Nine Stitches, One Helicopter Evacuation (An Origin Story)

It was May 2023, in the desert section of the PCT in a historic year for snowfall in California.

In the beginning, when I introduced my trail name to other hikers, they would ask the story. Why ‘Stitches’?

I grew tired of telling the same story about my name, so I made up a new one: This lady from Los Angeles released her pet alligator on the mountain, so when I postholed in the snow at San Jacinto, the gator got me. 

In response to their stunned expression, I would continue casually: And it was pretty bad, so I had to hike out and go to urgent care to get stitches. 

This got more and more elaborate as I realized that if I said this with a deadpan expression, people would believe me. A gator under the snow? they’d ask. Aren’t they cold blooded?

I’d say: Well yes — but snow is very insulating, you know. That’s why we have igloos.

The Desert Stitches

The actual story is that we had been among the first to enter the still-snowy San Jacinto area, and in trying to avoid the snow by hiking off trail, I’d stepped on a branch that broke and impaled my calf. I had to hike out and get a ride from a very kind local to urgent care to get six stitches.

This became a pivotal experience for me — one that sparked the trail friendships that would eventually form the spine of my Sierra team (a critical part of the reason I was able to complete the Sierra northbound in a record snow year). 

Recovering from the stitches kept me off trail for 8 days. In that time, I went from hiking 19 – 20 miles a day to being unable to cross the street in Idyllwild (the trail town where I recovered) between traffic.

When I went back to see the doctor, my doctor told me my stitches were infected and couldn’t be removed yet. But, legend that he was, he gave me his personal contact number, tweezers, and sterile scissors so that I could remove the stitches myself with him over the phone.

Three days later, I cut my own stitches out on a dirt patch on the side of a mountain where I had enough bars of cell service to Facetime my doctor. My hiking partner Roosta held the camera while I snipped at my leg. 

Picking up the pace significantly to make up 8 days of lost time became the theme of my desert section on the PCT. I was determined to reconnect with the friends who had helped me with my injury: these were the friends I wanted to enter the Sierra with, I knew.

I later found out that my story had spread around the hiking community, and hikers behind me were excited to see my signature (STITCHES in all caps, and the shape of my scar with 6 stitches) in the trail registers, knowing that I was continuing to hike.

It was amusing to hear the game of telephone about my story: at one point when I introduced myself, a man told me he heard about “an Aussie girl who gave herself stitches on trail, just south of Big Bear!” (I was the girl, but I was removing my stitches, not giving myself stitches. The Aussie was my hiking partner, Roosta.)

The journal entries from this ordeal:

Day of

“What a day. Started it with three hours doing stress-research and trying to figure out peoples’ plans at Paradise Valley Cafe. Then I heard from someone (Coll) that someone else (Zappa) knew another guy (Jackpot) who was going up Apache with a group of three guys. They seemed to know what they were doing, and were going fast. I only had food to last maybe 2 days, so I needed to go fast. And I wanted to go with people who could make good decisions.

But they were already on trail, so I was rushed out to catch them. (I didn’t even ask Jackpot if I could join or introduce myself, just texted him saying I was coming. Oops.) Got a hitch from a guy, Brent, who was coming back from a 4 day trip with his 8 year old son Max, and who had section hiked the PCT before. He was so nice and gave me a bunch of food – chicken drumsticks, roasted broccoli, cucumbers, beef jerky. It was amazing, exactly what I needed since I couldn’t resupply out of the cafe.

Took his number and card intending to thank him later and send him the film photos I took of him. Then hauled out at 3.5 mph uphill for 8 miles until I caught the boys. Hiked with them for 4 miles; we hit snow, we postholed, we slid, and we bushwhacked.

Eventually in the last mile, I stepped on a branch that ultimately broke and stabbed me in the calf, probably an inch deep. I didn’t think it was that bad till I looked down and saw my own fat and muscle. The fat was little yellow globs.

So we hiked out to a flat section of trail; I got on my back, and the Swedish guy who had some medical training in the military (Worth It) cleaned the wound, taped it up etc. I was very calm the whole time. There was nothing else to do.

We then hiked a mile out to camp; I really felt fine and couldn’t tell if it was just adrenaline or what.

