This is the story of how we increased our capillary densities and Maren found a new way to naturally blood dope. It started off as a beautiful sunny day in Trenton, ME, and it ended as a beautiful sunny evening in Trenton, ME.
The in-between was filled with the peaks and ocean views of Acadia National Park, and that was mostly all (along with one depressing moment, when Maren, who was aiming for 16 training hours this week, posited extending our hike, thinking aloud, “Well if we just keep walking, we will be hiking for like 8 hours. Then I would only have to do… one more hour in the next two days.”) until the end of our adventure…
As we made our final descent from the most treacherous trail known to Acadia, we were faced with the final challenge of fording a most raging, stormy, angry river (babbling brook). There were only three stones at our feet’s disposal to save us from being swept away into the river and over the Niagara Falls of Acadia (serene pond). As we approached the crossing, Maren looked across the void and, pointing to some distant cyclists, shouted, “Follow the bikers!” As she bounded towards the river’s edge, she exclaimed, “This will be fun!” Famous last words.
She launched herself onto the first rock smoothly, without incident. Brief success. She launched again, following her frog-like instincts, but this time did, success was fleeting. In a blur of flailing limbs, she slipped on rock number two. Luckily, at the same moment, a pot-gut (please see Wilson’s earlier post), the only one left in Acadia after the ice storm of ’98, saw the drama unfolding, and leapt to Maren’s rescue. Maren’s left shin, sadly, landed in the pot-gut’s mouth, on his single remaining canine, puncturing the aforementioned shin. The result was a deep wound that bled profusely on contact. But the wound was a minor sacrifice, considering the pot-gut had successfully saved Maren from being swept away over the deathly falls. Miraculously, she had managed to hook her right hand around rock number 3, and, with a push from the pot-gut, in his final hours of life, and a bid of farewell, (his exact words were, in Native pot-gut, which Grace picked up during her Kenyan travels, “it’s not your time, your ski team needs you.”) Maren pulled herself to shore.
Erin and Grace quickly and safely bounded across the flat, anchored stepping stones, and prepared to use their WFR and CPR skills to arrest the bleeding and dress the wound. A ruined white sock, a Nalgene of water, and a single Band-Aid later, the leg was saved. Maren began to recover. Erin, however, was not fazed in the least, as the thought of our post-hike ice cream lingered in her frontal lobe. Onward, she urged. As soon as our feet hit the gravel of the carriage trail, we were off and running, with only the game of Contact, and Maren’s will of steel (and a few attempts at “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” by Grace and Erin) to fuel us towards our awaiting chariot. Just minutes later, we had cones and banana-chocolate shakes in hand. All was well.
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