Chama Rama, Part III

As the sun set over the west rim of the Chama Canyon that late May evening, we all were a mess. Tracy, having almost drowned, was now smiling more than anyone. She was undoubtedly happy to be alive.

Attention turned to me and what we were going to do about whatever was in my knee. Various attempts to pull the thing out with tweezers were unsuccessful. It was firmly lodged in there, just out of sight. I still had full range of motion in my knee and had already resolved myself to somehow walk out of there early the next morning and begin searching for a road. Infection was my number one concern. If we went on downstream, it would be another day or two before we would be able to reach a hospital. That just wasn't going to happen if I could help it.

The group met and decided to cancel the remainder of the float down the canyon. A plan was made: first thing in the morning two people would climb out of the canyon just above our camp and hike back to the cars parked at the put-in point. No one was sure how far that would be, but they figured it was at least a ten mile walk. They would return with cars and be met by the rest of the group who would have by that time packed all the gear and carried up and out of the canyon. The entire plan rested on a road being found somewhere nearby at the top of the rim.

Someone had brought along a bottle of single malt scotch to celebrate our completion of the run down the canyon. Being the well-healed alcoholic aficionado that I was, I totally bought into the "get 'em drunk to fix 'em up" myth. The fine scotch was broken open and immediately served to me first. After getting me sufficiently buzzed, another attempt was made to grab that stick in my knee, but it failed. It was simply too far down under the skin to reach.

As morning broke, Kip and Jenny departed on their mission. The raft and kayaks were deflated, all the gear was prepared for removal and we began the arduous task of moving hundreds of pounds of gear up a steep mountainside. It was decided that if I was good for a single trip up and out of the canyon, I could also move something while I was underway. The deflated raft weighed more than any single thing, so I volunteered to help move it up.

Others in the group had to make several trips each up and down the canyon wall to move every last thing we had brought. It took most of the morning to complete this task. By the time the last of the items were being moved, Jenny and Kip returned, led us to the two cars they had retrieved, and off I went to my next adventure -- the ER in Tierra Amarilla, New Mexico.

When we arrived I was surprised at the facility. Although it was small, it appeared to be well kept and professionally run. I was almost immediately escorted into an ER. Kip and Jenny were allowed to stay with me, and we tried to keep the atmosphere light while the doctor was performing a procedure on a patient about ten feet away in the open ER. Turns out the other patient was an ambulance driver who had torn ligaments in his knee on a run earlier in the day.

"TWO knee cases!" The Doctor exclaimed. "Guess knees are the popular thing."

After I explained the situation and told the doctor that the injury had happened almost 24 hours before, he shook his head and tried what we had been trying to do from the beginning -- pull the damned thing out. As he leaned over and inserted a surgical instrument into the opening, I suddenly realized that he looked very familiar. Very, very familiar. I couldn't place it and I didn't want to talk to him while he had a metal instrument stuck into my knee, so I watched and tried to recall. Nothing!

He too was unsuccessful with his first approach. "OK," he said, "let's try something else. Looks like that thing is jammed in there, so I need to get a good look at it. Mind if I take some pictures?"

"You mean x-rays?" I asked.

"Yep."

"Sure."

"It'll help me see what I'm up against. If I can pull it out, I'll do that, otherwise we're going to have to cut it out" the doctor concluded.

X-rays were taken and the doctor showed them to me. The stick had bent around all the vital tendons and ligaments without damaging any of them. But it was bent down and had a small protrusion that had already been snugly sealed during our 24-hour wait. "We're going to have to cut it out."

The doc left momentarily and came back with a bottle of gas and a mask that fit around my nose and mouth. "Breathe in deeply for a while," he said. It was laughing gas. "This will help me get you ready. By the way, are you really into your looks?"

"What?" I asked as the gas began to take effect.

"Well, I'm really going to screw this pretty knee up. It's going to look like hell."

"Who cares?" I chuckled. The gas was working.

Suddenly I recognized who the doctor looked like. "Hey! I know you! You're Jerry Garcia! The Grateful Dead, right?"

The doctor looked at me, laughed and turned around to deal with his other knee patient.

Time stopped, sped up and stopped again while I waited. The doctor warned me not to watch while he worked. I didn't. Still, he had to have Kip, Jenny and the ambulance driver hold me down on the bed as he administered anesthesia and thereafter surgically removed an inch-and-a-half long piece of tree buried in me.

The day-old nature of the injury meant that the wound had to be left open. No stitches today. After waiting to make sure that I didn't have any negative side-effects from the anesthesia, he led me into a large closet that doubled as the pharmacy, gave me antibiotics and pain medications and discharged me.

As I left the hospital that day, feeling no pain whatsoever, I had two things on my mind: (1) Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead -- the doctor -- was amazing because he was EVERYTHING: the doctor, the radiologist, the anesthesiologist, the pharmacist, the nurse, the surgeon and a great musician and entertainer; and (2) when I went to the payment window at check-out the TOTAL bill was $180. Although the hospital could not take or file my insurance, they were surprised when I took out my credit card and asked if they would take it.

"Yes, we take credit cards. How much do you want to pay?"

"The whole thing, I guess."

"The WHOLE thing, really?"

"Yes. Is that OK?"

"Sure! Just to let you know, we give a 25% discount to anyone paying in full at the time services are rendered."

"You're kidding?" I said as my jaw refused to shut.

"That'll be $125, Mr. Malone."

[When I got back home, I followed the doctor's orders and immediately went to a medical professional. Because my doctor's offices were closed, I had to go to an ER. They visually examined my knee, gave me a new prescription, which I would have to fill somewhere else, and sent me away. The total bill came to over $1000! Since I had insurance at the time, the visit was covered 100%.]

We rejoined the group about an hour later. They had decided that the trip should not be -- was not -- really over. At the end of the Wild and Scenic part of the canyon are various semi-improved camp sites along the river. That's where we had intended to wind up our trip anyway, so it was decided to go there and raft that part of the river. We spent a glorious three days in that part of the canyon.

If you've never been there, it is without a doubt one of the most beautiful and spiritual places on earth. I encourage all of my readers to go -- and take me with you each time. I'll be making future blog entries about my other white water trips down the beautiful Rio Chama in the Piedre Lumbre of New Mexico.

Although I could not get on the river again on that trip, I promised everyone -- and we all agreed -- that we would return the next year, when the water was lower, and conquer that river once and for all. That's just what we did 14 months later. I promise a funnier story and a happier ending for that future blog entry.

Tracy eventually went to a doctor and discovered that her finger was broken and she had injured her collar bone. It's possible that it had become separated but had popped back into place during that harrowing time under the raft. She, Scott and Jenny were the real heros of this trip. When crunch time came -- sorry about the pun -- each of them acted with clear-headed smarts and got us out of worse trouble. Let's face it, only a group of complete idiots would have continued down that river after what happened against that wall.

My knee injury took over three months to heal. Based upon doctors orders, I got to wear shorts to my "suit and tie" job for about eight weeks. Thinking back to the doctor asking me if was "into my looks," only once since then has anyone asked me about the huge scar on my knee -- a football player who had one very similar to it on his knee. I can always rest assured that my knee injury wasn't white-water-rafting "career" ending.