The story of a rider’s life-threatening injury and reconciliation with wildness in the Northeast Washington backcountry
By Eric Deady
Cover photo courtesy of Kyle Lucas
There is often a peaceful resolve that settles into a person when confronted with the certainty of death in the backcountry. It’s a very unique abandonment of fear, and an acceptance of what is to come. Those of us who recreate in remote places, or those who have made outdoor pursuits a centerpiece of our lives, often have a long, profound, and very personal list of reasons why our outdoors lives have mattered. When confronted with the unthinkable, we have a tendency to settle in and draw on those same memories and experiences from past adventures to bring us peace and acceptance of the outcome.
That acceptance of fate washed over Josh Anderson, a 34-year-old mountain biker from Spokane, on July 17, 2024, when a routine backcountry mountain bike exploration turned into a fight for survival and a reckoning with the very fundamental question of “Why.” Why do we put ourselves in these remote situations, knowing full-well what the outcomes could be?
For Anderson, the answers to those questions would come after an hours-long struggle through the backcountry of the Colville National Forest near Sullivan Lake in the far Northeastern reaches of Washington State, where a standard scramble over a fallen log turned into a fight for his very survival.
Anderson and his friend David Donnelly began their day with the energy and enthusiasm that usually comes with a day on mountain bikes. Machines lubed, checked and tuned. Gear assembled, car full of gas. All of the standard checklist items that precede a good day out in the woods on bikes. With the car loaded, Anderson and Donnelly made their way to the Noisy Creek trailhead in the Colville National Forest for a ride on some forest service trails that had yet to be cleared for the season. Many of us have encountered trails like this—overgrown, with sections of fallen trees and brush. For Anderson and Donnelly, these are the unruly conditions they love and have prepared for. The sense of adventure and discovery that comes with riding trails like these is, for them, only heightened by the added dangers of unpredictable terrain, obstacles, and constantly changing conditions.
The two cyclists had planned to shuttle that day’s ride, with their two vehicles staged at the entry and exit points of the trail. With those vehicles dropped off, they began their ride around 9 a.m. on what was sure to be a typically warm and beautiful summer day. Being early in the season, the trees were flushed with nearly neon-green leaves. The creeks were full of clear, cool water, and the forest was alive with the sounds and smells of an early summer morning.
A mile and a half of downhill mountain biking can pass in the blink of an eye, and it wasn’t long before Anderson and Donnelly found themselves deep in the woods. Alone, without cell service, they confronted a deteriorating trail, covered with fallen logs from the previous winter’s blow-down.
While lifting his mountain bike over one of these fallen logs—a scenario as benign as reaching for a snack—Anderson’s foot slipped off the log and plunged through some branches below. One of those branches was sharp enough, strong enough, and oriented at just the right angle to fillet nearly his entire calf, leaving an unimaginably large flap of exposed flesh staring back at him when he looked down to see what damage had been done. A routine slip turned into a bloody nightmare in the blink of an eye.
In complete disbelief, all Anderson could say was “I messed up man . . . I really messed up,” while staring down with a growing sense of panic at what he describes as the “guts” of his leg and the immediate gush of blood, now soaking his entire leg and foot. With Donnelly now at his side, the two riders immediately got to work applying pressure to the wound to stop the bleeding, but the damage was too severe, and the flap of flesh just too large for a pressure bandage. This was no mere cut or scratch. This was a complete separation of one of the largest muscles a cyclist has, and a wound so devastating that immediate action needed to be taken in the form of a tourniquet, fashioned from Anderson’s favorite Arcade Belt and a chunk of broken stick lying nearby.
With their ride now obviously over, and their focus shifting onto extracting themselves from the woods, that once quick mile and a half of downhill riding turned into the prospect of an impossibly long uphill nightmare. The mountain they had so quickly descended was now facing these two in the form of a life-and-death struggle back up to the car, where they hoped to find enough cell coverage to call for help. Their decision to turn around and start hiking was made, in part, because neither of them had their emergency beacons (Garmin inReach), and their cellphones were not responding to the SOS feature now found on many newer phones. The only option was to hike out on a leg that was now bandaged and disconnected from any sensation because of the tourniquet. A proposition with a questionable chance of success at best.
With no other option but to get moving, and with blood still oozing from his wound, the pair began the hike back up the mountain. With every step up the hill, their nightmare only seemed to get more real, as the extent of Anderson’s injury and their limited options for rescue began to sink in. With Anderson having lost a lot of blood, and now fighting the swimming allure of unconsciousness, he literally leaned on Donnelly, leg completely numb and oozing blood despite the bandaging and tourniquet while scrambling over the same fallen logs and branches they had crossed on the way down. It was agonizingly slow, and since Anderson had no sensation in his leg, some sections of trail were impossible to navigate without periodically loosening the tourniquet long enough so he could feel his foot, navigate an obstacle, and then re-tighten the tourniquet, all while watching more of his blood flow into the trail.
