Wheeler Crash

It seemed like a good idea at the time. But, now the razor blades on my skull and gut pain with every breath tell a different story.

It was mid-September, the first snowflakes fell a week ago, and we needed to get the broke-down 4-wheeler back to town to get it in working order before spring. It had bald tires and no brakes – neither of which I truly identified before I drove it out to the cabin in June, reeling down the switchbacks on the mountain at mock 9 and coasting to a stop, feet on the ground like a Flintstone’s brake pad, three feet before heading over the last hump into the fast running Unalakleet River. Whew!  The only place that wheeler was going was back up the hill to town and the shop to be fixed!

The tires had gone flat over the summer, of course, so we got them aired up and I headed up the hill that Wednesday morning while Gregg enjoyed an extra cup of coffee at the cabin before heading to town in the boat to meet me. He needed to keep the dogs inside so that they wouldn’t chase me to town. We had been having an unusually wet fall and the trail was covered with the yellow, birch leaves blown down in the 30 knot winds the day before.  It was truly a beautiful morning and I was ready for an adventure, or so I thought.

As I headed up the first hill, in front of the Erickson’s vacant cabin, the Wheeler was running smooth and I was looking forward to a colorful trip to town, yellow, orange, and red leaves against the evergreens of the mountainsides. My phone was tucked away in my right side raincoat pocket, ready to document the ride. I had donned my Helly Hanson rain gear for the trip, knowing the chance was great that I’d encounter some rain on the 12 mile journey, somewhere. My prescription glasses were tucked away in my left pocket and I was wearing my riding glasses – actually yellow, hunting glasses left over from when I took care of our family pheasant hunting farm in North Dakota. They wrapped around the sides of my eyes, providing wind and rain protection without having to wear full-on goggles.

As I rounded the next corner, the machine started to strain with the incline, so I leaned left, uphill, heavy on the handlebars and downshifted to 2^nd gear with a tap of my left foot. As soon as I was out of the switchback, I was wishing I had gotten a faster start, looking up the long, straight, yellow-leaf covered hill in front of me.  Just another six feet and I’d be over the worst of it, I thought to myself when the tires started spinning. Instinctively, I pressed down on the thumb throttle, but was sliding backward already, the leaves providing a sled-like ride, gravity kicking in full force. I tried both hand brakes and foot brakes at the same time. Nothing. Now, the wheels were rolling backwards; I wasn’t just sliding on leaves. I was moving so fast that I was afraid to turn around and look back, but I knew the switchback was coming quickly and the trees beyond that would put an end to this backward race. I had to jump off. I leaned right, which was more uphill at this point than left and the force of my feet pushing off of the wheeler sent it tipping the other way.

I rolled a few times, heard my head smack against something hard and landed on my back, head downhill. My eyes opened to the green and yellow leaf canopy gently shaking in the breeze. Everything hurt, but the left side of my head and ribs had taken the brunt of the fall. I held my left arm tight to my ribs, and felt my head with my right hand, while I worked my way to my feet. No blood. That was good, but a knot the size of a lemon was quickly rising above my left ear. Every step jarred my ribs, which felt like they were going to burst out of my body. I stumbled the couple hundred yards back down the hill, past the overturned Polaris, through the woods to our cabin, moaning with every move. Gregg heard me coming and ran down the steps to meet me, just a few short steps from the boat, which would provide our bumpy, ambulance ride to the clinic in town, eight miles downriver.

Broken ribs, a broken windshield, and a very sore noggin seem like a small price to pay for an accident that could have been much worse.

Today, three days later, I have a funny sensation on my head like there’s a knife blade there with a scab forming around it. I can’t stand for more than a few minutes without my back hurting. Any range of motion with my right arm makes my ribs snap, crackle, and pop. I can’t bend over or it feels like my insides will break right through my skin and fall out on the floor. Forget laughing. I’m pretty sure I’d die if I sneezed. More bruises show up every day.

The good news is that I can make it back and forth to the outhouse on my own. I can get up and down the stairs to the bedroom loft. Gregg is a very attentive nursemaid. I’ve got puppies to snuggle with. Most of all, I’m alive.