Words: Andy Nuttall
Illustration: Crystal-Jade Vaughan
The world appeared to move in slow motion as I hit the ground, first with my leg, then my arm, then my shoulder and finally, in excruciating detail, the right-hand side of my head
I ran up the Chirico Trail of Tiger Mountain to Poo Poo Point*, near Seattle, after a day’s work at Microsoft. It was early evening and I craved a hilly run. It took me half an hour to drive there, and I burst out of the rental car and scampered up, passing some walkers, having fun both chasing and being chased by other runners seeking the same late-evening thrills. I watched the sun set from the summit, and then ran back down. It’s a short trail with 1,600 feet of climb, steep with plenty of loose rocks, steps and switchbacks.
It started to get dark very quickly. I realised that the sun had set on the other side of the mountain and the abundance of tall trees shaded what little light remained. Suddenly all the other runners and walkers had gone. I was alone, 4,700 miles from home. Nobody knew where I was. I sped up to beat the dark, running confidently on the loose rock, and enjoying myself. That was, until I lost my footing and fell headfirst. The world appeared to move in slow motion as I hit the ground, first with my leg, then my arm, then my shoulder and finally, in excruciating detail, the right-hand side of my head above the hairline made contact with a sharp stone.
I lay still, running through a mental checklist of limb and function. I felt OK. I could move. I was fairly sure I’d cut my leg but it was too dark to tell whether that patch was dirt or blood. I thought briefly about concussion, but I got up reasonably steadily and seemed lucid. I knew I needed to get off the hill before it became pitch dark. I started to walk down the trail, then went into a little jog, and then faster again until I was descending with some abandon. I knew it was reckless, but I was really enjoying the moment and the coming dark was a scary prospect on a hill with no map, compass, headtorch, food, water, or anything that I now know to be basics.
The thrill of bounding down a mountain, thousands of miles from home, confident in my running, is a moment that’s difficult to forget.
Soon I passed a rather surreal scene: a party of what looked like dwarves from Lord of the Rings, five of them carrying two lanterns between them, moving to the right side of the trail as they heard me approach. As I flew past I saw the lantern turn and I heard one of them gasp. I waved a hand towards them and muttered my thanks.
Finally I reached the trail head and my car. There was a good deal of trail dirt on my limbs with plenty of blood mixed in. My first-aid kit was handy, and I pulled out an antibacterial wipe and began to dab the blood. This single wipe lasted all of 30 seconds, and I needed more. I felt a little woozy, and looked up to see two state troopers chatting to each other in their cars. Would they have any bigger tissues to help me clean up? As I approached, one got immediately out of his car with a comic look of surprise on his face, while the other got on her radio. I explained what I’d been doing, and they asked me to sit down for a while. When had I banged my head? Somewhere up the trail. We’ll call a medic to come and help clean you up and check you out. There’s no need for that, it’s just a surface wound. I don’t think I’ll need stitches. “It’s not your leg we’re concerned with, sir. It’s your head.”
My head.
I hadn’t realised how much a small cut to the head would bleed. They suggested I check myself out in the mirror. When I did, I even scared myself! The whole right side of my face and head was covered with blood. The right side of my yellow top was like a red tie-dye. I looked like the frontman from a Ziggy Stardust tribute band. As I sat in the police car the walkers arrived off the mountain, and came to check if I was okay. They had caught a glimpse of me in their lantern light as I passed. Of course all they saw was blood. They said I’d looked like the walking dead, a zombie runner.
The medical vehicle – a fire engine, to add to the surreal nature of the evening – arrived and two medics popped out to come and help get me cleaned up. They patched up the tiny cut to my head, and gave me the all-clear to drive.
In a slightly perverse way it’s moments like this that help define me as a runner. That, and it’s a great anecdote at parties. It fits with my love of exploration and adventure. There was an element of danger, I hurt myself, got away with it and I learned from it. The thrill of bounding down a mountain, thousands of miles from home, confident in my running, is a moment that’s difficult to forget. I could have stayed in my hotel, gone for dinner and then headed for a movie or to bed, but instead I chose to drive a few dozen miles to a mountain and run up it. It’s part of the colour of life, and I’d do the same again.
Next time I’ll carry a headtorch, mind.
*In case you’re curious: Poo Poo Point really exists. I’m not making it up. Honestly. Google it.