How I Broke My Arm

So, dear friend, you want to know about this cast, curious as to how I broke my arm. Funny you should ask. Ah, it's quite the tale. While not truly a secret, it is a story I've often thought should remain untold, a mystery for all time. Nonetheless, I've decided to chronicle all that happened in the narrative below, to wipe away the fog of enigma, to shine a light on the facts, exactly as they transpired. Yes, unbelievers, the tale I tell, from beginning to end, is true. I swear it on the grave of my dear departed grandfather (who was cremated so, truth be told, has no actual grave, and whom some have accused of being a dirty low down lying thief, a poor excuse of a human being, an irreverent philanderer and drunk, but let's not speak ill of the dead).

It all began when my loving, ever patient and beautiful ray of daily sunshine, my heart, my soul, my joy in life, my bride, expressed for the thousandth time her deep and abiding love of truffles, something we had occasion to sample when on a vacation to Europe a few years back. How it happened that we might share in that indulgence of the uber rich, well that's another story, which, if there is interest expressed, I will tell another time. But for now, suffice to say she was exposed to this delicious, extraordinarily expensive delicacy while dining with the queen of England. I know, unbelievable yet true, us, denizens of the high plains, citizens of Muleshoe, a tiny hamlet located in the flat wind swept grasslands of West Texas, dining with royalty. Yes, we, my bride and I, both hicks to the core, graduates of Muleshoe High, dined with the high and mighty. And in so doing, discovered the beautiful aroma and sensuous taste of truffles, a tender treasure relished by royalty.

It was a Sunday morning when, for the thousandth time, she softly muttered her undying disappointment that she married an under achieving loser who could never provide her with the savory delicacy she so lovingly remembered from that chance event years ago. Thinking I could not hear, the love of my life swore beneath her breath. A look fleeted across her face, the one you yourself perchance have seen, a countenance conveying to all the world that her despicable low life weasel of a husband is incapable of providing even the most basic of life's luxuries, like truffles.

I could read her mind, as it was all but printed on her forehead, her body language howling her disdain. Through pinched lips and half laugh she smirked at me, her morning cigarette dangling from the side of her mouth, blue smoke curling about the strands of gray, un-brushed, un-washed hair, strewn wildly about her head. "I married a loser," she silently scowled.

Her unspoken, but sometimes muttered, thoughts hurt me to my core. Never did I want to disappoint such a delicate flower as her, such a loving and forgiving sweet soul. True, she nagged incessantly, she smelled of aging urine and unwashed armpits, and she treated me worse than a rabid dog, but she was my heart. That I might fall short in pleasing such a wonder as was my bride gave me pain deep into my very soul.

"I will be hauling a load to Oregon for work next week", I mentioned. She grunted. "Wild truffles grow in Oregon." That got a response. She looked up, surprise showing on her face.

"Truffles?" she asked.

"Yes, truffles. I Googled it. The Oregon spring white truffle is in season. And I, dear love, will make it my mission in life find some while I am there and bring them home to you."

My bride grinned. My heart melted. Her smile was all the encouragement I needed. I now had a mission in life.

Those of you with even a passing knowledge of the Oregon spring white truffle are no doubt doubled over in laughter at this point. Harvesting even a few sprigs of the endangered delicacy growing only in the most remote regions of the forest, high up in the mountains, is a daunting task for even the most hardy of hunters. Hunters who know what the hell they are doing, and who have pursued the illusive fungus before, who are trained for the adventure and outfitted for the rigors to be faced, none of which I understood or even knew about, facts of which I was blissfully unaware. So I expressed my intentions with a healthy, sorely misplaced confidence, the confidence of the ignorant, wearing the happy smile of the fool, the same smile you see on the faces of those whose last words are, "Hold my beer and watch this."

Before leaving town, I dropped by my local library, wisely thinking that I might benefit from additional knowledge about hunting truffles. The library did, in fact have several books about fungi in general, and a few on truffles, including a six hundred page tome titled 'How to Find American Wild Truffles'. I checked the contents, turned to the chapter on Oregon truffles and found a full page picture of my objective. I took out my phone and snapped a photo. I closed the six hundred page instruction book on my elusive objective, confident I had all the knowledge I needed, and was on my way.

