Reality Check

Tentatively grasping the splinted leg in both hands he raised it up above him and began to spin himself around by pushing with his good right leg. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead from the effort, diluting the blood still oozing from the cut. Instinctively, he released his right hand from the leg to wipe his brow. The leg lurched free, bumping against the right side of the fuselage, and he screamed as he jerked back in agony. When he again caught his jagged breath he realized that the jerking reaction to the pain had actually completed the rotation for him. He head was again facing the front of the cabin. Pulling himself onto his right side he began to work with the broken seat back. "Yeah," he thought, "this might work if I get the back free or at least lying totally flat." He would have to move his supplies up into the co-pilot seat, from where he would have to toss them out ahead of him. No, that was going to be a disaster! If he could tie them to something solid in the plane and then lower them part way, he could at least try to keep his duffle bag dry. The lunch box and the emergency kit would float if need be. The duffle, with his tent, sleeping bag, saw, axe, ropes, and cooking pot was going to be the issue.

Sitting up, Troy reached for the big duffle bag first. Pulling it gingerly alongside the shattered leg, he reached in and retrieved his collapsible fishing rod. His folding knife was still at his waist and it made short work of the monofilament line. Attaching one end of each piece of line to the bent steering yoke, he carefully tied the other ends to the lunch kit and the emergency kit. Sliding himself onto the broken seat Troy rolled further onto his right side and reached forward for the door latch. The latch released, but the plane, leaning over on its ruined right side, held the door closed. Troy took a deep breath, causing his aching ribs to burn like fire, and pushed against the door with both hands. No good. He fell back exhausted, tears at the corners of his eyes. He couldn't be trapped!

"Think, you damned fool! Get that door opened or you are in a world of trouble."

After a moment's rest Troy rolled onto his back, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Grasping the door frame and the back to the right seat he pulled and inched his way into a seating position, facing backward. Ok, plan B, Troy reached over and pushed opened the window on the door, which swivelled up toward the wing overhead. Now he could use the frame to grasp onto, and leaning forward he sprung the door open. When it moved he lurched and nearly lost his balance, but catching himself against the door post, he rested as his breathing returned to something approaching normal.

Looking down Troy could see that the left side of the plane appeared relatively undamaged. That was both good and bad. It meant that the steps to the pontoon were intact, but it was a long way down to where the water was lapping, and with the plane collapsed on its right side, the angle was going to be formidable. It also meant that anything he lowered might not land on the pontoon as he had hoped, but could slide through between the steps and hit water inside the pontoon and generally under the aircraft. If he pushed the big duffel bag out first though, and slid it backward toward the rear of the plane, the cross bracing that held the float and created the steps might just direct it downward, keeping it high and dry. That was the best he could hope for.

Before pushing the duffle out the door, Troy unzipped the bag and removed several items, laying them beside him. The first item he reached for was his axe. It would be the closest thing he had to a crutch to help him negotiate the shallow water to shore. Next he reached for a length of braided nylon cord and cut off a section of about five feet. Lastly he took his stainless steel tube of waterproof matches and transferred them into his floatable emergency kit, just in case.

Breathing hard, his chest aching from the cracked ribs, he knew it was time to get moving. First over the edge was the duffle bag. He looped the length cord through the handles, then tried to push it out at an angle where he could swing it backward behind the door. The momentum send a fiery shot into his leg and he lost the end of the cord, helplessly watching it snake out after the duffle bag. The bag slithered down the cross braces and plopped onto the pontoon. Relief flooded through him as he realized how close he had come to disaster. The white and orange emergency kit went out next. It slid down the side perfectly, coming to rest at the end of the fishing line just a few inched above the pontoon. Finally went the lunch kit, complete with the big thermos of coffee. It should have been a repeat of the first cooler, but he had left the fishing line too long and the food cooler hit the pontoon and bounced off into the lake. It stayed there, at a funny 45 degree angle, bounding against the aluminum pontoon.

