Carry Out
Date: August 16, 2015
Trail: Skookumchuck
Submitted by Pat
A long hiatus results when we finish presenting It’s Not About the Hike. I am in a new relationship, bought my first house, and have a new and challenging job. I have a lot going on. During all this Nancy and I spend time working through the challenges of living so far apart and managing a friendship that demands its share of connection while we simultaneously need a break from each other. As a way to again share our love of spending time together in the Grand Canyon, Nancy and I are planning a September guided backpack trip to Kanab Creek at the end of September. This will be our first big trip together since we stopped doing the presentation. It feels right. It’s time to reconnect. The backpack trip is listed as strenuous, so I know I need to start training. Nancy and I talk about it and decide to try and hike together once a week. Our first hike, to the summit of Moosilauke, is great fun. We fit like hand in glove back into the natural connection we found in hiking together years ago.
This past Sunday is our second hike. Nancy suggests the Skookumchuck Trail because we know all the popular trails near Lafayette will be jammed with people and we want a quiet hike, just us and the natural beauty above tree line. It’s a hot, humid day and the trail is long (4.2 miles to tree line and 4.7 miles to the summit of Mt. Lafayette).
The early part of the trail is kind, just a slight elevation incline. As we walk parallel to a stream, the trail begins to climb – rough, rocky, full of roots. We use all our concentration to watch where we put our feet. We are definitely breathing and sweating when we start up the section known as the staircase that veers left away from the stream. Built by volunteer trail maintainers, this portion of the trail is a steep incline made passable by large boulders forming the steps of a grand staircase. Big steps, with big rises. I can feel my legs talking to me and cheat with every step I take by using a foothold that isn’t quite as high. Sweat is pouring off of us… My glasses were fogging constantly and I finally take them off, seeing the world without the fog but with a hazy, double vision lack of clarity. I can still see where to put my feet so all is well.
As we gain elevation, the terrain changes from a deciduous forest to evergreens with a lot of open ground. We pass into the boreal forest where trees grow so close together that I can’t see beyond their branches and moss coats the sides of the trail like a planted border. The temperature drops a couple of degrees and I appreciate that. It doesn’t stop the sweating but it helps. Nancy has been taking pictures and at one point takes out her camera and it freezes with the lens extended, saying it is experiencing a system error. No way! I have my iPhone and she uses that to take pictures for the rest of the trip. Major bummer about her camera… We are going to the Canyon in a little over a month! She needs a camera!
Higher still, we start feeling hopeful when we see the ridge that is our destination through the trees. OMG! We aren’t even close! It feels like we have hiked at least 10 miles, but when we see the ridge above us and to the right, it is clear we still have a good 10 miles left. I am consistently drinking a lot. I have 2 liters of water in my hydration pack, 20 ounces of Gatorade, and another quart of water in a plastic bottle. I need to be careful about drinking when I am sweating like this… My one experience with serious dehydration was not one I care to repeat.
So we drink and talk and laugh and sweat and enjoy being together again in the White Mountains. Higher up, we enter an area of large boulders, slick with moisture from yesterday’s heavy rain, bordered on the sides by short scrub, and haul our overweight bodies up and up, cussing and sweating and laughing and offering each other a hand. Stepping out of the close swelter in the woods and into the above tree line world is as much of a rush as it was the first time. God, I love it up there. I am pooped. I’m not in the kind of shape to really enjoy hiking upward for 4 miles. I’m 15 pounds overweight and my muscles aren’t used to this kind of work. But being above tree line rejuvenates me and we walk around, pointing out Galehead and Garfield, Owl’s Head and the Bonds, taking pictures and enjoying the light breeze and the view of mountains beyond mountains.
We sit and take off our boots and socks and let our shriveled feet and drenched socks dry in the breeze. We eat lunch. As we rest, my legs recover enough to keep going, our destination North Lafayette, staying well away from the hordes on Mt. Lafayette. As we climb the ridge, we meet a few AT through-hikers. Amazing folks, driven, focused, and smelly. I have a great deal of respect for their accomplishments, but I am not going to be joining them. I would rather climb a mountain and go back down to a good meal, a comfy bed, and a shower.
