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The Fall
Danelle Ballengee opened the truck's door, and Taz jumped out, wagging his tail. Today they were going to run a trail into Utah's rugged back country. While she stretched, he nuzzled her legs and watched her intently -- a sign he wanted to get moving.It was Taz's eyes that did it. She'd found him in a shelter, a puppy so unruly she named him after the Tasmanian Devil in the Warner Bros. cartoon. He'd since grown into a 70-pound mutt who was her constant companion, bouncing at her heels on her training runs.
Danelle checked her watch. She and Taz could easily make a loop and return by lunch. She'd eaten a light breakfast and would be ready for a shower and a meal back at her place in Moab at the end of her ten-mile run.
After limbering up, she patted Taz's brown coat and started jogging. It was winter -- December 2006 -- and they were alone.
Danelle pushed her five-foot-four, 120-pound frame and soon broke into a sweat. At 35, she remained a world-class endurance athlete who'd run in over 500 long-distance competitions through deserts and mountains around the world. Today's training route was a mere two-hour workout in the fresh air, even if the air was turning colder.
Up ahead, Taz disappeared, but Danelle didn't worry as she scrambled along a remote rocky spur and up a second trail to the top of a 60-foot ridge of deep-colored red rock. Near the summit, her foot hit a patch of black ice.
She scraped over solid stone as she slipped toward a precipice. Her hands grabbed for a hold and found none. She was falling. Then she slammed feet first onto a narrow rock ledge and collapsed.
Stunned, she felt her legs, afraid she might be paralyzed. She could wiggle her toes, but when she tried to stand, pain shot through her. She heard her own screams echoing off the canyon walls. Her pelvis and several vertebrae were shattered. The lower half of her body was useless, dead weight.
Danelle looked at her watch. It was noon. She estimated she was six miles from her truck and trapped high on a hidden desert ledge in winter. Alone. And no one knew where she was. Then she heard Taz.
He ran down from the summit to where she lay, and huddled over her. Danelle stroked his thick coat. If she remained still, the pain subsided and she could try to think her way out of this trap. She'd follow Taz down the path to the canyon floor. Once there, she'd crawl to the truck.
She rolled onto her stomach and screamed so loudly Taz jumped. She caught her breath. The canyon floor was hundreds of feet below, down a rocky path some two city blocks long. "Go, Taz." He went ahead of Danelle, who began clawing forward over rocks and patches of snow. Taz trotted down the trail, then back, wondering why Danelle wasn't running along beside him. Willing herself through the pain, she concentrated on her task.
Five hours later, Danelle reached the canyon bottom, scraped and bruised, the fabric of her running outfit torn. She was 700 feet closer to her goal; the truck was still six miles away.
Danelle checked her watch -- 5 p.m. Crawling in the dark could be dangerous. She flopped onto her back, exhausted. Then she noticed an ice-covered hole the size of a pillow. She punched through the ice, pulled herself backward, leaned into the hole and drank deeply.
She'd need water if she was going to crawl out tomorrow. Danelle dipped her empty water bottle into the pool, but it came out full of silt, so she used the lid to slowly scoop water from the surface. It took over 50 scoops to get enough. She finally stopped because spills were freezing her fingers. The temperature had plunged into the 20s. Her baggy black running pants, a blend of fleece and synthetic polypro, a couple of thin layers and a fleece top offered little protection. She reached out to Taz, and he curled into a ball next to her. Danelle put her arms around him, feeling his warmth, and held on.
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