Now, he knew, it was his turn. Pushing himself forward with his hands he allowed his legs to hang through the opening. When he had his butt in the doorway, he rolled onto his right side and, with a little push he was lying on his belly in the doorway. The move put tremendous pressure on his sore and aching ribs, and he madly pistoned his right leg up and down trying to locate the elusive step. Gasping for air Troy debated just pushing back and falling when at last his foot found a cleat and he was able to transfer his weight and rise onto his elbows.

He half lay there shuddering for a long minute before extending his arms to transfer his weight firmly onto his right leg and directing his body to the exterior of the fuselage. Holding on with both hands, Troy looked around, focusing his attention on the shore, some fifty feet away. The shoreline was strewn with small boulders and some thin brush, but thankfully no high escarpment that would have been insurmountable with his incapacitated left leg. Glancing down, Troy saw the blood dripping onto the pontoon from his shattered appendage. Two feet below lay the pontoon. Hyperventilating now, he grasped the door frame and the drip edge of the floor and gingerly slid downward, reaching out with his right foot for the familiar feel of the metal.

. . .

Jerry eased back the throttle on the big Beaver as he crossed Loon Island on the Large bay of South Indian Lake, marking the approach to their the fishing camp on the narrow sliver of water separating the west shore of South Indian Lake from it largest Island. Once again he tried to get Troy on the radio, but there was still no answer. On an impulse he eased the throttle again and began a gradual descent toward the narrows. If there was no sign of life he would just carry on, but if he spotted the 185 on the water he would stop off and investigate. Troy should have been there and gone hours ago, but he also should have been back at the float base or in the air. If he'd been back at base Norma would have seen him, and if he was still in the air he should be on the radio. His three passengers would have to understand a slightly abnormal return trip. Checking back over his shoulder he grinned, they might not even notice; all three men were sound asleep.

Dropping down into the channel, Jerry scanned ahead for sign of the Cessna alongside the little dock he and Troy had built at the cabin three years earlier. The distinct green and white boat was tied up, and as he got closer, he caught a glimpse of two men sitting on a pile of gear on the dock, but no plane. Jerry pulled the throttle and big Otter roared out and began to climb. The men on the dock were waving madly as he flew by. Hesitating for only a moment, he banked the Otter and began to lower the flaps. Reaching for the radio he made another try to contact Troy, then began setting up for a landing in the channel.

The two fishermen, a father and son, were delighted to see the plane come around and set up for the channel. They had been told to prepare for a mid-morning departure, and it was now well after noon, but all was well. They had enjoyed four peaceful days of fishing, exploring the countryside, and testing one another's patience at cribbage.

The engine on the big silver bird fell silent just a few yards short of the dock, and both men were ready to help guide the big pontoon into place as Jerry hopped down from the cabin.

"I take it Troy hasn't been here to pick you up?" Jerry queried casually, a smile creasing his well- tanned face.

"Nope, we thought someone was supposed to come this morning, but the only plane we've seen is yours. Are you taking us back to Leaf?"

"Well, I'm here, and I have room, if you don't mind being a little cramped. I have three other guys along, but we can take you. It's not a long flight so you should manage. I don't know what held Troy up, but if he's had trouble, I'll have to come back for you anyway."

Jerry kept the conversation light and relaxed, but underneath he was becoming increasingly uneasy about the missing 185. As quickly as possible he got the father and son loaded and got back in the air. Checking his map, he began considering where Troy might have put the 185 down between the float base at Leaf and the camp. The whole way was basically a run up the Churchill River, which Loon Island was a part of. The river was controlled by the hydroelectric dams that fed power to the south, and there was about 70 miles of river between him and the base. At places the river was well over ten miles wide, such as at Opachuanau Lake, which technically wasn't a lake at all any more, just a wide part of the river. The autopilot was slaved to the GPS, and Jerry was happy to let it guide him upriver while he got out his binoculars and began to periodically scan ahead for any sign of an aircraft on the water.

"I'm being irrational," he thought. "Troy will be sitting on the dock when I get there." But there was a funny feeling in his gut that wouldn't listen to his argument, and he kept looking at the GPS as the miles to base inexorably clicked down.

. . .

