D e s e r t E x p o s u r e
February 2010
Hiking Apacheria: Trauma on the Trail
Page: 3I rose, determined now to make the truck. It was nearly 4:30 and the sun would soon drop behind the Floridas, some 20 miles west; darkness would fall quickly. The sky had clouded up considerably since I'd fallen, and I knew the darkness would envelope me, making movement confusing, at best.
In the next 10 minutes, I made the truck, opened it, and climbed in with a great sigh of relief. In a cooler I had oranges and apples, a Diet Pepsi and a bottle of Recharge energy drink that I buy at the Coop.
I fumbled around for the license plate. Using the remainder of the duct tape, I taped the license plate to the inside of my ankle. If needed, I could use my left leg for the clutch and perhaps the brakes, and the right leg, solidly supported, could manipulate the gas.
Within a few minutes of my reaching the truck, however, Luna County Sherriff's Deputy Molina arrived in his four-wheel-drive vehicle. We talked but, oddly, he kept a six- to ten-foot distance from me; he didn't touch me, just worked the radio. I told him the license plate had put me in a firm position to use the accelerator and brake. We discussed my driving out behind him, but he ix-nayed that. He looked at me as if I were a madman, but said that at least one other first responder was on the way.
Within another five minutes, a guy in a four-wheel drive truck arrived. His name was Tony Anderson, and he was from Deming, by way of New Zealand and Colorado. I handed a business card to each of these two, telling them I hiked Apacheria and was glad to see them. Both guys looked at me like I was crazy.
At that point, I almost felt "high" in terms of lack of pain and a clarity of mind. Somehow, as people say, by the grace of God, I'd survived this injury. I knew immediately I'd write this article.
At this point I learned that my using the name "Providence Cone," rather than the local nickname for the place, had slowed the arrival of help. Deputy Molina said he hadn't had a clue where "Providence Cone" was. No one, in fact, in the sheriff's office knew what the heck I was talking about. My emailed directions, relayed by Dennis, had helped the deputy find me, but the sheriff's office had to call BLM and ask them where "Providence Cone" is.
Next came a tall, grim reaper-looking guy from Immigrations and Customs Enforcement (ICE). He told me, "No, you're not leaving here in your own truck. We're taking you to Deming." I gave in and got in Tony's vehicle. He said someone could drive my truck out, or, if my wife and Dennis couldn't find it, he'd help them.
At the pipeline road, we met another ICE guy, who allegedly knew first aid, and was waiting to help. I told him I'd taken Motrin, was a recovering drug addict, and couldn't take any narcotic meds at that point in time. I could see he was disappointed, but I gave him a business card, as I wanted to make sure, for future hikes along the border, that these ICE folks knew who I was.
Tony Anderson took me to Deming, turning on his red flashers as we soared down I-10. He and Dennis had talked, and I knew that Dennis and Dorothy were on the way to find my truck, then meet us at Deming's Mimbres Memorial Hospital. I began to relax. The intensity of staying focused, in the moment, began to ease its coiled presence in my body. Had it all really happened?
People who hike in our part of the country should use common sense. Check your gear each time you hike. If it's been 10 years since you used your hiking boots, make sure they haven't succumbed to dry rot! I know many people who hike with two 16-ounce plastic bottles of water, easily punctured by acacia, banana yucca, cat claw or mesquite thorns.
I also know folks who separate from the others in their hiking groups — mindlessly, it seems, as if they were walking in downtown Silver City. Sometimes, they just disappear, and expect you to somehow "know" they've headed back to the truck! One reason my friends and I carry walkie-talkies is so that if we explore separately, we can communicate.
I know folks who never check the weather, even if they're hiking at altitudes of 8,000 feet and above, in the winter, blissfully unaware that a major snowstorm is brewing. I know people who hike in shorts and T-shirts, who don't carry fire starter, flashlights, an extra-warm sleeved shirt, a wool hat and space blankets, in case they must spend the night outside. I can't even count how many folks hike in flip-flops, Tevas, sandals or tennis shoes.
My wife told me before Christmas she was buying a SPOT emergency transponder that's dependent on satellites, not cell coverage. I had asked for the device after observing friends with theirs (see www.findmespot.com/en)
Also, after much dithering and Quaker spiritually centered meditation on the issue, I'm buying a handgun. Last January, I encountered a young mountain lion. Last month, the rancher who owns that land told me he'd seen a fully mature, eight-foot tip of nose to tip of tail mountain lion less than a half-mile from where I'd seen that teenager last year. My inner voice said: Get a handgun before I go back there to hike, when my ankle's healed.
It's a free country, as they say, but remember: If you fail to show up at an appointed hour, it's possible search and rescue volunteers will look for you. Boring as it may be, go where you say you're going. Spontaneous changes of plans could cost your life or somebody else's. Remember, searchers may put their own lives in danger. They search and rescue on their own time. Very few paid rescue personnel work these operations. How would you feel if you hiked with the preparation of a grade schooler, got lost, and other people lost their lives looking for you?
If your attitude, reading these comments is, "Screw you, Eagan! I'll hike any damned way I want," that's fine. If that's really your attitude, though, leave a note behind: "I didn't prepare myself for this hike, so please, forget about me if I don't return. I've made an existential choice to roll with the cosmic tumblers, and take my chances."
At least you've made a choice, and have the right to do it that way. Of course, your wife, husband, kids or grandkids might not want to think of you dying "out there," alone, and call for help anyway.
Author Jerry Eagan wishes to thank all those involved in his rescue, and those who've assisted in his recovery. His website, www.hikingapacheria.com, also has a blog feature. Jerry's always interested in learning what readers think or would like to communicate regarding "Hiking Apacheria." Stay fit, healthy and wise. The beauty all around us can more easily be appreciated if you know you've examined your own survivability if you become injured or lost. Jerry says, personally, he's shooting to live 100, and to "Hike Apacheria," as long as he can.