Perhaps you remember the early September news stories about a woman impaled by an arrow while hiking on the Kenai Peninsula. That person was me.

After the accident, I declined interview requests. I just wanted the incident to settle down and not become one more crazy freaky Alaska thing. I didn't want it to distract people from what is truly important, or especially to become a reason for people to not spend time outdoors. But there were some lessons that might be worth sharing. Also, enough people are wondering whether I was somehow the victim of a booby trap — I wasn't — that I thought it might be a service to tell what I know.

First, though, I want to deeply thank the people who helped me: my husband, who did everything right as a first responder and then ran to get help; Josiah the mushroom hunter, who later sat with me; Forest Service rangers Marion Glaser and John Davis, who arrived with a satellite phone and some important body heat; volunteer medics Marc Swanson, Mark Adams and others from the Bear Creek and Moose Pass Fire Departments, who stabilized me; State Trooper Mike Zweifel and others, who made the decision to take me out by helicopter rather than over the steep-sided, brushy trail; Alaska Air National Guard PJs (pararescuemen) Dan and Brandon, whom I wish I remembered better but whose drugs really were effective; surgeon George Rhyneer; the Three West staff at Providence Hospital; and family and friends. I could double this list with additional names and wish I had the space to do it. I appreciate you all so much. Writing this list humbles me.

But how could this accident ever have happened? My husband and I were walking along the Russian Lakes trail on the central Kenai Peninsula on a gorgeous September afternoon, the fourth day of a five-day backpacking trip. We were above Lower Russian Lake in a meadow where the grass was head-high; a pink-seed-tipped glory that we had to elbow our way through.

I yelled before I consciously felt the pain. At first, I thought it was a garden stake protruding from my leg. It's hard to believe, but to the best of my knowledge, I truly did just walk into a moose-hunting arrow. The momentum of my stride and the design of the arrow drove it deep into my thigh just above my knee. Fortunately, it missed all the major structures in my leg: bone, ligaments, major nerves and especially arteries. I may have been unlucky to walk into it in the first place, but I was extremely fortunate after that.

I wasn't shot — the angle of entry was wrong. The hunter who lost the arrow came forward later, aghast and apologetic. The arrow had been secured in his quiver, but the quiver failed, allowing the arrow to fall or be pulled out by the brush. It apparently landed shaft-down, caught upright in the grass on the side of the trail. He looked for it over many trail miles, and not finding it, thought or hoped someone else had picked it up. I have spoken with him, forgiven him, and appreciate his integrity in coming forward.

As far as lessons learned, one obvious one is to check and re-check the security of your quiver. Another is to take at least a basic first aid class. Between my husband and me, we knew such things as: Don't remove an impaled object but instead bandage it in place. Use direct pressure and elevation to control bleeding; don't apply a tourniquet except as a last-ditch effort. Shock is a real thing. Yes, lie down, but lie on something insulated if you're in the field because staying warm is an important component of treating shock. Before going to get help, my husband covered me with both of our 15-degree down sleeping bags and all of our coats and rain gear, even though it was a sunny afternoon. I needed every bit of it and more, especially as the evening wore on. Finally, our family will be getting a satellite communication device, something that we previously — and maybe pridefully — thought we didn't need, as we tend to be cautious and prepared.

People ask me if I'll be afraid to hike again. I don't think so. I feel at home in our wide beautiful world, and looking at photos from our backpacking trip fills me with happiness and no dread at all. Maybe it's the endorphins, or the result of really good medicine the PJs provided? For me, a big part is that I experienced, in a most concrete way, being part of a community of strangers who helped me when I badly needed it. I feel more committed to Alaska, my neighbors and strangers than ever before. In fact, I am less afraid now, of all kinds of things. And I look forward to seeing what I can help do and build with my fellow Alaskans so we are all resilient and safe.

Jan Bronson is a lifelong Alaskan whose parents homesteaded in Wasilla in 1959, the year she was born. She will make a full recovery from the arrow accident.