Advocate(Gerald R Gioglio) No bird can fly without opening its wings, and no one can love without exposing their hearts. — Mark Nepo--

I got into jogging in the army. It started in Basic, running in combat boots, two miles every morning before breakfast. Most guys hated the routine, but I found it soothed me, got me into myself, and, well hell, it felt good. Over the years I found it mentally and spiritually refreshing. I still do it, some 55 years later.

Now out in nature, following a trail that for miles parallels a river, I find myself pretty much alone, except for the occasional person walking their dog, or cyclist racing past. And oh yes, there are the ever-increasing number of unsheltered persons camping along the sides of the river.

Now and again younger runners zip by, some barking out encouragement, “Way to go Pops!” or “Lookin’ good,” just like I used to do during my younger days. Now, I am that guy, my upper body still rolling, my arms held at 90 degrees most of the time, my legs and lungs still strong as I put one step in front of another in what passes for “jogging.” Pretty decent, I would say, for someone on the downside of their seventies.

It is pathetic really, not much more than a fast walk, but I stumble along for a mile and a half out and back. Three miles, a few times a week. I am accompanied by the gentle sound of the water as it streams over boulders that fight for their share of the river. It strikes me that the water’s frantic rush through the rocks is a good metaphor for getting older. The river knows it cannot fight nor flee from the inevitable presence of the obstructions it encounters. Similarly with aging. You cannot fight or run away from ever-increasing physical limitations. So, the river encourages me to find another way…the way of the water…it f-l-o-w-s…like me.

I still get lost in my thinking when I “run,” lost in the music on my I-Pod, lost in the sound of my feet hitting the ground, lost in the pattern of my breathing. Hey, I am still a healthy old bat. Nothing stops me when I am on this trail. One foot after the next, after the next, after the next. Lost in the beauty of my surroundings, the river, the flora—especially in the late summer when the Black Eye Susans, the wildflowers, and yes, even the weeds bloom, blanketing my journey with intense colors and heady aromas.

These days, it seems as if the river, like me, is also running on empty, as climate change affects the snowpack flowing down from the mountains and minimizes the rainfall. The water recedes and the river’s bed is more apparent, cast-off debris that made its way into the water now hangs off the rocks and branches lining its banks. This, along with the presence of our homeless neighbors, stands as an indictment of our throwaway culture, our indifference, and our general lack of care for humanity and creation.

Every now and then I spy a Blue Heron that has taken up residence along the river. Not knowing, I decided “it” was a “she.” After all the bird was an absolute beauty with a majestic wingspan, long spindly legs, and sky-blue tint to her feathers. She stands noiseless and statue still, while waiting for prey to swim by. At first, I tried to catch her attention, trying a couple of pathetic bird calls. But soon I would simply yell and wave hello as I jogged by. She would hear me and check me out as I plodded along, her head and neck jerking toward me, eyeing me with suspicion. Still, I like to think she was looking for me to run by and wave as much as I was hoping to see her fishing on the opposite bank.

About halfway through my route, I cross a short bridge constructed with a wooden floor secured by metal buttresses. It spans a culvert diverting water from higher ground to the river. The engineers who build it lined the bottom and sides with lovely, red-tinted boulders. The attractive layout now grown over with weeds and the occasional discarded bottle or plastic bag stuck between the rocks. Adding insult to injury, some dopey graffito tagged one boulder with the phrase “Shady” scripted in brilliant blue spray paint. The punk.

This day, as I began crossing the bridge, I see my usually passive heron friend on the other side of the river. She was frantically pacing, her head jerking from side to side, as if in distress. She spies me and propelled by her enormous wingspan streaks across the river, landing on the rocks at the end of the culvert. I was giddy. Was she coming to see me? Suddenly, this usually quiet creature lets out a yip—much like a dog’s yelp, followed by a series of somewhat hoarse, screeching sounds. In a split second, she propels upward, hovering helicopter-like over the area. Was she trying to tell me something?

Suddenly, I heard a low shuttering moan coming from the culvert. Looking over the handrails I see the body of a woman, sprawled over the rocks, legs akimbo. Did she fall? Was she attacked? Homeless? Possibly. Injured? Absolutely.

Stepping off the bridge I tied to find a safe way down. The grassy slope next to the culvert was too steep—at least a twenty-foot drop. I could not risk it. Uncertain and perhaps overly cautious, I knew I was too old to navigate down that incline. I thought, “Bloody hell, right about now I could use one of those blasted young kids who go flying past me on the trail.”

