A Life of One

A Short Story by John Bullaro

Kent Nerburn writes in his book, Simple Truths, You should spend time alone. "Not minutes and hours, but days, and if the opportunity presents itself, weeks."

Being on my own in the desert was not planned. I was returning home from a search and rescue mutual aid mission, in the Sierra Mountains, when the aircraft I was in lost its motor and crashed. The pilot, Craig, was killed and by some miracle, I was jettisoned from the aircraft and landed twenty-five feet from the crash site.

The San Luis Obispo County Sheriff's Search and Rescue Unit was asked to assist the Kern County search and rescue team in locating two missing hikers in the Sierra Mountains. Unfortunately, we did not find the missing hikers and after four days many of us had to get back to our regular lives. It was left to the Kern Team to continue the search.

I was eager to get home and shower, eat a decent meal and sleep in a soft bed. When the plane's motor died I thought, "oh crap." The pilot, Craig, radioed our position to the Kern County Air Traffic Control tower, but never got a confirmation the message was received. He likely talked into a dead mike — but maybe someone heard him.

The plane's descent was smooth, yet went steadily downward. Near the ground the plane struck a small smoke tree and the trunk took off the left wing. That collision caused something to strike me in the head, a piece of the wing I assume, came through the side window and rendered me unconscious.

When I regained consciousnesses I was twenty-five or more feet from the plane, with blood flowing from the wound. I shivered from shock. I unbuckled the seat belt and rolled out onto the hot desert sand. My head throbbed, and my legs were wobbly. I checked my body for broken bones and other injuries. Other than the deep gash in my head, I was okay. Some friends would say as long as the injury was to my head, I would be fine.

The plane was in flames. When I attempted to remove Craig from aircraft the heat from the fire kept me away. I looked at Craig and had no doubt he died on impact; his head lay to one side, flames licking up around him..

My emotions caused my breathing to be labored. The plane fire lasted for over an hour. Some time later, the flames died out leaving the Cessna 152 nothing but a heap of burned out twisted metal; Craig's body was nothing but charred remains. It was a gruesome scene: he was seated upright.

I found my day pack near where the plane struck the tree. Before the crash I held the pack firmly against my body for protection. I picked up the canvas pack and carried it to the proposed campsite, far away from the crashed plane so I'd wouldn't be looking at poor 'o Craig.

In the pack were my compass, ten feet of rope, a sewing kit, strike-anywhere matches, extra clothing: a wool sweater, flannel shirt, wool pants, and a navy stocking cap; items that I now looked on as treasures.

Blood ran down my face and into my mouth. With the compass mirror, and a sterilized needle, I used thread from my sewing kit to close the wound. A half dozen painful stitches later the job was done. I certainly hoped the wound's bleeding had flushed any dirt and germs before sewing it up. I shook from the pain.

Day Two

The night was cold and I slept little if at all. When the sun rose, I got up determined shelter building would began. I found a long piece of the smoke tree trunk that tore off the wing. With cord from my pack I tied it to saguaro cacti plant and used it as a ridge pole. I planned the opening to the shelter to face east to capture the morning sun. I'd lash branches and limbs to the ridge pole making an A frame shelter. Shelter building took most of the day, including gathering up building material, which was scarce.

By the time day light began to fade, I had a shelter built. The shelter would be my desert home for the duration. . I built a fire pit from rocks, which were plentiful, in front of the shelter. A fire would keep me warm me at night, and warmth at night would be most welcome. Hopefully the fire would keep predator animals away; bears, mountain lions, wild pigs and maybe even rattle snakes. Once in my primitive shelter I could see stars visible through the porous roof. The roof was more sieve than roof; but it was home and would do for the night, if it didn't rain. Tomorrow I'd fill the spaces with sedge grass.

Day Three

That third day I rested to restore my stamina after my stitching job, shock from the head injury, and the injury itself. The sun helped heal the head wound. I lay on the ground and rested.

That night I watched wild animal television: coyotes chased rabbits, snakes chased rats, deer browsed on green plants, and wild pigs grunted and made their way — to somewhere. The desert is alive at night. That's when hunting is best, I thought. Ground squirrels, geckos, lizards, moles, and wood rats and mice make tasty meals for bobcats and kit foxes. These foxes are coyote's competitors for food. The large cat size lions, I assumed they were lions, maybe foxes, dined on these animals as well.

That night I dreamt of standing under a cool mountain water fall, drinking the clear cool liquid. In the morning finding water became my prime goal for that day. I spotted, outside my shelter, raccoon tracks which got me thinking. Raccoon's know where water is located. I'll just follow these tracks hoping they'd lead to water.

When I came to a stream bed — dry, the raccoon's track took off to the north. The animal was heading towards the base of the Sierra Mountains. I hoped I'd not have to go that far to find water, my guess it's over ten miles. When the animal tracks left the stream bed, I piled rocks three high to mark the exit point for my return trip.

