In reply to girlymonkey:
That's a proper 'there but for the grace of his noodly goodness* go I' story. Slip, fall, phone knackered, wrist knackered, leg knackered, get crawling; could so easily have been any of us, albeit in different situations.
The 'legs are heavy' comment struck a chord. I have MS, which amongst other things affects the function of my right leg. On bad days I just don't go out. On good days, I might - might - get away with it. But then, I might not. The last time I was walking in the Lakes i and a companion walked up Place Fell from Patterdale one bright November day. All was well, if slow, going up. Heading down, less so as my right leg wasn't lifting or moving as it should; and I greeted our arrival near the lakeside path by slipping and uncontrollably sliding on my arse down thirty feet or so of rough ground to stop with something of a crump by the path itself.
After a brief interlude checking that everything that should have been attached was still, and raising blood sugar levels with a snack, we set out to walk round the lakeside path to Patterdale. It's an easy walk, pleasant, nice views, if it wasn't for the tree roots it'd be a hands-in-pockets stroll and with them it still wouldn't take you much above an hour, if that.
I took rather longer as my right leg was essentially just so much dead meat. My companion offered to carry some of the stuff from my rucksack but in truth, there wasn't much left in it. He suggested at one point that we considered calling mountain rescue - there was an obvious reading between-the-lines comment here that he didn't think I could do it - but I wouldn't have it; I'd got myself into that mess, I was going to get myself out of it. And, slowly, I did. I'm pretty sure I tripped over every tree root there was and my progress was measured in oaths-per-ten-metres; walking poles were only a little use as I frequently had to get both hands round my leg and put it where I wanted it to be, and when I wasn't doing that I was leaning my upper body over to the left and using a kind of pelvis rotation to swing my leg around in an arc; and evening had long since turned into headtorch darkness before we reached the relative billiard-table smoothness of the path west from the farm across the foot of the lake back to Patterdale.
Legs are heavy. I was grateful for the all-things-considered relative ease of the terrain I'd traversed at such a slow pace; I can't tell you exactly how long it took me as I was deliberately not looking at my watch, but something over three hours would be my guess. I wouldn't have wanted to try that on rougher ground and the memory of it has certainly made me more cautious in my subsequent route choices.
And that was without fractures to my leg and wrist. Respect to the chap that got himself out of what he'd got himself into in the news story above.
T.
* Other deities are available.