“It’s just a strong suspicion, but yes. Come on, pal, don’t leave me hanging.”
Cap relented, but not with any of his typical enthusiasm.
* * *
THE EARLY
morning air woke Lou more completely than any cup of coffee ever could. From the lodge’s front porch, he scanned the thick band of mist that blanketed the forest. The forecast, posted in the lobby, called for the drizzle and fog to dissipate over the next few hours, then give way to sunshine.
It was just twenty or so minutes past dawn. The drizzle wasn’t much, but it was more than enough to dampen the ground and make the rocks slick. They would have to be extra careful. Despite the conditions, Lou could hardly wait to immerse himself in these woods once again. The serenity and natural beauty of the place was food for his soul, and he vowed to find a way to make trail running a more regular part of his life—maybe join a club of some sort.
Cap was stretching his hamstrings on the lawn, looking only a little more awake than when Lou had roused him a half hour before. He had crawled out of bed mumbling about the predicted fog, drizzle, and rain. But typical of the man, he was rallying.
“Okay, buddy, I’m warmed up,” Cap announced, looking again like the determined athlete he was. “Which way are we headed?”
Lou unfolded the contour map.
“We’re going to wind our way up the Blue Ridge Trail, right here. It looks like we’ll be pretty high up, so we might get a bit winded.”
“You got the GPS?”
“Right here in my pack,” Lou said, holding up the bag. “Snacks and water, too.”
Lou had checked both Trail Runner backpacks after his slips. Moleskin, two four-inch ACE bandages, rope, knife, mini flashlight, the map, Band-Aids, gauze, and a finger splint. He also had a special hemostatic bandage he had appropriated from the ER that would help to clot any bleeding from a scrape to a more serious laceration. He was betting the kit would see some use.
“How far are we going?” Cap asked.
“Hour out and an hour back, is what the concierge said.”
“Then let’s hit it.”
Lou started at a brisk jog, and behind him, Cap kept pace. By the time they left the hotel property, Lou’s sneakers were soaked. They continued running single file, following signs to the Blue Ridge Trail, which quickly diverged from the one they had taken two days before. This one initially rose sharply through dense forest, then leveled, then rose again. Beautiful. Absolutely magnificent. The overcast brightened as the canopy thinned. The drizzle seemed to be letting up. Lou quickly came in tune with his body. His legs felt strong, and the slope was presenting no breathing difficulties—at least not yet.
“Still thinking about my bed,” Cap said from behind.
“We’ll run that thought right out of your head,” Lou called back.
In his mind, a trail qualified as a technical run if it had substantial terrain variation, challenging rock formations, maybe large cracks and exposed roots, and quick changes in elevation. In other words, if it could answer “absolutely” to the question: Can I end up in the hospital if I’m not careful? Lou slowed his pace. The Blue Ridge Trail, especially given the weather, was fitting his definition of technical with the equivalent of a summa cum laude GPA from Yale.
Thirty minutes into the run his lungs began to burn. His nostrils flared as he worked harder to get in air. From behind and slightly to his left, he heard Cap’s footfalls landing against a garden of loose rocks, embedded in lightly packed, muddy soil. Except for a few short stretches, the pitch continued to rise. The run back, largely downhill, was going to be interesting. Lou was feeling it in his legs now, and wondering what level of runner the hotel concierge might be. This was turning into one hell of a trail.
“Follow my line,” Lou called over his shoulder. “I’ve got a good read on this section.”
“I’m with you, bro.”
It didn’t sound as if Cap was even breathing hard. No big surprise.
Awhile later, distracted by a nasty stitch that had developed in his side, Lou slipped on a gnarled root and stumbled. Before he could go down, Cap’s hand clamped on his arm and steadied him.
“Come on, buddy, we got this,” Cap said.
“Nice grab.”
They had to be nearly an hour out—the turnaround point. Lou’s body was beginning to settle down again, but the next stretch proved the most challenging yet. He sensed the lactic acid building in his muscles, and resolved to make time to do more cardio after they returned home. Around a sharp bend, they came to a series of large boulders covered in slick wet moss. Lou stopped, breathing heavily now. Even Cap seemed relieved at the brief respite.
