The solo backpacking trip that (almost) ended me: part two
This post is the second part of a two-part story. Tap here to read part one.
After a few moments of existential mind drama, my phone buzzed.
A text from my husband.
And then 911 called me.
The dispatcher listened as I shakily recounted the events that led to my head injury.
Reception was spotty, but she eventually got the full story and assured me that help would be on the way.
She asked me to sit tight and stay calm.
By then, it was completely dark and the thought of “sitting tight” seemed crazy. It could take hours for rescue workers to arrive.
I could be dead by then.
Paralyzed by fear, uncertainty swirled around me:
Should I take down my tent and pack up?
Will I have to go to the Emergency Room?
Will they tell me I can’t finish my hike?
Will they roll their eyes and shame me for being out in the backcountry alone?
Sadly, that last one was my biggest concern.
As I continued to worry and bleed, pop music and happy voices floated from the neighboring campsite.
Will they hear me if I yell out to them?
Will they want to come help me?
I summoned the courage to call out, but no one answered. They couldn’t hear me over the music.
Deciding I didn’t want to be alone, I traveled the 500 feet between our campsites… hoping it was worth the risk.
Thankfully, my fellow campers were kind and welcoming. They used a flashlight to get a better look at my head and offered extra antiseptic and Neosporin while we chatted by the fire.
As two young college grads from the city, I’m sure it felt weird to make small talk with me… a 40-something woman who stumbled into their campsite after dark…
but having company for a few minutes calmed me immensely. I started to feel like I was going to be okay.
We endured a few more awkward exchanges before I excused myself and returned to my campsite.
I expected help to arrive before long.
About ten minutes passed when I saw the bouncing glow of flashlights.
It was the park superintendent (Ben) and his assistant (Chase).
They graciously inspected my head and listened to my crazy story.
After some assessment, they concluded that while the cut might need super glue and possibly a stitch - I wasn’t in any immediate danger.
What a relief.
I was also relieved they didn’t give me grief about being alone in the backcountry. They were impressed by my camp set up and said it was obvious I knew what I was doing…. and that I did the right thing by calling for help.
Whew.
Ben offered me a clean bandaid while we decided what to do next.
Apparently, after my call with 911, the EMS workers were mistakenly dispatched before the park authorities - and were now lost somewhere along the trail.
At night.
Awesome.
While the hunt for EMS workers commenced, Ben and Chase led me on a 20 minute hike to a UTV that was parked in a clearing in the woods.
We then rode for another 20 minutes to the Whispering Pines Trailhead where a second set of EMS workers would be waiting.
Chase and Ben engaged me in friendly conversation, which helped pass the time and ease my lingering anxiety.
When we finally arrived at the trailhead, the parking lot was teeming with emergency responders.
EMS. Firemen. Police.
The friggin’ Park Ranger.
I felt terrible for inconveniencing so many people with my silly accident.
At 10:00 at night.
Taking them away from their families AND their beds.
They were angels, if you ask me.
(Especially Ben - who immediately hiked back into the woods to find the first set of EMS workers who were still lost somewhere along the trail.)
I sheepishly boarded the EMS truck and spoke with the worker.
He took down my information, inspected my wound, and said I had done a great job managing the blood. The cut was minor (head wounds tend to bleed a lot), and I wasn’t visibly concussed.
He offered to take me to the hospital, but said I would probably be fine if I just cared for the wound myself and continue on with my hike.
I chose the latter and gratefully accepted fresh gauze and a very attractive head wrap.
It was so attractive, in fact, that I probably shouldn’t show it to you. You can thank me later.
The park workers returned me to my campsite and I attempted to settle in for the night.
However, between the music next door and my brain repeatedly replaying the evening’s events… I logged maybe 3 hours.
The next morning when I woke up - still alive and not bleeding - I knew had to get going. Tired or not.
The hike out felt longer and more difficult than I expected - about 6 miles - plus a healthy elevation gain.
It gave me time to think about what had happened the night before. To thank God for protecting me and providing so many people to help me.
To notice my head throb each time I bent over.
And the more I processed, the more defeated I felt about how I handled things.
I could have avoided the whole situation by simply…
giving myself more time before the trip to prepare and practice wilderness skills.
acknowledging that throwing a rock bag was much riskier than the off-chance of a bear encounter.
taking deep breaths and giving myself time to process fear rather than rushing around camp trying to get everything done quickly.
Taking action with a flooded nervous system was way more dangerous than the actual risk of my situation.
That the only danger I was actually in was the danger I caused myself.
Unchecked fear is a powerful thing, isn’t it?
It can make us believe things that aren’t true.
(that the rustling of leaves must be a bear waiting to attack)
To see things that aren’t there.
(this tree branch that I thought was a giant mountain lion for 2 terrifying seconds)
To have ourselves so convinced that everything will go horribly wrong… that they end up going horribly wrong.
Even though most of me didn’t want to, I coaxed myself through the trip I initially planned:
hiking and camping along the Spanish Land Grant the next night,
and another shorter hike to Pickle Creek the following day.
It was not the adventure I dreamed about. The anxiety stuck around. I was worn down and exhausted. I fought waves of incompetence and shame. I even had another (small-ish) scare the second night of camping.
I really wanted to quit.
In fact, I told my husband I never wanted to backpack alone ever again.
But, waking up in my tent the last morning on trail and hiking in the early daylight hours.. I noticed my spirits lifting.
I let myself get lost in my wandering thoughts.
I stopped several times to snap pictures of cute plants… to admire the lush green understory…to marvel at the tall pines along the hillside and pristine Pickle Creek down below…
It was a magical woodland oasis.
When I finished my my hike, I felt great. Energized, even.
I thought, now this is the Katie I know.
The one who finds so much rejuvenation and inspiration out alone in nature.
The one who doesn’t want the adventure to end.
Though, as all adventures eventually do, this one did come to an end.
And after a luxurious campground shower, I drove the three hours back home.
Bleary-eyed and exhausted…
thankful and inspired.
It would have been easy for me to pretend this dramatic hiking trip never happened. To avoid the embarrassment of what really happened. To show you pretty pictures of me smiling in the back country and tie everything up in a nice pretty bow.
But, that’s not life… and that’s not me.
I knew when I signed up for this lifestyle that there would be hiccups along the way. And if i’m being honest, I’m surprised something like this hasn’t happened sooner.
I’m so thankful that everything turned out okay… and instead of wallowing in shame, I’m going to use my experience as an opportunity to learn and grow.
Where will the next hike take me?
“Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.”
What about you?
Have you ever pushed yourself through an uncomfortable (or even scary) situation? How did you handle it? What will you do differently if it ever happens again?
I’d love to hear from you in the comments.
Until next time, be well… and happy adventuring.