Pile Drive (part 1)

snapping ligaments, and general trashing of a perfectly good knee, June 2010

I really saw this going differently in my head.  The original vision of effortlessly dropping over the out-cropped boulder to a sloping trail below gave way to that queasy feeling Wile E Coyote got each time just before falling off the cliff.  Why hadn't I taken the veritable 'super-highway' of flat dirt on either side of this dumb rock instead?  Now sailing through the air on an unplanned trajectory, I had enough time to wonder how that irregular nub of rock bumped me up an extra foot or two and nudged me off a vertical plane.  Pitching forward while rolling to the right, as a pilot in descent might, I struggled to correct my trajectory and re-write this story.  Where will I land?  Oh, way down there between that rut and that dirt bank; could be worse, I suppose.  Crunch; ouch; something gave; thud; crash; more ouch.  To this day, I still cringe recalling that impact.

Damn the brain-muscle reflex that made me reach my right leg toward the ground!  A straight leg and front tire made contact with the dirt trail at essentially the same time.  Bike suspension compressed - and so did my bones, ligaments, cartilage and muscle.  From ankle to hip and the weak link in the middle.  I don't recall a audible 'snap!' due to the general noise of impact and crashing body/bike, but I sure felt it.  Cloud of dust; first thoughts turn to 'gotta pick up my bike' (why do we always insist on doing this?)  As if Captain James T. Kirk said it, however, "I -- was...... un - able..... to -- breathe......"
Having the wind knocked out of you feels like dying.  Breathing finally resumed, must get up.
One step left, one step right resulted in 'containment failure', and a collapse to the ground again.  Whaaat-the?
Knee bends ok.  Damn sore, but so is everything else.
No blood spurting from any jagged bone-shard-induced gash in my flesh. Gotta be ok, then.
Better try again.
Two ginger but successful steps took me to my fallen orange steed - pick up bike and take two more steps; right, left, right; the knee buckles again, unable to hold any weight.  At least I have the bike to hold me up this time - unfortunately I'm not taking this thing any further and it will have to balance on the stand by itself.

Peter, Sean and John, June 2010

I scare myself all the time (and then afterwards laugh a grim - reaper - kind of a laugh).  Risk-takers do feel fear, yet choose to confront it - confident that the thrill and satisfaction of overcoming that fear are waiting on the other side.  I recently came across a very effective way to conceptualize what truly motivates people, and why we think the way we think and do the things we do (a kind of Freudian 'super-ego').  Condensed here from an MCN article by Mark Barnes, and in my own words - essentially each of us has a cheering section in our heads, passing judgement on everything we do.  It is made up of influential people in our lives from birth to current events; typically mother, father, siblings, teachers, friends, mentors and heros, but also bullies, old bosses, your arch enemy and other 'frienemies'.  Further, they all manifest your own distorted impression of themselves and the world, comprised of how you believe that they would respond. This internal rabble witness your every thought and action and respond according to your perception of their point of view, with cheers or jeers.  When you screw up, they're there to remind you; another Nelson Muntz "ha-ha!" to add to the humiliation.  When you do well, they go wild - who doesn't want to hear that?  There are as many different cheering sections as there are people (heads) on earth, and each marches to his/her own.  This is also why when a risk-taker approaches a cliff his/her cheering section applauds while that of the risk-averse boo and disapprove.   You revel in the approval and thumb your nose at your detractors, then act accordingly.  The bottom line is - you Care what they think, despite all other external cues.

Up until this moment of the ride, my cheering section had been on their feet doing the wave!  It didn't matter that no one was around to see, I was bowing to the only real audience that mattered.

Ok, time to collapse now; maybe John or Peter were close enough to hear me?  Maybe better to just remain in denial.  The novelty of another breath or two wouldn't hurt.  Damage assessment - me, not the bike..... although I am very tempted.  Golf ball inside right knee quickly gives way to an orange which becomes a grapefruit before my eyes. Initial pain has greatly subsided by the time I see John running up the trail towards me, shouting.  Yeah, he looks pretty concerned.  John, I didn't know you cared!  As he was only a little further ahead on the trail he actually heard my shout (scream? cry? wail?) as I hit the ground.  With Go-Pro rolling he turned up to capture nothing more than an expanding dust cloud and silence.

