It was 12 years ago that the Stevens (Joe and Cari) and the Martins (Jonathan and Janie) and their very little kids Nathan -5, Vincent - 3 Darragh -2, Amelia - 1, Dannah - 5 months, and Daylon - 2 and half years in the hole, hiked the three mile trail up the lower slopes of Mt. Hood to Ramona Falls. This past weekend we would do it again - same time of year – trudging through three foot drifts of snow. It was, however, no longer a three-mile hike in. The forest service had since moved the trailhead parking lot down the mountain another mile and a half. But seeing how Darragh was 14 instead of two and Dannah was 12 instead of 0, and Daylon was now in existence - the extra mile and a half should prove to be no problem at all. So we figured.
After crossing the Sandy river on fallen trees, Nathan, Vincent, and Daylon kept ambushing the three girls with snowballs every half mile or so as this section of the Pacific Crest Trail snaked westward through the lodgepole forest at the top of a steep and high embankment above the river. Not really all that many years ago, pyroclastic flows from the volcanic mountain had filled this valley giving the Sandy River easy material to eat away forming quite a Canyon to our right in just a few short centuries
The blue skies and clear view of Mt. Hood which towered 8000 feet above our heads were welcome sights. It has been an extremely wet winter – actually a snowy winter where we were now walking - with patches of snow three feet deep at elevations barely above 3000 feet - and just a week shy of May.
The snow kept getting deeper and the trail kept getting steeper until we finally turned to the North and left the Sandy River. I knew this meant we were almost there, and soon the sound of the Sandy River behind us faded and was replaced by the sound of Ramona Falls in front of us. We left the snow-packed 30-foot lodgepole forest and stepped into a huge shaded canopy of old growth fir and hemlock, which evidently had not been buried in the last volcanic landslides. These huge trees acted like an umbrella and managed to keep the snow from ever really accumulating on the ground. So we went from three feet of snow to none in just a few short steps. Daylon, Nathan, Vincent, and Joe (Mr. Stevens) went by me and I quizzed all my kids asking why there was tons of snow in the sun – but none in the shade. Finally Janie and Cari arrived absorbed in some meaningful conversation. I interrupted them with my same shade-sun question and then I headed into the shade of the ancient trees and down to the falls.
Ramona Falls is quite incredible (as are all waterfalls) - but this one is quite unique. The creek flowing over the falls is not a big one. It comes from springs and varies little from the rainy to dry season. The little water that does come over the falls spreads out and flows over an area some 60 to 70 feet wide, cascading 100 feet or so over protruding and fractured black columns of basalt. It falls almost vertically, but not quite. The result is what seems to be 50 different and unique waterfalls all in the one. I have never seen so little water spread out and falling in so many places as it does here. And in the shaded canopy of the old growth trees, it is truly an amazing work of art - a sort of sanctuary. This is why I never get tired of coming back to this place.
I walked toward the bridge at the base of the falls, lost in the moment of such superb beauty.
This “moment” was shattered just seconds after it had begun.
“Jonathan! Jonathan!”
I turned toward the voice to see Nathan (17) running up the creek toward me.
“Daylon’s arm has a compound fracture and his leg is broken.”
It was just like I stepped from a peaceful dream into a nightmare all in one sentence.
I shouted for Janie, ran down the creek following Nathan, hopped over some huge downed old growth trees, and there was Daylon on the ground beside the creek, soaking wet, with his arm and leg sickeningly twisted, and screaming in pain.
I didn’t even have to ask what had happened. In a half second glance – I could see it all. There were two fallen trees – both about three feet in diameter that crossed the stream at a fairly steep angle. The bark had rotted off at a certain section leaving the smooth white wood underneath exposed. I knew that when Daylon had hit that spot on top of the log, being on a steep incline like it was, and being wet like it was, he had slipped just as it had been ice on a steep sidewalk. This sent him some ten or eleven feet down into the boulder strewn stream below – which was more stone than water.
Looking at my son lying there, broken to pieces, soaking wet, screaming in pain, with tears soaking his entire face, I had one thought screaming at me – “We have got to get him out of here - fast.” It was not going to be fun. And it wouldn’t be pretty - four and half miles mostly over and through deep snowdrifts. None of that mattered. It was time to go.
