DISASTER ON TURKEY CREEK

Crippled and Without Help in Treacherous Canyon Country, a Desperate Man Fights to Survive

AS I FELL BACKWARD, I tried frantically to pull my left foot free, but I couldn't, and my ankle bent and snapped, ending up under my rump. I was shot through with pain so intense it made me weak. I knew something had broken, for as I landed I heard the pop, pop, pop of ligaments or bones or whatever tearing loose. I lay there, panting, in the cold.

Winter in the Canelo Hills of southern Arizona is usually the stuff of tourism brochures warm shirt-sleeve days, blue skies, and golden grass framed by pineclothed mountains. This winter was different. A series of El Niño-inspired storms had swept through, soaking the desert and laying a blanket of thick snow in the higher country. As I hiked to Turkey Creek, a narrow gorge containing a live stream a rarity in this part of the state the wind blew sharp and cold. When I'd left my tent in the morning, big white clouds scuttled across the sky, and it looked like the weather would clear. By noon I realized I was wrong. The clouds had thickened into a mantle of gray covering the sky. The nearby snow-covered Huachuca Mountains didn't look as pretty as they did when I first set out, and a gauze of falling snow began to obscure the Santa Rita and Rincon ranges to the north. Low clouds capped the pinnacles of the Mustang Mountains and streamed out like smoke plumes before the wind. When I reached Turkey Creek, I found that the storms had caused the creek to rise, and in the gorge it had created a series of deep pools that could not be crossed except by swimming. But downstream the canyon opened, and the creek split into several channels that could be hopped if I was careful. The problem was that the flat ground by the stream had turned into a spongy muskeg; if I stepped on what looked like solid earth, water would instantly well up over my boot tops. The whole creek bottom was filled with tussocks of coarse dead bear grass, most of it folded over into hummocks that rose above the marshy ground. The clumps of dead grass provided dry footing if I stepped from one to another quickly enough. I jumped the different creek branches and, hopping from one hummock to the next, had almost reached dry ground when my left foot became entangled in the folded-over grass. This threw off my stride causing my right foot to slip just as I stepped onto another hummock.

My ankle pounding, I gathered my strength and pulled up into a sitting position and then stretched out on my stomach to take the weight off my leg. But I couldn't free my foot from the clutch of the tough grass. Straining to reach backward, I tried to pull the ropelike strands away, but my arms weren't long enough. In desperation I started kicking at the tangled grass with my right foot, and after what seemed an eternity, my injured foot slipped free. Rolling over, I examined my foot, which was twisted to the left at almost a 90-degree angle. With both hands, I grasped the boot and twisted my foot back into the proper position. The pain was intense, but it had to be done.

Climbing out of the creek bottom, I nearly gave up. The pain of walking on the broken ankle was like an electric shock going up my leg.

A sadness overcame me; a sense that my body had failed me. Then there was a cold, clear focusing of logic as I assessed my chances. I was alone. There were no other camps in the area, no fresh tire tracks on the few dirt roads. I had told my wife, Kathy, that I would not be home until Saturday, and this was Tuesday. She did not really know where I was except it was near Fort Huachuca. My oldest son, Mike, knew where I was camped, but he was out of town and would not be home until Saturday.

whatsoever. Downstream somewhere were more ranches, but the terrain in that direction was even more foreboding. To the south, Cimarron Road led to the West Gate of Fort Huachuca, but I knew it veered sharply away from my location, and the distance was beyond me. I had to reach my camp four miles to the north. The distance was daunting enough, but the up-and-down terrain would be a major obstacle. I would have to climb out of the Turkey Creek drainage and negotiate numerous canyons and ravines that ran counter to my line of travel. Then I would face a large rounded ridge at least two miles in length, covered with loose rock, oak, juniper, and manzanita. This ridge did not lead in a straight direction, but zigged and zagged before bending to the east. That meant to continue north, I would have to find another route across some very rough canyons. Then I had to cross O'Donnell Creek, which was even larger and deeper than Turkey Creek. Once across the creek, I would climb to the top of another long ridge, follow it about a half mile, and then go down the other side to my camp. Just thinking of the ordeal ahead made me sick to my stomach. Climbing out of the creek bottom, I nearly gave up. The pain of walking on the broken ankle was like an electric shock going up my leg. I quickly learned that I couldn't walk on the ball of my injured foot, nor flex it sideways in walking steep slopes. I had to place it flat on the ground before taking a step forward with my right foot. Then I'd lift my left foot forward to the same position. It was right foot first, drag up the left in little baby steps. Still, I had to place my full weight on my injured foot for a few seconds every time I stepped. Soon I was grunting out loud with each painful step. The rocky surface was the biggest problem. In some long-ago era, a great river must have flowed over that section of the Canelo Hills. Conglomerate rock containing large water-rounded rocks sticks out of the ground. Many of these baseball-size rocks weathered out of the conglomerate and lie loose on the terrain.