Janice was sitting outside the emergency room in Thompson General Hospital. It seemed like it had been six hours since they had landed, but she knew it couldn't be. The clock on the wall said it had only been an hour and forty minutes since they had come in, but she wondered if it was working right.

The nice nurse came back out through the doors. She was smiling, which Janice hoped was a good sign.

"Mrs. Karth, sorry to keep you waiting but the doctors have been pretty busy. Your husband seems to be stable, but he has had a considerable head trauma and they are keeping a close watch on him right now. They are just going to run one more scan and then you can go in and be with your husband."

"Is he awake?" Janice was almost afraid to ask.

"No, but he is pretty sedated. They have finished setting his broken bones, and the lacerations were not as bad as they may have looked. Still, he is going to need a considerable time to recover. I think the doctor will be out in a few minutes to give you more information, but can I get you anything in the meantime? Would you like a cup of coffee? I can gladly send for some."

"Ah, sure. A little cream, if you don't mind. So they are going to keep Arden here?"

"You will have to ask the doctor that. As I said, he'll be out soon, and he can give you more insight as to your husband's condition." The nurse smiled reassuringly. "I'll go send for that coffee."

She walked away quickly, hoping that she had not given that poor woman false hope and optimism. Her husband had not regained consciousness and the doctors were pretty sure there was bleeding in his brain. He might never again be the man his poor wife was waiting for.

Janice was sipping her coffee when the door opened again and a man in green scrubs and a polka dot skull cap came through. He took a quick look around and settled his gaze on her. Striding over confidently, he took a seat beside her.

"Mrs. Karth?"

"Yes."

"I'm Doctor Finning. I've been treating your husband. I don't want to worry you, but we are having some issues I want you to be aware of. Most of your husband's injuries are not critical. He has a broken clavicle, and humorous on his left side, three broken fingers, one broken rib and three cracked ribs, and some cuts and bruises, but all these are minor things. He also has a punctured lung from the broken rib, which is not so good, but it will be stabilized. The one issue which is of some considerable concern is that there appears to be some swelling and probable bleeding in the frontal lobe of his brain. This is putting pressure on the brain, which we are monitoring right now. I am waiting for results of a scan we just concluded, and if it shows what I suspect, I am going to recommend that we transfer your husband to Health Sciences Center in Winnipeg by air ambulance."

"Oh my, how soon will you know?" Janice tried to keep her voice calm and fight down the panic.

"I will have the results in a few minutes, but I suggest that you prepare to leave in a short time. We will have a team with him, but there will be room for you as well. Just so you are prepared, Mrs. Karth, I don't think at this point, that this is life threatening, but if we can't deal with the bleeding it could have permanent effects. We need to get Arden into the hands of a competent neurosurgeon."

The coffee cup in Janice's hands suddenly just wouldn't keep still, and as she glanced down to where Dr. Finning was looking, she saw that there appeared to be a considerable tempest brewing in her cup. Fascinated, she observed, with near total detachment, that there was present danger of the coffee leaping over the rim in the cup in response to the quivering of her hands that seemed to be creating a sympathetic harmonic vibration in the dark choppy sea of liquid trapped within the sea-walls of the paper cup. The more she tried to calm the maelstrom, the worse the waves became, threatening now to top the barricade and spill over, flooding surrounding territory.

"Mrs. Karth ... Mrs. Karth..."

Janice's mind lurched back into reality. Leaving the squall in her lap behind her, her head jerked up to recognize the concerned look on Dr. Finning's face, now only inches from her own.

"Oh, yes, excuse me, I seem to be having a problem with my coffee..."

"Mrs. Karth, is there someone we can call to be with you?"

"Oh, no, the kids are in Winnipeg. I guess I'll see them soon enough. I'm all right, Doctor. I'll be fine. I think that I need to find a washroom..."

Dr. Finning gently pried the still quivering coffee cup from Janice's hands while simultaneously glancing over at the nursing station just down the hall.

"Eileen, if you have a moment, could you help Mrs. Karth to the washroom. Mrs. Karth, Eileen will assist you, and then, if you don't mind, she will give you a little pill to help you feel better."

