Falling

A story of humility and a primer on what hikers should always carry in their packs

This was not my finest hour.

Last month, while hiking with my friend Nick, I slipped on a steep pitch of trail and folded my ankle over onto a rock. The impact fractured the base of my fibula, but I didn’t know that in the moment. All I knew was it hurt like hell and I needed to lie down.

Nick, following my lead, gave me space, then gave me a stick, then two sticks, then his arm. The thinking was if I could stand and hobble, maybe I could make it back to the trailhead without much fuss and the hike wouldn’t be a complete loss. We were five-and-a-half miles into what would have been a lovely seven-mile ramble through the backcountry of Jack London State Historic Park and the Sonoma Developmental Center, following trails we both know well. A snoop around Camp Via, a blossom hunt in the old orchard, a visit to the ancient redwood—the grandmother tree, too gnarly and difficult to be brought down, just like me.

Or not.

The fall happened on the downhill run, as we were approaching Fern Lake. All adventurers  know if something’s gonna go wrong, it goes wrong on the descent. Blink. Slip, twist, down. And down for the count.

I knew I’d probably broken something. There was a telltale crunching noise in the disasterous mix. But I’m prone to rolling my ankles, so as I lay in the dirt trying to settle my stomach, I held out hope that’s all it was—a bad roll. After a few long moments I stood up, hoping to carry on.

No go. Two sticks and Nick’s strong arm notwithstanding, when I put weight on my right foot, pain ricocheted around unhelpfully. I got clammy and queasy and had to lie down again, while Nick paced the fire road, a self-described “brilliant humorist at the height of his powers,” saying helpful, apparently hilarious things I can’t remember.

Eventually I sat back up and began rifling through my daypack for my first aid kit, looking for a painkiller. I am a hiking guidebook writer, after all. I carry all kinds of nerdy equipment no matter the length of a chosen ramble. Emergency blanket, check. Water purifying tablets, check. Buck knife, check. First aid kit … crapola.

I did have a small flask of whiskey, however—a throwback to my circumambulation on the Tahoe Rim, when we would end long days on the trail with a bone-warming tipple. If a cowboy could medicate with whiskey before the doc dug the bullet out, a shot oughta get a hiker with a bum ankle down a trail, right?

I took a swig. I stood. A blast of pain, and my stomach revolted. I threw it up.

My predicament wasn’t an emergency, I insisted to Nick, after he propped me up against a log. We’d been discussing ego earlier on the hike, and mine took firm control of the decision-making process. I am a hiking guidebook writer, after all. I’m all about self-sufficiency in the woods. We needed to figure out how to get off the mountain without summoning the National Guard — and it turned out the National Guard was a distinct possibility, since a passing mountain biker told us a unit was training on SDC that day, along with the sheriff and the fire department. A helicopter flew overhead. I sank deeper into the log.

Fortunately we were close to home, we had cell phone coverage, and together Nick and I sorted our options. Plan A involved calling the non-emergency lines at the Eldridge Fire Department and SDC police department to see if we could get someone to open a couple of gates; that way one of my sons could drive up and retrieve me. Plan B involved calling friends who own land bordering the SDC; Steve knows the web of trails better than anyone, and has a four-wheeler that could get me out easily. Plan C involved crawling and crying.

Plan A was a wash: My son ended up leaving messages that weren’t returned until several hours later, when I was being treated in the emergency room. Calling 911 would have gotten us a quicker response, but … well, hiking guidebook writer …

Fortunately, Plan B was a success. Several “where are you again?” calls were necessary, because SDC’s trails aren’t marked and must be described using language better suited to wayfinding in the nineteenth century. After clarifying our location with reference to creeks and dams, Steve and my son navigated to my rescue.

Time of fall to time of arrival back in civilization was, all in all, about two hours. We got a little cold while we waited, but both Nick and I had layers. If we’d had to wait longer, even overnight, we had food and emergency shelter and ways to purify the water Nick could have retrieved from the nearby creek. There would have been crying and crawling, but we were equipped for survival. Hiking guidebook writer, after all.

I’ve done a lot of thinking about what happened on the mountain since the accident, if for no other reason than I can’t do much else. In researching Search and Rescue Alaska (where I wrote about survivors) and Death in Mount Rainier National Park (where everybody dies), a significant common denominator became crystal clear: The folks who survive bad breaks of all kinds in the wild are the ones who are prepared, and who follow bad luck with good choices. Nick and I didn’t compound a bad situation with bad decisions. We didn’t panic. We didn’t despair. We were prepared, mentally and physically, to cope. Our resilience was in the layers we carried ward off the cold, and in the good humor we shared as we waited.

I’m a solo hiker—I’ve walked most every trail in the guides I’ve written alone. I’ve had more than my fair share of uh-ohmoments; I’ve also had more than my fair share of good luck. In this instance, luck took the form of a clear-thinking companion. But I also carry luck with me, in my pack, on my back. Even without Nick, even without first aid kit, I would have been just fine.

What’s In My Pack

Water

Hat and gloves

Lightweight jacket

Buck knife and pocketknife

Emergency blanket

Mace

Flashlight

Whistle

Notebook and pen

Cell phone

Camera, tablet, GPS unit (if working on a guidebook)

Paracord

First aid kit

Poop bags for the dog

Poop bag for myself (TP + ziplock bags to pack it out)

Water purification tablets + ultraviolet water-purification wand

Medicinal candy (Sour Patch Kids. Trust me.)