Peter came up about this time: "What is your pain on a scale from 1 to 10?"  "Ummm, about a 2" I replied.  "No, on a scale from 1 to 10 - how much pain are you feeling?"  "Yeah, about a 2 - just don't make me move it!"  He's got to be in shock because he's not answering my questions, Peter thought.  Rest.  Fluids.  Lie down and elevate the legs.  Ok, now how the heck do we get out of here?  Options surfacing and sinking to the chemical cascade of millions of synapse's transmitting.  "Swear, now.  Just promise me there will be no helicopter rescue!!"  Holy crap - I think I had this same conversation with Peter about 6 years ago [see The Trough].

Pile Drive (part 2)

snapping ligaments, and general trashing of a perfectly good knee, June 2010

It promised to be another perfect weekend on some familiar, though not often ridden trails.  Peter and I drove up to Big Bear Lake, checked in, unloaded and contacted John.  Little left to do but look forward to an early start Saturday.  Weather, gas, plan, route, all good to go.  A mix of open trail and technical, rocky ascents gave way to many fast forest road sections.  This prompted a late day 'photo shoot' doing power-slides ahead of John in an effort to coax the lens of his camera into following my every perceived radical demonstration of skill.  The day ended with a banquet dinner and the promise of another day in the dirt the next morning.  Sunday's ride led to different trails of varying excitement and difficulty, and the conclusion you now know.

"Get back from that cliff edge, now!!" my mother would frequently admonish.  I had always sought to push the envelope, climb or jump from rock to rock, tree to tree, place to place, as a kid.  On foot, bicycle or motorcycle, that's my thing (oh, and wheelies too - that's my thing).  I can't help it.  Showing off only to the audience in my head, I spent that morning purposely targeting each rock or boulder I could find along these trails.  Our rocky descent down toward Deep Creek was no different.   Tire worn paths snaked around and beside virtually every rocky protrusion, but the internal cheering throngs compelled me to jump over the top of each one rather than ride around.  It all happened very fast, yet in slow-mo at the same time. The last one of dozens seemed fairly uniform except for a very small nub on the top edge - this small nub would cause me trouble for the next 18 months. 

After stabilization and a plan of action, John found a pickup truck chugging along somewhere down the trail.  The couple and young son graciously agreed to load up my spooked mount and its rider and ferry us past the final steep section of the trail.

In under 10 minutes of the first billowing cloud of post-crash dust, the return trip home had begun.  My ignoble descent the final quarter mile would be in the bed of a jacked-up pick-me-up.  My still-trusty (?) orange steed beside me, however threatened to exact further revenge on my swollen right knee; with each rock-induced, suspension-enhanced bounce, it hopped a little closer until I resorted to fighting it off each time with a well-timed, mid-hop counter-shove.

Sean's-eye view from back of pickup

Back on relatively flat earth again, the bike and the wounded contemplated next steps.  I could overhear John and Peter conferring in hushed tones.  I love the way in which the injured and seemingly incapable are always left out of these discussions!  Once the words 'wait' and 'keys' and 'drive back' were repeated one too many times, I piped up "I'm riding back".  When the amount of time, delay and driving also sunk in with them (it hit me instantly as I'd be the one waiting), they reluctantly authorized my solo mission.  I just couldn't get on the thing or start it by myself.  This was achieved only by sporting a permanent grimace, but wasn't that hard in the end.  Obliging me with a first gear selection, we hit the trail again.

34 miles remained, most of it pavement.  Boy, am I glad I didn't wait for the posse to return with the wagon train.  I figured we'd be back without further incident, but noticed Peter's image had suddenly left my mirror about half way back.  I pulled off and waited for John to reconnoitre - bloody Aussie ran out of gas, leaving me holding my KTM and myself up on one leg by the side of the road for another 10 minutes.  It actually was an uneventful and relatively painless ride the rest of the way back to the truck.  Peter and John did the loading & packing while my elevated knee continued loading and packing with the body's stress response agents.  Fortunately, though, I never got to see what 'melon-sized' was going to look like...!

