Lessons Form the Trail – A Tale by James Mckew
With the legs of a pack mule and the brain of an ant, I marched boldly into the wild Sierra. I had convinced myself that a trip into the backcountry to photograph “nature” was a good idea. I was at the time, an aspiring photographer: young, energetic, well-provisioned and accustomed to roaming the hills.
What could go wrong, right?
So, with four days away from work and all my camera equipment stuffed in my pack, I set off for Summit City Creek in the Mokelumne Wilderness, a canyon composed of polished granite, manzanita-draped slopes and a crystalline stream with riffles that dazzled like strings of diamonds. This is a hidden oasis, a land that time forgot, a place that is still relatively untouched by human hands. Surrendering one’s cell phone and sense of human connection to this remote canyon is like stepping into a time machine and reappearing in an age when the Miwok Indians hunted deer on the stream banks and the gold in the American River had yet to be discovered.
With a youthful excitement for this untouched region of the Sierras, I summoned my inner John Muir:
Give me your polished granite spires and autumn aspen glows. Bring me waxy manzanita leaves tipped in silver filigree. Let my lungs swell with that syrup-like vanilla splendor that is ponderosa pine. And release me once again to be reborn under the pure azure sky!
I crested the Forestdale Divide near Upper Blue Lakes and high-stepped it down the long, switchback trail with a song in my heart. The creek lay hidden somewhere far below my horizon. With the September wind in my face and dust in my socks, I raced on, the promise of photographic success beating in the center of my chest. I crossed bear tracks on the trail and, in my mind, saw glossy fur amongst blackberry bushes. I imagined mule deer bucks silhouetted against the skyline and cheerful aspen leaves all vividly captured on the thin ribbons of celluloid I carried in my pack. Two hours later, I was in pain.
The boots.
The leather was new and hard and rubbed the thin skin around my heels. My toes bent and curled on the ends and pressed further into the pocket with each downward step. How could I be so stupid as to ignore the first commandment of backcountry survival: Protect Thy Feet? Simply put, I had moss for brains. I convinced myself I could “tough it out” and work that boot leather as I plodded along for hours at a time. As a result, I had broken blisters on my heels. I covered them with moleskin and band-aids, but my toes were beyond help; they curled into tight, red masses that were painful to straighten out. I logged somewhere close to nineteen miles on that trip. By the end, I resembled a hunchbacked troll, a creature given to hobbling through the woods with a tree branch cane permanently attached to my gnarled fist, each step a painful indictment of my youthful lack of wisdom. Within a week, the toenails fell off of both of my big toes.
Now, years later, with my toenails intact, I found myself cleaning out the garage the other day. Somewhere Between sweeping up dead crickets and the cat litter I dropped on an oil stain, my vision landed on an old friend, the first-aid kit from that trip down Summit City Creek. We hadn’t spoken for a while, so I called out, “Hey there.”
“Hey there ya self,” he answered.
We hadn’t hung out since September, when we spent a disappointing weekend together in Colorado. Since then, I’ve had some thoughts, the kind of thoughts that would suggest that it’s time for something new in my life. Maybe I need a new first-aid kit, but breaking up is hard when you’ve been together as long as we have.
As casually as I could muster, I asked, “Say, do you have any medical supplies in that bag of yours for bear attacks?” Sometimes when interviewing inanimate objects, I like to slip into a fake British accent, it livens things up. I continued, “I seem to have some rather large bite marks running down the length of my leg and pesky claw marks across my chest.”
“Can’t help you, buddy,” my first-aid kit replied. He spoke in the husky inflection of a middle-aged cab driver on two hours of sleep. He leaned back against the garage wall with a toothpick tucked in the corner of his mouth.
“Something, perhaps, if I happen to take a tumble off a cliff?” I pressed, tone rising. “What if I break an arm and I’m miles from help?”
“Not a chance.”
“Let’s say, a tree freakishly stabs me in the chest with a sharp branch while I’m paddleboarding in the Everglades?”
“Paddleboarding the Ev-a-glades?” The first-aid kit mimed, with a whiff of sarcasm. He shifted uneasily.
“Look, I got nothing, I already told you.” He held his arms out front in defense. “I can only do so much. But good luck with that paddleboarding, freak-boy.”
My small red first-aid kit is something I got for free at a tradeshow. I’ve had it for close to thirty years. I think of it more like an amulet, something I carry to ward off evil spirits than to actually help me in an emergency. That little red bag was along when I backpacked on the Pacific Crest Trail and the south leg of the Tahoe Rim Trail. It’s stuffed with band-aids, anti-diarrhea tablets, aspirin, and moleskin. All of it unsterile, expired, and glue-less. I seriously hope I never have to rely on it.
If social media has taught us one thing, it’s that bad stuff is going to happen. Mostly it happens to those who stick their heads inside alligator jaws, drink flaming shots of whiskey, or dance on top of glass coffee tables. You know who I’m talking about. But, that’s not me. I avoid danger no matter how many thumbs-ups I might receive. Nevertheless, that bony finger of pessimism tapped on the inside of my skull and reminded me that accidents do happen and that I should do something to prepare for it. So, I bought a new first-aid kit.
Here’s an interview I did recently with the new kit. Once again, I went with the fake British accent because I love it so much.
Me: “You look a little, how shall I say this delicately—fat. I don’t mean to despair, but you are much more rotund than my old kit.”
FA: “Rotund! You got some nerve talking to me like that! I am no larger around than one of those precious MREs you love to brag on. You remind me of a basketball propped on toothpicks.”
Me: “Fair enough, fair enough, I deserve that, but tell me, how do you intend to handle my broken arm?”
FA: “You think I don’t know how to treat a broken arm? I know what I’m doing, pal. I got this bendable splint and a roll of sticky tape. You fall out of a tree—I can hold that twisted mess together until you get to the hospital.”
Me: “How about puncture wounds? Let’s say a mountain lion bites a couple of holes in me.”
FA: “See this?” He holds up an olive-green package. “This ain’t no freeze-dried piece of chocolate cake, chubby. This is field dressing. It was invented by the military to quickly cover bullet wounds. If a big cat turns your stomach into a pen holder, slap one of these on there and run for the truck.”
Me: “Alright then, what if I’m standing on Half Dome, staring down into Yosemite Valley, and I am so awestruck by the beauty of the place that my eyeball literally pops from its socket? What then?”
FA: “Happens all the time,” he said smugly, and handed me a dish-shaped plastic cover. “Put that over the peeper, tape it down and get off the rock. Do not look around at any more pretty stuff; you only have one cover.”
Me: “And if I encounter a fluffy bunny in the north of England that severs my lower leg with huge white fangs?”
FA: “Tourniquet. Next question.”
What I took away from the interview was that my new kit has a chip on his shoulder, yet he also seemed equipped to deal with injuries that lean towards the term life-threatening. I still carry my old, red bag with aspirin, band-aids, and moleskin. It has its place, but by purchasing this new kit, I’m finally coming to terms with the odds of a real accident happening someday, and hopefully, I’ll be prepared to deal with it.
