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LANGUAGE, ARTS & CULTURE

Luckyrock
Laurel Parry

arving, blasting and grinding through the


southwest corner of the Yukon are the largest
ice fields in the world outside of the polar region.
Here is a combination of mountain turbulence, monumental and geological, of jagged rocks, sand, silt,
water, ice and boulders. Freezing and thawing, wind
and seismic forces contort the massive landscape. Collisions along ancient fault lines in the earths interior
warp, fracture, splinter. They push whole mountains
skyward, cracking rocks so they cascade, obedient to
forces of gravity. Glaciers calve and recede, and the
silt that they carry ends up in creeks and rivers to be
carried through the whole Yukon watershed.

Bill, RJ, and Owen.

The boys spent the winter of 1994 planning


their eight day Kluane hike with the intensity of
a lunar mission. My husband, Bill had led expeditions into the Donjek Valley. He was thrilled that
his two younger brothers, Owen and RJ decided
to accompany him in June, the perfect time to experience Kluane. The midnight sun, wildflowers at
their height, and afterwards, beers and barbecues on
the deck back in Whitehorse. RJ lived in Winnipeg,
and Bill and Owen in Whitehorse so this entailed
long phone calls, and the fax machine whistled and
groaned day and night detailing the route, menus,
logistics and costs.
It wasnt long before the three of them mustered
in our basement for a flurry of zipping, packing,
rustling, testing, conferring, flinging and obsessing.
Running up and down the stairs, into the garage and
onto the deck, using the driveway to roll out gear,
20 Northern Public Affairs, March 2015

maps, delicacies, stuff sacks, cooking pots, bandages. Nylon, Gortex, fleece, aluminum and plastic.
Checking lists, giving orders and running to the
store. Pouring Port and Scotch in Nalgene bottles.
Fine-tuning the spice kit (More important than the
first aid kit, they said). They tried on packs, flung
them down and adjusted the load. Leaping around
with fully-loaded packs, dodging imaginary bears,
negotiating scree slopes. One last huddle in the
driveway, a photo to document their triumph, and
they took off in the van, windows down, arms waving. I looked at our two sons blinking in the bright
sun and it was suddenly quiet. The basement light
was left on and I tidied dehydrated broccoli, discarded Zip-Lock bags, chocolate bar wrappers and a
crumpled fax from RJ agreeing that a satellite phone
would be too expensive and heavy to carry.
Its 6:00 in the morning and the phone is ringing. I lurch into blinding sunshine in the living room.
Hello?
Its Owen.
Has Bill been in touch?
What? Isnt he with you?
Theres been an accident. RJs been hurt. We
had to be medivaced out. Were looking for Bill.
Questions race through my mind.
Where are you?
Haines Junction.
Gotta go, he says. The ambulance is leaving.
If you hear from Bill, tell him that I went with RJ
in the ambulance and well be in Whitehorse in an
hour and a half.
I stand in my nightgown and look out the window.
Itd been raining hard since they left but the morning
sun is dazzling and the garden is in full midsummer
bloom. I dont know what to do. Theyre not due back
for three days. Its Canada Day. The boys are asleep.
Theres nothing to do except wait. I try to imagine
where the hikers were. What I know about the Donjek region is only a notion of glaciers, mountain passes, river crossings, canyons, wild flowers and grizzly
bears, and this only from editing Bills brochure.
Soon, Owens wife, Jacquie arrives with their
baby, Liam, whos wearing sleepers.
We decide that Jacquie will head to the hospital
and Ill stay so we can cover the bases. I think about

this trip that they have been planning all year. Bill
has been guiding in the Donjek for over ten years
and its his most familiar and favourite place.
Liam has lined up the pieces of apple he no
longer plans to eat on the coffee table and pretends
theyre cars.
Finally, Bill calls looking for Owen. Hes in
Haines Junction. Theres no time to explain. He
says that hell drive directly to the hospital. He says
something about helicopters and their gear, a nursing station and he wonders about Owen and signs
off. I tell myself not to worry. To find patience and
wait for news.
My sons, John and Graydon, emerge and discover their cousin. Soon the three of them are chirping together and eating cereal.
Jacquie calls.
Im on my way to your place. RJs here. Bill
made it in time to see him before they took him into
the operating room. She tells me that it was his
leg, it was badly damaged, and there was shock and
blood loss. We decide not to go hang out at the hospital on a hot day with the children.
Instead I leave a note for Bill, pack up the boys
and drive to the Canada Day celebrations. The park
is full of people, festive in shorts and sandals, enjoying the entertainment and eating barbequed meat.
The sun is welcome after so many days of rain. The
Yukon River is wide and sparkling with a strong, solid current. Young people jump into its green depth
from the bridge, letting the current glide them to a
gravel bar. I look across, and beyond the other bank,
I see the hospital. RJ is in there.
Id volunteered to read a story in the literacy
tent. Rotten Island by William Steig is a lively book
about monsters that inhabit a harsh island. After
a full-scale war, the flaming lava and hot, spewing
mountains give way to dark, sheets of rain which
subside with sunshine and flowers finally appearing.
We arrive home to see Bills van in the driveway.
Its filled with a mass of splotched sleeping bags and
upended packs thrown on top of cooking gear and
spilled food. An upturned hiking boot is caked with
mud, drying in the heat. The tent is draped over the
back of the passenger seat.
Bill is waiting for us at the door. He tells me a
version of the story, the two of us standing on the
steps, the van glinting in the sun. Later, much later,
I hear it again. There are other accounts, and fragments, clarifications. But the story started that day
on the stairs, a one hand on the doorknob, please
be quiet kids so I can listen, I should get back to the
hospital, kind of story.
Bighorn is a fast, cold creek with looming can-

Menu page of planned suppers.

yon walls, imbedded with jagged rocks. There are


no banks, so hikers have to splash along the creek to
get through. People crisscross upstream, five or six
times before arriving where Chert Creek feeds into
Bighorn. Here a stretch of beach is just wide enough
to support a stand of willows, allowing a spot to dry
out, have lunch and shore up energy before heading
up and over Atlas Pass. The hike calls for numerous
creek and river crossings, always a challenge, but this
trip was fraught with unusually high rainfall so the
creeks were swelling more than usual. The rocks in
the creek bottom made staying upright a challenge
of concentration and balance. The boys couldnt see
their feet in the rushing, silty water and with the rain
splashing into the creek, there was little to discern
between rain and creek. They were wearing toques,
and couldnt hear anything but rushing water. They
had their hip belts undone, in case of a topple and
they were slowly crossing, linking each others arms
for support during each traverse through the water.
On the Bighorn crossing, same as their birth order,
Bill was leading, Owen was in the middle and RJ was
at the end. Bill tested the water depth with a walking stick. The water rushed around the pole; deeper
than usual. On their first crossing Owen looked up
at the soaking canyon walls and saw rocks falling all
around them through the blur. One jagged rock fell
directly at them and he yelled Heads up! to Bill
and pushed him forward. RJ looked up and saw a
second rock, a fragment the size of a brick. It would
have hit his face, but he stepped back, downstream.
It thudded onto a small sandbar. He saw another
rock, this one as big as a microwave oven dropping
towards him. RJ pivoted upstream, took a step and
hopped on his right leg, turning in the water. But the
rock landed squarely on the back of his lower left leg
and threw him into the water. The power of the current swept him downstream away from his brothers.
Bill and Owen, their legs underwater in the turbuNorthern Public Affairs, March 2015 21