Call to wife while waiting.  "Oh, yeah - awesome weekend.  great weather, fun ride.  Oh, and when I get back, don't worry about it, I'm fine."  "What did you do?" she knowingly intoned.  Those words, "I'm fine" mean anything but to a concerned spouse.  Surgery and many months of recovery remained in my future...

[Final MRI tally: torn ACL, torn meniscus, microfractures to tibia and femur, bone bruising in head of tibia and femur, broken fibula, torn muscle and some other partially torn ligament]

Grand Canyon Snow Day

they say it never snows in Arizona....  April, 2010

Dave and I were paired up to drive the 5 or 6 hours to Mesquite, NV where we would meet the rest of the good folks from the SDAR motorcycle group.  Our final destination was the Bar10 Ranch by dual sport motorcycle, roughly 10 miles north of the north rim of the Grand Canyon - easy route, great weather and great conditions in the forecast.  Since Dave's quad was not street legal, I had to shuttle it a few miles with the trailer before we could hammer dirt.  We further anticipated a somewhat slower pace than the rest of the pack given the quad, so Dave and I headed out first on the day.  We made good time despite the requisite photo-op stops and over-shoulder glances for the rabble sure to be gaining on our flank.  By 100 miles on my digital odometer and roughly 2:30 in the afternoon, we could make out the gated entrance to the ranch, and surprise, were also the first to arrive (no, it's not a race!  but yeah, we got there first).

2,000 feet above the Colorado River

Along with Paul, Ron and Jon we took the obligatory run down the final 10 miles to the rim of the Grand Canyon.  But, not before stopping to change the tube in Jon's flat front tire.  We were finally rewarded with stunning views perched 2000 ft above the Colorado River.  More photo-ops done, I headed solo back to the ranch to clean up in anticipation of a real cowboy dinner.  Sneeker had the where-with-all to bring a mickey of whiskey and the good sense to share (mental note for next year).

Dave and I were the only duo returning to Mesquite from Bar10 the following day, while the rest of the group did a day ride up to Toroweap overlook, at 3,000 feet above the Colorado. Given the gloriously perfect weather and conditions the previous day, the return ride was promising to be a fun but easy 100 miles to end the trip. It would be anything but.

9am and all's well

A fast dirt road segment brought us to the landmark Trumbull schoolhouse in very short order, enjoying moderate temperatures under clear blue skies.  A scattering of distant grey to the west did not yet portend much change on the day.  Our north-westerly route would take us a different way than we had come, skirting barbed cattle fences, ditches and rutted jeep trails.  It appeared that we were making great progress and would soon be loading up the trailer again.

Not long after, a growing darkness and dropping digits signaled the turning point.  But it was not until the first few flakes and associated chill did we stop and re-assess our selection of gear.  Adding every layer we had and doubling up on gloves eased our apprehension at whatever might still find us over the next ridge.  It was well under 20 minutes from the first flake to a serious snow squall and reduced visibility - jackets and gloves soaked in the melting flakes - we were soon quite wet and shivering cold.  We continued to gain elevation and hit high winds and driving sleet at 6500ft.  Temperatures continued to drop, winds went to '11' and higher elevations led to a virtual white-out at times.  As if the intense cold, wet, stinging snow drops and poor visibility weren't enough, we had one more truly daunting concern - losing our way.  The rocky and sparsely vegetated ridge we now traversed displayed few signs of an actual trail under optimal circumstances; rapidly accumulating snow on the ridge completely obscured the already thin path.  Frozen snow driven by the strong westerly winds stung our faces and periodically filled our goggles as we navigated along a ghostly route.  Barely capable of seeing let alone coordinating a motorcycle in these conditions, all that stood between us and a freezing night in the mountains was faith in a squiggly purple-ish line on a tiny GPS screen.

