This should be a pleasant story about the latest fishing trip my buddy Joe and I went on. It's not.
June 12th: Fishing buddy Joe and I drove 450 miles (13 hours) north to the little town of Clova in northern Quebec. Pretty uneventful, apart from our usual confusion in getting through Ottawa. Local construction and closed roads meant yet another new route for us. (Shortly after exiting Ottawa, a misread sign also called for a u-turn.)
We checked in with Caesar’s North Camps, paid for our licenses and Goin Reservoir permits, and straightened out details for our flight out to our cabin the next morning. Then we had dinner at the only place in town where we also got our room key for the night.
June 13th (FRIDAY the 13th): Slightly foggy morning so our departure was delayed. Still, we were in the air in a slightly cramped Cessna before 10 am and at the cabin about 45 minutes later.
The pilot walked us through the usual instructions and helped launch the boat. The boat was a 16-footer with a 20 hp motor; larger than usual, but that’s because there was more open water around this site.
After a quick sandwich for lunch, we prepared to do some fishing. I was in the boat while Joe passed the gear to me and this is where my first injury occurred. Joe reached over with his tackle box. I was unaware of just how heavy it was and the weight jerked my outstretched right arm violently. I was pretty sure I had damaged the joint but was determined to fight through the pain even as I pulled the engine’s starter rope. (After that first afternoon, the engine was left in idle all day as we drifted with the breeze just so I didn’t have to pull that damn rope too often!)
June 14th through June 17th: The mornings were smooth as glass and the afternoons a little too choppy for much fishing. The fishing was also a little slower than we were used to. That may have been due to the clear skies or the fact that we had never been there this early in the season before. Still, we boated a few keepers which Joe filleted. We had walleye for dinner once and froze the rest. (We were allowed to bring home 8 walleye each and were determined to limit out.)
Tuesday, right after lunch and before the wind chased us off the water, we were visited by the authorities. For the first time in 30+ years we had our paperwork checked and our boat casually inspected by three Goin Reservoir officials. One female and two male officers pulled alongside and asked for our papers which we had tucked in our tackle boxes. They asked how the fishing was (slow, we had thrown back a few shorts and had no fish on board) and where our camp was (right over there, we were almost in sight of it) and that was it. They wished us luck and motored off. Not another boat in sight—which was true for most of our trip.
June 18th, Wednesday: We needed five fish to limit out and this would be our last day. And it started out overcast with a breeze producing a little chop. If it got worse, we would be forced to concede and start packing up. It did not get worse. In fact, in an exact opposite to the last few days, the lake smoothed out and we found just the right spot. We boated several small walleye but also caught several of the biggest of the trip. When we had five nice fish on the stringer, it was time to call it quits and head in to pack for our departure.
I pulled the boat up to the dock to unload our gear then swung back out to ride the boat back onto the ramp to get it out of the water. I drove the boat as far up the ramp as I could and Joe pulled on the bow rope to get it a wee bit higher before throwing the rope around a tree.
I moved up to the bow, put my left foot over the gunnel and on to firm land---that’s when the boat decided to slide back down the ramp—with me straddling the gunnel. If you’ve ever seen the cartoon of a fisherman/sailor in that predicament you probably laughed. I’m here to tell you it ain’t funny! I literally (and I use the word correctly) heard something tear--and it wasn’t my pants. I screamed as stars and little canaries circled my head and pain shot through my groin. Now I knew how the turkey’s wishbone felt on Thanksgiving.
Joe asked if I was alright and I said I would get back to him on that. Several minutes later, I was able to crawl over the gunnel on to dry land. I made it back to the cabin and was surprised I had not actually torn my skin. There was no discoloration. I should have put ice on it immediately, but what little we had we needed it to get our fish home. I didn’t even have any extra strength Tylenol just the arthritis pain formula which would have to do. I also had eight cans of beer which were now to be used for medicinal purposes.
June 19th: Departure day. Still in pain, the black and blue started to appear. Not surprising as I’m on blood thinners. I managed to get my gear all packed the night before and the rest went smoothly. We were told we would be picked up between 7 and 8 am but, for the first time all week we had rain overnight and continued drizzle through the early morning hours. Could be worse back a Clova. In any event, we didn’t hear a plane until near 9 am.
Plane got loaded (Joe had hauled all our stuff down to the dock) and the pilot did his inspection. Then I had to get in. Avoiding any movement of my left leg in the wrong direction, trying to get up from the pontoon to the Cessna’s rear seat via two overly large steps, squeezing into that seat which started off having no leg room and got even less when the pilot’s long legs required his moving his seat back…I don’t think I screamed aloud, but I could be wrong. Back at base camp, getting out of the plane was almost as difficult and painful.
Eventually (around 11 am) we got on the road home with me doing the driving plenty of room on the left when you’ve an automatic and need only to use the brake and gas pedals. Thirteen hours. I only got out at the duty free shop.
June 20th: Friday 1:30 am Home! Alone. Joe has headed home down south near Jersey Shore, PA. Terry is still in Gettysburg on a stitching retreat. I’m in too much pain to sleep though I try in the recliner upstairs.
6:30 am I’ve had enough and head over to the emergency room at Troy Hospital where It’s confirmed I may have a damaged rotator cuff in my right shoulder and a torn/strained groin muscle. Blood drawn for tests, X-rays and CAT-scan for the shoulder, ultrasound for the groin. The latter two required I lay down which I initially could not do. Some IV pain killer helped, but because I drove myself to the ER, I couldn’t get the good stuff. I was home by 10 am with instructions to set up an appointment with an orthopedist but come back to the ER should it get worse.
Set up an appointment via an online portal for Tuesday. But the pain got worse in the shoulder, and the technicolor display in the groin had me, if no one else, concerned. (Apparently this is “normal” for us folks on blood thinners. I know I’ve bruised like this before, but the pain! They didn’t seem to grasp just how badly the groin muscles hurt!)
June 22nd: With the shoulder pain worsening, I went back to the ER on Sunday morning. Saw the ER doc (not a PA or NP) who pretty much repeated my Friday morning instructions and fitted me with a sling.
June 24th: Tuesday I visited the orthopedic department at Robert Packer Hospital. After a series of range of motion tests and a little poking and prodding, I was told I probably have some damage to the rotator cuff (DUH!) but an MRI will be scheduled to determine if surgery is needed. (Unfortunately, not being an emergency—for them—it won’t be until July 11th that the MRI can be done.
No one seemed to know who I should see about all the pain and black-and-blue in my groin. (Probably should have called the vascular people, but the left foot still has a pulse.)
In any event, and to keep her informed, I rescheduled an appointment with my primary care from September 16th to June 30th.
After several nights in the recliner, I finally got to sleep in the bed last night. And the purple is receding somewhat. It's still painful and a yucky yellow-green.
Keep me in your thoughts
