Real Survival Stories - Skidding off the Freeway: Trapped out of Sight

Episode Date: May 28, 2025

On a foggy winter’s night in 2023, Matt Reum is driving home along a deserted stretch of freeway… when suddenly disaster strikes. As his truck swerves off the road, he plunges into a ravine underneath a bridge. Pinned within a twisted mass of metal and glass, Matt is helpless. Other drivers are mere metres away but cannot see or hear him. Over the course of the next few days, his efforts to free himself will become increasingly drastic… A Noiser production, written by Joe Viner. For ad-free listening, bonus material and early access to new episodes, join Noiser+. Click the subscription banner at the top of the feed to get started. Or go to noiser.com/subscriptions If you have an amazing survival story of your own that you’d like to put forward for the show, let us know. Drop us an email at [e-mail] Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

Picture this. You're halfway through a DIY car fix, tools scattered everywhere, and boom, you realize you're missing a part. It's okay, because you know whatever it is. It's on eBay. They've got everything. Brakes, headlights, cold air intakes, whatever you need. And it's guaranteed to fit, which means no more crossing your fingers and hoping you ordered the right thing. All the parts you need, at prices you'll love. Guaranteed to fit every time. eBay. Things. People. Love. It's December 2023 in the Midwestern United States. Traffic hums along the well-worn asphalt of Interstate 94. On either side of the freeway, sparse Woodland partially conceals views of flat, brown fields,

industrial towns, factories, and rail depots. Porter County, Indiana lies on the easternmost fringes of the Chicago metropolitan area, its farmland scored with wide, busy roads funneling traffic to and from the city. This stretch of I-94, outside the small town of Portage, is unremarkable in almost every way. There's no rest stop here, not even a gas station. This isn't a place where anyone is supposed to linger. It's the weekend before Christmas, among the busiest travel days of the year, and the flow of vehicles is uninterrupted in both directions. A continuous stream of headlights and taillights.

Few of the drivers pay any attention to the place up ahead where the freeway passes over a narrow creek. It's a blink-and-you-miss-it sort of bridge, no longer than the length of a school bus, distinguishable only by the concrete safety barriers that obscure the shallow stream from the view of passing motorists. Fewer still notice the spot about a hundred yards before the bridge, where the grass verge has been scuffed and rutted by a pair of veering tire tracks. Rain has all but erased the markings, but if anyone were to spot the faint grooves frozen into the winter soil, they would see that they lead down. Down the grass verge, down the steep abutment where the freeway crosses the stream,

all the way to the opposite bank where, trapped inside a crushed heap of steel and shattered glass, 27-year-old Matt Ream screams for help at the top of his lungs. I don't think that anybody saw me go off. I don't think that anybody can hear me. I know that I can't find my phone, so I can't call for help. My truck's not working. So I'm realizing fairly quickly that it's a really bad set of all circumstances. Ever wondered what you would do when disaster strikes? If your life depended on your next decision,

could you make the right choice? Welcome to Real Survival Stories. These are the astonishing tales of ordinary people thrown into extraordinary situations. People suddenly forced to fight for their lives. In this episode we meet Matt Ream. On a foggy winter's night in 2023, Matt is driving home along a dark road when, in an instant, everything goes horribly wrong. Tangled in the wreckage of his truck, his legs pinned beneath the crumpled dashboard, Matt can only listen helplessly to the steady flow of traffic overhead.

The drivers are so close, yet completely unaware of the life or death struggle playing out just below. Both my legs were messed up and, you know, my entire chest and groin and legs are all cut up. There was a part of my mind that was thinking, yeah, I'm not going to make this. But I think that was being overpowered by the part of my mind that was saying, keep pushing another day, just keep pushing, keep pushing,

keep pushing, you might make it through there. But positive thinking can only take him so far. Out of sight and beyond earshot, Matt will remain stuck for days on end. Badly injured, without food or clean drinking water, his desperation will eventually lead him towards drastic choices. lead him towards drastic choices. I can't use the glass to cut my own legs off, but my mind goes back to the paring knife that's on the passenger floor, and I'm like, oh, I need to be able to try to grab that.