“We climb over?” Cap asked, surveying the obstacles.
Lou checked his watch. Fifty-three minutes. He wondered if they had bitten off too much, and for the first time, thought about walking.
“Unless you want to head back,” he said. “We’re just about to where we had planned on turning.”
“We finish what we started. Just be careful.”
Using their hands, they scrambled up and over the rocks, landing in a shallow puddle at the other side that turned out to be an inch or so of mud.
First just slow down a bit,
Lou thought.
Just a bit.
The pitch elevated once again. Lou’s heart rate jacked up until he felt it beating in his throat. A jumble of thick, slick roots. No problem. A gauntlet of large rocks. Piece of cake. Risking a glance behind him, Lou saw that Cap was keeping pace, still running loose and within himself.
“You’re killing it!” Lou called out.
“You too, amigo.”
At that moment, Lou realized his breathing was coming more easily. The nagging stitch in his side vanished. It was a second wind—as much mental as physical. He had experienced what he assumed was the involuntary flood of endorphins on runs before. His mind began to calm and his senses heightened. With the lightening sky, the wet woods hummed with energy and the sounds of the forest. Birdcalls. Insects. Raindrops tapping against leaves. The counterpoint of their footfalls. And from somewhere far down the steep hillside to his left, the white noise rush of the Chattahoochee.
They were out in the boondocks, now, far from civilization, the connection to the forest growing with every stride.
Meanwhile the pitch continued to rise higher and higher. Lou was aware and alert, but also relaxed. His mind and body were wonderfully in tune. He was still on a high when they hit the one-hour mark and made the one-eighty.
“From the contour map, this looks like the highest we’re gonna get,” Lou said. “You want to take the lead?”
“No, no. I’m fine searching for things to stare at that ain’t your butt.”
“You’re whacked. The pace getting to you?”
“We should have brought our gloves so we could stop and go a couple of rounds right here.”
There was no sign of the nearly ten years’ difference in their ages.
“That would be a gas,” he said. “Rather than having my block knocked off by you in the gym, I can have it knocked off at altitude.”
“It should fly farther.… And Lou?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you talked me into making this run.”
Lou grinned and started up again. The second-wind euphoria was gone, but he sensed he had enough in the tank to make it back.
Keep pushing … keep it going.
Cap followed Lou’s lines, staying in single file until the path widened. Pulling alongside, he was breathing harder than before as he ran shoulder-to-shoulder on Lou’s right, just a couple of feet from the edge of the drop-off. From time to time, far down in the valley below the trees and rock-strewn hillside, they caught glimpses of the river—a thin gray snake slithering through the endless shades of spring green.
“Pretty stuff, eh, bro?” Cap said.
“Like Dorothy said: I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”
Lou tried to gauge the slope to Cap’s right, but here the drop-off was too sharp to see anything straight down. During one stretch, he did catch a good look. He had always had a touch of vertigo staring down from anything higher than a third-floor porch. Now his stomach tightened at the height and the steepness of the grade. He hadn’t really appreciated it on the run out, but the trail sat atop a fifty- or sixty-degree cliff face with a slope that paused in a rock-strewn wooded ravine before dropping off again.
Pass the Dramamine, please.
Lou was about to suggest that the two of them return to a single file, when there was a sound from his right. Cap lurched past him somewhat awkwardly. A glance at the ground showed that he had slipped on a nearly invisible, flat, wet rock. Initially, Lou was surprised and even a bit amused. But then the situation registered. Cap’s arms were extended, waving wildly, sweeping the air for balance. There was a glint of panic in his eyes. Clearly, the man was in trouble. Big trouble.
Trying to stop short, Lou skidded and stumbled, but managed to stay on his feet. Cap, who had incomparable footwork and balance in the ring, was out of control, twisting in what seemed like slow motion, and staring down at the drop beneath him. Lou pivoted and reached out. His fingers caught hold of Cap’s backpack strap. But his grip was poor. Cap’s upper body was already over the edge, and his weight tore the strap free. He twisted and reached back, clawing for Lou’s outstretched hand. At the last possible moment, their palms met and their fingers locked.
Please hold … please!
Cap’s eyes pleaded.
