A few hikers passed me, all wearing better gear on their feet.
“I missed the memo,” I said, and then let out a squeal as my feet slipped in different directions like a newborn deer’s. I landed with a hard thud on my ass, mud splattering all over my tight designer athletic pants, a blue and purple flower print.
“Shit.”
I was about to call it quits, but from my lower vantage, I could see the waterfalls through a part in the trees. Quitting now would be silly. I’d still have the two mile return trip, and no waterfall selfies to show for it.
I hauled myself to my feet, hating the way the mud dampened my ass and the backs of my legs, and picked my way carefully down the trail. I was nearly there—I could see other hikers splashing in the water and taking photos on a plateau of dry rock in front of the falls under a clear blue sky. Spirits bolstered, I kept going.
Only one more hurdle awaited: a short drop, down from a rocky outcropping to the ground and the waterfall. I sat down on the ledge and scooted off. It was only a half-foot drop, but the rocks were slick, and my “hiking” sandals were coated with mud. I landed and then a yelp escaped me as my right foot slid out from under me. It bent sideways in a way a healthy ankle is not meant to bend.
Then I did more than yelp.
“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” I panted as pain lanced up my leg and I landed on my ass—again.
Gingerly, I held my calf and examined my foot. My ankle, naked but for the Velcro sandal straps, already looked as if it were pregnant with a golf ball. The skin was stretched and shiny.
“No, no, no,” I breathed, mild shock constricting my lungs. For a few agonized moments, I could only sit and let the pain wash over me in waves, trying not to cry.
“Are you okay?” called a middle-aged dad who looked like Rob Reiner. He picked his way carefully over the rocks from where his two tween sons were splashing each other in front of the falls. “Oh dang,” he said, eyeing my ankle. “I’d say not. What can I do?”
“I have to get out of here. Help me up?” I said, reaching out my hand.
The guy looked dubious. “You sure?”
“I gotta get off the ground.”
The guy helped me to stand, and I let out a cry as I nearly slipped again. The man caught me, saving me from another tumble. I repaid him by covering his white shorts with mud as I crashed against him.
“Whoa, hey. I got you.”
I pressed my lips together, willing the tears to back down. My ankle throbbed, and I clutched the guy’s arm as I glanced up the way I had come. “Impossible.”
“Yeah, I think you should sit down. Is someone here with you? Someone you can call?”
“No,” I said, feeling unbearably lonely and stranded. “No one close.”
Rob Reiner 2.0 helped me hop painfully to a chair-level rock and I sat down. I wished longingly for Silas. I could call him. He’d jump in one of his private jets to rescue me—and be here in about six hours.
I pulled my phone out of my mud-splattered backpack. No reception.
The guy rubbed his beard. “You’re not going to have bars down here. I’ll climb up to a higher level and call emergency services.”
“No, you don’t have to.” I jabbed at my phone. “I’m sure I’ll get reception soon.”
He smiled kindly at me. “You need help. I’m going.”
I slumped on my rock chair. “Okay. Thank you.”
“No prob.”
The guy wrangled his sons and they all three went climbing back up the trail and out of sight. I sat for who-knew-how-long waiting, a second heartbeat throbbing in my ankle that now looked like it had swallowed a softball.
Other hikers picked their way around me, to and from the falls, some stopping to wince at my ankle on my behalf.
“That doesn’t look fun,” said one helpful commenter.
I bit back a smart-ass remark. My ankle ached, and I just wanted to get the hell out of here. But, holy shit, how?
Rob Reiner 2.0 returned (and introduced himself as Sam) saying that the EMTs were on their way.
I smiled gratefully. “Thank you, Sam.”
“No problem, sweetheart.”
He and his sons resumed playing in the water. I suspected he and his family had seen their fill of the falls but were hanging around for my sake.