The nurse was already coming over and Janice thought it odd that the doctor assumed she couldn't find a washroom on her own...

"Eileen, 1 mg sublingual Ativan for Mrs. Karth. I am going back to check the CT scan."

. . .

Troy stood balancing on his one good leg as he gathered his strength and considered a viable plan to get to shore. He doubted that he could manage more than one trip, but he couldn't afford to leave anything behind. Reaching up, he cut the two fishing lines that held his emergency kit and food cooler, then he carefully retied them to each other, doubling up the fishing line several times. With a much shortened length of line, now also several strands thick, he placed the two containers near each other on the pontoon. Next he turned around and reached for the big duffle bag, pulling it close to his feet where he would be able to grasp it from in the water. One last check of the cabin from the doorway and he closed the door with a sense of finality. Now he could see directly ahead and he studied the shoreline for a minute as he gathered his resolve. Once committed to the icy water there would be no turning back, and although the shore was not far off, he had to know he could get there on one leg, carrying his gear with him.

Holding the front strut of the pontoon with his right hand, he gingerly lowered himself onto the pontoon's slick surface. Letting his lifeless left leg dangle over the side, he stretched his right leg out in front of him. Next he reached down to grasp the cooler and the emergency kit. Placing the emergency kit carefully on his lap, he raised the cooler and lifted it over his head, allowing one set of fishing line to come to rest on each shoulder. The issue was going to be balance, and with the slightly heavier emergency cooler in front, if he went over, it would at least probably not be backward, which would be potentially disastrous. His left leg, dangling in the water with its circulation all but cut off, hardly registered the cold at all. He knew that would not be the case when the rest of him went in. Grasping the strut firmly in his right hand he clasped the axe head in his left and leaned out, plunging it beneath the surface to check the depth. He was relieved when the axe touched bottom just before his hand hit water. About two and a half feet, half way up his thigh. He should be able to manage it if the bottom wasn't too muddy, and it looked like gravel and rocks.

Troy slid around, and still holding the strut in his right hand, lowered himself gingerly into the frigid lake. The cold sent shock waves to his already overtaxed brain, and he stopped for a moment, his foot just off the bottom, to catch a desperate breath. The axe blade still clasped firmly in his left hand, he allowed his body to slip off the pontoon as he found precarious footing with his right leg. It was more like cobbles than gravel bottom, and he was now balancing on a slippery round rock. Reaching out to grasp the duffle bag with his right hand, he pulled it along the top of the pontoon. The momentum caused his right foot to slip off the rock, sending him off balance. Only a desperate twist, placing his weight on the axe handle, kept him from plunging face first into the water.

In spite of the intense cold in his leg, beads of sweat were now running down his face. Gasping as the emergency kit slammed into his aching ribs Troy straightened and took one faltering step alongside the pontoon, still keeping the precious duffle bag high and dry on the pontoon's surface. Quickly moving the axe handle forward to a new position, he pulled his left leg through the water, keeping it above the lake bottom. Transferring his weight to the axe in his left hand Troy now carefully pulled the duffle along the pontoon until it was ahead of him. Leaning on his right hand and the axe, he cautiously moved his right foot forward and found bottom again. Three more steps brought him to the front of the pontoon. From here is was going to be more difficult. With no choice but to lift the duffle bag and abandon the balancing help of the plane, he would have to strike out for shore trusting to his axe handle alone. Fortunately the water was already getting shallower, but his right leg was now nearly as numb as his left. He had to hurry now before he lost feeling and risked a fall.

Holding the duffle bag under his arm he kept his eyes focused on the shoreline to help with his balance. With each step his shattered left leg, now scraping the bottom as he tried to balance the weight on his right side, would send searing lightning bolts of pain through his already overtaxed nervous system. Gasping, with uncontrollable tears blurring his vision, he took one faltering step after another. He was sure he wasn't going to make the shore, but each step would bring him closer, and perhaps into shallow enough water that he wouldn't be at risk of floating away. Then, at least they would find his body, giving Norma and the girls the closure they deserved.