We could not have been hiking with a better family. Both Joe and Cari are medical professionals, and their son Nathan will be awarded his Eagle Scout soon. Cari took out her long bootlaces. Joe had Nathan gather long strips of tree bark and sticks and others donated their jackets and shirts. In just a matter of minutes we were splinting both his leg and arm. I could hardly bear the thought of the pain we would have to put him in to strap the splint onto his very twisted arm and leg. But this much is sure - the screams that filled the woods when the wood, cloth, and strings were being strapped to him were nothing compared to what would have been had I tried to carry him out without them.
Dannah sat down by her brother, crying with him as he screamed in pain. As we put the splint on his arm and then his leg, she gave Daylon her hand and told him to bite her finger when it started to hurt. It was no token gesture. There were huge teeth marks on her fingers when it was all done. Both emotionally and physically, Dannah really did feel her brother’s pain. Pure love in action. As long as I live, I will never forget her sitting by his side with her hand in his mouth weeping and sobbing, and so clearly wishing that she had been in his place.
The splints on – up onto my back he went. With his arm broken, he had no way to hold on. So it was a kind of horizontal four and a half mile piggyback ride. I would lock my hands together under his rear and hike as fast as I could without bouncing. Dannah and Vincent ran ahead to get back to the parking lot to send for an ambulance. Nathan cleared the way ahead of us by compacting the snow and kicking places for my feet on every snow bank. He bent small trees back and out of my way, and removed countless small recently fallen trees from the path. I, for the most part, could not think about anything but the next ten feet. If I slipped at all on the snow my right leg would bang up against Daylon’s dangling leg, causing screams to fill the forest for the next ten seconds or so.
I just kept going. I couldn’t bear the thought of putting him down so I could rest, for I knew that would be no rest at all for him, but only more excruciating pain than in his present position.
I have carried 75-pound packs before – but they all have had shoulder straps and a waist belt to distribute the weight. Daylon could not hold on at all. I kept joking that I looked a lot like Quasimoto and ventured a few vocal imitations. Daylon even laughed at a few of my horrible jokes on the way down. He even had a few of his own like; “I should have drunk my milk this morning.” And “This was the best weekend ever, Dad.” But those moments of humor would be suddenly interrupted with screaming as I would accidentally bump his leg again.
And then we had to cross the Sandy River. He had just fallen off a log crossing a creek, and now, his Dad was going to cross a river with him on his back. The fear of falling compounded with the fear of my bumping his leg was almost too much to bear. He closed his eyes, and across we went, helped by Nathan who stood in the stream with his arms beneath us to arrest any unexpected faltering. Once safely across, Joe and Nathan helped me up the bank on the other side, and we were off for the remaining mile and a half. The same mile and half that was drivable 12 years ago. I tried not to think of the fact that we would have been in the car by now . But we were finally out of the snow and so it was a race to get him down. Daylon was wildly shivering and teeth were chattering because he was soaked from the original fall into the stream. And here I was underneath the shivering boy, drenched with sweat, eyes stinging, and badly overheating - the two of us coming down the trail as one. When I would stop to regain the hold on him that always seemed to be slipping, I would try to raise my head so Joe could pour some water down my parched throat.
Finally, through the trees, I could see the sun’s reflection from the top of a car. “Daylon, I can see the parking lot. We are there.”
Janie had run ahead and had the van door open and engine running. Joe and Nathan carefully lifted Daylon from my back, and I turned to help lift him slowly into the seat. I reached up to help only to realize that arms no longer worked. From supporting Daylon’s weight for the last two hours I had used up every ounce of strength - I couldn’t even lift my hands to the height of my shoulders.
Joe and Nathan laid him carefully in the seat, put his seatbelt on, and covered him in blankets. We turned the heat on full blast, and started down the road for the hospital. Two hundred meters down the narrow forest service road we met the paramedics coming up, who then took over.
Twenty minutes later and Darragh shouts, “There it is. Here it comes.”
“Which side?”
“It is directly over our heads”
I lean forward over the steering wheel and look up. There it is. The helicopter speeds in front of us as we speed down the highway. In just a little more than a minute it disappears in the distant sky. “There goes your little brother. He’s almost there.”
Then it comes over me like a flood. The emotions from the last two and half hours all come at once. Tears fill my eyes.
My little boy … he’s almost there.
