About Coconino County

About Coconino County

Encompassing 18,661 square miles, Coconino County, Arizona, is the second largest county in the U.S. but one of the least populated. Our county includes Grand Canyon National Park, the Navajo, Havasupai, Hualapai and Hopi Indian Reservations, and the largest contiguous ponderosa pine forest in the world. Elevations range from 2,000 feet above sea level along the Colorado River to 12,633 feet at the summit of Mt. Humphreys in Flagstaff.

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A Search for Moving Targets

We were sitting in a coffee shop again, my husband and I, when my pager went off. That's a common pastime for us on Sunday afternoons, when we like to relax and chat. At about 7:00 p.m., after several hours of that relaxing and chatting, we were just getting ready to peel our butts off the vinyl seats when I got the call-out for a rescue on Mt. Elden.

I thought I'd be the last one to the SAR building since I had to drop Steve off at home before driving across town. But only two of the eight volunteers responding were there when I arrived, and as it turned out, we all had to stand by for another hour anyway. Two tech team members were already on the mountain doing a hasty search, and, via radio communications, it sounded as though the rest of us might not be needed at all—just a couple of hikers without lights who'd lost the trail. However, a second potential SAR mission was unfolding at the same time.

And it was that second situation the eight of us responded to, ending up an hour south in Sedona instead of ten minutes away on Mt. Elden. Two stranded mountain bikers had used a cellphone to call for help.

When we rendezvoused with the deputy waiting at Midgley Bridge, he called the subjects and asked them to turn on their headlamps, which we immediately spotted in the distance—little pinpoints of light against the dark backdrop of a mountain. Well, this didn't look like a big deal, really.

Uh-huh.

Victor, our team leader that night who knows the area well, suggested the best course of action would be to hike from the other side of the ridge, from Schenbly Hill Rd. up and over the saddle, and descend to the subjects, then bring them back the way we'd come.

Steve and I had hiked that non-system, or what some call "social," trail, most of which is not on the map, a couple of years ago, and I recalled it being tough to locate in places on the other side of the mountain while fairly easy to follow on the side where tonight's subjects were. Obviously, though, the bikers had strayed quite a distance from the trail. But since I couldn't remember where to access the beginning of the trail on their side of the mountain, I didn't suggest an alternative to Victor's plan. By contrast, the access on Schnebly Hill Rd. is easy to locate because the route begins with a short out-and-back trail that is on the map, and that trailhead has its own parking area. (Hope that makes sense.)

So, the eight of us drove around to Schnebly Hill Road, which apparently hasn't seen any maintenance in years, and arrived at the trailhead about 40 minutes later. It was a rough ride, and I'm surprised none of the three SAR vehicles ended up with at least one flat tire.

Before beginning the hike, Victor divided us into two teams, designating me the leader of Team 1—my first time officially being named a leader. (I had to smile at that. How cool.) I'd communicate with Incident Command back at Midgely Bridge on 1-Baker, while another team member would keep her radio on the SAR frequency for communication between us and Team 2 when necessary. The other two members of Team 1 would keep their radios off for the time being, to preserve the batteries. Then the eight of us started up the trail together.

As we went along, we set out glow sticks in spots that were a bit confusing or might prove to be on the way back. At one point, we had to bushwhack around a stretch where the route would have taken us too close to a fall hazard. Erring on the side of caution as we're always supposed to, we picked our way through some cactus, coming back to the trail in a safer spot to continue the traverse.

Soon, we ascended an open slickrock face to a flat area not far from the saddle. At that point, our two teams split up. Mine would stay put while Team 2 went up and over. Team 1 would stand by in case backup was needed and eventually take over when the subjects were retrieved. They'd be handed off to us for the descent to the vehicles.
 

Maybe that second part—the hand-off—was merely to make my team feel more useful, but there really was no need for all eight of us to continue to the subjects, especially because the going would get rough off-trail. So, my group of four made ourselves comfortable and enjoyed a beautiful, still night filled with moonlight and shooting stars.

While one of my teammates, new to the unit and rearing to go, was very fidgety and not happy about staying behind, I was quite content. I've learned over time that we all perform a function during a mission, even if we have to sit tight for a while. Sometimes, waiting as backup becomes vitally important. Even searching an area with a low probability of finding a subject, or driving perimeter roads while other team members are searching high-probability areas, is crucial to a mission, even if it means just ruling out, or "clearing," those places. Besides, after not hiking this route for quite some time and my memory of the details being fuzzy, I felt the four team members who continued on were best skilled to deal with a potentially technical situation, especially with it being darker on the other side of the saddle despite the bright moon, in the mountain's shadow.

As it turned out, I'm glad I was on the team who stayed put. Monitoring radio communications between Team 2 and IC, I could hear they were encountering some difficulty. When they left the trail to try to access the subjects, Team 2 soon found themselves in a tricky spot with significant fall hazards. And, in the meantime, the subjects had become moving targets, apparently now trying to self-rescue. Despite phone calls from the deputy and verbal communication between Team 2 and the subjects, shouting back and forth, the two men who'd called for help were not listening to those who were trying to help them.