What to do? Wait, how about some reverse mountain climbing? So, on hands and knees, I started backing down the culvert, my feet searching for purchase, my hands grasping anything available. I slipped once, sliding down a couple of jagged boulders, leaving a nasty gash on my knee.

Seeing me coming, my feathered friend let out one last screech, and in a flash bolted back to the other side of the river.

Reaching the bottom, I surveyed the area. Right, she was living under the bridge. She lay there, outside her tarp, fully clothed, softly moaning. Probably about fifty years old, she was dressed in black slacks with a green top, a torn wool sweater and a muddy pair of black sneakers that had seen some better days. As I reached her, I saw her eyes were wild and pleading, her breathing labored, her speech broken and unintelligible. Holding her weathered face between my hands, I tried to get her to focus and tell me what was wrong. We locked eyes, hers shocked and terrified. Mine worried yet deliberate and determined.

“Can you tell me your name.” I insisted.

With great effort, she tried, but the best she could do was, “Ah…ah…Sa…Sa…Sa...”

“Sally?” I probed.

With a slight negative shutter she continued “Ah, “ra…ah ra…ra.”

“Sarah, yes? You’re Sarah.” With a slight nod, and a bit more focus apparent in her eyes, she confirmed and tried to say more.

“Hur…hurts…it hurts.”

Trying to soothe her I replied, “Ok, Sarah. It’s okay. I got you. I got you. We’re gonna’ check you out and get you some help. Okay?”

She grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze indicating she understood.

I tried to recall the pathetic half-day of first aid instruction we got in Basic Training. What was it? Right, first, stop the bleeding. I checked for head wounds. None. No blood apparent anywhere. No need for a tourniquet. Good thing, ‘cause I only had my sweaty doo-rag to use as one. Stabilize broken bones? No, although she was haphazardly sprawled about, I soon discovered she was okay. Nothing broken as I felt and manipulated her limbs.

“Did you fall or did somebody hurt you” I asked.

“No, no. It, it hurts…in…inside.” She cried, grabbing my hand even tighter than before as to say, “I’m scared, don’t leave me.”

“Okay, try to relax. Let me try my phone.”

Yes. I had cell coverage! Thank God. I dialed 911, identified myself and told the dispatcher, “I'm on the Dekota trail…going south…three bridges from the trailhead. I’m with a woman here who is sick or injured. It appears to be internal pain. We need an ambulance right away.”

Seeking more specifics on her condition and my where abouts, she asked. “Do you have a smart phone? Can you give me GPS coordinates?’

I’m like, “Lady, do I sound like some pimple-faced, teenage techno-geek?” “No. No smart phone. What part of three bridges from the trailhead don’t you understand?”

Ignoring my snark and calming me down, she assured me help was forthcoming and said she would stay on the line until they arrived.

Sarah continued to cling to my hand even as I reassured her that it was only a matter of time until the professionals reached us. Until then, I tried to make her more comfortable and kept talking to her. It seemed like it was taking forever.

Every now and then the dispatcher would give me an update saying things like, “They are fifteen minutes out.” Or asking, “How is she doing?”

Finally, she advised, “They are on the trail, just a few minutes more.”

Soon, I heard sirens in the background and tires hit the bridge. I started yelling, “Here. Down here!”

Four paramedics poured out of the vehicle and surveyed the situation. I told the dispatcher, “They’re here, thank you,” and hung up. Soon, a guy with an emergency medical kit repelled down from the trail and began checking Sarah out. Another followed with a stretcher sled.

Soon, they had her strapped into the sled. I felt a need to trace a cross on her forehead, for protection, for good luck. “God’s speed Sarah.” I declared, as I conveyed the blessing. “You’re in good hands now” as the paramedics began hoisting her up the grass next to the culvert.

Then, directing me out of the culvert and onto the grass, A paramedic threw down a rope with an attachment to put around my waist. I put it on and they pulled me up. When I was back on the trail, a female paramedic pointed at me and said, “Hey, nice work my friend.” “How about I take a look at that knee.” I mumbled something like, “Me? What? Oh yeah.” In all the excitement, I had simply forgotten about it.

She quickly bandaged me up, said it was only a bad scrape and asked if I needed a ride back to the trailhead. When I said, “I think I’ll walk back” she jumped in the ambulance, and they sped away.

I breathed a deep sigh of relief and decided to sit down for a bit, listen to the water stream by and decompress. I sat on a rock at the side of the trail, reliving the events and worrying about Sarah. When I looked up, the heron was on the other side of the river, seemingly frozen in place looking across toward me. My gorgeous, stately, wonderful, Good Samaritan. I waved my hand franticly and yelled, “Nice work my friend. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

The End.

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