I'm John Hopkins. From the Noiza Podcast Network, this is Real Survival Stories. It's 9.30 PM.m. Wednesday, December the 20th, 2023. Inside a motel room in Hobart, Indiana, Matt Ream lies on the bed scrolling mindlessly on his phone. Matt, a welder, has spent the day at the local union hall, teaching skills to a group of young apprentices. Home is 60 miles away in South Bend.

But after a long, exhausting day, the 27-year-old has opted to stay at a motel. The hour-long drive can wait until morning, when he's well rested and clear-headed. Matt scans his Facebook newsfeed, idly flicking through the never-ending stream of content. Vacation photos, engagement announcements, memes. That is, until he sees a post that makes him stop scrolling. I see that one of my friends who'd passed away a week or two earlier, his family was going to be hosting a funeral for him down in Missouri that Friday. So I'm kind of thinking in my head, you know, I do want to pay my respects to him and be there at the funeral. And, you know, it's taken me a little while to process this and kind of think about it, weigh my options.

You know, do I drive down there? Do I fly down there? You know, what should I do about this? Because I do want to be there. Matt does some quick maths. The drive to Missouri takes eight hours, longer if he stops at home first to grab his suit. Maybe it's best to head back now, then set out first thing tomorrow, just to make absolutely certain he won't miss the funeral on Friday. He collects his things and returns the key to the front desk. Then he heads outside to the parking lot and climbs inside his silver Ram truck. This is definitely the right decision. It means he won't be scrambling in the morning. Besides, Matt has never been very good at staying still. He takes a certain comfort in being on the

road forever on the move. This is partly due to the nature of his profession, which often requires him to jump in his truck and take off at a moment's notice. It also goes back to his childhood. His father's job took him all over the country, which meant the family rarely stayed in the same place for longer than a year. That led to a childhood that was very chaotic, very unbalanced. Kids are supposed to learn how to make relationships at such a young age, and pulling those kids out of the environment that they're in and moving them to a completely different environment completely destroys any semblance of creating

those lasting friendships and relationships. Matt's childhood was a whirlwind of new states, new towns, and new schools. But there was a time when America itself was unfamiliar. A strange land worlds away from the country of his birth. I was born in 1996 in Kaliningrad, Russia. Small little part of Russia that is right next to the Baltic Sea. I was put up for adoption at six days old. Ended up being adopted a month and a half

before my third birthday by two Americans at the time. From what I understand that they thought that they couldn't have kids, so they adopted myself and another kid from the orphanage. Matt's adoptive parents flew him and his now brother from Kaliningrad to Florida to start their new lives as Americans. But just a few months after returning to the US, his parents discovered that they could in fact have biological children. And this complicated things.

My parents think that they can't have kids and now they have two kids of their own. It kind of separates the adopted kids and the natural birth kids. It did start to cause divisions in the family further down through the years. I was consistently acting out trying to get this attention that I desperately needed and it was almost driving more of a wedge between myself and the rest of the family to the point where my mom was worried for myself. She was worried enough that she decided that she wanted to send me to a boy's home in Missouri, so about 2,000 miles away. Matt was just 13 when his mother sent him to a home for delinquent boys.

At first he was told that he would only be there for a year, but that soon changed. I ended up being there from 13 years old to 18 years old. The last couple years of that time, my parents just, I wouldn't say forgot about me, but just really stopped kind of having any contact with me. At the boys' home, discipline was the watchword. From the strict program of religious education to the early morning exercise, life there was tough, but character building.

After graduating, Matt went to welding school. Now, almost ten years on, it suits him down to the ground. He spends most of his time on the road, in his truck, driving from job to job, rarely returning home to South Bend for more than a few weeks at a time. job to job, rarely returning home to South Bend for more than a few weeks at a time. Whether it was growing up and moving around so much or what, but something led me to have that desire of kind of having like a nomadic lifestyle where I was never in one place for too long. And so I've been doing that for the last 10 years. NASCAR's coolest trophy. Stream the NASCAR Cup Series at Nashville, Sunday at 6.30 p.m. Eastern, where music meets motorsports, only on Prime.

