1986


The Woods were our first training ground — a tangle of trees and hills behind Jon's house on Columbia Avenue, just a block from Heath Street where I grew up. Decades of runoff had carved the hills into earthen ramps that could launch a bike, a sled, or a kid with more confidence than coordination. The trees — spindly young maples, saplings, and thin trunks — were our safety nets, angled just enough to let you grab hold mid-jump and ride them downward like a kid-sized rappel down an uneven slope. Jon, my friend, and my brother Jason were with me the day it happened. We'd been sprinting off one of the big hills, catching those smaller trees in mid-air, and riding them down as they bent under our weight, each jump feeling like a dare wrapped in just enough danger to keep things interesting.

Done right, it felt controlled — almost graceful — like a beginner's practice run for the rappelling I'd end up doing years later. Done wrong... well, that's how the trouble started.

We'd been at it for an hour, maybe more, each jump cleaner than the last — or at least that's how it felt. The hill, the sprint, the grab, the ride down. This is the best thing I've ever done. My eye caught a tree a little further out than the others. Thinner. The bark looked off — dry, pale, already peeling. Doesn't look perfect. But the hill was calling, and the momentum was already in my legs. We'll see.

I reached for it anyway. The trunk snapped clean in two the moment my hands closed around it — dead and brittle all the way through. No bend. No give. Just a loud crack and then nothing.

I don't remember the fall. I don't remember hitting the ground. There's a blank space where the fall should be.

The next thing I knew, I was walking down the street toward home — mid-step, mid-stride — as if someone had spliced out twenty minutes of footage from my life. Jon and Jason were on either side of me, silent and pale, guiding me along the sidewalk. One of my hands was clamped to the side of my head, trying to stop the blood running down my fingers. My vision felt foggy, as if I were waking up inside somebody else's body.

"Dude... you okay?" Jon kept asking. According to him, I'd been out cold. According to me, this was the first second I'd been awake.

When we finally walked through the front door, Mom spun around and froze.

"What happened? Craig—what happened?" she asked.

I opened my mouth, but the answers weren't there. I couldn't explain which hill we were on, which tree I'd grabbed, or how long I'd been out. Every question hit a blank space, and every blank space made her face go a little more white.

Another concussion. Another ER visit.

Mom didn't believe the story at first—not because it sounded impossible, but because I couldn't remember enough of it to make it believable. Jon and Jason filled in the details I couldn't.

But even after that, even after the blackout, the blood, and waking up mid-stride, we still went back the next day.

Because The Woods were the best thing we had—and almost dying was just the cost of admission.