It is terribly unfair to characterize the Grand Gulch of Utah’s Cedar Mesa as the Gulch of Death. It was, after all, a source of life to uncounted generations of Anasazi people in presumably wetter times. It was also a treasure of other-worldliness for us who backpacked there during the wilderness medicine course, not only in its geological presentation but also in the art and architecture left for us by those who once called it home.
I call it the Gulch of Death because death, after all, is the final helplessness, and it was in the Grand Gulch that I came to a point at which I truly felt helpless. The hike began as hikes usually do, with buoyant walking, bearing a quite manageable load. It rapidly became obvious to me, however, that I was not up to the task of keeping the same pace as the others in my group. I was a slow hiker years ago even when younger and fitter, and now am fatter and indisputably middle-aged. I was told that a brisk pace was necessary to reach a particular distance goal that day.
Now it does no good to kick a lame horse, and it did no good to urge me to speed on. I certainly tried to increase speed, but this was at a cost of safety, as I then tended to stumble and once almost twisted my ankle. I had chosen what had been presented to me as the “short hike group” of our three divisions because I knew myself. I reasonably believed I could complete a long hike based upon my experience, but at my accustomed pace. I did not sit out the Grand Gulch trip because, earlier in our course, I had little difficulty in completing the orienteering hike during the survival weekend and the snowshoe hike up the mountain during the Taos weekend, where I had been advised that “it’s the journey, not the destination” and to hike at my own pace.
I pressed on as fast as I could. We made our first camp by nightfall. We arose Sunday morning and set off. All of us enjoyed the Green Mask painted in amazingly still-vibrant hue by a long-departed Anasazi artist high on a cliff face, as well as other paintings and ruins along the way.
After stopping for lunch I realized how tired I felt. When we resumed the hike, I found that I could barely place one foot in front of the other, plodding at a speed that could hardly be called walking. The group divided up my pack and its contents. Even without a burden to carry, I found it hard to walk. I was short of breath and could feel my pulse racing. I sometimes felt mild, diffuse pain in my left chest and left upper back as I walked. I did not feel overheated, but my companions wet my shirt down out of concern for me. We walked to a cool spot where I could lie on a tarp on a rock.
Like most people, I prefer to be self-reliant and contributory, and I did not like it that others had to carry my pack. No one complained, and everyone was gracious, but I still did not like it. Nevertheless, reality was obvious to me. I simply could not do what I wanted to do. I could not will my way through it. I could not will strength to my body nor will my racing pulse to slow like some legendary Yogi from the Indian subcontinent. I realized that, had I been alone, I would possibly not have made it out.
After a time, I walked to where others had made our camp and pitched a tent for me. I rested supine in the tent with a headache and nausea. Shortly after consuming some electrolyte solution kindly prepared for me, I projectile vomited. I subsequently received intramuscular Phenergan and oral Benadryl. I slept a few hours, which was less then expected, and the nausea was gone for good.
The next day, I slowly walked and climbed out of the Grand Gulch with a near-empty pack. Upon our return to the ranger station, I received a bolus of intravenous saline. We returned to Albuquerque.
Shortly after I returned to where I was staying, the incomparable Dr. Joe Alcock called me to discuss his concern that I had experienced a cardiac event. He picked me up and accompanied me to the UNM Emergency Department. I was there 20 hours. After I made it past the waiting room, EKGs, and initial labs, the incomparable Dr. Diane Rimple had arrived and was my attending through the night. The cardiologists saw me in the morning, I had a stress test and echocardiograms, and by Tuesday evening the incomparable Dr. Daryl Macias had come on as my attending and discharged me.
The upshot was that the cardiologists detected no obvious or severe heart disease. I attribute my misadventure to over-exertion and dehydration, although my own perception would have been that I was hydrating adequately.
I still feel tired but not at all like I did in the gulch.
A few things to think about:
1. Foreknowledge is hard to come by. When we hike with friends or family of known ability, both they and we know to some degree what we’re all getting into. In a situation like our Wilderness Medicine class, we don’t possess that knowledge and must acknowledge ahead of time that we will all have to adjust. In reality, because beating a lame horse more won’t make her win the Kentucky Derby, the group will usually have to adjust to the less-able members.
2. It might be helpful if, prior to departure, everyone in a group communicates about the plan. I never saw a map or participated in any detailed discussion about what we were going to do. I usually had no idea where I was. I was just tagging along.
3. There is a strong argument for a group staying together. At one point, I heard a whistle and called out in that direction. It turns out that four of us, all at the end of the caravan, were walking on three divergent paths. Also, I am perhaps the worst person on this side of the galaxy to choose the correct path at any given fork. I am probably the Tracker Tom Brown in the Bizarro World, if any of you have read old Superman comic books and get my drift.
4. It’s a great comfort when your colleagues show that they are really decent human beings when you are relatively helpless. It shows the true character that we all hope to find in a physician or EMS rescuer. The actions of the members of our little “short hike” group bode well for our collective future.
5. Pack lighter and drink more (water, that is, not Patron Tequila).
That’s it. I’m glad I’m alive to write this, and I am glad to have met you all. God grant you a happy future.
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