The Wrong Rock
by Rod C.
Submitted May 18, 2001

The following is an edited extract from my private journal of a biological survey expedition to the Kuril Islands (a chain of mostly volcanic islands off the coast of Siberia), working off the Russian research ship 'Professor Bogorov,' in the summer of 1997. —author

20 August. The small island of Brat Chirpoiev in the central Kurils (basically, one volcanic cone rising from the sea) has defied two previous attempts to land there; surprisingly, today it's easy. I make a beeline for a large rockslide that was visible from the ship, a 100+ meter tall cone of boulders extending up the steep grassy slopes from near the shore, with rocks ranging from jumbo-refrigerator size down to small enough to turn over for spiders. The habitat yields 52 specimens of spiders. On my way back down, I step on the wrong rock. A few confusing seconds later, the world stops spinning and I find myself perhaps 8 m down the slope and up to my waist in boulders. Extracting my lower body occupies my attention until the colleague who arrives to rescue me (fearing the worst) points out that I have a crushed left hand -- due to amazing luck, my only serious injury. Fortunately, shock doesn't set in until I'm back in the ship's doctor's office. No x-ray on the ship, of course. The vial of spiders is still in my pocket, undamaged.

21 August. After sailing all night, we arrive at the large, populated island of Iturup. Here, a local ambulance bumps across a pasture to the local army hospital, a decrepit building evidently not painted since World War II. The x-ray facility is modern, however, and the resulting pictures prompt a decision to send me on to the district hospital on much larger Sakhalin Island (which is to the Kuril Islands as Vancouver Island is to the San Juans). My sojourn will occupy a few days, and Valentina is assigned to accompany me (Valentina Kalesnikova is Special Assistant to Victor Bogatov, Deputy Secretary of the Far East Branch of the Russian Academy of Science). Life could be worse! The day's adventures include a wild 4-wheel-drive ride 50-60 km down the length of Iturup (slightly larger than King County, Washington) over some of the worst roads ever felt by this bruised body (but with Louis Armstrong on the tape deck), at one point driving along the beach of the bay from which the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor was launched, to an air base at Burevestnik, on the Pacific side of this island. Then into a large, ancient-looking prop-driven Russian Army cargo plane, where we sit on side benches (sans seat belts) facing an aisle piled high with huge canvas bags. The trip to Sakhalin is like riding inside a vibrator. On arrival, we're met by another ambulance, which takes us over smooth paved roads (this island has oil income) through a variety of very pretty forest and field habitat types, to the district hospital in Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk, the most pleasant and attractive town I've yet visited in Russia. The doctors wear what look like chef's hats. Before I know it, I'm out cold, having my finger bones set by the chief traumatologist. Elapsed time since the rockslide, about 26 hours.

22-23 August. Valentina can only visit once a day, so I practice my Russian on intern Sergei and nurse Galya. The hospital is very quiet, very clean, if poorly supplied and equipped. I learn to dress and shower single-handed. One spider collected in my hospital room.

24 August. Checking out at noon, we have another 30-km ambulance ride to the seaport of Korsakov, where we are to meet our ship 'Professor Bogorov' which, of course, is delayed. Valentina engages a cheap waterfront hotel room, and from somewhere rounds up two guys with a door (!) to put under my hammock-like mattress. We wait. Dinner in a Korean restaurant where a resident cat spends mealtime in my lap; now, that's good service! Awakened at midnight -- the ship is here! After a speedboat ride across the dark waters of Korsakov harbor, "home" again.

After a few days packing and labeling specimens, we take our regular flight back to Seattle from Vladivostok, arriving Sunday of Labor Day weekend. On Tuesday, I see my doctor, who promptly refers me to superb hand surgeon Allan Bach. In two major and several minor operations, Dr. Bach reconstructs my hand. A few months later, with most of the hardware removed, I can again type with 10 fingers. Seven fractures in 4 fingers, a knuckle reduced to "corn flakes" (Dr. Bach's phrase), and scar tissue effectively locking tendons in place, are no joke! Beware of unstable boulders!