I Was Only Going to Town

Being a wilderness survival instructor, dead branches excite me. I’ll pick a branch up if I see a good one driving down the Interstate or any other road – asphalt or dirt – for that matter. Better than that, twice a week I’ll do a walkabout at our Georgia farm looking for fallen branches. I gather ‘em up for firewood and put the branches in our barn where they’ll stay dry.

Strange this branch fascination, but quite attributable to the fact that I’ve wandered about the wilderness hundreds of times gathering wood for campfires. All in all, over the years branches have been good to me. They’ve helped make outstanding fires and helped create many bodacious memories. Then one day I found a branch that wasn’t so helpful, a branch that caused me harm.

It was a beautiful early-October afternoon, 2022. I was moseying down our farm lane in my truck, whistling a Christmas tune, on my way to a store in town. After passing through our electronic gate, I noticed immediately to the right a deader-than-the-dickens branch. Hanging there, held up by vines. I put the truck in park and hopped out. This particular branch grab would only take a minute or two, so I left the truck running.

The task seemed simple: grab the branch and tug a tad. So, I grabbed the branch and tugged a tad. The branch didn’t move much because of the vines. What if I pulled harder? With all my might? That would probably do it. So, I grabbed the branch again and pulled with all my might. And that’s when the end of the branch -  right where I’m holding - breaks off.

I have never been shot from a slingshot, but I think I know what it feels like. With more momentum than I ever thought possible, I was flung backwards across the lane and into a small ditch, where I went down hard, slamming the back of my head against a fence board. Holy bonkers did my head slam against that damn board! Cuckoo birds were everywhere. The lights flickered, but never went out.

 My body lay stretched on its side, my back pressed tight against the fence, my left arm stretched out on an active ant nest. How wonderful. I shook my head and nothing rattled. And my neck seemed to be working okay. So, I commenced to remove myself from this sudden and humbling predicament and couldn’t. My dern right leg had quit working. My right foot? That dern thing was twitching like crazy. On its own. I stared in amazement.

PMA. Positive mental attitude. Was I going to panic? Was I going to give up? Was I gonna have the right attitude to make it through this unexpected emergency situation? What about the four major fears of a survivor? Did I have a fear of death? No. Didn’t seem to be anything life-threatening. No blood. I was breathing. Did I have a fear of wild animals? No. But the dern ants were becoming a bit obnoxious. Did I have a fear of darkness? No. The afternoon was bright and sunny. Did I have a fear of being alone? At the moment, yes! I needed to attract attention to myself and quick. Pain was setting up camp.

Attracting attention to myself was not going to be a problem. My wife was a quick call away. Up at the house where she was working. I reached into the cargo pocket of my pants with my free right hand (where usually I carry my phone) but the pocket was empty. $%#@&%!!! My phone is in the truck. In a $#@%$#ing cup holder. I attempt to crawl to the truck to retrieve my phone. Well, what a joke that was. I went nowhere. Seriously? What a mistake I’d made. Why wasn’t my phone on my person?

On the asphalt road, less than thirty yards away, vehicles were passing by, albeit sporadically. “HELP ME! HELP ME!” I shouted, as I waved my right arm crazily, as high as I could, back and forth, back and forth, so as to create movement that a vehicle’s occupant might see. “HELP ME! HELP ME! PLEASE HELP ME!” It seemed like hours (but more like twenty minutes) when I heard a voice.

“Hey, Mister! I’m real sorry I didn’t get here earlier. Didn’t see you soon enough and had to go up to the church and turn around. I’m real sorry! Name’s Matt. What can I do for you?” My eyes open and there is a face staring at me. A kind and caring face.

“I’m Byron. Nice to meet you. Up there at the house. Can you get my wife? Her name is Kelley. And Matt, if you don’t mind, I’m just gonna stay here.”

The good Samaritan smiled, vaulted the fence, and ran to the house. Propped on an elbow, I waited patiently. To pass the time, I crushed fire ants between my thumb and index finger, one at a time.

“Byyyyyyyyron! Byyyyyyyron! Are you okay?” My wife was on-scene. Instantly I felt safe and bodaciously better. Call it the power of love.

“Please call 911,” I said. “Something isn’t working right. I can’t move my right leg and the pain is crazy.”

Kelley made the call and an ambulance was on its way. From Athens, where the Georgia Dawgs live, thirty miles to the north. Surprisingly, five-minutes after the 911 call, a fire truck pulled into the lane. The local volunteer fire and rescue squad had arrived. Two paramedics, carrying bags full of medical gear, hustled their way towards me. Without delay they knelt near me and started asking questions. What’s your full name? What’s your date of birth? On a scale of one to ten, ten being high, what is your level of pain? How did you get in this predicament? And, why in the heck did you do such a thing? I answered dutifully.

The scene survey. The patient survey. Vitals. Then, “Get the morphine started.”

A siren wailed off in the distance, its soft music gaining on my position. Overhead in the blue sky, a kettle of turkey vultures flew a graceful figure-eight. Everything was so peaceful. Even the medics putting me on the backboard. I’d equate it to a magic carpet ride.

At the hospital. X-rays of hips, knees, and leg bones. And then the announcement: "Ah ha, Mr. Kerns! We have discovered the problem! You have a fractured femur. At the top, near the ball joint. No worries, Mr. Kerns! Your surgery is scheduled mid-day tomorrow. A three-night hospital stay, a titanium nail and some screws, several crappy meals, and a huge medical bill ought to fix you right up."

Damn. I was only going to town.

A year and months later, I’ve arrived at the conclusion that I am a mighty lucky fella. My goodness, if my head had hit that fence board any different - instead of smack-dab at the back of my head - I could have occurred a spinal injury, maybe paralysis. I do believe everything happens for a reason. There’s a purpose for an incident and a lesson for every difficulty. The past? Hug it for the educator it is. And if someone tells you to 'break a leg' they're really wishing you good luck, Whaat?

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