The Day, But Sideways

I went for a walk in the woods, which would eventually take me from the woods to a mountaintop and then another, or at least this is the plan for the day. I’ve done this walk before and I am happy to be here, a mellow contentment over all of this. The sun is already up and it feels easy to tighten my laces, put on my pack, and leave the truck.

It is 0517 and I am headed up. The summit is only two miles away, but climbs almost 3200 feet in that distance. This is a demanding, but doable, trail. My first stop will be the summit of Mount Washington, topping out at a formidable 6,260 feet. It seems all our mountains are short here. Usually, just for some distance or the challenge, I would start at the bottom, at Big Creek, and earn this summit. Today, I’m looking to put both Washington and Ellinor (via a short traverse) in my pocket and call it a day. Easy peasy.

Although I haven’t been out in awhile (my possible hibernation throughout the winter to blame) I am ready for this effort and my body is responding well to what is required. I am not moving quickly, but my pace is steady, measured, deliberate.

I stop at an overlook that I have never noticed, a rock outcropping from the trees, and pull out my camera and drone. The light is just too good. There is an inversion this morning, gray-white clouds covering almost everything, save for Mount Rainier and some islands of trees, below me. There is no Puget Sound to be seen, the blanket of clouds drape over the land and sea as far as my eyes can see.

With my various photographic aides tucked in my pack, I am back on the trail, my mind at peace with the work and effort needed to keep up this ascent. My brain seems preoccupied with the immediate tasks at hand. This trail is not technical, no additional gear is required, but presence is demanded. I readily give mine.

Up and over the roots, and I slide to the left. At the base of a bulging rock, the only way is up. Usually in a hurry, I am taking my time, listening to my body, and enjoying what is available. I am close to the meadow where the trees spread out, the ridge comes into view, and I will be tucked in behind The Horn, a rocky monolith at the base of the bowl. From here I’ll be able to decide if the route will go today, which, I’m pretty sure it will, based on the trip report I read last night before I went to bed. There is optimism in the air to accomplish this loop in the hills.

I arrive in the meadow, which may better be described as a bowl, and it is lush. For this time of year, late May, I expect patches of snow and their meltwater pouring from the mountainside. For all its lushness, this bowl is pretty dry this morning.

The sun is up, of course, but the coolness of the morning persists. I make a few course adjustments based on what I am able to see of the route above me and I am off. There is snow, but the route I choose misses all but one of the highest patches. Even now, at this elevation, the snow is already soft, malleable, and I am able to kick in steps as needed.

I make the saddle and from here it is but a short up, around, and over, and I am there, on the summit of Mount Washington. I make the summit in just over two hours - it is 0730 or so. The day is pristine. The inversion persists far below, showing no sign of releasing the land or sea. On the summit, the whole of the Olympics opens up to the north and it is snow-white peaks as far as I can see - Olympus, the Brothers, Constance, Pershing, many others, and, of course, Ellinor to the west - and I am ready to go.

I’m not hungry, or at least not hungry enough for a sandwich, so I snack and get on my way. Coming off the summit I see my two route options between me and Ellinor - stay high or go low. Staying high keeps me on the ridge. It’s tedious, but doable. Going low will require me to repeat on some up and downs through three bowls, all with snow. I usually go low, only having stayed high during my first attempt and mixing it up on every attempt after that. From where I stand now, the ridge looks dry and inviting. I happily choose the ridge.

Back on the saddle I take one more look of the Olympics, confirm my ridge choice, and instead of descending the snow patch, I cross over it, aiming for the fin that will begin my traverse across the ridges behind the bowls.

Once upon a time, there was a plaque here, commemorating a human’s life, him having died here or somewhere close to here. Today, I cannot find the plaque although I do see remnants of the glue that once held it in place. Both the plaque, and now its absence, are sobering reminders of how things can go out here. I do not take such reminders lightly.

If there was a crux on this route, it is this fin. I’m using fin loosely as this section of rock is large and bulbous, standing out over the terrain below. It’s a scramble not a climb, but it does lean over. A fall to either side would have consequences, maybe even warranting a plaque. Not today.

I clear the fin and I am on my way. The ridge is a variety of stops and starts. Sometimes I go right around a boulder only needing to retrace my steps because the route only allows for progress to the left. There is no ‘right’ way, with a lot of being cliffed out, turning around, and trying again. It is all an exploration, finding a route that goes. This is a choose my own ending type of outing and I am blissfully doing just that.

An awareness settles over me that I am here, HERE, doing what I love, and everything is going to plan. So far there is not one aberration to the morning’s plan. My brain uses the word 'flow’ to describe my moving in, on, and around this ridge, and I’m not sure I would dispute its use. It all feels so perfect, as if this is what my body is meant to do, and here I am doing it.

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I wake up, but it’s slower than that, foggier. I come to, but I’m not sure I am anywhere. I can see my left kneecap. There is dried blood there and everywhere else I look. I touch my head and instead feel my hood, a crusty, blood-dried covering over my head. I don’t panic. I’m not sure I could. Everything is happening at a pace that might rival a sloth. I am in the midst of all that is calm. I am undisturbed. I look behind me and pain shoots through my spine. I don’t know how I got here, on the snow, with blood over every extremity and protuberance. I try to move and pain shoots through my torso and pelvis. My backpack, which I assume I have taken off, lies in the snow behind me.

With effort, I pull my phone from my zippered pocket. I dial 911. Someone answers. I’m don’t feel coherent, but I am forming words and sentences. “Hi. I need some help. I am out in the Olympics and I was on the ridge and now I am not. I don’t think I can move.” I remember telling them where I was, what I was doing, that I am no longer doing it, apparently having fallen off the ridge I was on just a bit ago. They assure me they are going to send help.

I call my wife next. I tell her what I know. I tell her that I am in trouble. Again, there is no panic or urgency, just the facts of the situation. I feel silly, almost lighthearted in my telling her of my defeat. I receive a text message from 911 while I’m on the phone with her asking for her name and number, which I ask of her and then never respond to their text. I don’t remember getting off the phone, but we did. I remember telling her that I need to get off the snow. “It is so cold.” It’s 0856.

I don’t know how much time elapses, but I receive a phone call from my brother-in-law. His voice is measured, calm. I’m happy to hear from him. He assures me that they are coming for me, even saying that there is a helicopter in the area and may be mine. He instructs me just to keep watching and listening. Before we hang up, he says the kids want to say hi. There is a brief pause and then the sound of tears and, “We love you, Uncle Kevin.” I can’t help but chuckle, but in their voices the seriousness of this situation begins to settle on me. Regardless, I still feel peace.

Off the phone, Jarrell texts, asking for me to send a pin of my location. Based on the time stamps of the text, I do send my location, but 30 minutes later. I am in and out. I’d like to say I was napping, but that may be generous for what my body was trying to fight through up there.

I eventually send him a pin of my location and decide that I need to try to move. It is just too cold. Even with the extra layer I was able to pull from my bag, my body shivers and convulses with the cold. About 30 feet from where I am sitting are dry rocks. Despite their harsh angles and sharp edges, they look warm and dry, inviting really.

I sit up. My neck feels as if there is burning happening above and between my shoulder blades. I can’t seem to hold my head up without a solid amount of pain. I take stock of where I am and the best route to the rocks. While not steep, I would prefer not to slide downhill into the rocks below. I make an attempt to bend my left leg, to dig in my heal, so that I can start inching my way left. Pain shoots through my let hip electrifying me and stopping my attempt. While not intentional, I end up sliding about four or five feet down and to the left. I am able to bend both legs lightly and sit, a sort of sprawled out seat. I rest my head in my hands. It’s just so heavy to hold up.

I check my phone. Any reception I had is now gone. I am at the mercy of what has been set in motion, if anything. My brain feels unreliable. I am at the mercy of this body, if it chooses to stay awake or go to sleep. I am just here.

I yell. Nothing. I yell again. Nothing. The silence of nature is a beautiful thing. It is only deafening now. I appreciate it for what it is. This is why I am here, the solace and the sanctity. I will never fault nature for being wild. Even thought it is early, there will be people starting to accumulate on Ellinor’s summit, likely the most popular peak in the souther Olympics. Being in a bowl and still at least half a mile from Ellinor’s summit, my yells are futile. I go back to my ins and outs of consciousness. Time passes. I hear no rotors.

I am supine again, resting my head on my camera still contained in my backpack. It is the least soft pillow I could hope for. Glaringly, I am missing everything on the exterior of my pack - water flasks, trekking poles, ice axe, and my drone. Oh, my drone. I grieve its loss now, even while I am here, in and out of this living. There’s nothing I can do. I see nothing of the yard sale I had to have left behind on the ridge and the subsequent gully above me. I am conscious, but not lucid. I feel the morning sun warming every part of me that is not in contact with the snow. I feel grateful. And then I feel the sun evaporate, casting me and the bowl into shade. A wind picks up. I crack open my eyes, the world a blue tinged darkness. I shiver helplessly. “Please, God, let the sun come back.” And it does. My shivering subsides and I rest again. I can’t make out a cloud in the sky. I am only content that I am back under the sun's rays.

