I was trail running recently and I experienced a very scary, uncontrolled fall during my descent. Now, I've fallen before when running, multiple times, and most falls aren't even worth mentioning. I've also become convinced that approximately once/year, I'll experience a fall that's severe enough to wake up my consciousness[1] and remind me of some "trail running fundamentals", which are intended to prevent injury.
I never mention those falls either.
However, this recent one was the scariest fall I've ever had, and I'll endeavor to describe it in a some detail below. But first, I'd like to talk about how it fits into the big big picture of "very troubling but also very instructive", as it was one of only three experiences I've had in the Pacific NW outdoors that have created meaningful, durable change in how I think about being in the mountains.
This one, along with the other two experiences, fundamentally changed the way I think about being outdoors.
Below is the year-over-year summary data for trail running for the past five years. I started keeping stats circa 2019, and yes, I'm sort of doing what Strava will do for you both easily and at a very low cost, only, my way takes up a tremendous amount of time and energy[2] :
I don't have similar stats for hiking, but here are the 2025 hiking stats for the prime hiking season here in the NW (July, August, and if we're lucky, some of Sep):
The thing that jumps out most to me is the sheer number of miles that I've run while trail-running, as well as how much the average elevation gain has increased year-over-year. It makes perfect sense to me that I would fall, and become injured, from time to time. It's simply impossible to be out that much and always be safe.
There have been perhaps too many of these that I could talk about (e.g.: I once tried to make potable water and the water bladder sprung a leak, which later informed my "carry two" policy), but here are the top three.
Experience #1: Rainy Lake Trail Run (2021)
Rainy Lake is a brutal trail run and in hindsight, I have no idea why I decided to try to run it in the first place.
I believe it was a July run, and it was very hot and dry, and I thought I had packed enough water for my journey, but it turned out to be hotter, dryer, and maybe I was more dehydrated than normal at the outset, and so by the time I reached the lake, I was (a) very dehydrated and (b) completely out of water.
That put me 4 miles from the trailhead, mid-morning, with no water, and I was already feeling sick. The thought of trying to run another four miles with no water was scary.
Luckily (and possibly: miraculously) there was a couple camping at the lake, and I approached them and explained my situation, and the guy pulled out a potable water filter (which I hadn't ever seen and didn't know existed) and made some water for me. I guarantee he saved me from heatstroke that day[3].
Experience #2: Mt Pilchuck Hike (2021)
This was the very first time I had hiked Mt Pilchuck, and it was in June 2021. I had gotten lost before this (e.g.: Lake Katrine / wildly off-course), but never so lost I couldn't eventually find my way back.
Anyways, it was very early in the morning, and a little over the 1/2-way mark I ran into a hiker who was descending. We chatted, and I recall asking him what his favorite hike was and he told me "This one. I've done it over a dozen times and I always love it." He then proceeded to warn me that despite being incredibly familiar with the hike, he had nearly gotten lost on the trail beneath the summit. I didn't think too much of this at the time and proceeded towards the summit.
I got lost on the way up, approx 0.4 miles from the summit. The snow was really deep in places, and there were multiple boot paths, and it just wasn't at all clear how to proceed, so I looked towards the summit and made my way in a straight line to the fire lookout. You can see this on a map here. Check out the very end of the ascent: I cut off a big loop of the trail to proceed to the summit in a straight line.
I did mark that small section of ascent with pink trail markers, and I remember crawling between small trees and over boulders and thinking "this cannot be right".
I summited and took some seriously wonderful photos, which you can see here (page 12 on laptop/desktop, page 35 on mobile). It was just the most beautiful place and I couldn't believe I was up there to experience it.
After taking approximately one billion photos, I began my descent, exactly the same way I came up. When I got to my last marker (which I took down), I continued my descent, only, I found myself in unfamiliar territory. Every direction looked equally like every other direction, in terms of what was the correct [and incorrect] way to proceed. Since it was June already, there were patches of mushy snow, and much of it was covered by debris that had fallen from the trees. It all looked like "dirty snow" to me, every direction was seemingly incorrect.
I started to panic and began to feel out different paths. I was walking back and forth, and up and down the slope, going a few hundred feet each time, exploring what might have been small spur trails but turned out to have been just my being lost. You can see some of this here. As it turns out, I had already overshot the trail and was hopelessly lost at this time.
After maybe the 5th pass through this small, wooded area, I had a full blown panic attack and started racing south and west. I sort of knew what direction I was going because Mt Rainier was visible, so I always knew where south was. I remember thinking: "If I just keep going south and west, I'll intersect the trail, because it has a huge switchback".