lent current, feet sliding on slimy submerged boulders, scrabbled to overtake him. Owen grabbed him
by the pack straps and wrenched him up.
I cant walk, RJ said. Its my leg,
You have to Arge, said Bill. We cant stay here.
They pulled him to a standing position. He
crumpled, unable to support his weight.
They were on a scrap of a sandbar in the middle
of the roiling creek, with the narrow canyon walls
now spewing rocks all around them like missiles.
They tore at RJs pant leg to expose the injury. Bill
saw what he thought was a wool sock rolled down to
his ankle. It was RJs flesh. The rest of the leg was
butchered. The wound was difficult to see under all
the embedded gray silt. They tore into their packs,
found scissors, a roll of duct tape and a t-shirt, cut
away his pants, wrapped the wound and searched
for safer ground. Bill and Owen held the walking
stick between them, providing a chairlift and locked
their arms to support RJ. They zigzagged across the
creek, traversing at least more four times, before finally collapsing in the safety of the willows.
RJ was conscious, but in pain. The silt gathered
and caked in the wounds. The bleeding was ferocious. RJs pallor looked like he might go into shock.
They abandoned the idea of sanitizing the wound.
In the rain, they wrapped a t-shirt around his leg
and fastened it as tightly as possible with tape. They
pitched the tent, propped RJ up on sleeping bags
and boiled water for tea. They gave him painkillers.
Forty minutes after the rock fell, the three of
them sat in the tent with the rain pelting down at the
confluence of Chert and Bighorn Creeks.
Ill go out to get help, Bill said. The van was
parked at the trailhead, a three-day hike away. Bill
emptied his pack, repacked it with a water bottle,
sport drink, bagels, peanut butter, trail mix and
zipped his car keys into a pocket.
Owie, he said, handing him the bear spray,
Keep him hydrated, lots of hot tea, soup, check the
bandages, and therere lots of pain killers.
Owen followed him out.
Can I ask you something? he said. Can you
show me how to light the stove?
Bill calculated that getting to the car would be
best covered by jogging rather than trying to sprint
to spread his energy over the distance and to lessen
the chance of injury. He set his watch to beep every hour to remind him to drink fluids. He was glad
of his light pack but without a tent, he was committed to covering the full distance without a camp.
He traversed tundra, summit ridges, buck brush,
rocky outcrops and game trails in the rain. Heading
up towards Atlas Pass he encountered snow. What
was rain in the valley was now snow on the pass,
22 Northern Public Affairs, March 2015

Bill, Owen, and RJ at a glacier having a picnic.

not unusual for Kluane, but it was over his knees.


The visibility was almost non-existent, but he was
careful to focus and make progress, however slow.
Without familiar trail markings he relied on memory and intuition. He tried not to berate himself for
not telling his brothers that he loved them. Under
the circumstances, out of the blue, that kind of talk
might signal hopelessness. He just had to get to the
car. And RJ had to stop bleeding, and the infection
had to stop, and Owen had to figure out how to get
the stove working. The snow needed to abate. His
legs had to keep going. The van had to start, the
nursing station had to be open, and a helicopter had
to be available. He had to keep going.
He stopped in the snow near the top of the pass
to eat. Thats where he heard a voice. He turned to
see a dim figure waving to him through the snowy
fog. Was it Owen? Where was RJ? It could only be
bad news. He stood motionless while the figure approached. When it finally came into view, Bill realized that it wasnt Owen.
Have you been here before? the man asked.
Bill couldnt speak.
Im Chris, and my girlfriends back there. Her
names Roberta. Um, we didnt want to tackle the
pass in the snow. We pitched our tent back there,
the only level spot we could find, to wait for better
conditions. We havent been here before
When Bill finally found his voice he said My
two brothers are at Bighorn Creek. One with a broken leg and possibly in shock. The other is looking
after him, but he could use help.
Right, Robertas a nurse, said Chris.
Could this be true? Roberta approached and they
talked about RJs injury and Bill drew a detailed map.
Bill offered to contact their ride and told him
that there were extra meals at the camp to cover
them.
For the first time since the accident, Bill felt a
twinge of relief. A nurse! He turned to face the remainder of Atlas Pass and continued down toward

