We went camping one year to some state park. I don't remember where, except they had some caverns. My mother and one brother went to explore the caves. I and one other brother decided to go swimming in the inlet river and my father went fishing.
My father happily had his fishing pole and tackle box as he went off a bit up river. You had to climb over rocks to gain access as there was no real path. A couple hours later my mother came from the caves to collect me from the river (no, she did not watch me in case I drowned) and then to find my father. He should have been back by then. We started over to the area we last saw him walk off too. My father comes along and was limping. I remember asking my father what happened? His response: "Remember when I told you not to run in the rocks? Well, I was right."
Turns out he had broken his foot. At first we thought it was a serious sprain. We were pretty much out in the middle of nowhere. The nearest hospital was up a mountain and alongside a rather scary highway that hugged the mountain. We were told to stay in the car.
After a while my parents come back. Xrays showed my father had broken his foot. However this was a mini-clinic that could not put him in a proper cast. So he was in a makeshift one and held together by cardboard. He was not allowed to drive.
My mother was furious. She was forced to drive us home. We were pretty far from home and it took several hours of driving. My father must have been in serious pain but he never let on. My mother complained all the hours of our drive home. She yelled at my father for breaking his foot and forcing her to drive when she said he knew she hate to drive. Not a single kind word was shared with my father nor even a single 'how do you feel?".
The break must really have been back because when my father got home, he was put in a walking cast for a while. And he had to sleep on the couch, per my mother.