Maybe you don't want to know the story about this stick (and maybe it's a good thing it's a little out of focus), but I'm going to tell you anyway, because this stick that sat across a wrong path on our hike back to the campground from Beaver Falls became part of our story for weeks and weeks to come.
My cousin's friend, Aspen, and I felt particularly chatty on our hike back to the campgrounds. Spending hours and hours in a most beautiful place has a way of doing that to me. We pointed out interesting leaves and rock patterns and talked about how nature fills our souls.
"If you could be any kind of tree, what would you choose?" she asked me.
Oof, that's a hard one.
I looked around and saw, right at the side of the river, a tree with a curvy trunk. Curvy enough to create a seat to sit in, and the colors of its leaves were particularly bright. It was kind of alone... a clear space all around it for squirrels, and had plenty of space to grow just like it wanted to without any straight and tall trees hovering over it.
"That one." I pointed. "It gets to hear the sound of the creek for its whole life, and no one is obstructing its view. It's a little weird, very bright, and makes me smile when I look at it. That's who I want to be. I like that it's alone, not crowded out by other trees, because it doesn't seem particularly interested in growing just like everyone else, but perhaps, like me, it needs its space in order to not feel that pressure. Yet all that space can be filled with friends. I'd want to be that tree, but I'd want to have a root system like the aspens - connected deeply with other like-minded people who can give me strength when I need it, and with whom I can share my strength, too."
She was quiet for a moment. So long that I started to wonder if I'd flown my freak flag and scared her away. It happens.
But instead she said, "Wow... I like you. You just came up with all that?!"
"Sorry," I said, feeling embarrassed. "I know it's weird."
"No... I really like you. You're kind of full of contradictions."
I've been told that before, too.
Freak flag.
We had just crossed the river and were waiting on the other side for the rest of our group to catch up when we realized that they weren't behind us. Wondering where they were, we passed the time in nervous, idle chit-chat, before my cousin Tiffiny came around the corner with wild eyes.
"Karl's hurt!" she yelled across the river. "I think it's bad!"
My dad came limping into view, and he looked hurt. He waded into the river and stumbled his way across it, relying heavily on his poles to support his weight whenever he stepped on his right leg. From across the river I could see that something wasn't quite right, but it took a closer view to see that he had a trail of blood marking the side of his calf under a ring of grey duck tape that was putting pressure on what was obviously a wound.
"It's bad," my cousin Tiffiny mouthed quietly to me as she passed me in the river.
Apparently their little group had taken a wrong turn and bushwhacked their way through a trail of their own before deciding they were going the wrong way. After they had turned back around to find the right trail, my dad lifted his foot to step over the branch you see pictured above, and as his leg came down, the twig pointing vertical found its way into the side of his calf muscle. Deep. It was so deep and entangled in flesh and muscle that he was unable to pull it straight back up, and had to fall down on his backside and use his hands to pull it out. He estimated the stick traveled 3 inches up inside his leg, even though the incision wound was only (!) about an inch long.
Thankfully he was with a nurse who had a first aid kid handy. She put gauze and a tight ring of duck tape around it to help with the bleeding, and then there was nothing else to do but continue hiking back to the campsite 2 miles away. And we still had that cliff to climb.
He could hardly put weight on his right leg and would stumble occasionally at very small obstacles as the pain and muscle trauma in his right leg tried to shut him down, so knowing that we had the cliff ahead was concerning. He had flatly refused my offer to carry his pack shortly after it had happened, so as we neared the cliff I started rehearsing arguments in my head that would increase the likelihood of me ending up with his pack, but when we reached the base of the cliff, it turned out I didn't need to use any of my arguments. Perhaps he saw the resolve in my eyes, perhaps he simply knew that he couldn't carry it up himself, but he lowered his shoulders, took it off and put it into my open hand.
I strapped his pack to my front and followed him closely as we climbed slowly up the wet and slippery cliff, but truth be told I don't know what I would have done had he fallen. Landon (the Ox, as some people were calling him for obvious physical reasons... that boy had muscles for miles) was ahead of my dad and literally pulled him up the cliff whenever it was needed. I won't lie - carrying my dad's pack on my front and mine on my back made my own journey harder. Each time I pulled myself higher, my muscles noticed the unexpected extra weight, and it was harder for all four of my limbs to find find footholds and handholds around the added bulk.
But I was happy to do it.
Happy to.
