injured when hiking solo
Posted: Mon Sep 12, 2016 11:16 am
HI... I've been a little reluctant to post this......AND I'm also curious how other solo hikers handle mishaps out on the trail. I also know this is one reason many people don't hike solo....AND for me hiking alone is part of the whole experience and I really look forward to my time in the Sierra by myself. These are the precautionary measures I take. Reconn form on my car dash and left with friend at home. Detailed itinerary left with several friends. Pre and Post text message to one friend when I enter and exit the trail .(details discussed on what to do if they don't hear from me and when) Nightly SPOT updates. I also have the ability to send off a second SPOT message to one friend saying I'm late and they should expect to hear from me in two days. Very detailed and specific instructions have been given to this person...when what and how...with area specific phone numbers for SAR.
In addition to the SPOT I also carry a whistle and a signal mirror. AND I think I use my common sense as much as I can. But still even when we are careful things happen!
All that being said.......the following is a story of what happened to me this summer:
THE FALL
As I was hiking back down to the trail from the Hutchings drainage in an impossibly fabulous mood I came to a boulder in my path. I could see the trail two feet away. Why I decided it was a good idea to STEP OVER the boulder rather than go AROUND the boulder, I’ll never know. BUT step over it is exactly what I did, or it is what I attempted to do. AND without even realizing what was happening I was falling and my head was connecting with my beloved smooth granite slabs. CLINK, the sound of my trekking poles, SMACK and THUD the sound of the right side of my head hitting the rock. AND hitting the rock HARD. It happened so fast that I couldn’t react couldn’t; attempt to save or right myself. Blood. I can feel the blood running down my face and running down my leg. Metallic. I can taste something metallic. PANIC. SHEER PANIC.
“Oh, ****, no no NO, That is it. You’re hike is over.” I immediately want to go home. Home to the safety of my couch. Coaching mode comes next. “You’re ok. You’re ok. Take it easy. Ok. Ok. Breathe. Breathe.”
And then, “I cannot tell anyone about this. I will never be able to hike solo again. I can hear the, “I told you so’s “ echoing between my ears.”
Panic again: I’m still face down on the ground, the weight of my pack preventing me from getting up or turning over. I’m like an upside down turtle flailing around. At another time this could be funny, Hysterically so. But not now. Finally, I right myself. I wipe the blood from my face with my filthy bandana. There is a lot of blood. Face and head wounds bleed a lot making you think they are much worse than they really are. I alternate between, PANIC, “****, ****. Do I need stitches? ****, What about my EYE. Is my retina still attached? (I have had two detached retinas) ****. Goddamn it.” Why swearing helps I’m not sure, but it does.
Back to Coaching, “you’re ok. Breathe. Breathe. It’s ok. It’s ok.” And finally Assessment. “Let’s get to the water and clean yourself up.” Then we can make a decision on what next.
I hike a ½ mile up the trail to the creek. I wash my face. At this point I’m not concerned with my leg. I’m concerned with my eye. I am shaking, shaking, shaking. Am I going into shock? Back to assessment: I get my small signal mirror out and look at my face. There is a bump on my head and two abrasions; they look superficial, although I cannot tell for sure. My eye is turning black and blue. There is also a bump under my eye. I test my vision. I can see. I soak my bandana in the cold water and then put it on my eye. I clean the abrasions and put Neosporin on them. My legs are scratched up but that is from bushwhacking a few days back. I have a new skinned knee, but that is nothing new.
I drink water. I think about taking Advil but decide this is a bad idea. I’m concerned about a concussion. My heart beat eventually stops thumping loudly in my chest and I’m left with just the sound of the water. What to do next?
Assessment: Yesterday there was a trail crew working here, they told me where they are camping….. If I need help I can hike to their camp. Ok that is a good plan. Plus if I really need something I can blow the hell out of my whistle and where-ever they are working on the trail they will hear me. But I can walk, so I don’t need anything. It is also 12 miles to Vogelsang High Sierra Camp, I can hike there and get help. I don’t think I need stitches, and I have steri strips in my first aid kit. It looks like the bleeding from my face has stopped.
I wonder again if I have a concussion: I don’t have a headache. I don’t feel like falling asleep. I test myself. “who is the president? It better not be Trump” I answer. Where are the last three places you camped? List all the places you’ve camped since you started your trip 12 days ago. Can you count backwards from 100? ****, that is too hard even when I haven’t fallen. “What day is it?” hmm I don’t know, but I didn’t know what day it was yesterday either, so that’s not a good test.