I scheduled a half day to complete my task. After dropping off my trailer loaded with used tamale husk wrapping paper at the national tamale husk recycling center, I drove the tractor portion of my rig up the mountain road that led into the national park. I parked my big rig cab at the cul-de-sac that was the end of the road, grabbed my backpack and walked to the trail head. There was a chain barring entrance to the trail with a swinging sign dangling from it that said something about danger ahead, absolutely no admittance, or something like that, with a cute drawing of a bear. I stepped over the little chain and set off into the mountains. And so began my quest.

Hours later, a troubling thought flickered through my mind, tickled my consciousness. Perhaps I should have scheduled a full day. Through labored breathing, I trudged upward and higher, ever deeper into the forest, scanning about with every step. Stopping to rest, another thought occurred. Perhaps I should have brought along a map, or a compass, or at least stayed on the trail. Oh well, fortune favors the bold. I love that saying. And today, I was the bold, the daring adventurer, determined to find my treasure. I smiled to myself, adjusted my backpack, and trudged onward.

I came at last to a little clearing beside a clear mountain stream, trickling down through a valley between two majestic mountain peaks. Near the stream, beneath the shade of giant evergreen pines, at the base of the mighty trees, I spied something growing from the shadowy bark. I grabbed my phone and opened the picture, comparing it to the small fungus in front of me. Hurray! Grab a bottle and toast to success, I found it. In fact, as I gazed around, I saw that I was in a veritable oasis of truffles. Tiny sprouts of fungi sprang beneath the trees ascending the verdant valley surrounding the trickling brook. I quickly began to gather what I could, scrambling from tree to tree to find the tiny spouts.

Endeavoring to judge the extent of the truffle treasure, my gaze extended up the valley until, high above me, I saw a bear looking back down the valley directly at me. Not just any bear, an American Grizzly, the second largest predator on land, surpassed only by his cousin, the Polar bear. This particular grizzly, an adult male, appeared to be dining on truffles. You see, it is not just humans who enjoy the intricate smell and tastes of truffles, it is almost all mammals including pigs, dear, elks, bison and, I now realized, bears. I had inadvertently stumbled into the favorite feeding ground for this particular grizzly. He appeared peeved that a human was trespassing on his personal and private garden. I surmised he was irked when I saw him rear up on his hind legs, paw the air and roar. I heard the roar about seven seconds after I saw him make it. Seven seconds it took the mighty sound to rumble and echo down the mountains to my ears. A mile and a half, I determined, lay between me and the angry animal.

The grizzly dropped down from his roaring posture and began running full speed alongside the stream down toward me. Hmm. I recalled hearing someone say a human cannot outrun a bear. Well, that unpleasant bit of trivia did not stop me from trying. To my credit, I had a good head start. I turned the opposite direction and ran like the wind away from the bear. I sprinted for what seemed like forever, about twenty, maybe thirty seconds. My chest heaving and my muscles on fire, I slowed my pace to a trot, which I managed to maintain for a few minutes. Damn, I was out of shape. Gasping for air, I slowed again to what now resembled a brisk walk, occasionally glancing over my shoulder where, to my chagrin, I saw the thousand pound beast thundering and lumbering ever closer.

This was not how I had planned my day to go. When the bear was but a hundred feet away, I admitted defeat and, resigned to my fate, dropped to my knees and prepared myself for the end. I closed my eyes and pictured my beloved wife standing in the ever present cloud of cigarette smoke, a Marlboro dangling from her lips, straggly strands of unwashed hair framing her face, the familiar pungent odor of stale urine lingering in the air, and I whispered, "I'm sorry my love. I've failed you."

Steeling myself for the inevitable, I crouched in a ball on the ground, eyes closed, waiting. The bear slid to a stop just feet away. The dust from his paws swept past me and pebbles rolled against my legs. I forced myself to open one eye and peer at my oncoming death. The bear had again risen on his hind legs and was pawing the air, but he seemed to be looking past me, at something behind me. He let out a mighty roar. The ground shook. I trembled. But the bear did not advance.

