I gasped. I knew something was wrong. I gasped again, forced a slow exhale. Another gasp. I couldn't gain traction. I had to get out of the puddle. Dimly, my mind realized there was no pain. Something just felt wrong. Gasp, forced slow exhale. I hesitantly reached up and touched my shoulder, where my arm should have connected to my body. My arm was there, only a few inches lower than it should have been. Another gasp.
We were four and a half miles from the trailhead at the end of a three-day backpacking trip. It had been a wonderful and challenging journey from the beginning. The weeks-long hot spell had finally broken, and my two friends, Lisa and Rebecca, and I jumped at the chance to hit the trails for some forest time. We had four dogs between the three of us, all females. This was a girls' trip on all accounts. The forecast called for intermittent rain showers, so we came prepared with rain gear and warm layers.
We hiked nine and a half miles into our camp the first day. Heavy clouds hung over the canyon like a weighted blanket. We successfully navigated both creek crossings and made it to camp by mid-afternoon. After setting up our tents and polar plunging in the creek, we enjoyed a lazy dinner around the fire ring, reveling in the serenity of the forest. The creek next to camp pooled and plunged through the narrow canyon, sounding like it was serenading us with a symphony of water. We had settled into full forest Zen mode, happily surrendering to the peace. And then, six people walked into camp. SIX PEOPLE. OUR CAMP. Nine and a half miles in the wilderness, and six people showed up at 6:30 at night. I went from Zen to furious in half a second. Our pack of four dogs ran over to greet our new neighbors. We three humans sat and watched as the six newbies fumbled and stumbled around camp. I was sure our dog pack would scare them away. But where would they go? The next nearest camp was another four miles up the canyon at the top of an arduous climb. These six backpackers looked absolutely gassed. They were done, exhausted, and wrecked. I don't think they would have cared if we had 20 dogs and a herd of goats with us. They were not going another step. They moved like zombies, and looked half-conscious as they toddled around camp, mumbling and muttering amongst themselves. One of us came up with the name "Moon Pies," and that's how we referred to them for the rest of the night. I watched the show for a bit longer, hoping they would move on but knowing they would not, so I took my dog and went to the tent to search for my Zen.
The night passed peacefully, and our group rose early. As I left camp to find a spot to do my morning duty, I realized that one of the Moon Pies had pitched his tent in the middle of the trail. Literally. I had to walk off the trail to get around his tent. I tried to be quiet, but attempting to tiptoe through thick brush alongside the trail was futile. I rustled through the bushes WHOOSH WHOOSH WHOOSH, stepped on a twig and snapped it in half CRACK, walked through a spider web GAHH UGH ICK. I heard rustling inside the tent. Don't camp in the middle of the trail, and you won't have people walking around your tent at 5:30 in the morning, I thought.
After breakfast, we packed up and hit the trail for a 12-mile day hike, out and back. The Moon Pies were in their tents as we left. We started climbing, snacking on endless huckleberries along the trail. It had rained a bit overnight and was threatening to rain again, so we were decked out in full rain regalia. The further we got from camp, the deeper into the forest we went, the more distance we built between us and the Moon Pies, the more Zen I felt returning to my being. We hiked up and up, switch-backing our way toward the summit that would take us into Idaho. Four miles into the climb, we entered the clouds. The wind picked up, the temperature dropped, and a light drizzle began to fall. We hiked up another mile or so, huddled under the thick branches of a spruce tree while we ate a quick lunch, then headed back to camp.
As we hiked, the sun came out. The huckleberries were abundant, and we stopped often to sample their ripe sweetness. The forest smelled fresh after the rain. Zen filled our souls. When we got to camp, the Moon Pies were gone. Thank the sweet forest fairies, the Moon Pies were gone! We settled in for the evening, ate our dinners, and retired to our tents. No sooner had I zipped up my tent fly than I heard the first split splats of rain. Mother Nature was getting warmed up. In moments, she unleashed. Lightning FLASH and thunder BOOM rattled the canyon. I felt the ground vibrate with each crash of thunder. The clouds ripped open, emptying every last bit of moisture they were holding. The roar was deafening. My doggie and I huddled together in the tent. With every FLASH I counted, often making it to four counts before BOOM, and the canyon would rattle and shake. I hoped my tent fly would do its job. As the deluge continued, I checked for leaks but found none. Sleep was impossible, so we lay there in the dark, watching the strobes of light and feeling the ground move beneath us. Finally, after what seemed like hours, Mother Nature relaxed. The rain slowed, then stopped. We were still dry in the tent and drifted off to sleep.