Electrolyte tablets

Snacks

Flask of whiskey (optional)

Published May 1, 2021, in the Kenwood Press

A Bear Ate Our Car and We Miss It

It seemed so appropriate. Right before he hauled the van away, the little man in the wide-brimmed straw hat turned on the emergency blinkers and honked the horn. It was exactly right, though he could never have known it. Because that was how the van had signaled its final distress.

The story is a classic. Let me take you back a month, to a driveway in a nice subdivision on the west shore of Lake Tahoe. It is five o’clock in the morning. The familiar sound of the van’s horn wakes me; my first thought is that its alarm is going off…but it doesn’t have an alarm anymore. I stumble out of bed to the window and peer outside into a gray-black predawn world. The van’s emergency blinkers are on, and the horn is honking intermittently. I’m confused, so I look closer…and see a great black hairy hulk occupying both front seats of the car.

“Martin,” I call to my sleeping husband. “There’s a bear in the van!”

He’s awake instantly, and leaps from the bed. Feeling brave, curious, and half-witted with drowsiness, he rushes outside; I remain at the window, watching. Afterward, he tells me that at first all he could see was a steamed-up front windshield. Then, like a playful child, the bear pressed its hairy muzzle against the glass. It saw Martin and began to tear the inside of the car apart. Martin saw it and began to cuss like a truck driver.

My husband has no choice, and he’s not happy about it. The bear is now in the driver’s seat, eating the van’s headliner, trying to claw through the roof to freedom. Martin dashes to the opposite side of the car, whips open the sliding door, and runs like hell.

So does the bear, off into the night. I’m now brave enough to leave the house, and stand with my husband at the van’s side, surveying the damage. Wires dangle from the ceiling, bits of the deck lamp are scattered on the front seats, the rear-view mirror and visors are strewn around the car, as are the remnants of one of our son’s smoothies, which had lured the bear inside. Not only are the emergency blinkers on, but so is another son’s metronome. Blinking orange hazard lights, a blaring horn, the incessant ticking of the metronome—the poor creature must have thought it was in some kind of hellish circus. No wonder it wanted out.

We empathized. We are not completely bear ignorant, having lived for fifteen years in bear country in Colorado, and having spent seven weeks traveling through bear country in Canada and Alaska. Never had we had such a close encounter. Never had we had such a thrill. Never had we intentionally left a smoothie in the car, because we know what bears will do for food. It wasn’t the bear’s fault. We wished it well.

But the van did not fare well. With nearly 250,000 miles on the odometer, we knew its swan song was most likely imminent. Still, we gave its salvage a shot, getting an estimate for repairs, talking about options. But the insurance company refused to pay for repairs that might have, ultimately, exceeded the value of the vehicle.

My husband’s regret was immediate. He recognized what I, in my excitement about finally getting a new car, would not see until the little man in the straw hat drove the van away. He knew we were losing an old friend. He knew how much of our history was tied up in the metal and plastic and cloth of what we called, affectionately, the Starship. It was a perpetual motion machine, hauling our sons to play dates and to their first days of kindergarten, transporting new puppies to dog parks and scared kitties to the vet’s office. It carried thousands of dollars of groceries, home improvement supplies, and recreational equipment. It wrote books with me, about Lake Tahoe and Lassen Volcanic National Park, Point Reyes National Seashore and California’s missions and presidios. And, when everyone said we were fools for even considering the idea, that great old van ferried us north to the Top of the World in the Yukon and Alaska. It crossed mighty rivers on metal-bottomed bridges, the Klondike, the Stikine, the Pelly, the Yukon; it wound through the Alaska Range in the shadow of Denali, it rested on the beaches at the toe of the Kenai Peninsula. More than 210,000 miles on the odometer, hauling a tent trailer, and nary a breakdown. That flat tire, of course, was not its fault…

The salvage company called to say they’d haul it away sometime during the next two business days. By the time the second day rolled around, a shiny new car was parked in the driveway, with an infantile 19,000 miles on the odometer. When I got back from running errands in the new car, I found myself strangely reassured to see the van’s broad Zorro smile; it was still parked on the gravel in front of the camper. Call me silly, but I really thought they’d forgotten about it, and that we’d get to keep it. Use it for … I don’t know … garden art …

But then the bright yellow flatbed truck drove by, and I knew the van’s time had come. The fellow in the straw hat parked down the road, then walked back up, climbed in, started it up, and drove it off. I furiously swept leaves around the driveway, scolding myself for being so emotional, for being so materialistic. I was mourning, after all, for a stupid car!

But this was no ordinary car. Not anymore. I looked at the new car, asked it please to treat us as well as the Starship, then ran down the garden path to the fence along the road, where I hunkered behind a bay tree and watched the little man in the straw hat prepare the Starship for departure. He opened doors, adjusted chains, and finally turned off the emergency blinkers. I hunkered down, and yes, I wept. And I wondered at the things that hold our memories. I thought about the dear friend who lost her mother when we were teenagers. She once complained that her father’s new wife, of whom she was fond, refused to give her a stool that had belonged to her mother, and how that filled her with great sorrow. A stool, a block of wood and fabric, a little thing … yet in that stool, Kelly knew her mother, felt her mother, could touch her mother. A car, I know, holds no candle to that kind of remembrance. But it holds memories nonetheless—in our fortunate sakes, of so many good times—and I regret its loss.

I can only pray that our new shiny car, which shifts so easily, feels so cozy, smells so new, treats us as well as our old van. I’m glad that I’m not just “getting over it.” It’s shallow, it’s American, but it’s real. The Starship will be missed.