Fake Blood, Real Screams: What I Learned at Wilderness Medic Training

Bitter black coffee is still sliding down the back of my throat as I dunk the paper cup into the recycling bin. After a 13-hour day of turning T-shirts and tree branches into leg splints, wiping off spattered (and thankfully fake) blood, and carrying paralyzed victims through a forest, I needed this little pick-me-up.

This is day three of Wilderness First Responder training, an intensive nine-day medic course to become a certified WFR. But because WFR doesn’t quite roll off the tongue, you can just call me a Woofer. 

I’m not a medical professional, and I’m not a commercial guide. I am, however, responsible for my own ass (and the collective asses of my adventuring companions), whether I’m just starting a hike or ten days deep into the backcountry. So in ten hours, I’ll be back in the classroom for another daylong stint.

WELCOME TO THE EDGE OF CIVILIZATION

The next day I’m leaned over 200 pounds of bloody mess. Twenty minutes into the mock rescue I’ve improvised a fleece sweater into a neck brace. Because the injured hiker can’t move, I’m packing his arms and legs so I can roll him on his side. He’s also throwing up, and if he keeps vomiting on his back he could drown. It only takes a teaspoon of fluid in the lungs to kill a person, WFR coursework tells me.

There’s a chalky chunk of tibia sticking out of his lower leg, so I’m trying to be frantically gentle. After he’s redistributed breakfast on the forest floor I’ll roll him over and reduce that exposed bone so it slips back into his body.

WFR is not for people going up to a well-groomed campground for the weekend. This is for the outdoor thrill seekers who duck out from civilization to go whitewater rafting, kayaking, mountain climbing, backpacking, fishing, hunting, or mountain biking.

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