The Day I Almost Died

The following story I wrote and performed for Edmonton’s Story Slam. It’s a wonderful organization and a great event; for anyone interested in telling or listening to stories, I recommend you check them out: www.edmontonstoryslam.com

The story I’m going to tell you is from back when I was four, living on a cattle farm just west of Morinville. Now, when you’re four years old, you perceive the world a little bit differently than the adults around you do. The way my parents tell the story is simply this: my dad took me and my older sister out on the skidoo one day to check the cows, and when we drove over a bump, she and I fell off the back (no injuries sustained). While dad circled back to pick us up again, one of the cows might have looked in our direction.

But that’s not the way I remember it.

What I’ll tell you now is my recollection of the story, exactly as my four-year-old self would have wrote in my journal—if, of course, I had been able to write at the time.

Dylan’s log: January 15, 1998.

I almost died today.

Outside was a treacherous cold, but the bright blue sky shone with a dazzling light that made the snow blanketing the ground difficult to look at for long. Mom bundled us tightly in our neon snowsuits that had been hand-me-downs since the ’80s, and we toddled outside in boots two sizes too big. Dad was already out in the driveway amid a thick blue cloud of smoke, trying to convince the rusty old snowmobile to start. With just a few more tugs on the frayed pull-cord, a rattle and a bang, we were off! We putzed across the yard at an easy five miles an hour toward the field, and I hollered in excitement, “Faster, faster!” Dad chuckled to himself as he patted the hood of the skidoo with a heavy mittened hand, saying, “I dunno if these squirrels can handle much more than this.” I never knew that’s how skidoos worked, but I guess it makes sense. The squirrels underneath the hood chattered noisily to themselves as they ran in their hamster wheels, and as we crossed into the field Dad bellowed loudly, “Cumbos, cumbos, cumbos!” I’m told that translated, cumbos literally means, “Come, boss!” and is the call used by old cowboys to draw the lead cow nearer. Wherever the boss cow goes, the rest of the herd is sure to follow.

We were just coming up alongside the herd when Laura and I were bucked off the back of the skidoo with violent suddenness and landed in a pillowy snowdrift. I looked around at first in dazed confusion, then immediately noticed that the skidoo was continuing to plug along away into the distance. Dad was completely unaware that we had fallen off. Laura sat bolt upright in the snow, eyes wide with fear as she pointed over my shoulder. “Look Dylan! Run!” she wailed, and took off toward the fence. I turned to look behind me and saw the deep, black eyes of the boss cow glowering in my direction, steam rising from her nose as her hoof pawed the ground. I scrambled to my feet and turned to the fence. The vast field stretched out before me endlessly; the safety of the other side must have been ten miles away. Laura was already halfway there. I ran as fast as my short legs would carry me, but the snow was very deep and filled my boots with every step as I sank as deep as my knees. My toque kept sliding down over my eyes, clouding my vision with darkness and my mind with fear. I didn’t dare look back, but I could hear the thunder of a thousand hooves as the rest of the herd joined in the boss cow’s mad charge. “Run, Dylan, Run!!” Laura called, both of her arms waving me in from the other side of the fence. I tripped on one of my laces and tumbled face-first into the snow. I scrambled to my feet again, but this time disoriented—which way was the fence? I couldn’t see through the snow caked over my eyes.

The hot, rank breath of the boss cow filled the air around me, and the ground trembled with the closeness of her hooves. I frantically wiped the snow away from my eyes and squinted in the brightness of the sun. The fence was too far. Boss cow was too close. I would never make it! I stumbled backwards and fell again, this time unable to pick myself up like a turtle on its shell. Then, over the crest of the hill, the rusty old skidoo came screaming out of a cloud of smoke. The squirrels howled with effort like they’d never howled before as they raced toward me at fifty—no—a hundred miles an hour. And above the thundering hooves, above the screeching engine, soaring on the wind like the battle-cry of Tarzan among the apes, came the call: “Cumbos, cumbos, cumbos!” Dad zoomed past the boss cow, spraying snow up into her face as he whisked me up in one strong arm without even stopping. We pulled up beside the fence, and Laura crawled back under to join us on the skidoo. “Hey, are you crying?” She asked. I was not. It was just the snow melting.