Titanic Ship of Dreams, the new podcast from the award-winning Noiza Network. Join me, Paul McGann, as we explore life and death on Titanic. I'll delve into my own family story following my great-uncle Jimmy as he tries to escape the engine room. We'll hear the harrowing tales of the victims and the testimonies of the lucky survivors. I saw that ship sink and I saw that ship breaking off. Titanic Ship of Dreams. Listen wherever you get your podcasts. It's about 11pm. Matt is driving east down the interstate. Fog swirls in his full beams, cloaking everything except a murky triangle of road. There isn't much traffic about. These

are not good conditions for driving. And the quiet of the highway highway combined with the sonorous vibrations of his truck and making his eyelids feel heavy. Suddenly the bright lights of an HGV flash in his rear view. Matz senses Sharpen as the 18-wheeler thunders past, horn blaring. He watches it go, catching a view of himself in the mirror as he does. He looks exhausted, his eyes ringed with dark circles. The sooner he gets home the better. There are two different routes that I can generally get from there to my apartment from.

One of them is a toll road where I got paid like four or five bucks, but it's a lot smoother driving and it gets me a lot closer to my house. And then the other one is the interstate. Same distance, but it throws me on the other side of town, so I got to drive through town and that becomes a hassle at 12, 1 o'clock in the morning. Matt is currently on the interstate. He's already missed the exit for the toll road. Should he bother turning around and retracing his steps? He decides it's worth the minor delay.

He makes a U-turn, then heads back down the interstate in the direction he's just come from, keeping his eyes peeled for the toll road exit. He presses his foot lightly against the accelerator. This fog I could barely probably see 300 feet in front of me, if that. And fog and highway speeds, should I have been driving a little bit slower? Yeah. Did I want to make it home? Yeah. With no other cars on the road, it's all too easy to move up through the gears. Waves of fog roll soundlessly over the hood of his truck. Trees lurk in the darkness beyond the verge,

spidery branches cloying at the peripheries of his headlamp's beam. The view through the windscreen unspools like a scene from a film. But then... A deer appears out of nowhere, looming through the mist like a ghost. The gleaming antlers, the flash of a white tail, the head turned towards the onrushing truck with a mixture of surprise and terror. Adrenaline jolts through Matt's body. He's always been told that the safest thing to do when an animal jumps into the road is to hit it.

Better that than risk causing a pileup. He doesn't have time to think. And so in a split second, against all better judgment and everything that I've ever learned, I swerve to miss this deer. As the deer stands still, Matt veers hard to the right. Suddenly, smooth asphalt gives way to the rough grassy verge. The deer bolts.

Matt slams the brakes, but the tires skid over the muddy ground, churning up a fine spray of gravel and dirt. Shaken by the rattling suspension, Matt wrenches the wheel to the left, trying to get back on the road. But he doesn't see the guardrail. As the driver's side of the truck collides with the metal barrier, the airbags deploy violently, impacting Matt with over two and a half thousand pounds of force. He is ripped from consciousness. So now I'm doing probably 60 miles an hour knocked out and I'm not on the road, and I can't get back on the road,

and it starts spiraling down from there. The truck careens off the barrier, twists 90 degrees, then flips. It starts barrel rolling down the ravine at the bottom of the verge. A dreadful tumult of shattering glass and shrieking metal. Matt is flung between the seat and the ceiling as his truck tumbles over and over and over.

Until finally, it flies over the edge of a steep gravel embankment, crashes through a stream, and comes to rest on the far bank with one last sickening crunch. When Matt opens his eyes, everything is still and quiet. Steam issues softly from the truck's crumpled bonnet. As he lifts his head, glittering shards of glass cascade from his hair and beard. He can taste blood. Dazed, Matt tries to take stock of his surroundings.