the Duke River Valley. The rain was beginning to


subside, but he kept his raingear on to keep out the
chill. It was around four oclock.
As he approached the Duke River the sound
of the rushing water told him that it was in flood.
Normally, waist-deep, the water in the braided section was chest-high. He waded into the river, forcing
himself to watch his step, to land each foot to the
bottom of the river, before lifting the next. He had to
concentrate on using his momentum to fight the current to make it safely across if he didnt keep his
footing the flow would carry him away downstream
where he knew the river narrowed into a deeper and
stronger current. On the other side, he removed his
boots, wrung out his socks and swiped the gravel
off his feet. When he stood up, his knees seized. He
would have to slow his pace and not take any rests.
After saying goodbye to Bill, Owen and RJ were
surrounded by the rushing water of Bighorn Creek
and the assault of rain on the nylon tent. A kind
of calm permeated the camp. RJ was conscious and
resting. Owen fiddled with the stove and made tea
and soup. He wondered how much RJ was bleeding.
The smell was getting bad. Would it attract bears?
Bill told him his number one priority was to stop
the bleeding. It was all he could think about. At one
point he put his fingers on the bandage under the
back of his knee and there was a gap they hadnt
covered and his fingers went right into the wound
that felt like goop. He scrambled out of the tent to
get air, toppled out onto the gravel, and told RJ that
things were looking pretty good.
He steeled himself, re-entered the tent, peeled
off the outer t-shirt bandage, replaced it with a fresh
one, left the tent again, walked downwind, wrapped
the bloodied t-shirt in a rock and threw it far into the
creek. Over the hours, he entertained RJ. The rain
poured over and around the tent, making rivulets
around them, while Owen relived ball hockey games
with Binny, Fud and Scissors, the nuns at Holy Trinity, new shoes and family holidays in the Okanagan.
Looking at his younger brother, he wondered if
he should tell him how much he meant to him. He
wondered about bears too, with the putrid smell of
the wound. He reached for the bear spray. The evening was getting quieter. The rain was easing. He
could hear the creek. He could hear something else.
Something crashing through the willows. Something approaching. A footfall, then another. The
sound of gravel crunching underfoot. What was it?
He gripped the bear spray harder. The footsteps approached. He pulled the pin. The zipper on the tent
opened, accompanied by a soft voice.
Its alright. Im a nurse. My names Roberta.
There were two of them.

Who are you?


Im Chris. An environmental lawyer. If you
can identify the rock, I think we have a case, he
laughed.
Roberta assessed RJ. There was no fever which
was reassuring. She made small adjustments and
worked out that they could give him a larger dosage of
painkillers but there was not much more for her to do.
They made a meal together and camped for the night.
Bill left the Duke River Valley and hiked up to
the headwaters of Copper Joe Creek, the last stretch
before the long descent to the van. He had been
walking for eleven and a half hours, it was 1:00 in
the morning and it was finally getting dark. The
terrain underfoot was softer and he could sense the
wildflowers and grasses around him in the dark. Finally, in the gloom he saw the outline of his van.
It was parked seven kilometers from the highway
and a further ten kilometers to the Destruction Bay
nursing station. He started the van, turned on the
heat and drove to the small clinic where he was welcomed by two on-duty nurses, one of them, a massive, pleasant man who filled the small room, and
the other an efficient-looking older tiny woman.
Bill made phone calls and located a pilot, normally based in Haines Junction, but he was miles away
in the Southeast Yukon near Watson Lake. He told
them that he couldnt leave until first light but would
arrive at the nursing station by 6:00 a.m. to pick up
the nurse before heading to Bighorn. According to
rescue policy, only the injured party would be evacuated. Another way would have to be found for Owen
and the gear. Nothing could be done until the helicopter arrived. He considered calling home, but he
didnt know what to say, in the middle of the night
with no news other than all his worries. One of them
being that neither nurse relished the idea of an early morning helicopter rescue. The fluorescent light
revealed a small clinic with magazines and tabloids
with headlines shouting about O.J. Simpson who,
only two weeks before, caused the famous car chase
after the Nicole Simpson murder.
So much blood, said one of the nurses.
Theres no way hell get away with it.
So much blood, Bill agreed.
The sun was just starting to come up when they
heard the chopper. This was better than expected;
the pilot would have left Watson Lake well before
first light. While the nurse packed his equipment
into the helicopter, Bill told the pilot where to find
his brothers. The pilot, knowing the area, told Bill
that he didnt need a map.
Please see about bringing Owen too, Bill was
worried that Owen would not be able to hike out, or
deal with the gear after such an ordeal. He watched
Northern Public Affairs, March 2015 23

