Turns out there might be such a thing as too much adventure.

This blog post SHOULD have been about all of the awesomeness of the day. And there was plenty of that – in fact, 80% of the day was exactly the kind of adventure Janelle and I thrive best on, and the best 41st birthday a girl could ask for. I’ll give you that part in photos:

At this point, it was approaching 4pm. We were already late on our time estimate for the whole day (mountain runs are often like that – we hadn’t fully accounted for the difficulty of the terrain, or the rain as the forecast had been 25C and sunny, which had slowed our pace considerably), and Janelle joked that she told her husband Kirk to call Search and Rescue if we weren’t out by 6pm, but we figured from here we should be able to cruise down and out before then.

I came around a bend and looked up. A tall but thin waterfall fell above us, and then disappeared below some snow and came out further down – we were going to cross over the water on a patch of snow. Some part of my brain noted that this is the sort of thing that could be unsafe (is that snow stable? The water is running under it!), but there was clearly a trail of muddy footprints across it so without further thought, I began to cross. In hindsight I should have maybe done something to scuff up the snow to give Janelle more traction as she’d been slipping on other patches of snow earlier in the day, lamenting her choice of shoes, but that is really the only thing I can think of that might have changed what happened next. From behind me Janelle says “is this snow going to hold us?” I don’t answer because this seems like a mostly rhetorical question, and then I’m not sure what Janelle says (maybe “I’m slipping!”) or what noise she makes because I look back at her and our eyes lock, both growing wider with terror. She is lying on the snow on her belly, slipping off the trail. She tries to claw her fingernails into the snow to stop herself, but to both of our horror, she begins to slip faster and then it all happens so quickly. Picking up speed, she slides about 20-30 feet and over the edge of the snow feet first where it has formed a cornice over the water, (which at that point is a rocky creek). I later estimate that the drop-off was about 8 feet.

“Janelle!” I yell, moving forward on the snow. My next thought is “Don’t hurt yourself getting to her!” and then “JanelleJanelleJanelleJanelle!!!!!!” My next memory is looking over and seeing her crouching in the stream, holding her head. Then to get to her I have to work around and lower and she disappears from view as I scramble as fast as I can. When I get close to her I can immediately see that her head is not intact. I say “fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!” Blood is pouring down her face and onto the snow and there is a big gaping hole in her scalp. I can see about 3-4 square inches of her skull (but only process that is what I am looking at later). She (weirdly) hands me her bear banger, which fell out of her pack and she had the presence of mind to retrieve from the stream (!!!!!). I pocket it. She looks at me, touches her head, looks at her bloody hands, and says “did I just basically scalp myself?” This is NOT a question you should say yes to. Some part of me knows this but I am too stunned to think of a lie faster than I can nod yes. “Kinda” I say, to soften my assent. I jump into action because she is standing there looking at me and I can see panic creeping in. In a split second I do a mental inventory of what we are both carrying (bandaids! moleskin! – might as well be sparkly unicorn stickers, in other words totally useless to me…) and I rip the Buff off my head and start to put it on her, wrapping it from below her chin over the top of her head. I pull it back as far as I can while she winces. I do this quickly and without much fussing or careful examination. This is going to be makeshift and I know I am way out of my league to do anything real to patch that big of a wound. I’m not sure the buff will stay so I rip off my (already well-loved and super useful but WHO KNEW THESE COULD BE AMAZING BANDAGES!) Earthgroove sleeves and knot them together, wrap them around her head like a bandana, readjusting so the knotted up part isn’t hanging in front of her eyes, and tie them as tight as I can on the other side. That’s all I’ve got, but the bleeding slows already. Janelle takes a few wobbly steps forward. “Do you want to sit down?” I say. “No,” she replies. “I want to get out of here.” Right. I look around. She shouts with some panic “WHERE THE FUCK IS THE TRAIL?” Right. We are not on the trail anymore. This is a problem I can solve. I look around and see the next switchback about 30 feet below us. Between us and the trail is the softest mossy hill (where was that when we needed it?). “There!” I say. But it’s still steep, so I reach for her hand and lead us back to the trail.