I know kind of about where I am. I know I'm under a highway because I can hear some traffic driving above me. I know what time it is because I have a watch on. So while I know most of the who what when we're why, I've also got to figure out what situation is my body in. The entire front of the truck, bumper, fenders, hood and windshield, has been compressed, and Matt's legs are firmly trapped within the mess of steel. The dashboard has jackknifed inwards, forcing the steering wheel down into his pelvis just below the groin.

Sharp volleys of pain fire up from below his waist. He tries to use his arms to pull his lower half out of the wreckage, but it's no use. The way the front of the truck kind of crumpled, it pushed the engine and everything kind of up and then into me. So I can see out the front of the truck, but there's only maybe 10 inches that I can actually see through. Extracting himself from the wreck clearly isn't going to happen. Maybe somebody witnessed the crash

and is making their way down to him. But as the seconds pass, that scenario seems increasingly unlikely. Matt looks over at the passenger seat where his phone was sitting just moments ago. Gingely, he extends his right arm, only to notice that his thumb has been torn from its socket. It dangles, limp and bloody, from his bruised, swollen hand. Grimacing in pain, Matt brushes away the glass and debris from the seat, but there's no sign of his phone.

With a sinking feeling, he looks up at the shattered passenger's side window. Could it have fallen out during the crash? So I try calling out to it, you know, call 911, call for help, call so and so, yelling for it to call anybody, really. And yet I'm not getting any reply. I can't tell where it's at if it's even in my truck. I try hitting the horn. I try starting my truck up. I start, you know, trying to do everything I can to get attention one way or another. Max leans his weight against the wheel, but the horn won't sound.

His insistent pushing turns frantic. As shock yields to panic, he starts to yell. He can hear cars passing on the interstate. They sound so close, just meters above his head. Surely someone will hear him eventually. Someone must see him. But while Matt is indeed mere feet from the road, his truck is completely hidden from the passing drivers, concealed by the concrete barriers that line the

bridge he has ended up beneath. He is invisible, unreachable, no matter how loud he screams. It's the middle of the night in Porter County, Indiana. Underneath a bridge on Interstate 94, Matt Ream sits slumped in the smoldering wreckage of his truck. After a flurry of unsuccessful attempts to attract attention, he now falls still and tries to calmly appraise the situation he's found himself in. I know that I can't find my phone, so I can't call for help. My truck's not working, so I can't signal anybody with that. So I'm realizing fairly quickly that it's a really bad set of all circumstances."

Worse still, Matt didn't tell anyone of his plans to drive home tonight. As far as any of his friends or colleagues know, he is safe and sound in a motel in Hobart. As dire as the situation is, Matt isn't the panicking type. He is practical and resourceful. In the morning when it's light, he can reassess. He reaches over and pulls the deflated airbag across the driver's side window, a makeshift curtain to keep out the winter chill. A heavy drowsiness creeps over him.

Perhaps he's still woozy from where he hit his head. Perhaps the exhaustion from the day has finally caught up with him. Whatever the case, Matt lets his head slump against the seats and closes his eyes. Maybe in the morning this will all prove to be nothing more than a bad dream. I eventually was able to fall asleep and then I woke up the next day, and that's when I realized that it in fact was not a dream, and that, you know, I was stuck, and I was stuck bad. The new day only throws his predicament into even harsher light. The truck has landed the right way up, but tipped backwards at a 35 degree angle. He can see through a 10 inch gap above the dashboard,

but all he's looking at is a pale ribbon of cracked, grimy concrete. Through the passenger's side window, the view is even stranger. He can see rushing water. His truck must have ended up beside a stream under the bridge. He scans the cab of the truck as if the solution might be hidden somewhere within the wreckage. But his eyes keep returning to the central problem. My steering wheel, from where it had originally been been had been pushed in and then straight down to where it's actually pressing against my right leg. And so one of my biggest thoughts is, okay, you know, I do need to get rid of this steering wheel.

