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UK residents, T's and C supply.

It's around 2 p.m. in Wyoming on Sunday, May the 22nd, 2022.

In Sinks Canyon State Park, an icy wind blows through the valleys.

It whips past limestone cliffs, over-rolling whitewater rapids, and up towards the peaks of the Wind River Mountains.

Ancient evergreens line the rough climbing trails.

They sway, bending in the breeze. On an exposed ridge line a few pine cones bounce

along a rutted track rolling right up to 36-year-old Gabe Joy's who is lying where he fell.

Gabe is shivering violently, his numb fingers clutching his right thigh. His chin and cheeks are smeared with blood.

Dried flecks are smattered across his running vest too,

but his shirt and shorts are soaked through, died as shocking crimson.

He's just about managed to stem the bleeding, but for how long? For a moment,

a moment, Gabe's thoughts drift from the pain in his leg to the ache in his lower back,

the stone is digging into it.

But when he tries to shift his body slightly, another gush of blood

erupts from his wound. I was so angry with myself. I was like, you idiot, you couldn't just handle a rock on your back,

like this has cost you, who knows how much blood just because you were a little bit uncomfortable,

like, so like really upset with myself for being so short-sighted about a rock on my back

...