I think I’m ok. Yeah, I’m ok. I still have my sense of humor. All my limbs are attached. Nothing is bleeding. I don’t have a headache. I’m not sore from falling. I’m not nauseous. I don’t feel like throwing up.
I take a picture of myself with my phone. I continue to do this every few hours to monitor what is happening with my eye and face. I start to hike again. I continue to assess throughout the day, giving myself various puzzles and questions to answer. I monitor if I’m sick to my stomach or nauseous. And I hike.
Eventually I calm down and I focus on how LUCKY I am not to be laying on the side of the trail unconscious. Or waiting for search and rescue with part of my eye out of its socket, or a bone sticking out of my leg. I could have knocked my teeth out. I run my tongue over my teeth again and again to make sure they are all still there. This could have been really, really, really bad! I think of all the ways it could have been worse and the gratitude I feel brings me to tears.
And I hike. I just keep moving. I want to get as close to Vogelsang as I can….just in case. It is a LONG hike. When I pass the trail crew camp there is nothing I need so I keep moving. I pass another camp a few miles later, but do not see anyone. Still, I don’t need anything so I continue moving. I make it all the way to the top of Vogelsang Pass before I decide to camp. It is 7:30. I am not bleeding, I’m not nauseous, I’ve named all the states, and perhaps every place I’ve ever camped in my whole life. I don’t have a headache. In fact, I feel surprisingly good.
Just as dusk is turning to dark two hikers make their way up to the pass from the North. They stop and chat with me and I learn that they are Yosemite Park Nautralists taking a few days off. They ask me what happened and I tell them, unloading my burden. I can tell they are assessing me: “What’s your name? Where do you live? Where did you start your hike? When? Can you show us on the map where the trail crew is camping? Where did you fall again? What did you say your name was?” They shine their headlamps into my face and tell me the cuts look superficial and I have a great story to tell.
And yet, yet I’m afraid to go to sleep that night. “what if I die in my sleep.” I think about going home, and wonder what that would get me. Then I remember I have a black eye and I don’t want to tell anyone what happened so I can’t go home….at least not until my eye heals.
I wonder what my mom would say……would she want me to keep hiking. I decide the answer is yes, she would. If I stop hiking I will be afraid and I don’t want to be afraid. If I stop hiking, my last memory of hiking will be of falling and that, that is unacceptable. I fall asleep thinking of this and of gratitude. Immense gratitude. And in the morning, in the morning I wake up and it is a beautiful day. And I, I have bloody dry abrasions on the side of my face and one hell of a black eye.
In addition to the SPOT I also carry a whistle and a signal mirror. AND I think I use my common sense as much as I can. But still even when we are careful things happen!
All that being said.......the following is a story of what happened to me this summer:
THE FALL
As I was hiking back down to the trail from the Hutchings drainage in an impossibly fabulous mood I came to a boulder in my path. I could see the trail two feet away. Why I decided it was a good idea to STEP OVER the boulder rather than go AROUND the boulder, I’ll never know. BUT step over it is exactly what I did, or it is what I attempted to do. AND without even realizing what was happening I was falling and my head was connecting with my beloved smooth granite slabs. CLINK, the sound of my trekking poles, SMACK and THUD the sound of the right side of my head hitting the rock. AND hitting the rock HARD. It happened so fast that I couldn’t react couldn’t; attempt to save or right myself. Blood. I can feel the blood running down my face and running down my leg. Metallic. I can taste something metallic. PANIC. SHEER PANIC.
“Oh, ****, no no NO, That is it. You’re hike is over.” I immediately want to go home. Home to the safety of my couch. Coaching mode comes next. “You’re ok. You’re ok. Take it easy. Ok. Ok. Breathe. Breathe.”
And then, “I cannot tell anyone about this. I will never be able to hike solo again. I can hear the, “I told you so’s “ echoing between my ears.”
Panic again: I’m still face down on the ground, the weight of my pack preventing me from getting up or turning over. I’m like an upside down turtle flailing around. At another time this could be funny, Hysterically so. But not now. Finally, I right myself. I wipe the blood from my face with my filthy bandana. There is a lot of blood. Face and head wounds bleed a lot making you think they are much worse than they really are. I alternate between, PANIC, “****, ****. Do I need stitches? ****, What about my EYE. Is my retina still attached? (I have had two detached retinas) ****. Goddamn it.” Why swearing helps I’m not sure, but it does.