I ended up running (as in running and sliding as fast as I could; scrambling really) about 0.86 miles from the summit. I stopped at the edge of a ravine (to my right), and a small [but steep] drop-off in front of me. I sat down and looked around. I knew I had to stop running and try something else. I sat for maybe ten minutes, listening to the relative silence of the forest. The trees rustled in the light breeze. There were birds. And I was mercilessly alone.
The forecast for that day was a high temp of approx 104° (06/27/2021).
Despite having packed more water than I needed for the hike, by the time I decided to stop hiking, I was running out of water (I had maybe 6-8oz left). I couldn't figure any possible way to get out my awful predicament: I couldn't proceed down (west), due to the ledge. I couldn't go any further north, due to the ravine. I knew that going further south was likely to take me even further off-course[4].
You can see my stopping point on the same map as above.
I decided I was in way over my head and deployed a PLB1 rescue beacon, which would signal search and rescue to come and find me.
Now, I had never used this device before, and wasn't even sure it would work. After I deployed it I sat there for more than an hour, sipping the last of my water, and hoping.
I don't know if you've ever been tasked with "doing nothing" at the same time you're in "flight" mode from your fight or flight response, but suffice it to say, it's excruciating (to sit there) (and do nothing). As I mentioned, it was very quiet. And I was alone. And I really had to make myself sit there, meaning, I had to talk myself out of moving, or panicking. It was the very first time in my life where I thought to myself "I'm in serious trouble here".
I sat for as long as I could (about another thirty minutes), and as I drank the last sip of water, I concluded that maybe the beacon wasn't working and that if I was to survive, I needed to do something.
I decided that the only "known quantity" on that mountain was the summit. I figured "If I simply head up, as in, direct line of sight from here to the summit, well, I can wait in the fire lookout and eventually someone else will come along." It seemed to be the only thing I was sure of at that time.
So I packed up and found a tumble down boulder field with boulders the size of Volkswagen Beetles and started to make my way back up. Some of the rocks were so big I more had to move back-and-forth vs going up, but up I went, sometimes ducking back into the trees beside the rocks to escape the merciless sun.
You can see the route I took here (you can even see the boulder field on the satellite version of that map).
I made it to the snowline and packed an empty water container with snow and set it out on a rock in the sun so it could melt. I skillfully managed to cut my hand while scraping away the snow with a knife and really couldn't believe I had made things worse.
I rested in the shade.
While I was waiting, I saw the most heartbreaking sight in the world: the SCV SAR helicopter, approx 1/2 mile below me, directly down the boulder field. I took my bright orange shirt off and jumped onto the biggest rock I could and started whipping it around my head and screaming "Up here! I'm up here!". I was frantic, stretching myself as tall as I could and generally trying to be as visible as possible.
It didn't work.
The helicopter circled a small area for five minutes and then flew away, leaving me absolutely heartbroken[5].
I packed back up and continued up the slope. I soon found another shady spot and stopped to rest. Since the helicopter sighting, I had begun to shout "Lost hiker!" and "I need help / I'm lost", usually in the direction of up the slope.
Amazingly enough, an intrepid hiker heard me and made his way about 150' off trail to rescue me. He lead me back up to the trail (which I was on course to cross within five minutes if I had kept going). He loaned me his phone and I spoke with the Granite Falls sheriff, who then called off the SAR effort.
I completed the hike on my own. I had heatstroke (my skin was red and I was nauseous and light-headed). I did make some potable water along the trail from melting snow run-off, and eventually made it back to my car[6].
On the drive home, a section of the Mountain Loop Highway had melted from the heat (the east-bound lane a few miles before the Pilchuck access road).
Experience #3: Mt Defiance Trail Run (2025)
I was approximately 0.7 miles from the summit and had just entered the wooded area after the ridge. I was enjoying myself and make the mistake of relaxing. My left foot, behind me, got caught on a root, and as my momentum carried my body forward, I had to rush to get that same leg into position in front of me or I would fall. Well, that bit of trail was just a little lower than I expected, and so I ended up planting my foot and hyperextending my left leg, all of which lead to a full-momentum, fully-uncontrolled fall.
(My leg acted like a lever and I went up and over on the way to my fall.)
It hurt like hell, and I had to lay there for several minutes trying to figure out what I was going to do, and flexing the muscles in my leg to see if I could even walk. I experienced a flash of lighting in my head at the moment of hyperextension, which meant to me that something was, at a minimum, torn.
As I was laying there I realized: "You don't have your Iridium [satellite] phone.", which was terrifying to me, as I didn't think I could walk (and knew I was unable to run), and so the thought did cross my mind that I could be laying there for several hours, hoping someone would stumble along and find me.
I ended up testing my leg out for a few minutes, and then made a couple of uncharacteristically sensible decisions:
Suffice it to say, these three experiences fundamentally change how I hike and trail run. Here's a rundown of the changes, in order of experience:
