Carne Mountain to High Pass (page 22)

Well, in self-defense all I can say now is that a self-suture seemed logical at that moment.

The wound had bled freely for some time; the pool was so pink that I could no longer see the pebbles at the bottom. The ankle was as clean as it was going to get. I grabbed my toiletry kit and tore it open. Inside was the fat needle with black thread that I used for pack and tent repairs. It was all I had, so it would just have to do.

I lit a match and held the tip of the needle in the flame until it burnt my fingers. Then, taking a deep breath, I stuck the needle into the skin above the gaping wound and pushed. It wouldn't go in. I pushed harder, flinching at the pain.  No matter how hard I tried, I could not get the needle to go through the tough, grisly skin. In resignation, I plunged my foot back into the pool while I considered my options. Eventually I decided that the only thing to do was tie the sock compress back on, get back to the tent and use my boot as a further compress.

I wasn't going anywhere that night, for sure, and if I slept with my boot on, it would keep the swelling down.

As I painfully limped by the little blue tent pitched prettily in the primo campsite, I wondered where the occupants were and who they were. Maybe one of them was a doctor! Statistically improbable, but stranger things had been known to happen.

Finally reaching my own tent, I unzipped the door and pulled my boots out. It hurt something fierce, but I stuck my left foot into the boot and ruthlessly laced it up as tightly as I could. Then I took two aspirin and lay down next to Mica inside the tent and waited.

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