I have no idea how I'm going to do it, but I need to be able to get rid of it to be able to pull my right leg out." Matt inspects the steering wheel and the dashboard. Slowly, an idea takes shape. If he can dismantle the dash piece by piece, he might be able to detach the wheel and give himself enough room to wiggle free. It's an ambitious plan, but one that he is fortunately equipped for. On the floor behind my driver's seat, I do have a toolbox full of sockets and ratchets and screwdrivers and things like that. And after a lot of fighting and a lot of difficulty, I am able to pull that forward and put it in the passenger seat. With hooked, trembling fingers, Matt reaches inside the toolbox and withdraws a ratchet, wrench and screwdriver.

Time to get to work. Within minutes, he is drenched in sweat, puffing and panting and cursing with frustration as he struggles to maneuver the tools with his broken hands. The hours slide by as he works. There are small victories. A panel comes loose, a piece is successfully removed and flung out of the truck, each one a tiny step toward freedom. But more often than not, his efforts yield nothing. An hour spent hacking at a stubborn piece of metal, only to realize that it's soldered firmly in place. Sometimes, when a vehicle passes on the bridge, Matt pauses and screams for help.

But nobody stops. The first day it's a lot of me trying to do what I can to get myself out of that situation, whether it was yelling as loud as I can for as long as I can or just tearing pieces of my truck out and throwing them out of my truck, trying to give myself as much room as possible. As the day wears on, Matt's frustration grows. His efforts become less surgical and more frenzied. His precision tools are now unwieldy hatchets,

stabbing, prising and jabbing to no avail. I'm having ups and I'm having downs because I'm having these small little victories, but I'm also having times when it seems like I'm not making any progress at all. By evening, Matt is feeling the toll on his body. All the activity has left him hungry and, more concerningly, desperately thirsty. The sight of the creek through the passenger's side window is a constant torment, as agonizingly close as the cars on the freeway. Trying not to dwell on this, Matt continues hacking away at the dashboard.

He periodically checks his watch. Time becomes distorted down here, speeding up and slowing down at random. A minute can feel like an hour, then half a day can pass in the time it takes to remove a single screw. The light changes as evening fades softly into night. Mercifully, the onset of darkness ushers in another stretch of fitful sleep. But it's not long before Matt is awoken again by light streaming in through the window, the dawn of his second day. He picks up the screwdriver and resumes his laborious task. But his thirst makes it hard to concentrate.

He runs his tongue over his dry cracked lips. What he would give for a sip of water. As a fan of survival TV shows, Matt is familiar with the general timelines he's working with. There's a rule of three when it comes to survival situations, which is you can go three weeks without food, you can go three days without water, and you can go three minutes without oxygen. Generally speaking, that was something that I knew well enough to know, okay, you know, even if I'm down here for a week, two, three weeks, I might be hungry,

but I should be good without food until I'm rescued. Because I don't know when that's going to happen. The biggest issue while I was down there was worrying about water. Then he hears it. And a few moments later. Matt listens to the downpour drumming the road above, the smell of wet asphalt filling his nostrils. But though the heavens have opened, Matt and his truck remain bone dry. His vehicle is almost entirely sheltered under the bridge.

The falling rainwater is tantalizingly out of reach. Is this to be his fate? To die of dehydration in the middle of a rain shower? But then, a droplet of cold water lands on his face. He looks up. Through the smashed sunroof, Matt can see the underside of the bridge, and fixed to it is a rusty drainage spout. So all the rainwater on the highway would funnel into this one drainage spout, and then

that drainage spout would then drain into the sun roof of my truck. And I realized quickly like, hey, you know, like, I'm getting water now. Finally, a stroke of good luck. Matt leans back and opens his mouth. But the moment the liquid touches his tongue, he immediately spits it out. Whatever that is, it's not water. At least not the drinking kind. Everything from gas and diesel and rubber bits from tires and oil and you know any animals that have been hit on the highway, it's kind of washing all of this down into this water that I'm wanting to drink. Matt frowns at the oily runoff trickling from the spout.