At the trail junction, we decided that Swede would take me out to the trailhead and try to find a hitch to get me to urgent care for a thorough cleaning and stitches. I called Brent who had given me a hitch – he said he’d come, from 40 minutes away. Wow. So then Swede and I hiked out, at least 1.5 miles but really more because of the dirt road. All I could think about was how beautiful the stars were tonight. Walked out, found Brent, and another guy gave Swede a ride back to the trailhead. So nice of him. I think he was more stressed than I was.

Swedish guy also got me a room in Idyllwild to stay in, with his friend (Bushwhack). I honestly had not even thought that far. Very grateful Brent took me out to Hemet where I’m at now, at the ER. This is so much of his time. Whew. And I had just told Jackpot that my hike so far had been “uneventful”! I’m going to have a fun scar out of this one. A way to remember the PCT by.“

Day after

“I haven’t really wanted to write. I’m just trying to get what I need to do done. I called hospitals. I arranged a place to stay. I figured out food and how I’d get back on trail. I read my accident report over and over. I sat on a bench with my leg raised, then a lady gave me an ice pack. Then I sat until the ice pack melted, and went to the campground to book a site. Bushwhack yesterday was so nice to let me barge in at 2am. He even let me take the bed and he slept on the floor.

In the morning Coll came up to check on plans and ask how I was doing. Apparently everyone has heard now. Word travels fast on trail. Even when I called Richard to ask if I could stay while I recovered (he said yes of course), he said, oh no, that was you? I was just reading that in the Idyllwild trail angels group.

I really have been surrounded by so many incredible people. It makes me sad to know that now they will continue without me. I am trying to remember that it’s a long trail; if I could make these friends in two days I can make new friends. But I definitely feel a pang. I am not good at sitting around.“

Two days after

“Today was better. I had people today, and people make everything better. The pain in my leg was so bad this morning that I couldn’t put weight on it. I had to use my trekking poles like crutches and hop to the campground bathroom. It was so humbling, from 19 miles in a day to barely being able to cross the campground.

There are so many strangers all caring about my well-being. I’m just glad I had the opportunity to slow down enough to meet them. I am so floored by all the kindness. I was worried about a scarcity mindset, that I was missing out, but really there is such abundance. But the important thing is that even though all you need is in your pack, that is only true if you also have community. I could not have made it otherwise, through this.”

Five days after

“What a day. It felt so long. And busy. I woke up after 10 hours of sleep !! My leg feels so much better; I can put weight on it and stand and mostly walk without a limp. Still using crutches just to be careful. I showered and took off the bandage for the first time; probably too long tbh.

I have been making up stories every time someone asks what happened; I tell them I fought a bear; I was bitten by a gator; my friend’s ice axe dug into me as we hung off a cliff… Richard said I make friends easily and have gotten a lot of people to help me. I always laugh when he says this and say that it’s just because I look helpless.

‘You’ve made a little family,’ he says.”

Six days after

“I think I did things today, but there were so many people coming in and out that I had to end up in conversations with that I lost track. I managed to eat three times, take my meds three times, apply antibiotic ointment three times. I took a two hour nap. I journaled. I read outside in the hammock. 

I am trying to remember that this is all still part of the journey, but 6 days off trail is feeling like an eternity. I can’t wait to be moving again. I’m getting closer to being able to walk normally without pain, support my body weight on my healing leg. But I was concerned this morning about infection because it looked pinkish and had some pus.

We’ll see on Tuesday. Will I be well enough to start again on Tuesday? I’m not sure, at this rate… 0.6 miles started to get painful for me without support, today. Each day does get better. But I went outside to feed my leftovers to the chickens and saw the stars and wished I was outside.”

Seven days after

“Day 7 of zeros. Really starting to get old but I’m trying to make it better.”

Eight days after

“Went to Anza for my check up. Was scared about infection setting back my timeline. Doc said yes it was infected but it was because I was covering it. He wanted it exposed to air. He wanted to take the stitches out next week — my heart dropped then because I didn’t want to wait another week. Said he didn’t like the stitch job or the antibiotic regimen they had me on. Changed it. Then told me I could hike. What!!!