the nurse climb into the front seat of the helicopter


arranging his bulk in the narrow seat with a grim
look at his colleague.
Ill see what I can do. No promises. The pilot
clicked his door shut and the chopper lifted up, tilted
forward and buzzed away. Their confidence provided Bill with another burst of relief.
Bill worked out that the helicopter would pick
up RJ and take him to Haines Junction to a waiting ambulance for the hour and a half drive to the
Whitehorse hospital. The helicopter flight from the
accident site to Haines Junction was longer than the
flight from Destruction Bay to the accident site. He
could drive from D-Bay to Haines Junction to check
on RJ and then drive to Whitehorse. But what about
Owen? If Owen could not be included with RJ, then
he would have to arrange for another flight which
would be expensive. But if he stayed in D-Bay, then
at least the flight distance would be shorter. He had
to stay put and wait for news.
Owen stood up when he heard the helicopter. He watched it land and the nurse got out and
approached the little camp. In the commotion of
examining and moving RJ, the pilot told Owen to
hurry and pack the gear into the helicopter. They
were all going to Haines Junction to meet the ambulance. Roberta and Chris, fortified with the Mexican night menu, set off to the trailhead on foot to
complete their hike.
Eventually Bill established that Owen was on
the flight so he drove to Haines Junction to see if he
had been dropped off there or taken to Whitehorse
with RJ. He called me and I was able to fill him in.
He arrived at the hospital four hours later, just as
RJ was being wheeled into surgery. Bill placed the
walking stick on RJs bed so he would see it after his
surgery. He knew RJ would recognize it as the stick
that supported him over the creek crossings.
The surgeon explained that the wound was
called a compartment syndrome. The rock landed
with such a large force, that it compacted the tissue and blood, causing gangrene on impact. Sterilizing would have been impossible at the accident
site, let alone removing the rotting flesh. Instead,
the application of pressure and bandages stopped
further bleeding and severe shock. This treatment,
however, accelerated infection, so the operation involved removing a good deal of tissue and muscle.
He told them that he was lucky the rock landed on
the leg that wasnt weighted. It was fortunate that RJ
hopped at that moment, preventing the rock from
shattering his leg.
Infection remained a worry, even post op, and
once RJ stabilized, he was told there would be further treatments, including a skin graft that would,

with luck, build a layer of protecting skin.


The mood at our house was euphoric. RJ was
going to be fine. Friends, guides and medical people
gathered to hear the story and analyze the experience. The sun was still shining at 10:00 p.m. while
we visited on the deck, which matched our energy,
relief and euphoria.
Come in, were out back! we called out as
people pulled up to our house.
Most of them wanted to hear about the first aid
as so many of them were trained, but like Bill up to
that point, had not faced a serious injury in the wilderness. Others wanted Bill and Owen to describe
the flooding, the rocks in the canyon and to paint a
picture of how the rains had changed the place, so
familiar to them. Some wanted Bill to describe the
trek to the trailhead, or Owen to talk about the experience of looking after RJ. It was loud and exuberant with at least three conversations going at once.

RJ, Bill and Owen at the Whitehorse General Hospital.


Stick in foreground.

I cant fathom how fast a wound can ravage a


body! said Maureen. She was a guide, familiar with
the area, who had taught Bill many things about the
Donjek. It makes you think. If a part of you can be
destroyed so quickly, then what are we truly made
of ? She struggled to articulate herself. What I
mean is what is it? Our souls? Is it our souls that keep
us from disintegrating?
There was a pause while people looked at their
beers, or at the raven that landed on the spruce beside us. The sun was starting to fade. I thought of RJ
who was still in the hospital, joking with the nurses
and looking forward to seeing his girlfriend who was
flying up from Winnipeg.
I am trying to be profound, Maureen said. But
it was a challenge that no one was prepared to take on.
There were phone calls as word spread to family
and friends across the country. We visited RJ and he
made room in his hospital bed for his three nephews.
He was eager to tell them all about it and he let them

play with the walking stick that was always near.


