The Fall

The ground gave out beneath his feet and he felt the sick sensation of helplessness as he tumbled off the trail. The feeling was abruptly gone as he slammed into a tree, knocking the wind from him. He had dropped his rod and tackle box with the impact, but that was the least of his worries. As he bounced off, he continued down the ravine totally at the mercy of the steepness of the grade.

Branches slashed at his face and body as he tried in vain to gain control of his descent. He desperately tried grabbing a branch, but his weight and speed torn the limb through his hands, burning and ripping the soft skin of his palms.

As the ground rose up to meet him, he instinctively covered his head and rolled his body into a ball, trying to protect himself from the one injury that could instantly kill him. The ground dug into his back with enough force to slam out what little air he still had in his lungs. He felt the terrifying panic of not being able to breath built until the second revolution of his body crashed onto a sharp protruding stone. Blinding agony filled his world and he blanked out.

Pain dragged him back to consciousness. He lay still as he tried to remember what had happened. He attempted to lift himself off the forest floor and the pain flooded his mind leaving him gasping. Even breathing caused pain. His whole body felt broken.

Sunlight winked through the trees, casting a moving light show above him. It was still early morning so he knew he could not have been out long.

He had set out this morning, taking a trail to the Sans Chambre Lake, which ran somewhat parallel to a pole line, from Nelson Lake Road, to challenge the brook trout that had been stocked in the lake. The walk was not for the faint hearted, as the area was very mountainous. These mountains surrounded the Sudbury Basin in an oval shape, thought to be caused by a giant meteor thousands of years ago. The other issue was the black flies which swarmed anyone who sat still, attracted to the odor of sweat.

He cautiously lifted his right hand to his face and gingerly felt his face, trying to find any injuries. As he ran his fingers through his hair, he felt a pull in his lower back. The pulling sensation grew as his hand reached higher, turning to a deep ache. He was forced to lower the hand as the pain intensified.

He tried the same maneuver with his other hand and was relieved to find that it did not cause him any discomfort.

He ran both hands down his chest and found a sensitive spot on his lower left side. Broken rib he guessed. He had snapped a couple years ago playing football in high school are remembered a similar pain.

Moving his hands along his sides he felt a sticky wetness on his right side and his hand came away wet with blood in the same area he felt the pulling earlier.

For a panicked instant, he wondered if he had broken his back. Thoughts of never walking again filled him with dread. He surprised himself when he felt actual tears forming.

“Slow down Dillan,” He thought to himself. “Don’t make matters worse than they already are.”

He attempted to roll away from his right side and was able to, but had to watch that he did not put any weight on what his ribs. Propping himself with his left arm he reached further back and touched something sharp that sent waves of pain coursing through his body causing a sense of nausea to add to his problems.

Not being able to see, he could not know whether he had been impaled by something or if he had suffered a compound fracture of a rib, which was sticking out his back. Having disturbed it, he could feel fresh blood running across his skin.

He was able to sit up more and he started checking his legs. His right knee was hot and swollen. He didn’t know if it would bear his weight. The other seemed fine.

“You’ve really gotten yourself into a pickle.”

He took in his surroundings and saw that he was at the bottom of an old creek bed. It probably carried the spring meltdown to the lake. He could see it descending off to his right. He guessed that if he followed it, it would take him to the lake, but away from his truck and help.

Because of the mountains, cell service was off and on, but he might be able to call for help. Having put his phone in his tackle box, he started a visual search of the bag. Buying a camo coloured bag,might have seemed like a good idea when he had found it at Bass Pro, but now, he cursed himself as he was unable to spot it in forest that was all camo.

“Okay. You got to think this through. No second chances.”

He had told Gale that he was going fishing but not where. He had mentioned that he wanted to try his luck at Sans Chambre Lake with a couple of his co-workers, but they were not slated to be back to work for a few days. There would be no immediate search for him from that direction unless he were still missing when he was next slated to be back at work.

He remembered the age-old rule about going outdoors. ‘Always tell someone where you’re going and when you plan to return.’ And like an idiot, he had not followed that simple rule.

His old man was going to kick his ass if he made it out alive. Dad had given him the love of the outdoors, but he had also taught him about safety. You always expected this to happen to the other guy. Never to you. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Okay idiot, how are you going to get out of this?”

He thought about his injuries and how he might crawl back to his truck, or at least to a road where he might find someone who can help him. The ravine was much too steep, but if he followed it away from the lake he would at least be heading to the road. From what he could see, it was a more gradual slope than the sides of the ravine.

He rolled onto his stomach, keeping the weight off his lower ribs and pulled himself towards a large stick that he saw that might help him stand. The crawl was just less than thirty feet, but it felt like a mile. Crawling over uneven ground with without hitting or brushing one of his injuries was impossible and each time he did, he had to wait out the pain.

The stick was old, grey and long dead, but it looked solid enough to do the job. As he reached it, he was rewarded to see that it had a two severed branches on one end that could be used as a crutch to support his weight.