If you have ever taken Wilderness First Aid (I have, about 20 years ago, turns out it all comes back when you need it), they will tell you that rescue/getting out of a situation in the backcountry can take hours. This fact works itself back into my surprisingly calm and clear brain and I quickly settle in to the idea that we are going to be out here for hours. I don’t like it and would much prefer an escape hatch, dramatic helicopter rescue, ideally teleportation directly to the ER, but I don’t dwell on any of that. As we start moving I think a number of thoughts, though don’t really register any of them until later. Janelle is walking. I backtrack on my first aid ABC’s and rapidly tick off that she is breathing, talking, alert and conscious (and never lost consciousness), and moving. Miraculously, the rest of her seems fine. As we start to work our way down, I ask her if anything else hurts, how the rest of her body is, and she sort of looks at me funny and says “I’m not sure” but her behaviour suggests that there isn’t anything else that’s major. I don’t take time to double check. I do scan for other sources of bleeding and there aren’t any. I worry that she could go into shock and so my mission at this point is to get us as far as I can before anything changes or gets worse. After a few more switchbacks (the trail is still really gnarly scree slope), Janelle looks around and starts to hyperventilate “WHY ARE WE STILL SO HIGH UP?” It’s true. The majestic views of the lakes below – Hidden Lake and then a little further, Upper lake – now seem like cruel jabs into my being. They are still a long way down. And we are still on the wrong side of the lake even when we get to them. In an instant though I realize that panic has actually become our primary enemy at this point. “It’s ok.” I say, in my most calm and assertive voice (not fake, I genuinely felt calm and assertive. I’m actually feeling 100x shakier and anxious writing this out than I did while it was happening. Stress hormones and survival instinct are powerful, amazing things). “We are going to get there one step at a time.” And that’s what we do. Most of the way I actually narrate our steps “Up up, down down, little root here, watch out for that rock, we’re going up a bit, just a few steps down. That’s it. You’re doing great. Good job.” (Repeat. x2000) because I think that the sound of my voice will hopefully keep Janelle present and calm and that is what I most need her to be. It also keeps me present and calm and in the moment. I briefly contemplate how badly I want to see another human, how far we still have to go. At one point, maybe 15 minutes later, my arms suddenly go all tingly and for about a minute I’m not sure my bowels will hold. But the feeling passes. I notice that I am incredibly dry-mouthed and thirsty. I realize that I can meet that need without slowing us down so I sip some water, though doing something this normal feels wildly inappropriate. But is quickly countered with some thoughts about needing to take care of myself at a basic level so I can keep taking care of Janelle.

After a long time of hiking down, we finally meet another human. A moment of relief hits me. Help! I shout “Hey! We could use some help!” and this probably slightly younger man says “Sure. What’s up?” and I say “Where are you parked?” By now he can see Janelle and her gruesome, blood-soaked face. “Interlakes.” He says. Shit. That’s where we are parked. There is a closer (or so I thought at that point) parking lot on the other side of the lake, and that was what I was hoping he’d say. I look at him in his hiking boots and huge backpack and my stomach sinks. Finding another human isn’t going to help us. He can’t get to help any faster than we can doing what we are already doing. “Ok. That’s ok.” I say, to him, to Janelle, to myself. The realization dawns that even if we see more people, unless we find another runner, we are probably still the most capable people out here. So we pass him and keep going. At some point my watch vibrates and I look down and shout “hey! It’s an ultra! We’ve done 43km!” And then I rattle on for awhile about how this trail around Hidden lake is WAY better than I remember it, as I had been regaling her earlier with the tale of my first ever backpacking trip up to Aster Lake when I’d had to climb over a ton of downed trees with a huge pack on and at one point had fallen off onto my backpack and been unable to get up, like an overturned beetle.

Eventually we get back to the junction with the main trail around Upper lake. I desperately don’t want Janelle to look at the signs telling us how many km to the parking lots, thinking that she might have a panic attack. And yet we’ve already come so far and I say so out loud, as often as the thought crosses my mind. With dismay I read the sign and realize that the parking lot I thought was way closer is actually only .6km closer than the car. In a split second I decide. “It’s better if we walk to the car, then we can for sure get out.” After only seeing one other person – it’s now dinnertime on a Thursday, people are NOT heading out backpacking now – I am afraid that we would get to the other parking lot and there wouldn’t be anyone to help there either and then we’d still have another 3k the long way back to the car. Weirdly, another wave of calm washes over my sinking realization that it’s still 6km to go. We are moving at a surprisingly good pace – Janelle is still power hiking like the wicked strong and amazing ultra runner that she is. This way, we aren’t dependent on anyone else to get out of here. I feel some relief at being in control. Also, I know the trail well from this point back, and finally I can envision us getting there. Janelle is even making the odd joke, like how she owes me a birthday present now, and a new Buff.