Dave and his quad on our trail to nowhere

This squiggly line continued to lead us to higher elevations, broken by the occasional merciful descent and momentary shelter from the wind.  Teased by each brief respite and already past the point of no return, we felt little choice but to press on, hoping each new bend, tree or turn would reveal better conditions.  Additionally unsure of exactly how far we had remaining to ride, we willed ourselves into believing that it could not be much longer.  And then we ran into our biggest obstacle yet.  Snow drifts two and three feet deep guarded the final path to our exit from this bizarre snowglobe of a world.  Dave's four wheels took the lead to help compress a lane for my two.  I also found that the right combination of speed and hydroplaning (snowplaning?) could sail my KTM over onto the next firm section of the trail sometimes, before we encountered continuous accumulations up to 2 feet that would bury my single-track wheels to the axles.   Near-frozen hands added to the difficulty of maintaining forward progress, as well as growing apprehensions about making it to Mesquite before dark.  Wind-blown drifts gave way to full ground cover that necessitated a push/pull/drag/carry technique and which would have stranded a solo rider.

two-wheeled snowmobile

At one particularly cold rest stop, between arm windmills to centrifugally re-charge my hands with blood, I panned the cursor on my GPS screen north about 8-10 miles.  The 15 freeway was visible, where dozens of vehicles at that very moment were no doubt buzzing along in 75 degree temperatures, oblivious to the conditions so close and 7,000 feet up.

20 miles or more of mixed snow, dirt and wind gave way to another 5-10 miles of heavy wet clay and deep ruts before the trail started to dry out. This was a blessing compared to what we had just traversed, and foot by foot, mile by mile we finally made it to our final test of the day.  The sign warned "Road not maintained; Use at your own risk".  I don't know who's idea of a road this was, but we'd take it!  This last section was a steep, loose rock, stair-step of a descent over 5000 vertical feet in roughly 4-5 miles, and down to the into the warm and inviting desert outside of Mesquite.  The difference in temperature here alone was incredible, added to clear skies and dry trails.  At least I was finally back in my element and beginning to feel my fingers again.  Only then were we finally able to give thanks, rest assured that we would be spending that night in a cheap hotel rather than a hastily dug snow cave.

Sean and Dave, April 2010

Back home the following afternoon, serious bike cleaning was required - I think it must have taken 2 hours to cut through all the hardened clay.  With hindsight, it is easy to label this an epic trip, made all the better for a good story to tell.  It's rarely about the destination, rather the journey.  Godfather of adventure racing, Gerard Fusil said 'It's not an adventure until something goes wrong'.  Awesome views, great riding and a fantastic group out this ride. We would later hear all the adventures of the others, some of whom encountered similar conditions on their day-loop before turning back to the ranch - Dave and I made several calls to the 800# for Bar10 (only sat-phone out there) to try to send a message back and ensure the group did not return the following day the way we had come. Thankfully we heard back the next morning that the message was successfully relayed and that they all took the 'low road' home.....

Headlong (part 1)

Diving Headlong - a collection of scuba diving misadventures

"Great, now whom am I supposed to follow?", I thought with exasperation.  Re-learning  the importance of proper dive planning sucks when you're already committed at 65 feet watching your two dive buddies fade into the green-brown in opposite directions.  Clearly there's a reason 'buddy' usually means only two.  While on a charter dive near San Diego with Chris Crawford another diver approached us as we were about to descend the buoy line attached to the hull of the Ruby E wreck.  Solo diving is frowned upon is most recreational diving circles, and we felt we couldn't say no to his request to join us and leave him on his own.  We are all similarly trained, right?  How problematic could it be?  Once at the wreck, Chris turned towards the bow and our dive-interloper kicked towards the stern, leaving me watching both tanks disappear and unable to signal to either; the only choice left was which one to follow.  A mere flick of a fin's worth of decision-making put each of them outside my range of visibility in the cold Pacific coastal surge.  Choosing to head for the bow it took a ridiculously long 4-5 minutes before I was able to rejoin Chris.  Later in the dive our 'thirddy' was found, engrossed in a photo-snapping daze and unaware of having played any role in the anxiety I still felt.  I suppose he just needed the security of keeping us in sight to get to the wreck and was happy on his own after that - we never asked and he never offered.  As if I needed a reminder, I will never again change a dive plan once agreed upon at the boat or shore.