Yes, he said, you can hike the PCT. I told him about snow and postholing, so he gave me bandages to use. Sent me out with a suture removal kit and his personal cell so I could remove them myself with him on FaceTime in a week. Even offered me a ride to the trail. I was so happy I almost cried. I gave him a big hug. Probably unprofessional but I had to act like a human.

He told me to text him updates and ask him any questions. Wow! A positive healthcare experience in America. Go figure.”

The day I removed my stitches on trail

“I had intermittent service while climbing the peaks today. When Dr. Nordlund texted me back immediately I called him. He said he didn’t like how it looked and wanted the stitches out ASAP. I said, I’ll take them out right now. I was on the side of a mountain on a little patch of dirt, but it seemed like my best bet instead of gambling on reaching a better spot while my doc was available and I had good service. Two bars LTE; I’ll take it.

So I offered to Roosta that he could continue on and I’d meet him; he didn’t have to wait while I handled this. He said he’d eat his lunch while I did it.

I got out my sutures removal kit, FaceTimed my doc, and sat on this dirt patch with the scissors in my hands. I had to ask Roosta to hold the video so Dr. Nordlund could see.

I cut one. Two. Three. Four; which hurt. Five, then the sixth one I pulled and it reopened a corner of my wound and blood oozed out. That’s the problem, said Dr. Nordlund. Just leave that one in for now. Don’t worry about the blood; it’s normal.

It didn’t hurt that much, but I had been bracing myself and everything felt really sensitive. Then we bandaged it up again and I hung up.

Something about it triggered something in me; all this overwhelming emotion. I kept seeing my blood oozing out again and again in my head. I said, “I’m-” like “I’m about to cry” but then I couldn’t finish my sentence and I started heaving sobs. No words, just sobbing, for all the time I’d lost and worried and the stress of it all, all the people who had helped me and all the rivers I’d walked through and the brushes that scratched it and all the climbs I’d done where I thought about my calf. And my blood oozing; this image again and again replayed itself in my mind.

Roosta put his hand on my shoulder and told me I had done great, that I’d really earned my trail name; how badass to cut out your own stitches on the side of a snowy mountain. We sat there for a while, eating his gross sweating cheese block. I was very glad not to be alone.“

The Sierra Stitches

I did manage to catch up to the friends who had been part of the stitches saga in the desert, and we entered the Sierra together: Jackpot, Bushwhack, Worth It, Pisa, Lookout, Roosta, and later Lotto.

In a record snow year in the Sierra, I wanted to find a solid, dependable team who would stick together and make decisions together, whom you knew wouldn’t abandon you if something went wrong. This became relevant again, because I had another postholing accident. 

In my Sierra team, I was the shortest (I’m 5’4″ / 163cm) and I was the only woman. This meant that sometimes water flowing over the trail (a frequent sighting during the melt in a record snow year) was occasionally too wide for my legs to reach easily.

That year, there was hardly any trail that was dirt for long. Almost all of it was snow, from late May till approximately mid July: hundreds of miles of snowfields. Most of the time, we had our spikes or crampons on all day, and we’d remove them for short sections of dirt. 

In one section in the Sequoia-Kings Canyon wilderness, my team was separated after we each stopped to remove spikes and crampons for a small dirt section. Jackpot asked if he should wait for me to get my crampons off, but I waved him ahead, saying that I was fine to climb the dirt track at my own pace.

(For those who know the PCT in that section, this was shortly after the suspension bridge north of Glen Pass, around mile 802, near the waterslide rock feature).

That was where I had my postholing accident, where I opened up a puncture wound at my knee that Roosta (a trained paramedic) worried would get infected if not stitched up quickly. An infection at a joint is no joke, he said. We called a helicopter via my Garmin SOS, and I was airlifted out by Sequoia-Kings Canyon park rangers to their park headquarters on the Western side of the Sierra, then shuttled to Visalia by ambulance for treatment.

Lookout recorded the whole thing in his vlog. I received three stitches, then re-entered the trail five days later with my team for the next leg of the Sierra and continued on. Lotto, who had joined our team and is a trained nurse, cut out my stitches on trail for me the second time, on a rock near a frozen lake during our lunch break.

Given my name, I’ve been pretty lucky to hike with a military medic, a paramedic, and a nurse. 

