Luckyrock
Laurel Parry
maps, delicacies, stuff sacks, cooking pots, bandages. Nylon, Gortex, fleece, aluminum and plastic.
Checking lists, giving orders and running to the
store. Pouring Port and Scotch in Nalgene bottles.
Fine-tuning the spice kit (More important than the
first aid kit, they said). They tried on packs, flung
them down and adjusted the load. Leaping around
with fully-loaded packs, dodging imaginary bears,
negotiating scree slopes. One last huddle in the
driveway, a photo to document their triumph, and
they took off in the van, windows down, arms waving. I looked at our two sons blinking in the bright
sun and it was suddenly quiet. The basement light
was left on and I tidied dehydrated broccoli, discarded Zip-Lock bags, chocolate bar wrappers and a
crumpled fax from RJ agreeing that a satellite phone
would be too expensive and heavy to carry.
Its 6:00 in the morning and the phone is ringing. I lurch into blinding sunshine in the living room.
Hello?
Its Owen.
Has Bill been in touch?
What? Isnt he with you?
Theres been an accident. RJs been hurt. We
had to be medivaced out. Were looking for Bill.
Questions race through my mind.
Where are you?
Haines Junction.
Gotta go, he says. The ambulance is leaving.
If you hear from Bill, tell him that I went with RJ
in the ambulance and well be in Whitehorse in an
hour and a half.
I stand in my nightgown and look out the window.
Itd been raining hard since they left but the morning
sun is dazzling and the garden is in full midsummer
bloom. I dont know what to do. Theyre not due back
for three days. Its Canada Day. The boys are asleep.
Theres nothing to do except wait. I try to imagine
where the hikers were. What I know about the Donjek region is only a notion of glaciers, mountain passes, river crossings, canyons, wild flowers and grizzly
bears, and this only from editing Bills brochure.
Soon, Owens wife, Jacquie arrives with their
baby, Liam, whos wearing sleepers.
We decide that Jacquie will head to the hospital
and Ill stay so we can cover the bases. I think about
this trip that they have been planning all year. Bill
has been guiding in the Donjek for over ten years
and its his most familiar and favourite place.
Liam has lined up the pieces of apple he no
longer plans to eat on the coffee table and pretends
theyre cars.
Finally, Bill calls looking for Owen. Hes in
Haines Junction. Theres no time to explain. He
says that hell drive directly to the hospital. He says
something about helicopters and their gear, a nursing station and he wonders about Owen and signs
off. I tell myself not to worry. To find patience and
wait for news.
My sons, John and Graydon, emerge and discover their cousin. Soon the three of them are chirping together and eating cereal.
Jacquie calls.
Im on my way to your place. RJs here. Bill
made it in time to see him before they took him into
the operating room. She tells me that it was his
leg, it was badly damaged, and there was shock and
blood loss. We decide not to go hang out at the hospital on a hot day with the children.
Instead I leave a note for Bill, pack up the boys
and drive to the Canada Day celebrations. The park
is full of people, festive in shorts and sandals, enjoying the entertainment and eating barbequed meat.
The sun is welcome after so many days of rain. The
Yukon River is wide and sparkling with a strong, solid current. Young people jump into its green depth
from the bridge, letting the current glide them to a
gravel bar. I look across, and beyond the other bank,
I see the hospital. RJ is in there.
Id volunteered to read a story in the literacy
tent. Rotten Island by William Steig is a lively book
about monsters that inhabit a harsh island. After
a full-scale war, the flaming lava and hot, spewing
mountains give way to dark, sheets of rain which
subside with sunshine and flowers finally appearing.
We arrive home to see Bills van in the driveway.
Its filled with a mass of splotched sleeping bags and
upended packs thrown on top of cooking gear and
spilled food. An upturned hiking boot is caked with
mud, drying in the heat. The tent is draped over the
back of the passenger seat.
Bill is waiting for us at the door. He tells me a
version of the story, the two of us standing on the
steps, the van glinting in the sun. Later, much later,
I hear it again. There are other accounts, and fragments, clarifications. But the story started that day
on the stairs, a one hand on the doorknob, please
be quiet kids so I can listen, I should get back to the
hospital, kind of story.
Bighorn is a fast, cold creek with looming can-
lent current, feet sliding on slimy submerged boulders, scrabbled to overtake him. Owen grabbed him
by the pack straps and wrenched him up.
I cant walk, RJ said. Its my leg,
You have to Arge, said Bill. We cant stay here.
They pulled him to a standing position. He
crumpled, unable to support his weight.
They were on a scrap of a sandbar in the middle
of the roiling creek, with the narrow canyon walls
now spewing rocks all around them like missiles.
They tore at RJs pant leg to expose the injury. Bill
saw what he thought was a wool sock rolled down to
his ankle. It was RJs flesh. The rest of the leg was
butchered. The wound was difficult to see under all
the embedded gray silt. They tore into their packs,
found scissors, a roll of duct tape and a t-shirt, cut
away his pants, wrapped the wound and searched
for safer ground. Bill and Owen held the walking
stick between them, providing a chairlift and locked
their arms to support RJ. They zigzagged across the
creek, traversing at least more four times, before finally collapsing in the safety of the willows.
RJ was conscious, but in pain. The silt gathered
and caked in the wounds. The bleeding was ferocious. RJs pallor looked like he might go into shock.
They abandoned the idea of sanitizing the wound.
In the rain, they wrapped a t-shirt around his leg
and fastened it as tightly as possible with tape. They
pitched the tent, propped RJ up on sleeping bags
and boiled water for tea. They gave him painkillers.
Forty minutes after the rock fell, the three of
them sat in the tent with the rain pelting down at the
confluence of Chert and Bighorn Creeks.
Ill go out to get help, Bill said. The van was
parked at the trailhead, a three-day hike away. Bill
emptied his pack, repacked it with a water bottle,
sport drink, bagels, peanut butter, trail mix and
zipped his car keys into a pocket.
Owie, he said, handing him the bear spray,
Keep him hydrated, lots of hot tea, soup, check the
bandages, and therere lots of pain killers.
Owen followed him out.
Can I ask you something? he said. Can you
show me how to light the stove?
Bill calculated that getting to the car would be
best covered by jogging rather than trying to sprint
to spread his energy over the distance and to lessen
the chance of injury. He set his watch to beep every hour to remind him to drink fluids. He was glad
of his light pack but without a tent, he was committed to covering the full distance without a camp.
He traversed tundra, summit ridges, buck brush,
rocky outcrops and game trails in the rain. Heading
up towards Atlas Pass he encountered snow. What
was rain in the valley was now snow on the pass,
22 Northern Public Affairs, March 2015