Scuba diving has been an important part of my life since my early teens, and the early recreational origins of the sport.  While it has been one of the most wonderful things I have experienced, it hasn't been without a few spikes of uninvited drama.  Scuba is not for the physically compromised, the untrained or the fool.  At least the accepted death rate of 1/200,000 is far better than that of attempting Everest!  And over one third of deaths are from cardiac arrest due to poor fitness.  Unlike most other recreational pursuits, however, you are on the clock and your only escape is generally straight up; but that's what buddies are for, too, buying you and extra few minutes of breathing time to count life's meager blessings (but it's always nice to have a decoy when your self-preservation instinct kicks in as you feel the sandpapery drag of a Great White brushing past your leg).  There are a hundred different ways to die and it often starts with uncontrolled panic.  Although I enjoy rock climbing, flying, motorcycle racing and dirt riding, these may threaten to seriously maim while in scuba you simply can't breathe water.  True to all these activities, however, is a core necessity for training, skill derived through time and experience, and the knowledge and application of specific safety procedures.  These are not foolhardy death-wishes, or trusting in blind faith, but a choice to live life to the fullest extent possible with allowances for calculated risk. Each of us has a risk envelope - that lack-of-safety-net-no-fallback moment we are willing to accept for a given time, circumstance, activity and experience.  Some of us gravitate toward the Really Big envelope aisle at the risk-tolerance supply store.

Always a strong swimmer as a boy, especially in my bright orange 'carrot top' bathing suit, I was fascinated by sharks and undersea life too (after my obligatory dinosaur phase, of course).  I would further spend hours reading and thinking about the oceans and its inhabitants.  While I was drawn to the water, it could also invoked an irrational feeling of 'dun-dun-dun-daaaaah...'; fears of dark water, 'bottomlessness' and the unknown constantly pulled at me when around water.  Even pools!  This would happen frequently throughout my life and in a way I challenged those inner feelings each time by diving headlong into what I feared most.

At age 12 or 13 I was given a chance by an uncle to try out a set of scuba gear while on vacation in Nova Scotia.  The brief shore dive in heavy surf was not smooth or easy, but it definitely confirmed that I had to do this thing again.  Returning home I signed up with the YMCA for a NAUI scuba course and was introduced to Andy Barbacki.  The science and math content of the training course struck a chord and held my attention between pool training sessions.  At 13 I was amongst the youngest in Canada to pass all required course work, and was in fact too young to complete the open water certification.  At 14 I finally became certified.

Headlong (part 2)

Diving Headlong - a collection of scuba diving misadventures

During my open water certification dive at Sherkston Quarry, my dive buddy was Spencer Fox.  Visibility in the quarry was notoriously poor, averaging between 4 and 10 feet and necessitating a buddy line at times.  I experienced quite auspicious beginnings when strange noises in my regulator prompted an initial twinge of panic.  Rotating 360+ degrees revealed only filtered green spookiness and no buddy, caused me to finally flee for the surface.  Upon re-grouping and resuming the dive, I got a little too close to my buddy and had my mask kicked off my face in return for this miscalculation.  Continuing to breathe, however, I replaced the mask and purged it of water, thanks to the effectiveness of rehearsed pool training.  I again caught up with my buddy about 15 feet below me.  Bright red eyeballs from mask-squeeze would be his take-home for the day - a lesson in the uselessness of panic would be mine.

Similarly, getting too close to my buddy on another occasion resulted in the regulator being kicked out of my mouth.  We were at 85 feet and inside the engine room of the Wolfe Islander II, not far from Kingston, Ontario.  Rather comfortable with it at the time, I left the regulator out long enough in an attempt to confront Trevor with the evidence.  I should probably just leave it in and breathe.  Our ascent found the small power boat we had moored to the buoy line well on its way to swamping.  A strong wind had whipped up, pushing 2 foot waves to 4 foot waves in the short period we had been submerged.  Stuart and I bailed while Trevor made for the shore.  We barely avoided becoming a side-attraction to the Wolfe Islander II wreck, and subsequently motored the remaining half-mile or so back to the boat launch where we had left the trailer.

