The 10 Seconds

I probed with my right trek pole into the murky runoff plunging down the swollen Carrabassett River. Moments earlier Duffel- the hiker who had successfully forded his way across the rushing river at the same spot- had let out a loud yelp, a mixture of defiance and relief in his voice. It was a difficult spot at which to cross and probably not one I would have chosen for myself, but having watched his safe passage I opted to follow instead of searching the rocky bank for an easier point to set out for the opposite side.

River crossings on the northern portion of the AT- especially in Maine- are challenging in the best of times. With the steady weeks of rain in the run up to yesterday’s ford, I knew this one was risky. I’d done others of similar difficulty before, but none yet this year and none under a “High Water Alert” for the state of Maine issued by the Appalachian Trail Conservancy, that warned “…Hikers should exercise extreme caution at crossings. Hikers may need to seek alternative routes to safely cross, wait for water levels to go down, or turn around and hike back to the nearest road.”

Facing directly into the onrushing current and with my trek pole seeking something solid to anchor that first step into waters dark with rain wash, I took the first and only step I’d make. My foot landed on one of the sandy colored boulders barely visible beneath the surface and the algae covered stone face immediately shot my foot out in front of me as though sliding on a sheet of ice. Before I had time to think or react, I was completely submerged, my pack still on my back but straps unfastened so I could- in theory- jettison it if needed, something hikers are taught as a safety measure for such situations. My pack and I were under the surface and I started swallowing force fed dirty river water, the sensation of unwanted water in my mouth and nose shocking me into the realization that I was untethered and being drawn downstream. I didn’t have the presence of mind to think about releasing my pack and didn’t generate any other coherent thought. I was under water, I knew I was bobbing downstream into boulder strewn whitewater and I understood I was in a struggle for my life.

As I write this now, alive, dry, safe and less than 24 hours from when it occurred,
I’m trying very hard to avoid hyperbole and artifice as I don’t want this to be anything but an accurate depiction of what actually happened. For perhaps 10 seconds the two hikers close by- Duffel who had just crossed safely before me and Dumpling who was to go next after me- watched in shock as I was carried, flailing, under the surface and steadily down stream toward a set of dangerous rocks, wood and other stream detritus. My only coherent thought was to try and grab for purchase onto the slippery boulders under the water that bumped past as I was drawn into the downstream drain.

One of those jabs with my hands paid off and I found myself grabbing hold of something, arresting my momentum long enough to plant my feet and push myself above the sternum deep surface and emerge for air. The current was still yanking me downstream, but my stance was just stable enough to resist the force as I scrambled myself out of the main rush into waist-deep and then thigh-deep water and much less current. I stopped to collect myself and saw in the faces of the other hikers looks of extreme relief, horror narrowly avoided.
I don’t see this event as some sort of notch on my hiker belt or evidence of bad-assery on my part. Nor do I see it as an uninformed, foolish act or rookie mistake. Yes, I could have sought out an easier crossing route- which we subsequently did for Dumpling, Curley and several other hikers who followed, but ultimately you can’t remove all risk from such endeavors and don’t hike wrapped in layers of safety protection from the elements. This was mostly just a case of bad luck.

In addition to scaring me completely, I lost a trek pole, water bottle and most critically, the only pair of prescription eye glasses I’ve been carrying. Surprisingly, everything in my pack stayed dry, even after being fully submerged. I hiked the next 8 miles of steep ups and downs in the blurry world without my glasses and made it to Stratton, Maine, where I’m now waiting for 2-3 days for the replacement glasses Wendy has already sent to the exactly-what-I-need-in-this-moment Maine Roadhouse hostel. It sounds to my ears both trite and cliche to hear myself say I feel “lucky to be alive,” but that’s the God’s honest. I don’t think there’s more to add. Max, shaken and stirred in Stratton.