My heart thrills to be above tree line again! We don’t seek a peak but stop at high points along the ridge where there are few people. Beautiful and so fun for us, easier now that we are not chasing a goal…just training. I love sitting up there, feeling like I’m on top of the world, with the huge expanse of mountains rolling out in front of me. The only negative for me are the black flies. Black flies? In August? I thought they were gone. But the little buggers find me right away and buzz around me, even getting in a couple of juicy bites.
On the way down, I start off leading, using my poles, and feeling pretty good. I am relieved to get beyond the big rocks and maybe 2 miles later I start to get tired. My knees ache and my right one is tweaking in a nasty way. I walk slower and slower and the hike is becoming less and less fun. I am frustrated with my tiredness. Here we are, together again, having a good time, and training for our Canyon trip – I should be feeling blessed. Strange how feeling tired can sap my good humor and lays me open and vulnerable. I tell Nancy that I’m tired, but don’t blather on about it. I become quiet, concentrating on putting my feet in safe places and using my poles to keep myself from falling. I can feel myself ebbing ever deeper into my exhaustion. I run out of water in my hydration pack, and even though we are descending, I am still sweating. Having to stop and drink from my bottle is a pain so I don’t drink as much as I should have. In retrospect, I should have made the time to stop and pour the water from my bottle into my hydration pack for easy access to water. But I am too tired and I didn’t do it.
I am so relieved to hear the sound of the stream rushing along down and to our left. I tell myself we are close, but I don’t believe myself. I can see where we really were on the map and we aren’t close. Trudging down the big rock steps is laborious, but we soldier down without mishap. When we were climbing, Nancy told me that she wants to take advantage of spontaneous self-care moments. She wants to stop, take off our boots, and stick our feet into the clear, cold water. But the idea of sitting down, taking off my pack, my boots, and my socks is too much and I tell her I don’t have the energy. We reach a place where we rock-hop across a little feeder brook and I tell myself to get over myself and suggest putting our feet in the water.
Aahhh…it feels wonderful to have the boots and socks off, to be sitting down, but I know I don’t open up to the joy of the experience as thoroughly as I can. After about 20 minutes, we dry our feet with our sweat-sodden bandanas and keep going. We are maybe a mile and a half from the trailhead when I see Nancy, who is about 20 feet ahead of me, fall backward and roll to her left. I’m at her side immediately and unlike the other times she has fallen, she always says, “I’m ok. I’m ok. I’m ok,” while rubbing the injured part – this time she says she is really hurt, that she heard something snap in her left ankle and that she hurt the right ankle too. She is in major pain and my brain has not yet caught up with the gravity of the situation.
I help get her backpack off and since she is a few feet from the creek, she scoots close to the water and puts her feet in, shoes and all. That helps a bit with the pain, but she is hurting badly and Nancy hardly ever shows her pain. It then sinks in to my consciousness that she is completely incapacitated and none of my wilderness first aid had addressed how to help someone with one severely injured ankle and one sprained ankle. At that point I realize I should call 911 and ask for help.
It is 5:00 pm and Nancy says she wants to try walking out…on two injured ankles. I tell her that is a bad idea but she will not listen. Using my poles and sort of scooting her feet along inch by inch, while I hold onto the back of her shorts and wear her backpack on my chest, she walks maybe a tenth of a mile before collapsing, bursting into tears, realizing she cannot walk out, that she needs help, that she is going to be carried out. I feel relieved and help her onto some soft, clear ground next to the trail, putting her backpack behind her back so she can lean back on something. She is very upset, saying repeatedly that she is sorry, sorry, sorry… I ask her quietly to stop saying she is sorry. The only sorry here is that she is badly injured. She worries that the rescue team will arrive, look at her and say, “That’s nothing. We hiked all the way up here for this?” Nancy hates feeling like a burden or imposing herself on anyone. She struggles to ask for and accept help. I do too, but this situation is so clear to me. There is no gray area at all. I know what is happening. I know she can’t walk out and that I can’t carry her. I know she is badly injured as I watch the swelling appear above her socks on both legs, but especially her left. I know I have to get help, that I can’t rest until I know she is safe and warm and cared for by medical staff in a hospital.