An hour passed and I saw a pile rocks that looked like a small cave. Inside the cave a pair of eyes looked back at me. The animal gave out a whining hiss and I retreated. It was my raccoon friend telling me he wanted peace and quiet. These guys have sharp teeth and the last thing I need was a raccoon bite, and a case of rabies.

I went to the opposite side of the stream bed, but stayed in the stream bed to continue my walk to follow the raccoon tracks. The raccoon soon appeared at the entrance to his cave. It came out just far enough to tease me. With a 22 caliber rifle or even a sling shot I'd have dinner. As I stared at the cave a rattle snake wiggled by. I pinned its head down with a heavy piece of tree branch. I used the knife to take off the triangular head well below the head to avoid the poison. I skinned the animal and wrapped the meat it in my t-shirt hoping it wouldn't spoil.

Standing in the dry stream bed I noticed dark sand at my feet. "Moisture," I cried. Now I used my survival knife as a shovel, I dug furiously and soon water began to seep from the side of the hole into a small pond formed by my boot print. With no container, strainer, or funnel, drinking the water was out of the question. I'd suck up more sand than water.

I retraced my steps back to camp. I took the cup from the army canteen holder, and started my return trip to the water source. By now it was mid-afternoon.

I scooped up water with the cup and filtered it through another T shirt to remove as much of the sediment as possible, I directed the outflow into the canteen. Another hour passed and my canteen was full. I drank most of the water, hoping nothing strange was in it, and repeated the process until the canteen was again full. By now the sun was low over the Sierra. I speculated I had little time to get back to camp before dark. I knew that when the sun goes down there is light from something called an "alpen glow," light from the set sun off the atmosphere. I didn't trust the idea of residual light so I departed for camp.

The popular message in survival literature is:, trust the compass. A rule I learned to follow. I used the back azimuth of the original bearing and soon was back at camp. I soaked my shirt wrapped around the snake meat in water to keep the meat as fresh as When my fire was down to hot coals I cooked the snake. To cook it I impaled it on a stick and held over the fire until cooked. I used my knife to knock off a piece of snake meat to confirm it was done. The literature was right, snake does taste like chicken. The meal was good.

Day Four

For the next day I made repeated trips to my water source. Back at camp, near sunset, I baited four of the five figure four traps with rattler meat, hoping small animals like this offering. I found large rocks and used the traps to support them. When the meat on the trigger stick is attacked the trap fell crushing the animals head. Of the four baited traps, only a single mouse was caught. The mouse along with rattler meat would make up dinner. Hunger assuages the repugnant thought of mouse meat, which definitely does not taste like chicken. I impaled the mouse carcass on a stick, shoved into the ground near the fire, and hoped the smoke would improve the flavor. I was certain a mouse would not taste like chicken — but it was food just the same. The smoke helped but the meat was oily.

Being alone in the desert made me vulnerable to weather, animals, food sources, and the level of my own resolve to endure. These thoughts got me to speculating what people a thousand years hence might think of us as they live a very different life and probably live forever.

Later, when I checked my traps, a raccoon had succumbed to the tasty snake meat bait. That night I had cooked raccoon for dinner and left over mouse meat. Hardly a health food diet but it does provide energy.

Day Five

The next morning a distance helicopter motor alerted me. Soon two Sheriff's Search and Rescue team members in orange shirts emerged from the chopper and walked into my camp.

"Boy, am I happy to see you guys." I refrained from hugging them.

The shorter of the two searchers told me they have been combing the area looking for me and Craig. They then went to inspect the burned out aircraft and saw Craig's body.

"How the hell did you manage to survive that crash?" asked the Deputy pilot.

"I have no idea. I woke up strapped in that seat over there, knocked out cold.

They told me that the radio transmission Craig sent with compass points was too garbled. The search planners at home figured you guys left Kern County airport and headed south and then would fly through Lake Isabella pass. "So, the airport was our start point for searching. We flew out into the desert and along the base of the Sierra.

Seth Alpert, a search and rescue team member, handed me a sandwich, which I devoured. I took the snake from the smoking stick and handed it to Seth, "This was to be my dinner, and now it's yours.

He smiled and said, "Thanks but I wouldn't feel right taking your meal." We all laughed.

John is an Emeritus Professor in Parks, Recreation, and Tourism Studies from California State University, Northridge, and a retired Lecturer from Cal Poly. For thirty-four years he has taught classes in Commercial Recreation, Tourism Planning, Management and Leadership, and Wilderness Survival. He earned his Ph.D. from Claremont Graduate University in Organizational Development and Curriculum Design in Higher Education.

John joined SLO search and rescue team in 1994. He moved to Los Osos in 1993 from Southern California, and now lives in Atascadero with wife, Cynthia. He completed California's Managing The Search Function and the Air Force's Inland Search & Rescue Planning. He is a National SAR trainer, and an EMT. John is a current member of the Atascadero Writer's Club and can be contacted by calling 805-440-9529 or at JohnBullaro@slocoastjournal.com.

Wolf Image on Banner by Don Joseph