It was supposed to be a moderate hike of 12 miles with a clear path to follow through the forest. I'd been enjoying the walk, being the only one out there on a Monday morning; the leaves of the woods were just beginning to change colors from green to yellow. A golden wood. It was breathtaking.

I had just come across two foxes (damn right they're adorable) and was quietly creeping up on them to snag a better photo. I'm not a professional by any means, but a big item on my bucket list was for one of my photographs to be considered for national geographic one day. A leap, I knew, but it was fun to hope.

I wish I had that same hope now. Turns out, the rock I was using to get a better angle wasn't terribly solid. I fell, rolled down a hill scratching myself bad, and landed in a small ravine.

I hurt, but I thought I was alright overall. Maybe a cracked rib or two and some moderate bruising. And then I tried to get up.

And I say tried, because I couldn't. My ankle was stuck, wedged, between two enormous boulders. Try as I might, I wasn't going anywhere.

I've been out here for five days yelling, drinking rainwater, and eating bugs. But I'm surprisingly not afraid to die.

I'm not scared because I can't get my foot out, even after breaking my ankle.

I'm not scared because I'm developing an infection.

I'm not scared because my phone broke in the fall.

I'm not scared because I'm hoarse from yelling for help.

I'm not even scared because I had to start eating my hand.

I'm scared because I think I liked it.