I was inside, placidly minding my own business - working on schoolwork - when my mom asks me to go outside to check on Welch, who was goofing off and sledding on our treacherous north facing slope (Welch's reward for shoveling a square mile of snow). I stepped out on the back deck and yelled, "Are you okay?" His faint reply was "can you help me with something." Grumbling and taking my time in protest, I tromped downstairs, leisurely laced up my snow boots, and slogged through the foot of snow towards the sledding hill. As I rounded the bend, I saw Welch on the ground near the garden, his face flushed red with cold. I asked again, "Are you okay?" This time he said, "I think I broke my leg." Oh, crap.
Turns out that on his first run, nearly an hour before, he hit a rock only about 20 yards down the slope at what felt like 40 miles per hour with powdery white snow blasting his face and eyes. His high speed impact sent him flying through the air another 10 or more yards. Feeling "the worst pain in my life" he gave one yell for help and started crawling down the 200 remaining yards of hill. None of us heard that call for help, of course, as we were enjoying a warm, toasty house with no windows open to the single digit weather.
After I struggled to get him back to the house, we carefully stripped him down and accessed the damage. He was shaking all over and a little bit blue from his time in the snow. With no real swelling in sight, we decided that his leg wasn't broken, but that he likely sustained a severe groin pull and a bruise to the gluteus maximus and tail bone. This will put him out of the running business for a while. Perhaps I will pull (no pun intended) ahead of him in this flying leap (again, no pun intended) for glory.