They made it a full mile like this before their cell phones began to chirp, having picked up a weak signal. Knowing the urgency of the situation, they took the opportunity to call 911. They had just enough time to explain to the 911 operator their location, the critical nature of their situation, and a description of their car before the cell signal was lost and the call was dropped, leaving them once again on their own. Another half mile of uphill hiking through brush and deadfall faced them before making it back to the car, so the pair had no choice but to keep making their way up the mountain.
Would it have been myself in Anderson’s bloody shoes that day, I think at this point in the story I would be feeling just how lonely and isolated I was out there. Sure, Donnelly was there, but when faced with a situation so completely bonkers and out of control, the realization that you are alone and vulnerable would have been overwhelming and complete. The same friendly woods, once alive with the sights and sounds of a summer morning, were now conspiring to keep Anderson there forever.
The last half-mile to the car was a journey through half-conscious delirium. For Anderson, this stretch defined his entire ordeal and crystallized for him what his relationship to the outdoors truly meant. The panic and adrenaline that defined his experience until this point gave way to a complete, calm acceptance of his fate. This was not an abandonment of care or concern for himself, or a fatalistic forfeiture of life, but a clear and vivid understanding that his journey through life was likely over, and his experience on Earth would be coming to an end. And despite everything—the blood, the pain, and the fear—he was at peace. He accepted.
Of course, Anderson’s life did not end that day. This is not a story about death, or the dangers of recreating outdoors. This is a story of the relationship and connection formed between us and the wild places where we spend our time. This is a story about Anderson, and his ordeal, but it is also a story that could have happened to any of us at any time while we pursue our outdoor passions. Anderson is a reasonable, skilled, competent outdoorsperson. He makes plans for contingencies, and follows those plans. He travels with people he trusts with his life, and chooses those people carefully. He has a plan for the day, and lets loved-ones know where he is. His preparation and foresight may well have saved his life, but his experience and preparation did not prevent the accident from happening. The bad still came for him that day.
Anderson made it back up the hill on that July morning, relying completely on the heroic efforts of his friend Donnelly, who he credits with saving his life. Nearing unconsciousness, and still bleeding horribly despite the tourniquet, Anderson’s thoughts were centered on his family, friends, and loved ones who he would leave behind. But there was another, more personal thought that he reflects on by saying “I was thinking that all I want to do is keep exploring this beautiful planet.”
The rest of the story is one of speeding cars, shocked ambulance crews, and desperate helicopter flights. Highly skilled first responders met the pair while they were driving down the road and took one look at the injury, loaded Anderson up and made the determination that more help was necessary. The first responders called Life Flight, a critical care air medical transport service of which Anderson was a member, and met the Life Flight helicopter in a nearby field while administering pain medication and as much help as they could. Life Flight took him to the hospital for emergency surgery to move his muscles back in his calf and make sure he had enough blood to replace what was lost on Hall Mountain. Anderson’s story is also one of hospital stays, grateful families, and a months-long recovery. Of stitches, staples, and scars.
For Anderson, the hardest part of his story so far has been missing the woods that call to him in a way they never did before. Maybe it’s because he senses his relationship to those woods has changed, and has become one of belonging. Of membership. Of home.
What I find so fascinating about Anderson’s experience is how his ordeal has created in him an affirmation of his outdoor pursuits, and a new sense of belonging to wild places. Anderson now feels more a part of the outdoors than he ever has before, and his relationship to outdoor spaces has changed from being a mere observer within those places to becoming a true participant and member. He belongs to those places now more than ever in the past through his own blood and a message delivered to him by the forest that day: that he is a part of this place, and is a real and true part of nature, and wildness, and pain. He is not an observer, but a participant.
Each of us could all find ourselves in a situation like Anderson’s and be faced with the same thoughts, emotions, and consequences that he had that day. It’s important to remember that our natural environment is not a sterilized, manicured zoo, and we cannot truly exist in nature as mere selfie-snapping interlopers, considering ourselves immune from the very real outcomes of existence within outdoor spaces. We must, as Anderson discovered, be integral parts of these spaces we love so much. It is only through the acceptance of our fragility within wild places that we can truly be a partner with them, not a master over them.
Eric Deady has been bikepacking and touring around the world for more than 30 years, and now shares that love of the outdoors with his children.
