Part III: The mountain that won

Today's story mostly just emphasizes the fact that I am a slow learner.

I realized, as I have been telling these calamitous tales, that I neglected to give a full rendition of my climbing accident. I've mentioned it a few times, but never given it an appropriate telling, considering the enormous change it made in my life. 

So, here's what I'm going to do.

I found an old email that I wrote to inform my long-distance friends of the circumstances of my short-lived mountain-climbing career. Because I am basically idle and am always looking for shortcuts, I'm going to copy it here and intersperse the narrative with some illustrative photos.

Okay?

Let us begin.

Here we are, all optimistic at the beginning of the day.

Hi everybody

I was going to write my sister and tell her my story of woe, then I realized I might as well send

it to    anyone I might think will be interested. If you don't consider yourself to be one of those 

people, don't  tell me.

So, on Labour Day (September 3, 2007) Jeff and I decided to climb Mt St Helens with a few 

friends. 

If you want to get an idea of what we were in for, Google "climb Mt St Helens" and read some

of the accounts that come up. I read those accounts, but still didn't realize the extent of the 

project.

Up, up, up through the trees.

Almost to the top of the tree line. Last potty stop.

We climbed about 5,000ft (I think) in a little over four miles to get to the crater. It took five 

hours and was very strenuous, but we made it. However, as a ranger said to us on the way 

up, getting up is optional, getting down is mandatory. 

Most of the climb was very steep and consisted of trying to find the best way to clamber 

over boulders and loose rock between one trail marker and the next.

The view was magnificent...

...as long as you didn't look up!

Intrepid me.

The last 1,000 ft or so was pure scree, which is Latin for "hellish". Kidding. Not!  Ash and 

little pebbles, you take a step and slide down two steps. Lovely stuff. 

We spent about 30 minutes looking down the crater, which became covered in mist about

then and it was windy and cold. Jeff kept saying "Get away from the edge." What a wuss! 

Then we started down. The first part was easy, you just kind of shuffle down the scree.

I wonder how long it took this little guy to climb the mountain.

When we got to the boulders it became more difficult, very easy to slide on the loose rock. 

I fell several times and twisted both ankles, so I was going really slowly, convinced by now 

that it was almost impossible that I would make it down without injury. Sure enough, about 

3/4 mile above the treeline, which is still 2 miles from the parking lot, I fell one last time and 

this time we heard a distinct "crack". 

Intense pain and yelling on my part. 

Jeff and I had been left in the dust by our loyal friends, so he radio'ed down and the two guys

started back up the mountain. I must add here, that I had been ridiculed and mocked all day 

for insisting that each couple had a radio. Ha! Jeff managed to get me a bunch of ibuprofin 

from the first aid kit but other than that he mostly just sat and worried. The guys finally 

reached us and convinced me that we needed to start down the mountain. I though I had a 

badly sprained ankle, so we wrapped it as best we could, one guy took each arm, Jeff carried

the gear, and away we went, me hopping in the middle.  

One friend decided to carry me on his back (right about then I was wishing I'd gone on that 

diet) which scared the dickens out of me but he was quite sure-footed. We were sitting and 

conferencing on a strategy when two young guys happened by. One of them suggested we 

try a fireman's carry to distribute the weight more evenly. More discussion on that, then 

somebody asked him if he wanted to try it. 

More mortification for me. 

He was more than willing, and this young man became my savior. His name was Paul, 

ex-army, Iraq veteran, and a firefighter, and he was an ANIMAL! That boy (soon-to-be-father) 

carried me most of the way down to the treeline. 

Part of the way I had to crabwalk on two hands and a foot, because it was so steep I didn't 

trust anyone to carry me, and part of the way I hopped.

Hmmm, what now?

But a lot of the way Paul carried me on his back. 

By the time we got to the treeline another friend had called for emergency services and it 

took about an hour for them to reach us and another hour to get me to the parking lot. 

We reached it just as dark fell. The EMT guys told us that if we hadn't made it down to the 

treeline we would have had to spend the night on the mountain, because they wouldn't have 

risked doing it in the dark.

So, the end of the story is that I broke my tibia and fibula, ended up having surgery about 

three  weeks later, so I'm still in recovery mode. It's been a trial of patience, Vicodin has 

become my best friend, and I have finally worked through all of the sore muscles that result 

from using crutches. The doctor tells me it will be about a year before I am fully recovered, 

but all things considered, it could have been much worse. 

As one of my friends said, I could have broken it on the way up, then none of them would 

have reached the top. 

Hmmmm.

Love to all
Sue

And that.
Is why I am more cautious these days.
Sad, but true.

Did I mention that Jeff will follow me anywhere?