I'm probably going to die in a really stupid way.
Two summers ago I was shimmying across a fallen tree on my butt and kicked what looked like a dead branch, thinking I’d break it off. But the branch was very solid and instead I rocketed backwards off the tree, bruising my coccyx and getting the wind knocked out of me for the first time since elementary school jungle gym misadventures. I narrowly missed being impaled on a metal fence post.
In July I let myself get cornered in a corral by our mean as hell buck sheep. My teenage nephew was watching his grandfather lumber down the hill in his ancient Caterpillar track loader, and couldn’t hear my screams for help over the machinery. The ram charged me, butting my right thigh with his hard head. It felt like being smacked with a sledge hammer. He was gearing up for another blow when my brother showed up and got him away from me. It took all three of us to get the [redacted] through the right gate, with the help of a pitchfork, a McLeod and a broom. I don’t know why I chose the broom.
Anyway, the ram incident rattled me a little. It happened so fast. My brain was on autopilot. I saw him and thought I could shoo him out of the corral. The majority of the time you do things by rote, and it’s fine. And then one time out of a thousand it’s not. That’s not just life on a ranch, that’s life in general. Could I have been killed by that stupid sheep? Maybe. I don’t know what would have happened if I was alone. I don’t carry my phone with me most of the time when I’m working there, and we don’t get reception in most places. He could have seriously injured me to a point where I wouldn’t have been able to get away and call for help.
I don’t know if I am:
(a) A normal amount of unlucky combined with an abnormal deficit of executive function.
(b) A extraordinary amount of lucky despite my deficit in executive function, or
(c) A human whose life just happens to include a lot of opportunities to die by sheep, branch, pelican, etc., or
(d) A little more focused on this stuff than everyone else.
What I do know is that last weekend I went caving at Lavabeds National Monument, and I came prepared. Two headlamps. Kneepads. My bike helmet. Water. Gloves. Snacks. Most experts will say you should not go caving alone, and they are totally right. But if I had to wait to find someone willing to drive for six hours to crawl around underground with me, I would probably be waiting my whole life. I also knew that the caves were pretty well traveled this time of year, and I was not worried about getting lost. I only ended up exploring two – the Labyrinth and the Golden Dome. The latter has a bacterial growth that appears golden when you shine a light on it. I found out to my dismay that the kneepads I chose were not the right kind – the hard plastic caps meant I slid backwards when trying to scramble through an opening. Oh well.
It was great, and I don’t think I’m going to do it again alone. I’ve become more cautious in my 40s, and I’m slowly learning the limitations of hyper-independence. Whatever stupid way nature decides it’s going to take me out, I’m too pretty to die underground.
The most memorable part of my trip was the long drive from Mount Shasta to the park. I took the southern route through McCloud, driving through Shasta-Trinity National Forest, past Medicine Lake and towns named Barton, Hambone, Lakin, then on through the vast high desert of Modoc County. Later I’ll learn that the approach to the monument is actually a volcano, not the dramatic composite cones like Mount Shasta itself that we usually picture, but rather a shield volcano, gently sloping and capable of sending out flows of lava for hundreds and hundreds of miles. Which this one — the Medicine Lake shield volcano — did, 700 square miles to be exact. As I drove I observed the lava rock on either side of the road as far as the eye could see, and thought about the temerity it would take to try and cross it. The most recent eruption of Medicine Shield happened 950 years ago, but the flows around me were forty thousand years old. Understanding this made me feel small in the best way. It’s good when nature can put us in our place. Ideally we have these epiphanies without dying in a stupid way.