In the fall of ’76, my friend and I embarked on a backpacking adventure behind my grandpa’s farm in north Todd, venturing deep into the woods for a few days of camping. We spent our first night under the open sky, nestled in our sleeping bags, only to be pelted with sleet. The next morning, we woke up determined to make the best of our situation. We hiked back to Grandpa’s barn to gather some sturdy plastic to craft ourselves a proper tent in the woods. After sawing some sturdy poles as a frame, we covered it with plastic, and in no time, we had ourselves a comfortable shelter.
After setting up the so called ten,t we decide to cook lunch over the campfire. We decided on a simple but satisfying meal: ravioli. We perched a pot over the open flames. Dropping in the ravioli, we waited for it to get hot as the flames flickered beneath, occasionally poking the fire to keep it alive. The savory scent of tomato sauce mingled with the earthy aroma of burning wood, creating a comforting blend that filled the air.
After our bellies were full, we got into our makeshift tent and started tinkering with our rifles before we headed down to a creek to do some target practice. What started as a playful moment soon turned into a harrowing experience. My friend jokingly aimed his gun at me, causing me to reflexively lift my left arm, and before I knew it, the gun went off. My arm went limp, and I looked down to see blood gushing from my stomach and arm. Blood spatters adorned the tent walls, and I feared this was the end for me.
Remarkably, I didn’t feel any pain, just a tingling sensation in my little finger. My friend quickly sprang into action, wrapping my arm to stanch the bleeding. Despite my injury, we had to make the two-mile hike back to my grandpa’s house. Along the way, my arm continued to drip blood, saturating my left pants leg.
When we arrived at my grandpa’s, we found he and my grandma were out, forcing us to seek help from a neighboring farm. After making it to the hospital, I was relieved to learn that the bullet that had passed through my arm had stopped before penetrating my stomach lining, but my arm was a different story. In the X-ray, a half inch of bone was missing, shattered by the hollow point bullet’s impact.
After three days in the hospital, the doctors placed my arm in a cast, which I wore for several months. Unfortunately, the bone was slow to heal, and the doctors suggested they would have to re-break it and insert a pin if there was no improvement. Refusing that option, I held onto the cast for as long as I could before taking matters into my own hands and removing it myself. I never returned to the doctor and it healed fine, but the lesson was clear: never play with guns.