As I pondered on it later, the lesson that touched my heart the softest was one about equality. Father, daughter, ruler, subject, prophet, peon, we are all working together to get Home. Generally my dad's role in my life is to be the helper- he's my dad. But that's just a role. It made me want to look around and help more. To not be blinded by the roles people assume around me. Sometimes I get a little intimidated by the 'status' of others, but it helps to remember that we're all just humans, and every human needs to be helped, to be served, and to be loved.
We finally made it to the top of the cliff and through all the tunnels back to the sunshine on the other side.
True to my dad's character, he never grumbled. Never complained. Just kept putting one foot in front of the other and relied heavily on his hiking poles as a makeshift leg.
A few in the group ran ahead to get Melani, Jamie's wife, who, as an ob/gyn, had some skills and had brought her emergency surgical kit with her. As we walked the final leg to the campsite, my dad started stumbling more on the flat ground... a sign (I would imagine) that the adrenaline had worn off and the pain was felt in full.
Once we arrived at the campsite, it took us a fairly long time to get Dad more comfortable. Melani was wise and convinced him to get out of his wet clothes and into warm ones before they even took a look at what was going on with his leg. But it was difficult to move, especially in a small tent. Eventually he managed while I boiled water in our pot for some semblance of sterility in that dusty campground.
Melani thankfully had some lidocaine, which made the flushing out of his wound much more comfortable.
Dad wasn't happy, but somehow the following picture still tells the true story.
He was hurt, and still quick to laugh. Frustrated, and still strong. Shaking with shock, and still aware and grateful towards all who were helping him.
There was a time of uncomfortable uncertainty where we were not sure how he was going to be able to get out of the campground the next morning. Our parked cars were still 10 miles away through a canyon and up a mountain, and we were sure he wouldn't be able to hike it. But the last helicopter had already flown for the weekend, and the only other option was to ride a mule out. In order to secure that option, reservations needed to be made in the village - 2 miles uphill from us - by 5:00pm.
"I can make it," Janina said, looking at her watch. 4:35. My dad gave her the cash that would be needed and she took off jogging with Jeremy through the campground.
Something uncomfortable had been stirring in me through the afternoon, and it grew bigger while they were gone. The day had not been about me, of course, but the emotions in my body were demanding some attention and I couldn't shake them. What were they? Jealousy? Frustration? Loneliness? Self-pity? I stepped away from the group to boil some more water in the surgical pot that would need to be cleaned in order to fulfill its role as our dinner pot next, and let my thoughts turn inward. I scrubbed the scalding pot with soap and rinsed it well before boiling more water to make dinner. I cleaned up the bandages and dug out the small pool of blood in the dirt to make our campsite cleaner. I hung our wet clothes and towels on the clothes line and put our wet shoes on a rock to dry. I pulled out our bags of dinner and poured the boiling water inside, making sure to scrape the bottom of the bags so everything would be evenly cooked. I made hot chocolate, and set some pieces of dried fruit on a make-shift plate, and because I know how much my dad loves chocolate covered almonds, I put a generous handful next to his fruit for dessert. And as I worked, I searched inside. Over time, I realized that the core feeling stuck in my chest and throat was Worthlessness.
I hadn't been there when Dad stepped into the stick - Tiffiny was the one to hold his skin together while help came. I wasn't strong enough to help him up the cliff - Landon the Ox was there for that. I couldn't clean his wound or stitch him back together - Melani had those skills. I didn't think to run to the village to ask about the helicopter - Jeremy did. And when we learned that the helicopter was gone and that we had to go back to the village to secure the mule, I would not have been physically capable of making it there in time - but Janina could.
Unchecked, all of these thoughts had been growing and swirling together in my mind, crowding out the things that I was doing, and creating the sob-story of a father who was hurt and a worthless daughter who didn't help.
No wonder I was feeling terrible!
Of course, once I found that story and gave it some conscious air-time in my mind, it at once felt silly.
A testament to the power of awareness.
I shifted my focus and noticed the things I was doing, not herculean, but important. They were not things that others would notice- they were not skills that others would praise, but they were important and all I needed to do for myself was to see them, to pat myself on my own back, and say 'thanks for helping, Linds.' I mean, chocolate covered almonds might not heal a wound, but they can go a long way to show love, which heals, too, because not all wounds are visible. Once I got out of my own way, I felt deep gratitude that we were surrounded by people who were so quick, so capable, and so eager to help.
A testament to the power of intentional thoughts.
Janina and Jeremy made it to the village in time, and we all breathed a collective sigh of relief when they returned in the dark, $200 poorer.
No comments:
Post a Comment