At that point, Team 2 had gone far enough down the other side in rough terrain that backtracking would have been more difficult than continuing a descent toward Midgley Bridge... with or without the subjects. The fidgeting member of my team kept asking me to call and see if he could go join Team 2 since he's from Sedona and felt he knew the area better than they did. When I refused to make that call, he asked why we shouldn't just go back to the vehicles then. But I felt we should stay where we were until Team 2 or Incident Command instructed us otherwise. We had radio communication, so they'd let us know.

At the same time, I didn't feel it necessary to interrupt Team 2, as they were obviously busy negotiating hazardous terrain. So, I had a wee bit of a tug-of-war, shall we say, with the one teammate who, like every SAR member, will have to get used to taking direction from those with more experience. I got instructions from Victor, and my new teammate would have to live with a few decisions from me. So there.

After listening to Team 2's increasingly frustrated transmissions for quite some time, Victor told IC they'd decided to hunker down and stay put till daylight, when it would be easier to see. They were still in voice contact with the subjects who had by then split up. Meanwhile, my team was instructed to return to the vehicles on Schnebly Hill Rd. and drive back around to IC at Midgely Bridge, where we'd see what our next assignment would be, if any, for this mission. On the hike back to the vehicles, we collected the glow sticks we'd set out on the way up, after first confirming with Victor that his team wouldn't need them.

When we arrived at the bridge more than an hour later, nothing had changed. There was some talk about our Team 1 hiking another trail to try to get close to the subjects from that way, but we and the deputy decided that wasn't such a hot idea. Comparing the location of the subjects and the nearest point on that trail, the distance between the two was significant given the terrain. Instead, we decided to make a run into town for coffee and snacks, then return to IC and wait.

To make a long story a bit shorter, I'll wrap this up by saying that one of the two subjects made his way to the SAR members still in the field. At that point, he just wanted water for himself and his buddy, and SAR gave him what he asked for. Victor then decided to assist the mountain bikers down to the trail my team had briefly considered hiking up, though the two men would have to carry their bikes.

Once on the well-maintained trail, Victor and his two teammates left the subjects to ride or walk their bikes out on their own. Team 2 arrived at the road maybe 10 minutes before the subjects, wet past their knees from the creek crossing. SAR waited until they arrived and were being interviewed by the deputy before we departed for Flagstaff.

After a 10-hour mission that we thought would take less than half that time, we signed out and headed for home just as the sun was coming up.

A Mock Search... And Then Some

It's like following a horse race. Team 1 gives their coordinates to Sergeant D over the radio, and I, listening in, plot those coordinates on my map. Then Team 2 gives their location, then Team 3. Team 2 is in the lead! They're gaining on us! Not that we're moving.

What the heck am I talking about, you ask? Well, I'm sitting near the edge of an alpine meadow, a couple hundred yards above the Kachina Trail. Joe is here, too, reading his thick computer programming textbook. I suggested he bring something to read because I knew we'd be out here a while. We're "lost," you see. Oh, and I have a leg injury, though I'm not really sure which part of which leg is injured. I'll come up with that once we're found.

Sergeant D left an envelope for me at the SAR building yesterday, with "Confidential information for Deb" written on it, sealed with yellow evidence tape. It felt so... official. In the envelope was a copy of the briefing the new unit members and their experienced instructor-members would be given for today's simulated mission. Sergeant D also gave me coordinates for the place where Joe and I should wait ... and wait ... and wait.

The two of us arrived at the trailhead at noon today for our head start and hiked 2.7 miles to this location, following the digital compass on my nine-year-old Magellan GPS. We positioned ourselves a bit farther from the trail than the coordinates indicated, far enough that passers-by wouldn't notice us but close enough that we could keep an eye out for SAR. If they walk by but don't call out or blow a whistle, we're not gonna yell. Heh-heh.

It's a beautiful yet chilly day up here at close to 10,000 feet, and now, at 4:30 p.m., I feel the air getting colder. Joe and I move a bit further into the meadow, to escape the growing shadows creeping our way and soak up what's left of the sunlight.

We're just about midway along the Kachina Trail. One group of searchers started from the western end, where Joe and I parked. Another group began at the Weatherford trailhead on Schultz Pass road, requiring more than a mile of additional hiking to get to the junction at the eastern end of the Kachina Trail. Those two groups are working toward one another, while the third group, who drove in on a Forest Service road, are hiking north, up an old two-track. They should intersect the Kachina Trail not far to the west of our location. It'll be interesting to see (or hear, rather) which way they turn once they get there. And there's now been a fourth team designated, made up of two unit members who parted with one of the original teams and are now heading back to Incident Command because one of them is experiencing some "mountain sickness."

We also know from radio communication that two tracking/trailing search dogs and their handlers are in the field, too. But I guess their noses don't know what—I mean, who—they're sniffing for, because they have no scent article of mine or Joe's. Must be the dogs in training I heard about, belonging to a couple who are new to the unit.

