The Valley Part II: Hanging By A Thread

My initial intention in storming off into the wilderness in pursuit of a mountain lion was to photograph it. That seemed the most logical way to prove that I had actually encountered one. How to prove that the picture was actually taken in the area was another story, but in the spirit of documentation I paused by what seemed a particularly good paw print, snapped a picture, put the camera in the right cargo pouch of my pants, and moved on.

I'm no expert in mountain lions, but I do know that they can move quickly. An adult can do something like 30, or 50, miles in a day. I can never remember which one. Nevertheless, it was more distance than I would be able to cover, and I hoped to catch it quickly. I found the terrain off of the trail to be difficult, much more difficult than the trail itself, which was not easy. As I scampered along, trying to move as quickly as possible, I frequently lost my footing. Falling became quite common, and also quite annoying. It wasn't long before I became quite frustrated with the lack of footing, and quite bruised by the repeated falls.

Placed in this situation, a logical person would probably have turned back. In my sleep deprived, mountain lion obsessed state I was hardly logical. I attempted to press on even harder, which led to more falls on the rocks. The more I fell the more upset I became with the situation, causing me to try to push even harder. The situation was obviously worsening. In a desperate push, I followed the tracks over the top of a large mound of rocks and dirt. In hindsight the structure of this pile was a bit unique, and not of natural origin, but I was in a rush and didn't take much notice. Upon reaching the top I thought I saw some movement in the forest below. I attempted to freeze in midstep, but the rocks under my feet gave way and I began sliding down the side of the mound. As my flailing arms failed to arrest my fall, my head hit against something hard and everything went black.

I awoke to a sort of swinging sensation, and was immediately aware that my right side hurt very much. Things were very dark below my feet, and I knew that I wasn't standing on anything. As time went by I became aware that I was suspended at the mouth of some kind of hole. It appeared that whatever was keeping me from plunging into certain doom had somehow snagged the right shoulder strap of my backpack, from which I was now gently swinging back and forth. My right pant leg had been torn from knee to hip and my thigh was bleeding. There was also a burning sensation going from my right hip to the back of my right shoulder. As I looked around it became apparent that I was hanging over an abandoned mineshaft, the mouth of which was only a few feet across. As I pondered what luck I had to slide into this exact location I noticed that there were several old wooden beams protruding over the entrance of the shaft and it appeared likely that I was hanging from one of them. I cannot fully relate to you how it felt to be hanging over a pit of undetermined depth by a piece of wood that was probably older than my grandfather. As time went by and my senses slowly returned, it became obvious that a feat of some gymnastic prowess would by necessary if I were to survive this situation. I had never been very good at gymnastics, but I was able to stretch my legs out and press against the opposite side of the shaft, pushing my back against the closest wall. I then used my arms to pull myself up on top of the wooden beam and slowly slide myself back onto solid ground.

I lay sprawled out beside the mineshaft for what could have been an hour before I felt like moving again. I quickly realized that whatever items had been stored in the right cargo pouch of my pants were now lost, but I couldn't exactly remember which items those were. The sun had now sunk below the top of the mountain, and I knew that daylight was scarce. At this point I figured that the quest for the mountain lion had ended, and it was high time to get back to the trail, and back home. All I had to do was climb back over the dirt mound and follow the mountain lion tracks back to the trail. I was dismayed with the fact that the mineshaft was actually surrounded on three sides by mounds of dirt and rock, but guessed that I had slid down the side closest to the beam that had saved me. I climbed more slowly, and painfully, this time, but upon reaching the top I couldn't find any mountain lion tracks. I was admittedly still a little dazed from that shot to the head, but after a good fifteen minutes of searching the top of the mound, I became concerned.

Every good hiker knows not to depend on the trail to be your sole guide to home and safety. The Stony Valley was laid out pretty simply, geography wise, and I knew that to my south lay the Stony Creek. If I could make it to the creek I would only have to follow it upstream to find my car. Feeling slightly better about things I took of my backpack to get my compass. I should say that I took off what was left of my backpack, for I quickly found that my fall had pretty much destroyed the bag, and left only one of four pouches intact. It was not the pouch that my compass was in. Undeterred, I figured that the evening glow in the sky was in the general direction of west, and struck out in the direction of south in hopes of home and bed.


Stay tuned for Part III: Between A Rock and A Hard Bite. Click here if you missed Part I