He used the stick to pull himself onto his feet, grimacing at the pain in his lower back and knee. The stick was too long and he was in an awkward position with the stick propped too high in his armpit to support his weight. If he could cut eight inches from the stick, it would fit much better. For that job, all he had was his knife, strapped to his belt.

The knife was a family heirloom passed on from father to son when they started hunting together. The blade was seven inches of razor sharp, hardened steel, seated on an ivory handle. The initials “G.B.” had been burnt into the handle, which was his father’s great grandfather Giovanni Botello, settled in the area when he had followed the stream of immigrants needed for the mines. According to the stories, game was readily available and he would hunt to help feed his large family during the depression. It would be those hunting skills that would later help him land a job as a police officer whose first assignment was to capture an escaped convict south of the city.

Lowering himself carefully, Dillon pulled his knife and began whittling the crutch down to better fit him. Because of its harden, dried out state, the stick resisted the knife and Dillon found that he had to use the knife as a miniature ax, chopping the wood, rather than cutting it. Every impact seemed to vibrate to his different injuries and he found that he could only do so much and then had to take a break to allow the pain to subside.

Once complete, he checked the position of the sun and saw that it was close to midday. He didn’t look forward to the idea of spending the night in the bush but was unsure how far he would be able to travel with his injuries and the terrain. Thinking back, he had been walking about twenty-five minutes along the trail, before his fall. But that was with two good legs and on a packed down the trail.

Reminding himself that his makeshift crutch had no slip-proof rubber boot and would slide on anything smooth, he propped himself up and began trudging up the old stream bed. Within minutes, the crutch began to bite into the skin of his armpit, but he had nothing to use as padding. He couldn’t even take off his shirt because he could not see how his lower back injury interplayed with the shirt. The covering also gave him some protection from the black flies which swarmed him the entire time. He would start to suffer and itch from their kisses in about six to eight hours.

He checked ahead for the smoothest and safest route, before committing to it.

“Slow and steady wins the race” became his mantra. He found that by repeating it over and over, he was able to use the chant to take his mind off some of the pain that traveled through his body every time he took a step forward.

He was forced to take frequent breaks as he had little strength and his head spun drunkenly. But every time he did stop, it was harder to get back up, so he began leaning against a tree rather than sitting down. This helped for a while and he continued to make slow progress.

During one stop, his bladder was telling him that it was full. As he began relieving himself, he was shocked that his urine was pink and there were even clots of blood in the flow. He began to get really scared. He couldn’t know what damage had been done, but he had some serious internal injury that could be more dangerous that his other wounds. Not knowing emphasized the urgency to get to help. Dillon made the decision to push himself as hard as he was able. He had to find help.

The grade of the creek bed steadily increased and he was now pulling himself upward with the help of poplar and maple trees. He was only able to use his left arm as any strain of his right pulled at his back injury. He was also careful of his balance. The last thing he needed was to fall backwards. Landing on his back injury might do him in completely.

It was late afternoon when he crested the hillside and saw that he was at the pole line. The cool touch of a breeze felt like heaven on his sweating skin. The ravine had sheltered him from the wind, keeping it hot and humid. The coolness gave him a burst of energy that helped him move forward. It took him a few minutes to realize that the swarm of black flies no longer kept him company. Another reason to bless the breeze.

The pole line cut through the forest in a straight line and would bring him right to his vehicle. He still had a long way to go though. He would have to stay close to the treeline so that he had trees to help rest and assist him descend the mountain. The terrain under the pole line was very rough, in some places dropping or rising fifteen feet of rock. That had been the reason the trail had been developed. It manoeuvred around the contours of the mountain but avoided the shear drops. He knew he had to be extra careful.

He had at least five hours left of sunlight and had to use all if he hoped to reach his vehicle today. Once it got dark, he would have no choice but to sit tight. It was one thing to hobble around the terrain that he could see. In the dark, it would be impossible.

Moving from tree to tree kept the pole line on his left and slowly followed the cut. There were times when he would lose sight of the pole line because he needed to find a safer route, but he always kept coming back to it. He knew that that the trail was off to his right so wasn’t afraid of getting lost. His reasoning was that it would save more time and effort if he followed the straighter route.

Every once in a while, he would hear a vehicle in the distance and it would give him some hope, knowing he was getting closer to help.

His stomach rumbled and he thought to himself, “Suck it up.” He remembered that he hadn’t eaten since he had his breakfast sandwich and coffee while driving up here. The real torment was his thirst. With the exertions and sweating, he was needed water in the worse way. Of course, just thinking about food and water made it that much worse. He tried to move his mind to other topics, playing mind games with himself.