Stepping on a hillside of rolling round rocks is difficult on two good feet; it's devilish when one is broken. At each misstep on one of these rocks, I felt the broken bones in my ankle grate together. I learned to study the ground 10 to 15 feet ahead, planning each step. Climbing in and out of the canyons was the worst part. Some were so steep I couldn't place my feet with any degree of confidence. Instead, I would sit down, lift my hurt foot in the air, and scoot down the slope on my rump. Sometimes I crawled on all fours.

Disaster on Turkey Creek

At the top of the big two-mile ridge, the ground leveled off a bit and walking was easier. Then it started to rain. I was soon soaked to the skin.

When the ridge turned eastward, I went down and to the left where the only practicable route to the canyon bottom seemed to be a bare, eroded ridge. Nearing it, my heart sank. On both sides, the land fell away into steep boulder-choked ravines.

Here the ground had changed to a brown shale tilted upright by ancient earth fractures. The shale was exposed with its sharp flakes set close together like teeth in a comb.

Worse, the narrow path on top of the shale ridge was less than a foot wide in places. If I fell on the rain-slick shale, I could slide down the eroded bank and end up at the bottom of one of the rock-filled ravines.

It began to snow. I decided to chance it. I was in no position to retrace my steps.

Carefully moving my feet in six-inch steps, I made it across the ridge, although a couple of times wind gusts threatened to topple me. As I wove through the thick oaks at the bottom of the canyon, I looked in vain for landmarks through the falling snow.

Next I climbed a wooded ridge, hoping to see something familiar. Instead I was hit by blinding windblown snow. To get out of the wind, I started down a steep slope. Here the thick brush and trees helped me. I would aim for a tree, grab it in a tight hug, reach around for a manzanita or juniper branch, and go for the next tree.

At the bottom, my spirits lifted; I had a blurry view of the cottonwood trees marking O'Donnell Creek. Then more luck. Despite the lack of landmarks, I somehow managed to hit one of the few fords across the creek - a series of raised rocks. Taking great care in stepping on the stones that rose above the water, I made it across without a dunking. But I had to smile at this small victory because I was already as wet as if I had fallen into the creek.

As I slowly mounted the last ridge, I knew I was in the homestretch. But the snow, driven by the wind, made it hard to see. And it covered the ground, hiding the rocks and frequently causing me to stumble on my broken ankle. When I finally reached my camp - five hours after I started my painful trek - the visibility was down to 30 feet. I could not see my tent from my vehicle, so heavy was the snowfall.

I wondered what I should do. My ankle didn't hurt so much as it had become numb. But I was cold and wet and shivering. I felt like crawling into my tent, wrapping up in my sleeping bag, and going to sleep. But I was afraid my leg would stiffen up and become useless. Worse, I might go into shock or hypothermia. And if the snow continued, I could be stuck there for days.

I opted for home, wife, and a doctor. I broke camp as quickly as I could. Stove, chuckbox, ice chest, tent, and sleeping bageverything that wasn't hidden by the snow I threw into the back of the truck. Then I scraped the snow off the windshield, prayed the engine would start, and in thick mud four-wheeled it out of there and back to highway and home.

Phoenix-based Bob Thomas said after 40 years of exploring Arizona, he is fully aware of the ever-present dangers in the outdoors and the risk of going out alone. But it is difficult, he added, to find someone to share each trip, especially extended camp-outs in the mountains during winter.

Bob Crofut lives and works in a converted carriage house in Ridgefield, Connecticut.