That snap means the end of our September Canyon trip, but that is the last thing on my mind. I am much more concerned with here and now. Nancy, on the other hand, is devastated, in tears at the loss of that trip, apologizing for ruining it for me. I stay calm and tell her we will go next year, that right now we need to concentrate on getting her out to safety. I think the trauma of the event and the excruciating pain throws her back into her history. Old patterns that she knows and understands and can deal with poke their heads up and take a bite out of her. Guilt, sadness, fear, embarrassment, afraid she really isn’t hurt badly enough to deserve a rescue. I point out as gently as I can that what she is saying is old stuff, old stories she tells herself to keep herself down. Right now she needs to relax, stay warm, keep hydrated, and find as comfortable a position as she can while we wait.
I check but have no cell service so I start walking down the trail with my backpack on, not knowing whether I will be instructed to meet rescuers at the trailhead or allowed to go back to her. I hustle down the trail, my legs finding new strength, moving steadily but taking no risks. Finally I reach a spot where I have 2 bars. I dial 911 for only the second time in my life and a very professional young man goes through his protocol, asking questions about her injury, is she breathing, is she bleeding, is she in shock. Then with me still on the line, he contacts the Franconia Fire & Rescue to get an ambulance rolling, and contacts Fish and Game to get the rescue going. Nancy is going to have to be carried out.
Once all arrangements are made, I know it was time to wait. The 911 dispatcher said I should go back and be with her, keep her as warm and comfortable as possible. I haul ass back up the trail, pouring sweat, and finally see her where I had left her, leaning against her backpack, roiling with I’m sorries and in pain. I stay calm, talk to her, and get a fleece on her because she is starting to shiver. I do what I can to help her put her legs on my backpack, but it is excruciating until she finds a position where both her ankles are still. It is 6:15 pm and I suggest going back down, so I can call Don (Nancy’s husband) and also let Theresa know what is going on. This time I hike down without my backpack but it is still hard. Remember, I am already exhausted. My legs hold up and get me down and back.
She is very happy to see me when I return. We wait another 10-15 minutes before we see the first rescue workers appear on the trail. These folks are volunteer members of the Pemigewassett Search and Rescue team. A woman named Pam checks Nancy to make sure she isn’t bleeding or shocky. Nancy has started to shiver from emotional and physical reaction but her blood pressure is good as is her color. More of an emotional reaction than real shock. Pam radios their status to other members of the team that are making their way up the trail and shortly afterward more people show up with a litter and all the accouterments for stabilizing her ankles and “packaging” her for the carry out. They take off her shoes – well, Nancy takes them off. She can’t stand anyone handling her ankles. Then the leader of the group starts to prep her for the carry out. He puts her ankles in these blue plastic tubes that closed with Velcro straps to stabilize and protect. The other members of the rescue team prepare the litter, lining it with a blanket and a yellow cover. Nancy scoots onto the litter on her own and they finish “packaging” her like a yellow burrito for the trip down. They have not carried out someone with two ankle injuries and are concerned that the bumpy ride and jostling will be painful. Two paid staff from Fish & Game show up to run the rescue. I try to remember names, but they are swept out of my brain almost immediately.
