D e s e r t E x p o s u r e
February 2010
Hiking Apacheria: Trauma on the Trail
Page: 2
Unknown to me as I scooted on down the rocky slope, Dennis had already alerted the Luna County Sheriff. When I reached him by cell phone, he and I had discussed contacting the Border Patrol, since they are very active in the area: A location on the map where, during winter and summer rainy season, water could be found, Providence Cone was now a marker along the illegal immigrant routes to I-10.
A week earlier, I'd been hiking on the same rocky mountain and had snagged a small hole in the butt part of my jeans, then ripped it wider open. In that case, I'd used duct tape to tape the rather large tear. Now, as I scooted down the rock a few feet at a time, I felt the pants being ripped open more and more as I moved. The rock was seemingly smooth from a view, say, 10 yards away. On the actual surface, though, it was more abrasive. I wondered if I could make it to my truck without completely destroying my pants and underpants!
Another reason to get off the rock was that a week earlier, in talking with a Border Patrol guy, I'd learned one of his mates had seen two bobcat cubs here. If there were two, there was likely also at least a female and perhaps an adult male. While bobcats are normally solitary hunters, who was to say that several couldn't or wouldn't attack a human they sensed was injured? I'd seen plenty of scat around, and therefore had no reason to doubt what the Border Patrol guy had said.
I haven't carried a gun — yet — in all my travels, but I have often thrown a Marine K-Bar knife into my pack for some form of self-protection. Duct-taping the K-Bar knife to my yucca hiking stick was always how I envisioned using the knife and pole as an ersatz bayonet, if I sensed a bear or mountain lion was stalking me. While I did not feel overly frightened by the presence of bobcat on the ridge, I also saw instantly that my best defense would be lying in the truck, not on my back on the rock surface all night.
Several times I fell, but avoided making the break worse. Even so, I spoke out loud to myself: "Slow down, Jerry. You can't make mistakes now. Take your time! You'll get to the truck." I felt more hopeful I could make the truck. With a full tank of gas, I knew I could stay warm all night, if I had to, if no one found me. I felt more secure with the cell phone. Dorothy and I had been talking about getting cell phones (and even more high-tech gear) for weeks. Two days before this incident, I'd gotten a very, very powerful "urging": Get the cell phone today!
Plan D is to use anything you have to improvise life-saving devices. My first and second attempts at pulling the broken bones into place had only been half successful. As I scooted farther down the ridge and came closer to my truck, I decided I'd best focus on actually trying to walk off the ridge.
With that in mind, I took off one of my tough Blackhawk knee pads and used it to strengthen the inside of the splint. I used more duct tape to do so, and saw, after finishing the task, that I had only a few more inches of that wonderful product left.
At that time, I also had to pee. In so doing, I had to lie sideways, knowing I couldn't stand. I pulled my pants down to make the job easier, and it was then that I saw I was slowly but steadily ripping to shreds not only the bottom of my jeans but my underpants as well.
I had a greater incentive to stand, if possible. There was still the not-insignificant matter of moving the last 150 feet or so across a very problematic rock scatter in front of me, and also through the forest of sticky, thorny flora: prickly pear, sotol yucca, Spanish Bayonet cacti, chollas, cat claw, mesquite, acacia, small Engleman-type cacti. I saw instantly that if I could not get ambulatory, I'd likely rip my butt cheeks to shreds.
Walking only a few feet at a time, leading with my right leg and walking sideways down the gradually less steep slope, I made good progress. I suddenly felt very accomplished at my own resourcefulness, but once again had to pull myself up short: That's still 150 yards to traverse, and let's not get cocky!
Plan D emerged as I got closer and closer to the truck: How would I be able to get the truck out of the sandy area, drive the 1,000 or so yards to the natural gas pipeline road, and then the small access track, that leads to the "Cone" and park and wait for help? I'd tried to find a flat piece of wood to brace the inside of my right ankle prior to using one of my knee pads for support. I even picked up some flat, slate-like rock, to see if that would work. The rock, I saw instantly, would be too heavy to use as a brace.
As I focused on Plan D, I also got an update from Dennis, learning about his contact with the Luna County Sheriff's Department. They had sent someone out to search for me. We discussed the directions, for them, coming from Deming. I tried to explain again where I was, so he could relay the info to the searchers. Dennis said he was waiting on Dorothy to arrive at his place, so they could drive south to find me. We went over the instructions I'd emailed earlier in the day. It sounded to me like he could find the spot, although I didn't know how easily in the dark of the desert night.
As I was speaking with Dennis, a Border Patrol "paddy wagon"-style truck drove right below me, coming up on the sandy roads from the border to the south, from the border. A week earlier, in my talk with the Border Patrol agent, I'd told him to tell any cohorts that I was hiking the ridge, and given him several cards, so he could pass them around. Trust me: The Border Patrol are out there, and you should stop and talk with them, regardless of your sentiments on immigration.
I began waving my arms, and yelling to the guy in the truck about 100 or 150 feet below. The truck driver stopped a few feet past my truck, then backed up, where he must have taken a very quick look at the truck, then went on. With his windows up and possibly with a heater on, or maybe hearing constant radio traffic, he apparently couldn't hear me. Not looking up, he hadn't seen me!
In situations where help may come amazingly close, but still misses you, the attitude must stay the same: I will not be a victim here. I will continue on my own plan for a safe return to my camp, truck, trailhead, etc.
About that time, I remembered I had a Disabled Veteran license plate behind the driver's side of the truck. I saw in my mind's eye how I could use that license plate to make the ultimate splint! It made me feel hopeful, yet again. There might be a way I could drive to the pipeline road and wait there, while the searchers made their way to my location.
Now, semi-ambulatory, I used the pack to serve as a counter-balance to my strange walk towards the truck. The ankle was holding in place, but the pain had increased with all the movement. I had some extra-strength Tylenol in my pack, but had postponed taking it until I got to the truck, knew help was on the way, and did what I needed to do. I sat down in a spot amid the cat claw, mesquite and prickly pear.
I leaned back against my pack and decided to take a small break. I was worn out, and the pain definitely was beginning to thunder in the broken bones. As I did, I heard the grass behind me move, and sensed a slithering sensation in the grass. I bolted straight up, turned, and saw a tiny wobble of grass directly behind where I'd leaned back to rest. A rattlesnake!