We start moving again. I continue to narrate, although the trail is easier now and I probably don’t need to tell Janelle if we are coming to a little bit of up or down, roots or rocks. The sound of my voice is keeping us both on track. We make our way past Point (backcountry) campground, as I mentally query whether it would be worth looking for help. I reason again that no one else will have reception either, or really be able to do anything we’re not already doing, and keep going. Beyond the campground we do start to see more people hiking. I realize that Janelle is scary looking and I start to worry that people might react and that might make her panic. So I say “Uh, there are people ahead. You look pretty scary. They might freak out.” Surprisingly, besides one older woman who shouts “Oh my God!” as we walk by, most people look us over, a few say “Are you ok?” and I find myself reassuring them almost cheerily “We’re good thanks! We just need to get out of here!” or as we’re coming up to them “We’ve had a rough day but we’re getting out!” One couple is too busy kissing on the side of the trail to even notice us and for a second I am aware that we are the only ones having this crazy experience. At one point we meet a couple with two adorable, clean, sparkly little girls. I tell Janelle to tuck closer in behind me, I do NOT want to make any kids cry in fright here. But their Mom looks us over and then says “Do you need help?! I’m an emergency nurse!” Again, I quickly assess that there’s nothing she can do that will do better than what we’re already doing. “Unless you have a way to get us help faster” I say, as she explains that she does have a SPOT, but that all that will do is send out a beacon for help and coordinates. That would turn us into sitting ducks, and now I can smell the barn. “No, thanks, we’re good!” I shout, and we keep moving. Janelle asks me if I have a change of clothes in the car. I say “no” and then I say “you’re not changing anyway. We’re going as soon as we get there.” And she says with a slight pout, “you’re bossy!” and I reply “I can live with that today. Call me Bossy Boots.”

We get to the parking lot and I absurdly push the save button on my watch. 48.66km for the day. “49k!” I shout, rounding up. Janelle makes one last feeble joke “maybe you should run around the parking lot to get to fifty.” Hell no. I load her in the car. I tell her my plan is to go to Boulton Creek Trading Post and call for an ambulance. She argues weakly that I should just drive her to Calgary. I am distantly glad that she doesn’t seem to have fully grasped the severity of the situation: mission accomplished. I have the sensation of living on borrowed time, in some ways I can’t believe our luck in making it this far without anything getting dramatically worse and I think that now that we’ve stopped moving, it’s pretty likely Janelle will start to go into shock. Her hands are already icy and she starts to shiver as I tuck her in to the passenger seat with a blanket. I drive to Boulton Creek as fast as I dare on the curvy road, knowing also that Janelle gets motion sickness and definitely not wanting to make things worse. I put on the hazard lights and sprint inside, finally letting my own panic rise as I run in and try not to scream “I need an ambulance!”

Amazingly, the ambulance only takes another 15-20 minutes, which seems like nothing at this point. They do an assessment and are able to tell me that it really looks like aside from the major soft tissue injury to her scalp, she is probably fine. I call her husband. I call my worried mother. I follow to the hospital, though I never get inside as by the time everything settles, Kirk has arrived and takes over. I sit on a bench outside and check my phone: 36 Happy Birthday text messages, generally along the lines of “I hope you had an amazing, wonderful day.” I have no idea how to respond.

The next evening, I am able to visit Janelle in the hospital. By then she has been sewn back together and while it is clear that this adventure is going to leave a significant mark on her body, she seems completely herself. She asks how I am doing, apologizes, thanks me, all of which feels a little absurd but is so completely who she is that I find it all very comforting. We exclaim how lucky she really was, that things could have been worse in so many unthinkable ways. She is also already saying she has no regrets. That even if she hadn’t made it off that mountain, she is happy with how she is living her life. That she hopes I will still want to run mountains with her. I am feeling a bit more gun shy, but I can also see my path back, and of course I still want to run mountains with her!

We both still have some processing to do, but I have faith that we’re both ultimately going to be fine, stronger even. One outcome of this would be to get scared and stay home, to try to live in some kind of overprotective bubble hoping that bad things will never happen to me. But I made a very conscious choice after Trevor died not to do that. That isn’t what he would have wanted for me, and it’s fundamentally not who I am. I made the choice to travel across the world months after 9/11 as a 21-year-old with the same logic. I’d rather live a shorter, full, well-lived life than a longer one with many regrets and opportunities not taken (but for the record, I’m fully intending to live to be 100). I feel more alive and vibrant and ME when I am in the mountains pushing my body and connecting with my people than I do anywhere else – whether that’s a short hike with my kids or a long run with my adventurous friends. It’s not the life that others would choose for me, but it is the life I am choosing for myself. Risk is everywhere. On the highway home from Calgary. On the icy sidewalk outside my office in the winter. In the germs on every public surface out there. I will be reflecting further on what other risk-mitigation might need to happen for my next adventure, but there will absolutely be a next adventure. Hopefully involving at most bandaid-level first aid.