A mighty roar of a different nature, a sort of wild howling, came from behind me. I twisted my head and looked in that direction. Standing there, holding the trunk of a small tree which he brandished like a club, stood the elusive Sasquatch, Big Foot himself, the seven foot tall, five hundred pound real king of the forest. And like the king he was, he inched forward, threatening the bear, brandishing the huge club and growling aggressively through his dirty yellow teeth, forcing the bear backwards.

The two mighty warriors confronted each other for only seconds, when the bear dropped to the ground, turned and scampered away, happy to have survived an encounter with his only natural predator and the scourge of bears everywhere. When bears have nightmares, they dream of Big Foot.

I looked up at my new nemesis, his face still frozen in a snarl. He looked down at me. Thinking I may have jumped out of the frying pan into the fire, I had a brainstorm. Slowly, so as not to alarm him, I removed my backpack and poured out the truffles I had collected into a little pile in front of him, as a sort of peace offering, then scooted away. The behemoth looked at the truffles. His snarl melted into a smile. A guttural sound rose from his throat, sounding to me like a deep awwwww. He smiled again, reached down, scooped up the truffles in his mighty hands, and turned to walk away. After a few giant steps, he twisted his head and nodded with his head and shoulders for me to follow. Although it never came up in school, without any formal training or education upon the subject, I instinctively knew when a five hundred pound primitive giant says "follow me," you answer, "how high".

A short time later we arrived at a cave entrance. Big Foot stooped to go inside. I followed. After my eyes adjusted, I could see a surprisingly comfy cave. We moved into the center where the gentle giant placed the truffles near a flat stone. He reached for the nearby carcass of a recently killed deer, tore off a strip of flesh and offered it to me.

I accepted the hunk of raw, unwashed venison, smiled appreciation at my host, but placed the slab of meat on the flat rock. I looked around and saw many small twigs and a few larger pieces of wood. I gathered the twigs into a tee-pee style mound, got out my matches, and lit the little stack of wood. Big Foot startled back at the sudden flame, but being reasonably intelligent, he quickly overcame his surprise, moved closer and watched the fire grow. I held my piece of venison in the flames for a couple of minutes, removed it, tore off a small strip of partly cooked meat, and handed it to my host.

Big Foot held the meat to his tongue, smiled, and gobbled it down. I added more wood, constructed a sort of stick arrangement from which we hung strips of venison over the flames. In no time at all, Big Foot and I had eaten our fill of seared venison, seasoned with a few pieces of truffle, which he graciously shared with me. I stared at my unusual host as he sat back against the cave wall, stretched out his legs and patted his stomach. He lightly strained for a moment, then let out a loud, long burp. I smiled and forced out a burp of my own. He grunted and nodded to me, which I interpreted to mean we were now fast friends. I agreed. In my mind, he was now my bfbff, my big foot best friend forever,

Night fell. The cave cooled. I gathered what wood remained and stacked it onto the fire. In no time the bright blaze bathed the cool cave with cozy heat. Big Foot appeared pleased. With a full stomach and awash with warmth, the beast slept. Following his lead, I curled up near my furry bfbff and soon entered the land of nod. For about five minutes. Good God almighty that creature could snore. I startled awake at his first mighty blast, fearing a raging thunderstorm had descended outside. But no, the thunder came from inside the depths of his half open mouth, the sound reverberating about the cave walls with each mighty breath. Saliva drooled down his chin. At that instant, it occurred to me that this untamed beast lived in complete contentment, never compromising his behavior to the needs of any other creature large or small. With that insight, I envied my wild bfbff. Smiling into the noise, I managed to slumber.

In the morning light, I gathered my things and prepared to leave. My bfbff rose, rubbing and favoring his left shoulder. I had noticed some discomfort in that shoulder the prior day. I pointed at his area of pain. He saw my interest and parted his hair to show me a nasty looking gunshot wound. My surprise showed on my face. My large companion grunted, pointed at the wound and indicated that I follow him. I chose to do as he asked, first, because he was five hundred pounds, and secondly, I had no where better to go. I was, in truth, hopelessly lost and hoping he might eventually direct me to civilization.

We walked for almost an hour, all the time making me even more uncertain of my location, and probably making finding me even more unlikely, if anyone cared or dared to look. Perhaps I should have alerted someone of my plans, as well as taken a map, and a compass, or maybe even asked directions from a local.