Is it even safe to drink? What he really needs is a means to filter it. Then a brainwave. The only thing I can think of that can actually filter it would be some kind of clothing that I have in the back of my truck. So I'm able to kind of reach back there with my broken hand and hold this bag up, set it on my lap, and I've got a pair of sweatpants.

The weave of the fabric itself is so tight that it actually helps kind of filter everything out of the water. Matt holds his sweatpants up to the sunroof. Once saturated, he wrings out the fabric above his mouth, letting the foul tasting water course across his parched tongue and down his sandpaper dry throat. It still tastes disgusting, but I'm not drinking any glass. I'm not drinking big bits of who knows what's in that water. And so I start realizing I'm like, okay, you know, like, if it

continues to keep raining, I might be good. I might make it. it. Repeatedly, Matt has been forced to relieve himself in his clothes. And now, drenched and shivering, dressed in just a thin sweater and a baseball jacket, he hunkers down and tries to stay positive. While rooting through his bag for extra layers, Matt came across his diary and pen. He passes the time by journaling, recording the minutiae of his daily struggles, as one day bleeds into the next. By day four, Matt's drink of water on day two feels like a distant memory. His right hand has blown up like a balloon, the skin taut and mottled with dark purple blotches. But the worst

damage is below the waist, where the pressure of the wheel against his thigh has started to rub away the fabric of his trousers. His right ankle has been horribly broken. Even the slightest movement triggers a riot of pain. As for the left leg, he hasn't been able to feel it for three days. Matt's physical condition is deteriorating fast, but it's the psychological battle that is currently proving the toughest test of his resolve. My mind is still trying to think the best of the situation, knowing, okay, you know, I removed a little bit more

of my truck today, you know, hopefully I can get out soon, to, hey, you know, this is the second day I haven't had water. I am thirsty. My brain's not liking it. I'm not liking it. And that was causing a deterioration of my mental state of well-being. Matt stares at the half disassembled dashboard in front of him. The snapped plastic and twisted metal.

The meager fruit of three days' labor. None of it has made the slightest bit of difference. He is just as trapped as he was on day one. As frustration turns to despair, he begins to spiral. I've gone through most of my life trying to do things by myself and, you know, working my own way through my problems and through situations that I'm in. And having that loner mindset that I've had for so many years has proven to me time and time again that I can do what I set my mind to.

And now that I'm trying to set my mind to getting out of this situation, I'm realizing very quickly that I don't have all the power in the world that I want to, to be able to get out of this situation. My mind starts thinking about suicide and removing myself mentally from the situation. That's what I was thinking was going to be best for me. Instead of dying of starvation or dehydration or anything like that, the part of my brain was saying, hey, you know, it'd be better if you go out on your own terms.

But there was a little voice inside of my head knowing that I am a people pleaser, knowing that if I did this and I was found a day, two days later, I know that it wouldn't please a whole lot of people, namely my best friend, if I was found during Christmas time dead in my truck. And so that kind of got me away from that idea for at least a day or so.

Matt has found the inner strength to keep fighting, but his body is getting weaker by the minute. The urgency of freeing himself is building to a fever pitch and pushing him towards something drastic. He looks over at the floor of the passenger seat. There, glinting, just out of reach, is a short paring knife, left there after carrying out some maintenance work days before the crash. During the struggle of the last 96 hours, he hasn't had any use for it, relying instead on the kit in his toolbox.

But he has a use for it now. I can't use a glass to cut my own legs off, but my mind goes back to the paring knife that's on the passenger floor and I'm like, oh, I need to be able to try to grab that. Matt gathers together some other items. The phone charging wire, a belt. I knew that I was going to have to make a tourniquet for my legs so I don't bleed out once I cut my veins and cut all the way through it. I was going to use the belts as well as charging cords to kind of make a tourniquet so I don't bleed out.

