Breaking through

Many years ago, I developed a very serious fear of marshes and bogs.
I was deer hunting with two guy friends 30 miles east of Hayward, Wis. a few days before Thanksgiving. It was snowing and the wind was cold. We hadn't seen anything and decided since the wind was picking up and the snow was getting heavier that we would head back home. It was about a five-mile walk.
My friends, who were more familiar with the area, suggested we could shorten that considerably by cutting across this big marsh. We would come out to the highway and it would be much easier walking the highway than by going through the woods. I was game.
Half-way across the marsh, which was covered in ice, I suddenly broke through and fell up to my breastbone in the frigid water. My right foot was supported on the branch of a submerged log, with my left arm leaning on the edge of the ice. My left leg was swinging free, I couldn't touch bottom. As soon as I broke through, I instictively held my gun up high.
My buddies, who were both thinner and lighter, stepped forward and took my 20-gauge shotgun. Even though I was in a potentially life-threatening situation, I was very proud that I had not dropped my gun or got it wet.
My friends thought that maybe together they could pull me out. I knew they could not. All that was holding me up was the tip of that branch. I could only somewhat support myself on the edge of the ice because that branch was taking my weight. All I had was a toe hold on that wonderful log that had laid there, for who knows how long, waiting to save me.
I was afraid that as soon as they tried to pull me out, my weight would combine with theirs and they would break through.
I have hunted all my life and I was fully aware that this was a life-threating situation. I was not about to risk my friends. The ice was supporting them.
I was not afraid. I KNEW I was getting out of there. If I had been meant to die, I would have already missed that precious toe hold, gone down deep and perhaps not have been able to find the opening in the ice. I had already been spared, I just had to figure out HOW to get out of there as fast as possible. And I knew I only had one shot. Once I kicked off that branch, I would not be able to find it again.
I told my friends to step back and give me some room.
I had only been in the water for about two minutes when I bounced hard on the branch, aiming for a nearby clump of grass and semi-lunged out of the water. The lip of the ice broke just a few inches more, but as I grabbed the clump of dry grass, the taller one of my friends reached over and grabbed my shirt near the shoulder and tugged hard and Tah Dah! I was out!
I was thoroughly soaked through, but I had been from the very first second I went into the water, so I was glad I had not panicked and that I had taken the time to assess my situation.
I crawled a few feet. I would have crawled even farther, but my wet clothes were sticking to the ice and I knew that the temperature had dropped more than I had previously thought. So I stood up, and the ice supported me. I took my gun and we started walking.
I was not cold. The adrenaline coursing through my veins and my rapidly pounding heart kept me plenty warm. But I was literally not out of the woods yet. We still had half the marsh to cross. I hadn't really had time to be afraid while I was in the water. I was focused on survival then. But with every step I took toward the treeline, I was wracked with the fear I would fall through again. I did bust through twice more, but the water was much shallower, below the knee on both occasions.
We made it to the highway and starting walking. The wind was coming straight at us, stinging our faces with snow. I was covered in a thin sheet of ice that was crunching and breaking as I walked. The ice was thick on my hiking boots and in the folds of my pants around my knees. My legs were so tired. That ice was damn heavy.
When we first got to the highway, I asked how far was it to our road? "Only about a mile," the eldest of my friends replied. Two miles later, I was utterly miserable. "How much farther?" I asked. "We're almost there." he answered. I knew we were not. I didn't recognize it as anywhere close. I know things look differently zipping by at 55 mph, but I knew it was still a long walk. I was tired. My legs were burning from the exertion. I wanted to stop for a few minutes and rest.
My friend, thank the good Lord for him, told me I was just a stupid girl. This is why girls should never be allowed to hunt. In fact, he was never going hunting with me again. I should just stay home and do girl stuff like baking cookies and knitting and leave the hunting to men!
I was so pissed off! I was irate! I stomped, crunch, crunch, crunch! All the way to our road. Mad as hell and pissed off to high Heaven at my FORMER fishing/hunting buddy who I completely and utterly HATED and would NEVER like again! As soon as we got to our road, he turned to me with a charming smile and said, "See. I knew you could make it."
I realized that he had saved me. He made me mad and that gave me the energy and the motivation I needed to trudge on. I completely forgave him for his comments. They were designed to motivate me.
I was very, very afraid of marshes for many years after that. I knew what could happen, and just how fast it could happen.
Looking back now, after having spent so much time on marshes and bogs, I can see that we picked thee most dangerous route across that marsh all those years ago. We were thinking to walk across the ice where it looked thicker, instead of through the snow and clumps of grass. But marshes have more water where the peat layer in thinner. So we were actually crossing the holes in the bog where the water is the deepest.