One night while we were all at home, still entertaining friends and talking about the accident, the
phone rang. It was RJ and he was grim.
Ask Owen and Bill to come.
Bill and Owen returned a few hours later with
the news that he might lose his leg. The skin graft
might not take, as there was so little left on the leg
for it to hold onto.
Look at my toes, RJ had said, wiggling them
for emphasis. I cant believe this.
We would know in two weeks. Bill had a Kluane
hike to guide and there was no sense waiting around
so he left for a week. His friends encouraged him to
guide his next trip. They knew that he would be dealing with a lot of doubt and insisted that an immediate
trip would be healthy. I wanted him to go too. He
would need to see Bighorn Creek and the canyon to
fully understand and put things behind him.
The surgeon pulled a neat patch of skin off RJs
opposite hip to stretch over the wound. The operation itself was not a risk, but would there be enough
healthy tissue on the leg to reconstruct a whole layer? Would he be infection free?
The waiting put all of us, including RJ, into a
lull. Finally, exhaustion caught up and morphed
into a frustrating holding-pattern of uncertainty. He
lay in bed waiting for news. Bored, he made a few
phone calls to associates to check in with his business. We imagined a long recovery, no matter what
the outcome. And we all hoped.
By the time Bill returned from his trip it was
looking good for the leg, though there would be
more operations and possible setbacks. The weather was beautiful, so I dragged a couch up from the
basement and set up a recovery station on the deck.
RJ didnt mind all the attention, but when we talked over his head about him in the third person, he
balked.
What does he like on his turkey? Jacquie asked
when we were having dinner. Cranberry sauce,
gravy?
Im not deaf ! Im right here! I lost part of my
leg, not my mind.
The accident was in 1994. Since then, Scar J has
run marathons, and other than a dramatic scar and
some circulation problems, he has fully recovered. A
few years after the accident, the three brothers went
back and dubbed the trip Assault on Bighorn. Hes
married now and has three sons. He does everything
he can to make them adventurous and kind.
RJ still talks about that trip and we find out more
details as the story is retold.
Someone had put raisins in the oatmeal that
day and I hate them. Especially when they get all

plump and soft. I knew I was going to have a bad


day that day.
Rain. Water filling the areas between rocks and
sand. Jangling, mixing and finally set free after a
winter of freeze. The brothers talk about that summer, of carrying food and shelter on their backs, hiking and joking, arguing, ducking the rain, sharing
chocolate, traversing slopes, making camp and telling stories. The night before the accident, they stood
at the toe of the Donjek Glacier, holding chunks of
glacier ice, their feet on sand, rocks and silt, posing
for pictures. They show RJ wearing badly fitting hiking pants; Owen hated looking at them day after day
as RJ hiked in front of him, the crotch sagging almost to his knees. It was a small pleasure to take the
scissors to those sad-assed pants the next day, Owen
will say, if the conversation gets too serious.
The whole time Bill engineered his way over Atlas Pass and through the Duke Valley, he was driven
to move forward. Despite the conditions of the trail,
the unexpected snow and flooding, it was familiar
territory and he pushed through. There had been an
accident. He didnt want anyone to die. He knew the
distance; he knew the contours and exertions of the
area. He boiled everything down to having to get out
for help and he pushed through.
Owen had equal responsibilities. His part was
to be with RJ. He sat in the tent all those hours and
relied on his own map for survival. He used his skill
at storytelling and precise recall of family memories
and cheerfully created a comfortable home for RJ.
RJ lay back and listened to his brother. It kept
the possibilities of a rescue close to his heart.
I wanted to tell him that I was alright. But if
I did, he mightve thought I was giving up. So I lay
there listening to him work so hard while all the
while I kept thinking that I was the lucky one.
In the end, the rain subsided; the sun shone and
dusk fell. We were at home and it was finally quiet.
Seismic activity continues to shape and mold
Kluane. Last summer an earthquake along the
Duke River fault, which runs under the St. Elias
Mountains caused a rock slide that dammed a creek
and created a new lake. Chunks of ancient permafrost and rocks are now scattered along the ground.
Kluane crushes, pulverizes, buckles and cracks. Its
snow, ice and rocks continue to thrust and retreat.
Yet throughout this drama, wildflowers, lichen and
thickets of willows take hold and flourish, hanging
on for life.
Laurel Parry is a writer living in Whitehorse, Yukon. This
story was published with support from the Emerging Writers
& Artists Fund and the Salamander Foundation.
Northern Public Affairs, March 2015 25

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