I thought it would be hypothermia or maybe wolves that got me. This is so much worse. They’ll kill me, I know they will. Little by little I’ll grow weaker, then I’ll fall unconscious. That will be a blessing, even though it won’t stop them.
When the undercut streambank caved in and I fell into the icy stream, I cursed my bad luck. The melting snow from the towering mountains had carved a deep path under a patch of green grass and wildflowers.
Cold water hit me like a brick, taking my breath away and sending me into shock. High water carried me downstream as fast as a person could run, and my strength was fading as my body temperature plummeted.
My pack pulled me underwater, and I barely managed to get it off. It was only when I desperately clawed up onto the rocks, still coughing up water, that I realized my ankle was broken. I was ten miles into the Alberta backcountry, and freezing cold.
I’d heard stories about people dying of hypothermia, who could have saved themselves. It makes you lose cognitive ability, and even people who could have found shelter or made a fire don’t think of doing so. I still had my survival knife, which had matches in the handle. Finding a sheltered spot, I began to collect pine needles and branches, then start a fire with my shaking hands.
The trail was just next to me, someone would likely come by in the next day or two. It was only when the sun began to set that I realized I might not make it that long.
At first, I thought the dying wind was a blessing. I still hadn’t dried all the way, and knew it would be a cold night. When the first mosquitoes began to bite me, I thought little of it; that was just a consequence of camping in the spring.
The high-pitched sound of a few mosquitoes turned into a constant droning, a cloud of them like I’d never seen. I swatted at them over and over, but they just kept coming back. I had no repellent, no tent, and no way to escape.
I tried to build the fire up, to hide in the smoke. Whichever side of me was away from the fire looked dark, almost like I had fur. Hundreds of them clung to me, like a second skin. I could swat dozens with each swipe of my hand, but it didn’t matter. There were millions.
Frantically hobbling around the nearby trees, I gathered leaves and pine needles and dirt. I tried to cover myself, everywhere but my face. They found any inch of skin and swarmed it, flying up my swollen nostrils, crowding around my eyes. It was torturous, impossible to sleep.
Checking my watch, it’s not even midnight. Already, I’m light headed. This is how I go. Death from a thousand bites.