Morning dawned cool and wet, but the sky was clear. We were up early, ate, packed our wet gear, and headed back to the trailhead. Despite the torrential rain, the creek crossings were still navigable. We made quick time heading down the trail, eating more huckleberries as we went. We decided to stop at what we now call Slick Rock for lunch and to refill our water bottles. Lisa and Rebecca sat in a lovely spot above the creek to have their snacks. I slowly made my way down to the creek to get more water. As I stepped out onto the rocks, I thought These rocks look really slick. At the same moment, my feet went out from under me. I fell forward, instinctively stuck out my right arm to try and grab the rock ledge to catch myself, and felt my shoulder pop.
I gasped. I tried to lift my arm, but I couldn't move it. There was no pain. My shoulder just felt...wrong. I vaguely realized I was kneeling in a puddle, but couldn't gain traction to get out of it. I reached up, touched my shoulder, and grimaced. I knew it was dislocated. Thoughts raced through my mind. I envisioned a helicopter trying to land and evacuate me. Nope. Not gonna happen. I thought back to a river trip I was on once when a kayaker dislocated his shoulder, and his brother popped it right back in. "Happens all the time," they both said.
I looked over my shoulder at Lisa and Rebecca. They were sitting on the rock watching me. Rebecca gave me a thumbs-up sign. I shook my head. Thumbs down. They stood and quickly made their way down to me.
"Are you okay?" Lisa asked.
"No. I dislocated my shoulder. You have to put it back in."
"Can you hike out like that?" she asked.
"No. You need to reset it."
"I have to pull it out."
"Yes. You have to pull it out."
"You need to get out of the puddle first."
I slowly, carefully, crawled my way out of the puddle and onto a wet but flat rock.
"Have you done this before?" I asked.
"No, but I've seen it done."
I nodded.
Lisa held out her hand. "Give me your arm."
"I can't lift my arm."
She reached down, grabbed my hand, and gently lifted my arm away from my side. As she did, she gave a quick but soft pull. Nothing. She tugged again, a little harder. Pop POP. My shoulder went back in its socket. Lisa dropped my arm and took a step back, her face twisted in a grimace. I thought she might barf. I felt instant relief. I moved my arm, did a few circles, tested the range of motion. All felt good. Lisa still looked like she might barf, which made me laugh.
"It worked!" I exclaimed.
"Oh, gosh," Lisa said, laughing nervously, her face the color of the heavy clouds above us.
We made our way onto the eating rock. My shoulder still didn't hurt. Lisa encouraged me to take an ibuprofen to head off any soreness, but I chose not to. I had no pain. My shoulder felt loose and fragile, but it didn't hurt. We hung out for a bit to make sure I was truly okay. I felt fine, so we shouldered our packs and hiked the rest of the way to the trailhead.
I realize in the big picture that a dislocated shoulder is a minor thing. At the time, it felt like a major thing. We handled it well. No one panicked. No one freaked out. All three of us were calm and matter-of-fact. We had to fix it, so we did. This trip reinforced the importance of choosing adventure partners wisely. Rebecca is an ultra-runner. She has the mental toughness to deal with adversity, whether it be physical, mental, weather, or injury. Lisa is a back-country adventurer, and she and I have done many trips together. She is level-headed and factual. They were the perfect companions to have along on this trip.
Between the rain, the Moon Pies, and the dislocated shoulder, this was a backpacking trip to remember. The big lesson we all learned is to know your companions thoroughly before you venture out with them. You never know when you might need one of them to reset your shoulder.
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