By this time, Nancy has calmed and is more accepting of the fact she is going to be carried off the mountain, something we both have read about but have never experienced. Everyone is extremely kind and sensitive, chatting with her and among themselves as they prepare to carry her out. At around 7:15 pm, we start walking down. More rescue volunteers arrive so that the litter carriers can trade off every so often. They hold the litter with one hand and use a strap tied to the litter that they put around their necks and pull with their free hand to take some of the strain off their carrying hand. They scoff at Nancy’s weight, saying nothing can beat carrying out a 367-pound man that they had been called to help sometime in the past. Footing is rocky at best and both sides of the stretcher put the hikers off the trail so they are slipping in mud and on rocks, but they keep her safe and nothing untoward happens on the way down.
We take a shortcut which is more like a bushwhack, but it cut off almost a mile of trail. Finally, in the light of early evening, we make it out to a bike path where the ambulance is waiting. I am so glad to see it because I have been told we may have to decide what we want to do at that point. But the ambulance is there and the EMT’s very quickly and efficiently lift her onto the stretcher and into the ambulance. I call Don who is on his way up and tell him to meet us at the Littleton Regional Hospital. I give information to the Fish & Games guys for their report, grab a bottle of Gatorade, and follow the ambulance to Littleton. I have the presence of mind to grab Nancy’s car keys before they start carrying her out and am able to get her purse so I can provide health care information. At the hospital she is wheeled in to an ER room #8 and one of the EMT’s escorts me to the reception area where I check her in. Ten minutes later a nurse calls me back in to see her. I am exhausted beyond belief, but still awake and aware and present. I am hungry and I feel my body is still burning calories as I pounded the Gatorade. I need protein and carbs. A nurse takes her vitals and other information and then the ER doc comes to examine her. She goes to x-ray and I sit and wait in her empty cubicle. So much emotion surges around inside me, but still I feel like I did my best and we do the right thing calling for help.
My phone has gone dead – no battery – and I have forgotten my car charger but the hospital staff find me a charger to get my battery topped off and when Don arrives, he says he has an extra one in his car he can loan me. Everyone in the ambulance crew with whom I interacted is incredibly kind and helpful. And so are all the hospital personnel. Finally the doc came back (this was around 9:30 pm) and tells her she has broken her fibula…the non-weight bearing bone just above her ankle and that the other ankle is sprained. They fit her with a soft cast on her sprain and a boot on her broken ankle and get her some crutches. Don is concerned and maybe a little shocked since he hasn’t been with her through the whole process like I have. It takes a while for him to catch up emotionally and mentally. She is released around 10:30 pm and then we part ways. We leave her Jeep at the trailhead and I feel anxious because I have heard stories about vehicles being broken into at trailheads in the Whites. In fact, I know someone who suffered that violation. I drive home, after stopping for fast food to calm the hunger inside me, and get home around 12:30 am.
Theresa is still awake, bless her heart, and stays up with me until 2:30 am so I can talk for a while. It helps me settle my heart and my emotions being able to talk. I need her support and she gives it freely.
I am scheduled to drive to Kutztown, PA (the home office of the Foundation I work for) the next day (Monday) but know I am too trashed to drive for 8 hours so I email my boss and tell her what happened and that we will have to reschedule. She is very cool with that. Since I’m not traveling to Kutztown and I feel tired and very sore, I take the day off. I am concerned about Nancy’s Jeep being an invitation to thieves, so Theresa and I drive an hour and a half back to the trailhead, pick up her car, and drive it back to our house. We can figure out an exchange later. She’s not going to be driving for a while…although the sprain is on her right ankle so she may be able to drive sooner than later. We return home around 2:30 pm and crash for a while. I get some good sleep last night and am starting to feel more like myself.
Pretty intense stuff. All it takes is one moment’s inattention, a misstep and WHAM everything changes. We will reschedule our Canyon trip for next May. She will heal and we will be back hiking soon. I’m so glad she wasn’t hurt worse or hurt two/three miles up the trail. Everything went smoothly with her extraction and she was a trooper… Never made a sound despite the constant jostling.
I know how important my presence was for her. She was deeply grateful for my support, my presence, my calm. I was so glad to be there, to help however I could, and see her heading home with some pain meds and a diagnosis.
Now the healing begins…