Back to Coaching, “you’re ok. Breathe. Breathe. It’s ok. It’s ok.” And finally Assessment. “Let’s get to the water and clean yourself up.” Then we can make a decision on what next.
I hike a ½ mile up the trail to the creek. I wash my face. At this point I’m not concerned with my leg. I’m concerned with my eye. I am shaking, shaking, shaking. Am I going into shock? Back to assessment: I get my small signal mirror out and look at my face. There is a bump on my head and two abrasions; they look superficial, although I cannot tell for sure. My eye is turning black and blue. There is also a bump under my eye. I test my vision. I can see. I soak my bandana in the cold water and then put it on my eye. I clean the abrasions and put Neosporin on them. My legs are scratched up but that is from bushwhacking a few days back. I have a new skinned knee, but that is nothing new.
I drink water. I think about taking Advil but decide this is a bad idea. I’m concerned about a concussion. My heart beat eventually stops thumping loudly in my chest and I’m left with just the sound of the water. What to do next?
Assessment: Yesterday there was a trail crew working here, they told me where they are camping….. If I need help I can hike to their camp. Ok that is a good plan. Plus if I really need something I can blow the hell out of my whistle and where-ever they are working on the trail they will hear me. But I can walk, so I don’t need anything. It is also 12 miles to Vogelsang High Sierra Camp, I can hike there and get help. I don’t think I need stitches, and I have steri strips in my first aid kit. It looks like the bleeding from my face has stopped.
I wonder again if I have a concussion: I don’t have a headache. I don’t feel like falling asleep. I test myself. “who is the president? It better not be Trump” I answer. Where are the last three places you camped? List all the places you’ve camped since you started your trip 12 days ago. Can you count backwards from 100? ****, that is too hard even when I haven’t fallen. “What day is it?” hmm I don’t know, but I didn’t know what day it was yesterday either, so that’s not a good test.
I think I’m ok. Yeah, I’m ok. I still have my sense of humor. All my limbs are attached. Nothing is bleeding. I don’t have a headache. I’m not sore from falling. I’m not nauseous. I don’t feel like throwing up.
I take a picture of myself with my phone. I continue to do this every few hours to monitor what is happening with my eye and face. I start to hike again. I continue to assess throughout the day, giving myself various puzzles and questions to answer. I monitor if I’m sick to my stomach or nauseous. And I hike.
Eventually I calm down and I focus on how LUCKY I am not to be laying on the side of the trail unconscious. Or waiting for search and rescue with part of my eye out of its socket, or a bone sticking out of my leg. I could have knocked my teeth out. I run my tongue over my teeth again and again to make sure they are all still there. This could have been really, really, really bad! I think of all the ways it could have been worse and the gratitude I feel brings me to tears.
And I hike. I just keep moving. I want to get as close to Vogelsang as I can….just in case. It is a LONG hike. When I pass the trail crew camp there is nothing I need so I keep moving. I pass another camp a few miles later, but do not see anyone. Still, I don’t need anything so I continue moving. I make it all the way to the top of Vogelsang Pass before I decide to camp. It is 7:30. I am not bleeding, I’m not nauseous, I’ve named all the states, and perhaps every place I’ve ever camped in my whole life. I don’t have a headache. In fact, I feel surprisingly good.
Just as dusk is turning to dark two hikers make their way up to the pass from the North. They stop and chat with me and I learn that they are Yosemite Park Nautralists taking a few days off. They ask me what happened and I tell them, unloading my burden. I can tell they are assessing me: “What’s your name? Where do you live? Where did you start your hike? When? Can you show us on the map where the trail crew is camping? Where did you fall again? What did you say your name was?” They shine their headlamps into my face and tell me the cuts look superficial and I have a great story to tell.
And yet, yet I’m afraid to go to sleep that night. “what if I die in my sleep.” I think about going home, and wonder what that would get me. Then I remember I have a black eye and I don’t want to tell anyone what happened so I can’t go home….at least not until my eye heals.
I wonder what my mom would say……would she want me to keep hiking. I decide the answer is yes, she would. If I stop hiking I will be afraid and I don’t want to be afraid. If I stop hiking, my last memory of hiking will be of falling and that, that is unacceptable. I fall asleep thinking of this and of gratitude. Immense gratitude. And in the morning, in the morning I wake up and it is a beautiful day. And I, I have bloody dry abrasions on the side of my face and one hell of a black eye.