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.
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!
I 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.