This Olympian is an Ultimate Survivor

By Rulon Gardner, North Salt Lake, Utah

As appeared in

People think I'm indestructible. One look at me, and it's easy to see why. I'm six-foot-three, weigh 300 pounds and defeated Russian Greco-Roman wrestler Alexander Karelin—one of the most feared wrestlers in recent history—to win the gold at the 2000 Sydney Olympics. The strongest man on earth, some called me, but I knew where my strength really came from, even if I had to learn the hard way. Folks have heard the stories. How, as a third-grader, I accidentally impaled myself in the belly with an arrow and walked 300 yards to get help. How, while riding my Harley-Davidson, I collided head-on with an out-of-control car and emerged with barely a scratch. How, in 2002, I crashed my snowmobile in the snowy Wyoming wilderness and survived 18 hours in sub-zero temperatures, losing one little toe to frostbite. I told that one right here in Guideposts.

"You have nine lives," people said. But last February, when the small plane I was aboard crashed into a remote part of Lake Powell near the Utah-Arizona border, I thought I'd used them all up. I remember standing on the right wing of the sinking four-seat, single-engine plane, staring through the fading afternoon light, trying to spot land, and seeing nothing. God, I wondered, is this how it ends? Am I finally coming home? Would I join my older brother who'd died when I was a kid?

The day had started out so innocently. My friend Les Brooks called me on my cell. How would I like to fly with him and his brother Randy to see Randy's new houseboat on Lake Powell, 45 minutes away? Cool. The trip is beautiful—canyons, pristine wilderness, lakes that shine like coins in the sun. I was studying for my pilot's license. This might be a chance to get some flying time in myself, if I played my cards right. Weather was awesome. Hardly a cloud in the sky. A little cold, but we're used to that in these parts. The flight down was a breeze. Randy turned things over to me for a few minutes. I wasn't about to try any crazy stuff, like skimming low over the water or hugging the canyon walls. The plane handled like a dream. Man, this was the life! We landed at a small airstrip, caught a ride to Randy's houseboat and kicked back for two hours. Good times.

At 2:00 p.m. we headed back. I was gazing out the window, daydreaming, when Randy said, "Hold on. You're going to enjoy this." He dropped the plane down low, 50 feet above the lake. To either side of us towered sheer, 700-foot red-brown canyon walls—the first hints of the Grand Canyon. I grabbed my camera and started snapping. It was unbelievable. I looked up after a few shots. We emerged from the canyon and were way out over the water. Randy should've pulled up by now. He was checking the instrument panel. We were still descending, moving at about 155 miles per hour. We're getting really close to the water, I thought. But I wasn't worried. Randy was an experienced pilot. 

A second later I felt a powerful jolt, as if a truck had hit us from behind. The left rear wheel is in the water! The plane plunged nose-first into the lake. I felt my stomach turn. "Get out!" somebody yelled. I've been in so many tight spots that I've gotten pretty calm in these situations. I unhitched my seat belt, opened the door and stepped onto the right wing. Randy and Les scrambled out the other side.

The plane was sinking beneath us. I scanned the horizon. "How far are we from land?" I asked.

"About a mile and a half," Les said. That didn't exactly fill me with confidence. I'd never swum more than a mile before, and that had been in a warm swimming pool some time back. The water lapped at my feet. Man it was cold. It must have been 40 degrees.