Later on, the story about my name morphed into two helicopter rescues. And because that year so many hikers flip-flopped, my story spread all over the trail, so that I was meeting folks in Washington months later who had heard about my stitches story. “Stitches the legend,” my hiking partner Lotto would say. 

My journal entries from this ordeal:

Day of

“The adventure never ends. Started the day quite normally. Ankle was definitely my main concern. Descending is hard on the ankles and we were going over lots of sun cups. Popped two IBP about 30 mins in because I was falling behind due to the pain. It helped; eventually I didn’t feel the pain anymore. We descended all the way down to where it was dirt again, and we could finally walk the “trail”. (It was almost entirely a waterway).

We separated at this point and I told Jackpot to go ahead so I could climb the dirt portion at my own pace, figuring we’d meet up again when we hit the sketchy steep traverse in a few miles. Didn’t think the meltwater rivers running across the trail would become such an issue — but I reached a point where I couldn’t figure out a way across.

I went back and forth, not wanting to ford, but also feeling like my legs were barely long enough to keep me upright for it. It would have been way easier with someone on the other side grabbing me to make sure I didn’t stagger backwards with such a big step. Finally I managed to lever my poles in a way that vaulted me over.

Thought I’d made it but then stepped too close to a rock, immediately postholed with my right foot, and slammed my left knee into a sharp rock. Suddenly I could see a dark hole in my knee, about the size of a dime.

I burst into tears, not necessarily from the pain (though it definitely hurt) but more from the PTSD of having to go through the whole stitches ordeal again. Looking at it, I knew it was going to take me off trail, and here I was with no way out and no one around.

Again there was yellow liquid and thick red blood (I was clearly dehydrated) oozing out of my knee. I squeezed it shut as best I could and texted Jackpot a satellite message that I had opened up my knee and could he please come back with Roosta and Worth It.

Bushwhack found me about 8 mins later (he said he had been looking for me since I was taking a while). I was clearly distressed. He ran to get the others, screaming MEDIC! and blowing his whistle.

It felt like forever. I felt frozen in place, and I was quickly starting to get very cold from being in the snow and not moving. My left hand went numb from squeezing my wound shut for so long.

Roosta showed up 20 mins after Bushwhack, followed by Pisa and Jackpot. They flushed out the wound with filtered water and Lookout’s Sawyer syringe. Lookout had gone ahead to fetch Worth It and bring him back, since he was up trail.

I was seeing Roosta in his work mode. I was pretty beside myself over the idea of another week off trail, this time out of the Sierra. I knew there was no way I’d self-evacuate.

Roosta said that since it was much closer to a joint this time, it was critical to make sure it didn’t get infected. So Jackpot took my pack and the others escorted me out to a snowfield, where I hit the SOS button on my Garmin and asked for a heli evac.

This began an extended waiting period. We all sat boiling in the sun for three hours.

I gave away all my worldly belongings, aka my toilet paper, and let my friends drain my battery packs, since I’d now be getting into town and wouldn’t need these things anymore. I packed out their trash. I cut up my leggings to stitch up Bushwhack’s microspikes and Pisa’s leggings, to keep myself occupied. I felt a restlessness; a sense of insecurity about being a burden to the group. I felt, as the only woman in a group of seven, that I already was the weakest one. I felt like I was holding up the group.

Truthfully, because I had stepped in the wrong place, now the team was several hours behind and unable to make forward progress in the slush. They’d have to start earlier tomorrow to make up for it, and possibly do a longer day. I don’t like feeling like the weakest link; that they all have to watch out for me, care for me. And I’m sure that none of them felt that way, it could have been any of us, and this was just something we had to address as a group.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling of, am I the most fragile? Was I worth my weight?

The heli evac asked if I really wouldn’t be able to exit 18.5 miles out Sawmill Pass. No way, I said, I could barely do this last 0.1 mile to the snowfield. The heli team dawdled, trying to find a good location to land. Worth It scouted the area and even gave coordinates for a place he felt was flat and good.

Finally the helicopter arrived (and eventually landed where Worth It suggested; a nice vindication). Worth It and Pisa kicked steps in the slush for me; Lookout took my pack and walked downhill of me in case I slipped; Roosta took up the rear.