I put the matter of my ultimate salvation out of my mind and concentrated on trekking through the rough brush behind my large, but surprising agile guide. Finally we emerged at a small clearing. Lying at the side I saw the remnants of a red flannel shirt and a green John Deere cap near a human skull and various bones still covered in freshly rotting flesh. The carrion blackbirds scattered as we neared. A rifle lay nearby. The body of the hunter had been savagely ripped apart, dismembered, probably by the same lumbering giant now standing by my side.

My friend kicked the skull, let out a low menacing growl and pointed at his shoulder. I nodded and grunted my understanding. Thinking the rifle might come in handy, I walked toward it and reached down. My friend jumped quickly in front of me and, for the first time since our first meeting, I felt a moment of terror. He yanked the rifle from my hands, roared and threw it back into the bushes. He pushed me down and growled, clearly aware that the rifle was the source of his injury.

I made soft soothing sounds, pointed at his shoulder and shook my head. I said no, no, no, hoping he might get my meaning. Then, well, this is where my story of how I broke my arm gets a little weird. I had to communicate to my friend that I would never shoot him. So I got on my hands and knees, lumbered about and rose up and roared like a bear and pawed at the air. Then I pointed at the rifle, and again tried to imitate a bear. I could see understanding grow in the eyes of my wild wilderness guide. He sensed that I wanted the rifle as protection from bears. He walked to the rifle, picked it up and walked to me. Slowly, hesitating at times, he offered me the gun.

I felt great joy that this wild creature, so recently harmed by the hand of another human, felt he could trust me. I took the gun from him, slowly placed it on the ground, and opened a flap on my backpack. I reached in and removed my box of matches, handing him the whole box as a thank you for his trust. He must have greatly enjoyed cooked food, for he held the box of matches tenderly, cooed and, I truly believe, smiled at me. I reached down and slowly lifted the gun, looked around and shrugged as if to ask, "Where to now, big fella?"

My bfbff came to a decision and headed off, not in the same direction as that from which we had come. Clearly, he had another destination in mind. And just as clearly, I again felt my best, if not my only option, was to follow. We walked for another hour. At the top of a rise, I saw a valley below us that had been cleared for cattle. In the middle of the valley I saw a ranch house and several out buildings. My friend grunted and pointed. I started a few steps in the direction of the ranch, paused and turned to raise my hand in fond farewell.

Big foot raised his hand in return, still holding fast to the box of matches. In truth, for me this was a bittersweet moment. I would miss my lumbering friend. And I felt, deep in my heart, that he would miss me too, especially every time he used a match to enjoy a cooked meal. We had made a connection that each would remember always.

Later that summer there was a vast forest fire which originated in the area near the cave where I had stayed with my friend. Watching that fire on the national news, seeing thousands of acres of charred forest where I had so recently hiked, flames leaping into the air, spreading through the countryside threatening the lives of humans and forest creatures alike, made me ponder for a moment the wisdom of giving a primitive cave creature a full box of matches. Consequences. Oh well. What's done is done.

I descended the valley and approached the farmhouse. So as not to startle and alarm the occupants, I announced my presence as I approached. Before I reached the door, it swung wide. Framed in the opening stood an angel. The wind caressed her hair, softly lifting her golden curls, which danced about her red kissed cheeks and broad white smile. The clouds above parted and a stream of sunshine shown upon her face, illuminating it almost as brightly as her visage lighted my soul. To say I was smitten is to say the sun is warm. My heart burst with joy heretofore unknown.

Daring to speak, I told this kind maiden of my troubles. Alas, she had troubles of her own. "My husband left last week to hunt some wolves that have been killing our lambs," she told me. "And he has not returned."

"Was he wearing a red flannel shirt and a green John Deere cap?" I asked.

"How did you know?" she replied.

"Lucky guess." I answered.

She continued to talk, telling me of their deep desire to have children, and years of painful failure. Before you go," she asked, pleading with me, "Could you lie with me in my bed? It's my fertile time of month. When my husband returns, he will be overjoyed if I am with child. He will think it is his and we will live a life at last fulfilled with family thanks to your kind gesture."