So I had a plan on how I was going to do it. With his tourniquet readied, he turns back to the knife. It's currently out of reach, half hidden by the floorboard in the passenger seat footwell. It doesn't take long to come up with a solution. Matt reaches through the windshield and snaps off a wiper. That'll do the trick. He starts fishing for the knife, nudging the object closer towards him, millimeter by millimeter. Eventually, he has maneuvered the knife close enough to pick it up. He reaches out, pouring every ounce of his concentration into

this one simple action. I had gotten the tip of the knife in between two of my fingers, which again, this hand is completely shattered, so I can't really use it as well as I'd like to, but I'm able to get kind of the tip of the knife in my fingers and I'm starting to pull it up. Matt pinches the blade between his trembling fingertips and guides it up over the handbrake. That's it. Easy does it. But then, just when he's about to pull it into his grasp, the knife slips. Matt lunges forward, but it's gone, vanished into the gap between the passenger seat and the center console.

He curses and cries out in dismay, and falls into a shocked, disbelieving silence. That was his last chance. On the bridge, the steady rumble of passing vehicles continues. It's hard to keep track of the days, but consulting his watch and diary confirms that it's Christmas Eve, which means that up there is holiday traffic, thousands of people making their way home to visit loved ones. With one last surge of desperate energy, Matt tips his head back and roars. He screams until his face turns red and spittle flies from his mouth.

He screams until his throat burns. He listens out for a reply, but all he gets is an echo. He falls back in his seat, spent. I can't cut myself out of this situation. I can't get the engine off me. I can't do anything to physically get out of this situation. Now I'm kind of at a point of desperation where I'm like, okay,

maybe I should just kind of pray to something and, you know, hope. The fourth day of his imprisonment does at least bring one small mercy. Rain. does at least bring one small mercy. Rain. Weak to the point of delirium, Matt soaks his tracksuits and drinks gratefully, savoring every drop. It restores some of his willpower as day five dawns gray and dreary.

There was a part of my mind that was thinking, I'm not going to make this. But I think that was being overpowered by the part of my mind that was saying just keep pushing another day. Just keep pushing, keep pushing, keep pushing. You might make it through there. But as the day wears on, Matt's resolve falters again. He enters another deep slump. But unlike the suicidal despair of days ago, this is more like resignation. On the sixth day when I'm starting to lose a fair bit of hope and just starting to lose my drive,

a fair bit of hope and just starting to lose my drive. I end up writing pretty much a goodbye and an obituary to my best friend and my family for whoever finds me whenever. And I'm writing this letter, saying goodbye to everybody and apologizing for not communicating where I was going to be, which kind of led me in that situation. And, you know, all these little things that I'm apologizing for and honestly just saying goodbye to people. It's late afternoon on December the 26th. Inside the wreckage of his truck, Matt sits slumped forward. He's dozed off, though in truth the line between wakefulness and sleep has become blurred.

He's been stuck here for six days, nearly 140 hours. His parched lips move, but no words come out. His body and mind are on the very brink. But then, a noise off to one side, distant, muted, but getting closer. Voices. With a listless turn of the head, Matt squints in the direction of the sound. I look to my left and I see this hand kind of pulling back the curtain and then just this random face appear. And you know, in my head, I'm like, is this real?

Is this happening? At this point, like my, my brain's still going downhill mentally. So I don't know if this is actually real. And this guy asked, you know, hey, like, do you live here? Are you okay? And I'm like, are you real? Like, what's going on? Because my brain's not processing what's happening. Matt blinks up at the face, his cognitive gears turning slowly. The man looks shocked to see that Matt is alive. He tells him to sit tight while he calls an ambulance.

