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Outside Magazine September 2004
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1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 

Excerpt: Between a Rock and a Hard Place
Trapped (cont.)

DAY THREE: MONDAY, APRIL 28, 7 A.M.
I still haven't given amputation a full chance.

I realize that I'm not confident in my tourniquet. I need something more flexible than the tubing and more elastic than the ... That's it! Elastic! The neoprene tubing insulation from my CamelBak is supple but strong. It's perfect.

I'm elated at the idea and retrieve the discarded tubing insulation from my pack. Why didn't I think of this before? Using my left hand to wrap the thin black neoprene twice around my right forearm two inches below my elbow, I tie a simple overhand knot and tighten with one end in my teeth, then double and triple the knot. I take a carabiner and clip the neoprene, twisting it six times. Clamping down on my forearm, the material pinches my skin. For some reason, the pain pleases me.

I take my multitool and, without thinking, open the long blade. Instead of pointing the tip into the tendon gap at my wrist, I hold it with the blade against the upper part of my forearm. Surprising myself, I press on the blade and slowly draw the knife across my forearm. Nothing happens. Huh. I press harder. Still nothing. No cut, no blood, nothing. Back and forth, I vigorously saw at my arm, growing more frustrated with each attempt. Exasperated, I give up. This is shit! The damn blade won't even break the skin. How the hell am I going to carve through two bones with a knife that won't even cut my skin? God damn it to hell.

That's pathetic, Aron, just pathetic.

Back to waiting.

3:35 P.M.
I have to urinate.

Save it, Aron. Pee into your CamelBak. You're going to need it.

I transfer the contents of my bladder into my empty water reservoir, saving the orangish-brown discharge for the unappetizing but inevitable time when it will be the only liquid I have.

6:30 P.M.
A subtle stirring tells me it's time to pray. I haven't tried that yet. I close my left hand in a loose fist, shut my eyes, and lower my forehead onto my hand.

"God, I am praying to you for guidance. I'm trapped here in Blue John Canyon—you probably know that—and I don't know what I am supposed to do. Please show me a sign."

I slowly tilt my forehead back until I'm looking up through the pale twilight. Nothing. What was I expecting? A swirl in the clouds? A petroglyph showing a man with a knife? I start again.

"OK, God, since you're apparently busy ... Devil, if you're listening, I need some help here. I'll trade you my arm, my soul, whatever you want. Just get me out of here."


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