We had three separate medical emergencies in one day. That’s a lot, even for me. You might have thought I was out of the danger zone after I narrowly survived my appendix exploding, but the main way I prove I’m still alive is by continuing to make choices that endanger my mental, physical, and emotional well being. Three times on Saturday, nature tried to kill me. Twice, it instead struck down someone standing just feet away. The wilderness was a little off in its aim. The final time, it nailed me, but I didn’t realize the full extent of the damage until nearly twelve hours later when I was literally out of the woods. The alcohol probably had something to do with that delayed effect, not that I would ever admit to imbibing a mere two weeks after life-saving surgery. In the following story, assume all references to drinking refer only to water. I take my hydration very seriously. The wildest part of this story is that, in twenty-five years of running and walking in these woods, I’d never seen any of these disasters happen, and suddenly I experienced all three in one day. I’m starting to suspect I accidentally lived when I wasn’t supposed to and now someone or something is working hard to correct the error. Expect a series of extremely exciting newsletters before the universe finally gets it right.
I’ve spent a lot of time in the wilderness for someone who despises camping. I don’t want to sleep in the woods, but I don’t mind running there. The best way to deal with nature is to move through it as quickly as possible. When I was around twelve, I joined a local running club and spent the ensuing years plodding across every inch of the trails in nearby state and county parks. I did three-mile fun runs and forty-three mile ultras and everything in between. When I got older and moved away, I scaled back my ambitions to just a few events a year. One I still went to was the race around the lake where, last year, I fell and thought I broke my leg but actually just bruised it to the point that I could barely walk. I’m at the age where all my memories are tagged to a very specific injury. The other running club event I do every year isn’t a race at all. It’s called the Hash, and it involves small groups walking from station to station completing increasingly ridiculous challenges and consuming themed beverages to stay extra, extra hydrated. Since there’s no running or actual physical exertion of any kind, it’s impossible to get hurt. It’s so easy that my wife Lola does it, and she’s run a grand total of zero steps in her entire life. (In gym class, when they tried to make her do the mile, she demanded to be carried.) The Hash was canceled for two years in a row due to covid, but this year, it returned with a vengeance—and by “vengeance,” I mean on a smaller scale with a much more modest crowd. There were three stops instead of five and only about eighteen people to do the challenges. The event should have been short, easy, and completely safe, even for someone coming off a recent surgery. Bring on the first disaster.
The first station was Golden Girls themed. Instead of pin the tail on the donkey, we played stick the glasses on Blanche. Full disclosure, I’m not sure if that’s the right golden girl because I haven’t seen any of the episodes. I think it was a show about four old women plotting to kill Alf.
Lola attempts to find the golden girl by using the force.
Still slightly dizzy from spinning blindfolded, we walked toward station two. My friend, Bryant, noticed a trail we’d never seen before. He’s spent just as many years running through this park as I have. The fact that neither of us had ever laid eyes on this particular path before should have been a massive red flag, but we went down it anyway in the hopes that it was a shortcut. I’ll always take risks if it might help me be even lazier. It only took a few moments to realize it was merely a poorly-mowed detour past a birdhouse. The grass was just tall enough to hide an animal, but only one that was extremely low to the ground because it had no legs. Suddenly, there was a blur of motion. Half a stride ahead of me, Bryant did a weird hop. A snake writhed on its side and then shot off the path. “It bit me,” Bryant said. We looked at his leg. Sure enough, there was blood.
Despite being an Eagle Scout, I know exactly nothing about snakes. In twenty-five years of running in the park, I’d only ever seen one, and that was from far away. With snakes, the best distance is infinity. I’d certainly never seen someone get bitten right in front of me. As the last person in our line of six, I was the only one who got a good look at the snake. It was about a foot and half long and light gray with no noticeable pattern. Then again, I wasn’t the best witness. It took my brain a full second to register that something was wrong. The attack was over and the assailant nearly gone before I realized, “Hey, that’s a snake.” Still, I did better than Bryant, who initially thought he stepped on a stick that flipped up and hit him in the leg. Being well hydrated had not helped our response time.
We debated what to do. Illinois has multiple species of poisonous snakes, all of which seemed like the top candidates to bite a human. Garter snakes don’t exactly go around fanging people. Still, I didn’t really think this snake was dangerous, mainly because that would have been inconvenient to my day. I was in no condition to carry Bryant out of the woods. Besides, even harmless snakes might attack if pushed too far. If Bryant stepped on me, I’d probably bite him, too. We finally decided to just walk to the next station and continue on with the Hash. If the area around the bite swelled up, that would be our sign that the situation was serious. Then we’d either go for help or leave Bryant to die. We’d play it by ear.