I am back to sitting. I can find no comfortable position. Everything brings about nagging pain from my hips, spine, right shoulder, and the hundreds of wounds on my forearms and legs. I am just waiting. I have an awareness that I will not make it unless someone comes for me, and soon. If I were to be left here for the night on this patch of snow, I would likely be a popsicle by morning. This thought doesn’t nag or concern me, but only feels factual. My life and all that I think is important is tied up in the arrival of other humans. There is nothing I can do to save myself, to make any of this better. And so I wait.

Time passes and it passes and passes. According to Gaia, my map app, my fall happened at 0823. My 911 call was placed at 0848. I know none of this while I am sitting out there. Everything else feels a bit murky, a bit unreliable. I have memories, but no way of knowing if they are consistent with any of reality. Gaia also tells me that when I fell I reached 14.4 mph. I have no context for this information.

And then, the most beautiful sound, rotors thumping through the air. I expected the helicopter to come from the front, but instead I hear the sound behind me. I strain to turn. I can’t. The sound quiets as they circle to my right and down. I see the helicopter come into view, slows, and spins, its nose facing me directly. I wave my left hand.

My brain tells me that perhaps all of this is wasteful, perhaps I need to look or act more ill, as if to ensure that my situation is serious enough to warrant this sort of attention, this type of rescue. None of this matters. They are here now. My brain can think whatever thoughts it wants. Gaia says they came for me just after 1300.

The helicopter comes close. It feels like it is hovering directly over where I am sitting, although I know it is not. The rotor wash flings thousands of ice pellets into my shins and face. I lower my head and pull my hood down, hard. I am exposed, without shelter, and yet they are here.

And soon there is a human next to me. He tells me his name is Mike and he’s going to get me out of there. I have no joy or delight. My emotions are flat, as if they are far away, inaccessible. Another man comes - I forget his name - he has the litter. I am at their mercy, maybe I always have been. The helicopter pulls away and the ice pellets stop their assault.

They stabilize and secure the litter in the snow and lift me onto it. The pain lights me up. I am now supine, flat on this plastic board facing the sky, and my body seethes. Pain is coursing through every nerve. This is the last position I want to be in and yet it is the only position I can safely inhabit. Mike works to secure a faux blanket around me and get me ready for lift. The snow collapses under the weight of his leg and he falls onto me. He is apologetic. I am, too. The pain ratchets up. And it is now that my body feels as if it is okay to relax, and the shivering begins again. Perhaps it’s the snow wrapped close against my spine or perhaps it was the added wind chill of the rotors, but I am safe. They’ve got me.

The helicopter is back and so are the ice pellets, but I’m more protected now. Mike and I go up first. I’ve always wondered what such moments might be like, but my brain is too out of it to be able to enjoy this moment, to be curious about it. I do see the underside of the helicopter coming quickly towards my head. I can’t say anything. It’s noisy and apparently my voice is caught somewhere within. Mike stops the cable just before my head thwacks into the bottom of the helicopter. He gently spins me parallel to the chopper and we are in. Aside from my incessant shivering, my body is at peace.

I think they start an IV. I think they give me fentanyl. The helicopter ride feels long, but I don’t know where we are going. I don’t think to ask. I’m not sure I care.

I feel the helicopter descend. I come to. I don’t remember if I ask or if they tell me, but we have arrived at Harborview. And I am back out. There are no memories of the transport from chopper to the emergency department. I am just in a room. There is activity, so much that a flurry might be appropriate. I am being given blood. I am being warmed. I overhear that I am 33°C. I remember some humans coming in and rolling me from side to side, an exceptional form of torture at this point in my stay. Then, they wrap my pelvis in a tight sheet, making a skirt around my pelvis, cinching it with hemostats. The pain flares, then subsides.

There is not much else to know. I am here and my life, for whatever reason, is no longer in the balance. I can rest now. I am no longer responsible for keeping myself awake and here, even thought I did a pretty terrible job of it on the mountainside. Blood is taken. Blood is given. Scans are taken. I am transported here and there. I am warmed. Oh, blessed warmth. The shivering stops.

And then, the voice of my sweet wife, in my ear, “You did so good. You did so good.” I can’t imagine her telling me this. Everything appears to contradict her statements and yet her words fall on me like grace, bringing with them such relief. I expected anger or some other projection of fear. Instead, the softest words. I am undeserving, but I receive her words and all this care that is being given. I don’t know anything, and yet I know I will be okay, whether I make it or not.