An exciting day for all. Honestly I was trying to enjoy the heli ride; how often do you get that chance in the Sierra? To fly so close to the mountains? And yet, I couldn’t help but be sad. I knew the helicopter would take me to the Western side of the Sierra, and getting back over to the Eastern side would be tough. I knew I would miss the miles and these two passes.

I would be out of the PCT corridor where people know what the PCT is and how to help a hiker in need. It was, however, a beautiful experience. To see the landscape without suffering through it. Yet another pace through the mountains (foot, bike, heli).

By the time the ambulance took me to the hospital, I was resigned to my situation and was trying to triage. In the end I got my best case scenario: the doctor gave me three stitches, said it wasn’t that deep, gave me a suture removal kit, and agreed to let me get back on trail in 5 days and take my own stitches out on day 8. That lines up with our next leg to Bishop.

The poor nurse at the hospital didn’t know what to do with me when I said I had no one to pick me up and help me carry my things to a car and get to a hotel. All my friends were in the mountains. 

Nikki agreed to host me for two nights in LA; I found a bus from Visalia to LA for tomorrow, booked one of my free rewards nights at the Visalia Marriott, and booked a F150 to get myself to Bishop in time to pick up my team from the trailhead where they’ll exit. The hotel guy even upgraded me to a free breakfast buffet tomorrow so I’ll be gorging myself on food.

Everything worked out so far and I feel very lucky, all things considered. If it had to happen to one of us, I am glad it happened to me. Everyone said Roosta did a great job with the Steristrips. Hope it all continues to go smoothly.”

Day after

“Wonderful day. To go from being freezing and wet in the Sierra to being in a soft warm king-sized bed is just magnificent. Even if under unfortunate circumstances.

It was truly a bit jarring to go so fast from zero service MOUNTAIN to full service CITY. I couldn’t really wrap my head around the endlessness of it all. I could go to the toilet as many times as I wanted and never run out of toilet paper.

I could refill water as frequently as I wanted whenever I pleased. I could get in bed, and get out of bed, and get back in bed. I could decide the room was too chilly and adjust the thermostat. I didn’t have to put anything away. I could sit at the breakfast buffet glued to my phone and listen to music and know that I could charge it again at my discretion. I could refill bowl after bowl of berries. I could sit with my leg propped up and never move for 3 hours, while simultaneously my friends were probably slogging up Pinchot Pass.

I had a very pleasant day catching up and trying to organize things while I had the time. I texted people back. I arranged dental appointments for Jackpot’s broken tooth. I dried out all my gear. I took a long shower and examined all the bruises on my body (there is one below my right elbow that I can’t figure out). I scrolled Instagram. I considered why I bother showering or washing my face every day in my normal life when clearly I can go a week without these tasks and my skin still looks relatively presentable (aside from being completely sun-soaked). Or is it the fresh air that makes that possible, away from city pollutants?

It was strange to sit in the lobby and watch normal people living their normal lives. I once had this life, staying in Marriotts and flying out on Thursdays (today). I saw a man with a shirt that was clearly a work team shirt; on the back it said cheekily, “project : a program by Qualcomm and that will be executed with teamwork and passion.” Something like that. Something I definitely could have come up with and made happen for a workshop: vision statements on t-shirts.

I felt as far away from that life as they probably felt from me. When I explained what happened, I don’t think anyone even knew what the Pacific Crest Trail meant unless I said ‘from Mexico to Canada’.“

Three days after injury

“Started the day at about 5:45am when I got up to start the 4.5hr drive to Bishop. It was a beautiful morning in LA.

Drove out and realized I’d be passing all of the places we had walked through. I drove through Acton, and past Lake Hughes (the lake I saw that day where we started with the lake ahead of us and ended with the lake behind us and I could physically see how far we’d walked). I drove past signs for Tehachapi and Mojave, and later Ridgecrest and signs for Kennedy Meadows. I drove through Olancha, Lone Pine, Independence, and Big Pine.

It was so cool that all of these names meant something to me now. This whole Eastern Sierra corridor. The boys were two hours ahead of schedule so I was rushing to get to the trailhead…

It was great to see them; I was so happy to hear how they made it through the two passes.