I hear my watch beep: 5:00. And soon I think I hear a distant call. It's faint, but who else besides SAR would be yelling out here? Joe and I listen closely. Yep, that must be them. We let them get closer, until we can clearly hear them calling Joe's name. I give Joe the nod, and he yells back.

And then... silence. A long silence. Joe and I look at each other, puzzled.

We later find out that when Joe called back the first time, the teams, which by then were all within earshot as they closed in on our position and one another at roughly the same time, froze. I could just imagine them all standing there, holding their collective breath, listening as hard as they could. I would have had a giggle-fit watching that.

Joe and I stay mute too. Ha!

Finally, someone breaks the silence and gives another yell. Joe responds, and then—and I'm laughing as I write this—they all start yelling like mad and blowing whistles. Such excitement! Poor Joe, he has to keep calling back and calling back. "Hey!" "Over here!" "Hey!" Meanwhile, I'm just sitting here in the tall grass. I mean, I can't yell, my leg is broken. Yeah, definitely broken. Maybe even a nice icky compound fracture.

Soon, we see search and rescue—two field teams almost at the same time—emerge into the meadow below. They don't spot us right away, though Joe is now standing, waving his arms as he calls back. And now I hear, "There he is! Up there!" And the mass of people and two bounding brown dogs start moving our way. Within about five minutes, I'm being licked and slobbered on (by the dogs, that is), and as the third team catches up and joins the rest, Joe and I are soon surrounded by about 20 people. Gee, such great attention.

They ask me if I'm cold. No, I say. But Al, one of the experienced members along to provide guidance, looks at me sternly and says, "Oh, yes, Yes, you are."

Oh... okay, I'm cold. Very cold. Yes, new members, the subject needs some of your spare clothing. Yeah, that's much better. Am I hungry or thirsty? I look at Al. Nooooo, not hungry or thirsty. I just ate and drank recently, thank you (which is true). And Al tells me I have a fractured right ankle joint. Ouch! A dog just stepped on it. If this were for real, that woulda hurt.

New member Tom, an EMT, uses a SAM splint, bandannas, and two thick sticks to secure my broken ankle. Then I'm plopped into the litter, and Ken gives a demo on patient packaging.

Now, of course, I can't scribble on my notepad, so into past tense I go...

Part of the group heaved me into the air, as others struggled to attach the wheel beneath the litter. After some technical difficulties, we started to roll ... and bounce ... and jolt. It's kinda funny, looking up at all those faces, listening to the jumble of communication amongst people not used to working together and not used to transporting a person in a litter. At the same time, I was rather comfy and could have taken a nap, actually, had I not gotten dumped out, forced to hike on my miraculously healed ankle after everyone had had a turn handling the litter.

By then, the sun had set, and we proceeded single-file to hike out, our headlamps glowing like a moving line of luminaries along the trail. We chatted as we walked, older members and new ones getting to know one another. I heard some SAR stories shared, and everything was hunky-dory... until, boom! Down goes Laura, one of the new recruits. Uh-oh. This time, the ankle injury was real.

Now Tom the EMT wasn't pretending as he evaluated and splinted another ankle. After a very brief, unsuccessful attempt at an assisted walk-out, we got another patient-packaging demonstration. With a about a mile to go to vehicles, we all took turns on the litter, our real patient apologizing along the way. What an unfortunate way to begin a search and rescue career.

At midnight, I finally arrived home, about four hours later than I'd expected.
 

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In my last entry, I'd mentioned how our pagers hadn't gone off in a while, so I was having a premonition things were about let loose. Well, twice in one day, on that same day, it did. Two injured hikers on two mountain trails. Twice, a bunch of us, including a number of new members who'd just received their pagers, responded to the SAR building, anticipating long litter-carries. Twice the missions were 10-22'd, because Guardian medical personnel ended up going in and getting the victims before we arrived. Well, now the new folks know firsthand what "hurry up and go home" means. It happens.

Don't Tell, But...

There's a little training exercise planned for the new members who are just finishing Coconino County's Basic SAR Academy. Their pagers will go off tomorrow—not tellin' when—just like it's a real mission. They'll respond to the SAR building, sign in, sign out radios, load gear, and respond to Incident Command, which will be at the Kachina Trail parking area up on the peaks.

And who will they be lookin' for? Why, li'l ol' me and my teammate, Joe. We'll be sitting out there, all bundled up (it's supposed to be cold and windy, and we'll be at an elevation of over 10,000 feet) with goodies to keep us warm and occupied. We'll bring books and dinner too, because who knows how long we'll be waiting to be found. We'll also have radios so we can eavesdrop on the searchers' progress.

When they eventually find us, one of us is going to require a litter carry. Joe and I will draw straws, arm wrestle, and fight about who gets to be the injured one, but I sure hope I win. I've been a fake patient before, and riding in that litter makes me feel rather icky (meaning nauseous).

This whole mock SAR mission is dependent on the fact that no real mission takes precedence. It's been vewwy, vewwy quiet for a while. In fact, when I returned from a recent trip to Colorado, I was surprised to find I hadn't missed any missions while I was gone. Hm, makes me think the elk poo is about to hit the fan.