The bite never swelled up, so Bryant was probably fine. If he texts me in a few days to tell me his leg got amputated, I’ll update you in the next email. The next station, conveniently enough, had wheelchairs. They were for racing, not medical assistance, though. The theme there was M.A.S.H., and the challenge was to push a partner down and back around some traffic cones. The organizers specifically told us it wasn’t a race, which I countered by shouting, “It’s a race!” It was on. I picked Lola as my partner because she’s small and easy to push. Bryant, with his fresh snake bite, picked a grown man as his teammate. Clearly the venom was messing with his judgment. The surgeon lifted my twenty-pound weight restriction Friday, so I technically wasn’t violating any medical advice.
The surgeon never told me I couldn’t go racing across the grass in a wheelchair. That’s on him.
That still didn’t make it a good idea, but nothing fun ever is. This event wasn’t one of the three disasters that tried to kill me, but it did nearly end my marriage. I got Lola to the turnaround point in record time. Then came the unexpected part. The organizers said we had to switch outfits (we were wearing patient and doctor gowns) so that Lola could push me back. Uh oh. My brilliant plan was going to ruin us. Even worse, when Lola got out of the wheelchair so we could switch spots, she wiped out. She claims it was because I tripped her with the wheels, but I say she just has poor balance and doesn’t understand how the ground works. Fortunately, the whole thing was caught on video, so you can see for yourself how I’m right and she’s wrong.
Next, we were off to station three. There, Bryant and I raced across a small pond in some inflatable kayaks to rescue aliens and shark pool floaties. The theme was Baywatch, so it checks out. Afterwards, we decided we weren’t done. We wanted a wheelchair race rematch. However, the volunteers at station three goaded us into taking a different trail to station two instead of just going back the way we came. Recognizing a bad idea when we heard one, we immediately agreed. Moments later, we had our second disaster. It was a busy day.
Our group of six was walking single file down a trail deep in the woods. I was near the back with a husband and wife couple a step in front of me. Out of nowhere, a tree fell in the middle of our group. An entire freaking tree. At first, I thought it was a near miss. The trunk, which was five inches thick and twenty feet tall, slammed down between the guy in front of me and his wife. A second later, I realized the truth: It had hit the guy right in the head. Fortunately, it struck him far enough forward that it glanced off his forehead and pushed his cranium back and out of the way. If it had hit him squarely on the top of his head, it might not have pounded him into the ground like a tent peg, but it definitely could have killed him. I’ve heard of tree trimming accidents where people died from less. Again, I had been a front row witness to a disaster that happened within arms reach of where I was standing. I’ve been running under the trees in this park for two and a half decades and never seen someone hit by a falling acorn, let alone an entire tree. This was not a good day to be anywhere near me, not that any days ever are.
Moments later, we came to a fork. Lola and the married couple opted to go to the left, which was absolutely the wrong way. The husband could have blamed the brain damage, but I’m not sure what Lola’s excuse was. Bryant, the guy he pushed in the wheelchair, and I went right, which was definitely the correct direction. There was a three mile course that ran around the perimeter of where we were. The three of us had each run that loop hundreds of times. Lola and her crew had not. By turning left, they were going toward that course and would be forced to walk a much longer distance. We wisely chose to cut across the middle. It was a new trail none of us had seen before, but going across the diameter of a circle had to be shorter than traveling its circumference. Apparently I don’t know how math works. We walked. And walked. And walked. At each fork, we turned right, forming an ever tighter spiral that led nowhere. Finally, when we were as far from civilization as we could get, I stepped on something sharp. It was probably a stick, but given our luck that day, it could have easily been a king cobra. It punched a hole in the bottom of my shoe, which was another unfortunate first. In all my years in that park, rubber had always defeated nature in all its forms. Conveniently, that’s when we hit a dead end and had to backtrack to the circumference trail we’d wanted to avoid. Lola and her group beat us back to the starting line by twenty minutes. She was as gracious in victory as I am in defeat. The taunting was merciless. Worst of all, my foot was full of splinters. Twelve hours later, I was still digging them out. Clearly, I’m not wanted outside anymore. The feeling is mutual.
Saturday was a day for the record books for all the wrong reasons. The Hash was still an absolute blast, but I could do without nature’s three separate assassination attempts. Nonetheless, I remain hard to kill. I have too much to live for, or maybe I’m just too stubborn to die. Either way, I made it through another newsletter. That’s all I’ve got for now. Catch you next time.
James
Emergency in the Woods