It was still early- the Canadian hadn’t even packed up her tiny tent- when the buzz of a small propeller plane passed overhead, obnoxiously low. Madeline groaned aloud in frustration “Tabernak! Three days hiking and I still can’t get away.” Normally she would keep her opinion to herself, but there wasn’t a human (or almost human) in the narrow valley besides herself and whoever was in that plane.
She returned her attention to the plastic mug of coffee in her hands, still hot off the small campfire she had stoked when she woke up. For a minute she was content to sip at her drink and enjoy the birdsong, but a huge crash ripped through the valley and she nearly dumped the hot coffee in her lap as she jumped in surprise. Leaping to her feet, she spotted a tendril of smoke oozing up between the trees and realized why the plane might’ve been flying so low.
“Crisse de tabernak d'ostie!” Madeline swore as she spent a second stamping out her fire and grabbing the first aid kit from her bag before racing off in the direction she had seen the smoke. She didn’t think her little box of iodine and band-aids would help whoever was in that crash but it was better than nothing, dammit! In fact, it might be the only care whoever it was would get: she hadn’t brought any sort of phone, she had been on vacation to avoid problems.
The crash site was a spread-out gouge in the trees: the plane had obviously swept through the canopy, losing momentum on the smaller branches, before smashing into the trunk of a giant oak. Even with the loss of speed, it was crumpled at the base of the tree like a crushed tin can. Maddie sprinted up to the wreck, finding only the pilot, who was bent forward and still strapped in his seat. She clambered up to the man and grabbed his wrist, checking for a pulse, while she demanded “Hey! Can you hear me? I’m here to hel-” Her words cut off as she saw the extent of his injuries: one of the fuselage’s ribs had torn lose in the impact and impaled him through the abdomen. She breathed "Câlisse de Saint-ciboire…“