I shared the insecurities I had around my injury and being the only woman, and got emotional. They assured me they did not think of the whole ordeal as a nuisance at all, and in fact were impressed that I was so calm while waiting for the helicopter. That it wasn’t a thru-hike ending experience. I was really glad to have had the conversation. Worth It gave me a big hug and said he was glad to have me back. Lookout said it always felt like someone was missing. I’m walking pretty well now, though knee range of motion is still just ok. But it improves day by day.”

Two days back on trail, seven days after injury

“At one point today I face planted in the snow and landed hard on my knees, and postholed again with my right foot and landed hard on my injured left knee. Today wasn’t great for my knee. I’m gonna try a bandage tomorrow to protect it. It feels more mobile by the day, but I had to resort to Ibuprofen after lunch just to keep up. Worth It and Bushwhack spent a lot of time hiking behind me and making sure I was good.

At camp Lookout told me he was impressed with me (I feel like he goes around telling each person how great they were that day, every day) and how I muscled through getting back on trail 5 days after a heli evac.

We’ll see if it’s badass or dumb; I often feel those two things can be interchangeable. While bushwhacking today I wondered if this was what the doc had in mind when she said I could get back on trail in five days. Pretty strenuous.”

Three days back on trail

“It was a steep climb and an even steeper descent from Bear Ridge, followed by a tough crossing of Mono Creek, ending with a very steep snow/rock scramble up next to a waterfall. Extremely painful for my injured knee, which struggles to support weight when bent (or bend at all, really). When Lotto asked how my knee was doing and I explained this, Jackpot translated: “your knee is fine until it starts having to do what knees are supposed to do.” I am pretty amazed at ankles and knees; when these aren’t working right you really feel it in each step.”

Ten days back on trail, in Mammoth

“I had four heavy bags of groceries. Carrying them the short distance from the shuttle to our Airbnb, I bumped the bags into my knee and my knee started leaking blood and yellow liquid. A lady driving by in a van stopped and gave me water to wash it out and a ride to the Airbnb.”

In the next section, sixteen days after injury

“Pisa dropped his phone in a tree well, Lookout went in to retrieve it, and I walked up thinking Lookout had fallen into the tree well and so I avoided it by stepping to the right and postholing hard (as though walking off a cliff) with my right foot. Again sharp searing pain in my left knee and now the whole group was here to witness it. Lotto took my pack, two people tried to help me up, someone got my sit pad so I could sit on the snow comfortably. It definitely hurt but somehow it was better because we were all together…

We then did a huge climb where the boys took a break and I went ahead because my pace is slower but I don’t need the breaks. I ended up kicking steps for the group, but this meant they all had to use my steps — and I’m walking more aggressively on my right foot and essentially limping uphill. “Leprechaun steps”, they called them, because they were so small.”

After the PCT

Weeks after I finished the PCT, I remember tearing up while listening to my friend and Sierra team member (& fellow Trek Blogger, Lookout) talk on Backpacker Radio about what I was like in the Sierra. In my post-trail depression, I had forgotten. Not what happened, but who I was then. Who Stitches was.

I remember lightly rolling my eyes, laughing, and saying it’s a bit exaggerated, I’m not all that you say. The hole in my knee was a dime’s size, not a quarter. We walked only a tenth mile to the field where the helicopter came. It did feel like a mile didn’t it?

But I saved the episode and kept an offline copy so I could refer to it again on another trail in another year in moments when I needed it. Especially when I’m hiking in the rain.

Last year, I revisited the Sierra section I was airlifted out from (and felt I needed to make up). I met and happened to hike with someone who listened to my story from Lookout’s podcast episode. “You’re Stitches!” he exclaimed.

On the same trip, I met a Park Ranger who recognized my story because her colleague did the rescue.

“Was it Ryan?” she asked, “The one with the beautiful golden curls?” At the time I admitted I did not remember, but perhaps he did have golden curls.

Later I checked my notes from that day, in the spreadsheet where I wrote down the names of everyone I met on every day of my hike and yes, there was a Ryan.

My trail name had come full circle. Part of post-trail depression is contending with the grief of losing your identity on trail.

I felt a kind of closure in completing my missed Sierra miles, like I was able to remind myself of who I was on trail and integrate that identity with who I am off-trail. I’m grateful to have a trail name that reminds me of my own strength.

I am Jess, and I’m Stitches. 

 

xx

stitches