He started chuckling as he thought back to some of the parties he had taken in while in college. Some of his friends had tried everything out there from the garden variety pot that they grew in their mother’s garden to some high-end stuff. Dangerous stuff. He was never into that stuff. He liked his beer or wine with dinner but liked being in control. But there was one fellow who stood out at this certain party because he was really wasted. Some of the others began playing mind games with him and the guy was really tripping. For a while, it was fun, but then it got mean. Dillon and a friend had put an end into it before it got too bizarre.

He came to a stretch where there were some large vertical drops and moved further to his right to avoid them saw that the was blocked by another drop. He had to find a way around this obstacle and he was concerned that he was losing more time. After searching for what seemed forever, he found a grade that angled down almost like a child’s slide. If he could crawl down on his belly and control the speed of his descent, he thought it might work. He would have to try to land on his good leg.

It was agony to lower himself to the ground as his bad knee did not want to bend and he could not allow himself to lay back. He sat on the lip of the grade and tried to summon the courage to do this. He feared hurting himself further which could stop him from ever reaching the road. He let his crutch slide down ahead of him as a way of telling himself that there was no turning back.

Knowing there was little alternative, he rolled onto his stomach, trying to spare his ribs and with his left hand slowly lowered himself over the lip. He felt gravity start pulling at him immediately as he started to slide. The drop was only about four metres, but the fear was how he landed. When his left leg, which was extended to absorb the rising ground, touched down, he allowed it to act like a shock absorber, taking his weight and slowing him down.

As he settled, he felt the normal aches and pains but he had succeeded without further injury. It was a relief that almost overwhelmed him. For a minute, he thought he was coming unglued. To avoid any examination of his mental state, he grabbed his crutch and slowly rose.

As he continued to follow the pole line, he watched the light grow dimmer. He knew that he only had about an hour before he would have to stop and wait out the night. As this registered, he almost stumbled as he stepped on a flat surface. It took a minute for his tired mind to realize that he was on the trail. It was at this point that the trail crossed the pole line and that meant that he was less than four hundred metres from his truck.

He was going to make it. He felt reenergized and increased his pace which was the worst thing to do. It had taken only a few hobbling strides before he tripped on a rock in the middle of the trail. In a half run, a haft jump, he threw the crutch before him to avoid falling flat on his face.

With one good leg sprawled one way and the crutch the other, he had only his bad leg to act as a support for this human tripod. But as the waves of pain from his leg and his back flowed through him, it was all that kept from him from collapsing.

The last of the light was leaving the sky as the pain subsided enough for him to continue. He was able to see the trail as a pale line in the dark surrounding vegetation and rock. Taking his time this time, he began following the trail slowly, feeling his with either his foot or the crutch.

It took almost two full hours to travel that small distance which would regularly take as little as five or six minutes. The path at times was hidden in the gloom, covered with shadows from the vegetation and contours of the terrain. As his eyes adjusted to the night, he was better able to see not only the path but some trip hazards as well.

As he reached his truck, he pulled his keys from his back pocket and then stopped before inserting the keys into the lock. There was no way he could drive out of here. His right foot, that he used for the gas pedal was screwed and there was no way he could even sit upright in the seat due to his back injury. If only, the truck was a shelter from the night. He could use it to keep warm or protect him from the mosquitoes which had arrived with the loss of solar heat and light. Like true vampires, they feared the light and preferred the shadows.

Dillon unlocked the truck and was about to attempt to enter when he felt the rumble of a larger vehicle coming from further in the wilderness. He thought it might be one of the logging trucks that he knew worked in this area, so pressed the button for his hazard lights and then stood back from the vehicle. The logging trucks moved at a good clip and were not known for sharing the road.

Sure enough, a large, heavily loaded truck came around the corner beyond the pole line and seeing Dillon’s hazard lights flashing, laid on the air horn. As the vehicle shot past, Dillon heard the air breaks being applied and the crunch of gravel under the braking tires.

He might find help here.

From the glow of the truck, he was able to make out the driver jumping down from the cab. He carried a long piece of wood that looked like a baseball bat. Dillon started to look for a hiding spot.

“If any of you assholes think you are going to jump for my load, bring it on” yelled the driver!

Dillon had no idea what he had walked into, but this guy was coming straight at him.

“I need help.”

When the driver was four meters away, he flashed Dillon with light, throwing the darkness back from his tortured body. The fellow looked him over and flashed the LED light around the area. Finally, he walked up to Dillon with the light in his eyes.

He checked him out front and back before announcing, “Tabernac Man, you are fucked up!” with a thick French accent. “I thought you might be one of those idiots who wanted to swipe my load of logs. I have dealt with a couple of those in my times, but you have to be legit. No one would hurt himself like that on purpose for a pile of firewood.”

Dillon couldn’t believe he was having this conversation. “Please, get me an ambulance.”

“Yeah! Sorry, buddy. You sit tight. Claude will make sure you are taken care of.”

Dillon watched as his savior ran through the glow of the transport lights to call for help. He had made it. He knew that he still had a battle with his injuries and the fear of the unknown internal injuries started to overwhelm him so he reminded himself, “Slow and steady”.