His fingers closed on Lou’s, but it was a tease, not a grip. In an instant, gravity snatched his hands away. He pawed at the air like a novice backstroker. Then he slammed against the cliff face, and was gone. Stunned beyond understanding, Lou sank to his knees. For a moment, there was only silence. Then he heard a cry and the snap of branches breaking, followed by more silence. Lou crawled closer to the edge, hardly aware that the muddy ground was falling away from beneath his knees. Shaking viciously, nearly unable to stand, he pushed to his feet. Finally, almost inaudibly at first, then a bit louder, he heard Cap cry out.
Lou’s heart stopped. Then it began hammering.
“Cap, it’s me! I’m here! I’m coming! I’m coming for you! Hang on, brother! Hang on!”
He raced to his right, as close to the crumbling precipice as he dared, peering over for a way down. It took twenty-five feet or so before he saw a slope he felt he could handle. On his belly, clawing to maintain contact with the dirt and stones, grabbing at roots and bushes, he worked his way down, pausing to listen for Cap’s voice, and each time believing he was hearing it.
Five feet … ten …
In the ER, Lou prided himself on staying cool even when faced with the most dire medical emergencies, or the most horrible crunches. Now he felt frantic and utterly out of control.
Five more feet … another five.
His slide loosened rocks, mud, and pebbles that rained down on him, getting in his mouth, and eyes. From his right, he felt certain he could hear Cap’s groans.
“Hang on, buddy! I’m almost there!”
Breathe in … breathe out. For God’s sake, Welcome, get it together. Whatever has happened over there, he needs you. The best friend you’ve ever had needs you!
The steep drop had begun to lessen. Lou stopped himself and peered through the trees. Nothing. The sounds were close, though. Very close. He pushed to his feet and thrashed to the right. A dozen more feet and he spotted Cap, spread-eagle on his back on a fairly level piece of rocky ground. He was continuing to moan, but was otherwise motionless. There was blood smeared across his face and shaved scalp from a cut across his forehead.
Then, as Lou hurried across the last ten feet, it registered that Cap’s right leg was bent at an odd angle. It took a moment to make sense of what he was seeing. When he did, his stomach instantly knotted. Protruding from a gash at the midpoint of Cap’s thigh, was a jagged, bloodied spear of white bone—the fractured mid-shaft of Cap’s femur.
CHAPTER 8
It is the obligation of the family, not the government, to provide for those who cannot provide for themselves.
—LANCASTER R. HILL,
100 Neighbors
, SAWYER RIVER BOOKS, 1939, P. 167
For Lou, filthy and soaked, the scene was surreal.
Cap was moaning piteously. The jagged mid-shaft of his right femur, surrounded by spaghetti-like strands of muscle, protruded garishly from a four-inch gash—easily the worst compound fracture Lou had ever seen. A tree? A boulder? Whatever caused the break really didn’t matter. The femur was perhaps the strongest bone in the body, and the force that shattered it had to have been enormous. The leg, itself, was shortened and rotated.
Lou knelt beside the man more responsible for his recovery than anyone else beside himself. The two-inch laceration above his right brow was bleeding briskly, blood pooling in his eye socket and running down the center and side of his face. There were no other obvious injuries. Lou felt sick—nauseous and shaky. But he knew what he had to do.
Process.
At the center of treating multiple people with trauma, or one person with any number of injuries, was process—the step-by-step approach to evaluation, triage, and treatment. That this was his best friend and a virtual saint to all who knew him needed somehow to be put aside. Whatever had to be done to save his life, however dangerous or painful, had to be done.
As Lou checked Cap’s mouth, tongue, and airway, he flashed on a story the man had shared from when he was in his early teens and a group of thugs, all older than he was, kept beating and harassing him. In that neighborhood, there was never any way to avoid them. No place to hide for long. Cap’s solution was, no matter how bad the pummeling, to never let any of them know he was hurt. Before long, they lost interest and left him alone. Cap Duncan was tough then, and he had grown even tougher over the years.
Heart rate one hundred ten. Rib cage and sternum intact to palpation. Carotid, radial, and left femoral pulses all present, although not very strong.
The right groin, where the femoral pulse could usually be felt, was already swelling, probably from blood working up from the fracture site.