Gotta watch out for the sea life too - while I have seen perhaps hundreds of sharks and dozens of moray eels, these creatures typically don't bother you if you don't bother them.  It's the little guys you sometimes have to watch out for the most.  In Hawaii as a teen I watched our diver master 'feed the fish' by breaking apart a sea urchin.  When I tried to replicate this demonstration myself, a sea urchin spike got lodged in my thumb - ached for days.

A strange jelly fish encounter left similar, lingering reminder of the experience.  I had the incredible good fortune to dive with Ron and Valerie Taylor off Heron Island in Australia in the 90's (Ron and Valerie consulted on the film Jaws, and were featured in many nature magazines including the National Geographic).  Floating at 15 feet for a 3 minute decompression stop I began to feel an odd tingling sensation around my mouth which quickly turned into a burning sensation and bewilderment at what could be causing this.  Removing my regulator revealed an errant strand of tentacle wrapped around regulator mouthpiece; as I brushed it off and it floated away the burning continued to increase as the barbed nematocysts did their thing pumping venom into my skin.  For the next two days I wore a burning clown-face in the form of a thin red line ringing my mouth.

Sean and Cindy, St. Maarten, February 2006

Some can dive without aids to navigation, and many do dive without even a basic understanding of what proper navigation is or how to apply it.  Except for 'which way is up', there can often be real potential for losing one's bearings.  You might get lucky and find the anchor; you might not have a current drawing you away from the shore or vessel you jumped from; you might also end up swimming a long way for the boat or even lost bobbing between successive swells.  Cindy and I were on a charter dive off San Clemente island when I discovered that my compass had stopped working - proper and frequent maintenance of gear is a number one priority (another re-learned lesson - check!).  We proceeded with our dive and had planned to surface within easy sight/swim of the boat.  When we did surface, we were somewhat further away than hoped, but still not many hundreds of yards.  The kelp beds ringing parts of the island can extend 75 feet from the bottom and spread out in thick, stringy clumps at the surface.  It was in the middle of one of the beds that we had surfaced, and remaining there risked entanglement.  But without a compass and accurate bearing it is virtually impossible to swim in a straight line under water.  We had to surface multiple times in order to take a mental bearing on the dive boat, only to resurface pointing 90 degrees off our intended path.  The effect is similar to, but much more magnified than trying to walk a straight line in the woods; the surge, currents and moving kelp stalks defy ones ability to swim a straight line.  Swimming on the surface, however, was fraught with greater risk of entanglement in the kelp.  We were finally able to get from the most dense part of the kelp bed, and closer to the boat, reaching it quite exhausted.  I have not been diving without a functioning compass since.

Did I mention proper maintenance of dive gear?  Yes, indeed.  This came into play again during another wreck dive, this time the 366 ft Yukon destroyer escort in 100 feet of water off San Diego's Mission Bay.  The descent and first 10 or so minutes of the dive went as planned, until my buddy began to experience buoyancy problems.  No matter how much air he put into his BCD (buoyancy compensator device), he was unable to maintain neutral buoyancy, and it seemed to be getting worse.  While attempting to accommodate the problem, his weightbelt loosened and he grabbed it just before it sank to some dark recess of the wreck.  Was he going to sink to the bottom or rocket to the surface?  Deck railing for a hand-hold amounted to the difference at the moment.  Trying to understand his problem and calm the rising fear in his eyes, I grabbed the belt and was in the process of buckling it on when the dive master came by.  Just a pretty lil' thing of small stature and casual demeanor, she quickly snapped to in-charge-mode and damn, she was good!  Losing her camera in the process, she helped to stabilize the situation and see that we were sufficiently capable of returning to the surface by the buoy line.  It would later be identified as a tear in the BCD inner liner that caused it to fill with water as much as it filled with air.  Improper cleaning and failure to stow partially inflated were to blame.  A now-useless piece of equipment tossed onto the pile of gear-maintenance reminders.

There are other stories; maybe I'll add them sometime.  Exhausted diver rescue off Catalina; fin strap breaks; regulator malfunction - and these can literally freeze.  In an unrelated parting word of warning: do not remain down-wind of Trevor when he begins to peel off a neoprene suit after a dive.  Trust me.