Despite everything, this is a darkly funny instruction. Sitting tight is all he's been doing for the last six days. is all he's been doing for the last six days. Soon, the wail of sirens cuts through the air. Flashlight beams flare in the dusk. Occasional voices pierce Matt's consciousness. He hears a medic speaking into a walkie talkie. The words critical condition filter through. Another voice tells Matt to hang in there while they start

cutting him out of the truck. He nods and attempts a feeble thumbs up. They eventually get the driver door cut off. They get the engine pushed off my leg, and for the first time in six days I feel part of my left leg. And I can feel from the knee like halfway down and after about halfway down it's just pain and then it's nothing. As the machinery pulls the mangled metal away from Matt's lower extremities,

he experiences waves of white-hot pain. But he is free. The emergency workers lift him from the wreck and strap him into a stretcher. Blinding lights swim in the darkness above him. Matt is stretchered up the embankment and onto the highway where he is loaded into the waiting helicopter. There was a moment in the helicopter where something kind of clicked for me where it was like, hey, you're out of there. And my brain's now saying, hey, you're gonna be okay. But the reality is that Matt is far from okay.

He has suffered a broken ankle, a broken hand, and sustained nerve damage in his spine. But the doctors are most concerned about his leg. My left leg had been snapped in half right about halfway down my shin. And then from about halfway down, due to the inability for blood to flow past where the fracture was, my foot had started to go necrotic and pretty much die from lack of blood flow to the bottom of my foot. Further inspection of his leg reveals that necrosis is also affecting the muscles and tendons of his calf.

It leaves doctors with little choice but to amputate at the knee. They pretty much separated my shin and my femur, cut off my lower leg and then for my thigh, they cut off the end of my femur bone and then rotated my kneecap down to where my kneecap is now the bottom of my thigh. And then put all the muscle and tissue and skin back over that, sewed it up and then left that to heal. After his operation, Matt spends weeks recovering in hospital. Meanwhile, the story of his rescue is spreading far and wide.

The news of this went international very quickly. We're talking day after Christmas, somebody gets found after being in their truck for six days. It was huge. It was breaking news and it was, you know, kind of the perfect Christmas story or the Christmas miracle as a lot of people called it. But Matt's own story is more complex and extends beyond the happy ending featured on the news. His survival marks the beginning of a profoundly changed life, one he will begin to navigate in the weeks and months ahead.

I know that my life is never going to be normal after what I went through, and I'm okay with that. But the walking part, the ability to go and do as I please when I want to, part of life that I've always loved, I wanted to be able to get back to a semblance of that. As Matt begins his grueling physical therapy regimen, learning to walk after the loss of his leg, something rather unexpected happens. I'm getting all these messages from people saying that during that time they were facing something really tough. Seeing my news break out and seeing it on Facebook and social media was one of the things

that helped so many people kind of push through for another day. Boyed by this warm feedback from strangers, Matt starts reaching out to news stations, trying to bring his story of hope and resilience to as many people as possible. Maybe it will inspire someone who needs it. Today, Matt continues to tell his tale to a wide audience. He gives motivational speeches. He's co-written a book. He has been fitted with a prosthetic leg and has been getting back into running, recently

finishing a 5km charity race. But while he has managed to return to many things he loves, there are some aspects of his old life that had gone for good. Who I was before the wreck, I was very outgoing, very workaholic. I was one of those people that was going 100 percent, 100 percent of the time, even when I wasn't feeling 100 percent. And so, I have had to learn how to slow down. I have had to learn how to, against the first 27 years of my life, I've learned how to ask others for help doing things. And I've had to learn how to rely on others. Do I think my rec was amazing?

No. Do I wanna do it again? Absolutely not. But knowing that what I went through and knowing that I am able to make a difference now, I think that that helps me a lot kind of going through the healing part and the aftermath of everything.

And I think that my positive outlook on what happened has benefited me a lot, but also been able to benefit others just as much if not more than it benefitted me. Next time on Real Survival Stories, we meet one of the world's top cave photographers, Robbie Shone. In September 2018, Robby travels to Georgia to capture images of a true natural wonder, a cave so deep it takes four days to reach the bottom. But when water begins to cascade into the underground

system, Robby will face a series of challenges beyond his worst nightmares. Soon he will find himself with literal inches of space in which to keep breathing. That's next time on Real Survival Stories. Listen today without waiting a week by subscribing to Noiza Plus. Click the subscription banner at the top of the feed to get started.