning for possible accidents has always been part of my "Hiking Apacheria."
Existentially, risks come with any form of hiking out here. Choosing to hike alone at least one day a week has meant carrying a heavy burden of lots of survival gear. Jeers and jokes abound, of course: "I sure wouldn't want to carry all the crap you carry!" But with a sublime appreciation and love for New Mexican solitude comes clear-eyed choices: It's possible to die out there, any day of the week, any time of the year.
Plan A, therefore was: straighten the broken bones. Do that as quickly as possible. Ignore the pain. Set the leg as soon as an assessment was made whether broken bones poked through the flesh or not. This meant pulling the wrecked ankle straight, in a totally focused manner. Having been through my share of emergencies and painful situations in Vietnam and afterwards, I heard: take the pain. Go straight through it! No whining now or recriminations about hiking alone. Zen philosophy would say this is what it is. An accident of serious proportions. Stay with the ankle, straighten it, splint it, and begin scooting off this rock! Get to the truck! Another "planning" action I always take is to ensure my vehicle has a full tank of gas, topping off, if needed, just before heading into "the bush."
Plan B was to use my walkie-talkie to contact anyone on I-10, five miles away, and ask them to call the Border Patrol. As always, I'd heard the chatter on I-10 whenever I turned to channel 5. Now, when I needed it, perhaps in my confusion, I switched the walkie-talkie, somehow, to a mode where nothing was happening. I was talking into a black hole.
Plan C: After scooting 20 more feet down the rock, I got the cell phone I'd bought just two days earlier, and called my wife, Dorothy. I hadn't been able to get an idea of what time it was, but realized she was still at work. I then called Dennis Jennings, the owner of Steel Horse Adventure Tours ("A Zoom with a View," March 2009). Dennis has been hiking with me lately. He'd been a fireman (like my dad) and first responder. I'd emailed him directions to Providence Cone, in case he wanted to hook up with me on the trail. That later proved to be a very fortuitous action, since he and Dorothy, using the directions, came down and retrieved my truck.
In previous articles, I've emphasized I always wear rawhide gloves — standard "work gloves" one finds at Ace or "Wally World" — to protect against rough, abrasive rock. I wear knee pads, too, and sometimes even elbow pads. Gloves also provide protection against myriad cacti and thorny plants like acacia, cat claw and mesquite.
About 20 feet farther down the slope, however, after splinting my ankle with duct tape, I realized I'd left my gloves back where I'd landed from my slide down the rock face. I knew I couldn't push myself back UP the rocky ridge, but I also knew that regardless of what happened, my flexibility was limited by the loss of those gloves. Without the gloves, it was impossible to crawl off the ridge without scraping my hands raw.