A Plane Crash in Sedona

Al and I stood along the fire line, staring at the smoldering wreckage.

"Is that part of a wing?" I asked.

"No, that's a stabilizer," he said. "That's part of a wing over there. I think this was a Piper, but I can't tell for sure."

It was a little after 8 a.m. How different the crash site looked now that the sun was up. During the night, the wreckage had been illuminated by the light of the full moon and the orange glow of flames, making it seem almost surreal. But now, in the stark light of day, it was all too vivid and all too real.

At about 5:30 p.m. on Thursday, November 13, my pager had gone off. It was a 300 code for a rescue, so I was surprised to hear our captain's message that this was an airplane disaster. At the time, he didn't know if it was a private or commercial plane, how many people were involved, or the status of the victims. He did know the location, near Schnebly Hill Road in Sedona.

At least a dozen volunteers had responded to the SAR building by the time the call-out was cancelled, but that didn't mean the mission was over. As more information came in, Lieutenant Christian told us that only four of us would be needed for the night, two to station themselves at the intersection of Schnebly Hill Rd. and the rough two-track that led relatively close to the crash site and two to spend the night watching over the wreckage. Al and I were the two who'd spend the night with what was left of the plane. And the two men who hadn't survived.

And that's what was foremost in my mind as I lay on the ground nearby, inside my bivy bag with my head on my backpack. I had forgotten my ground pad, and there wasn't a clear spot anywhere to be found that was free of rocks, but my own discomfort was nothing. All I could think about were the people affected by this crash: the two men who'd died, the pilot who'd somehow crawled from the wreckage with second- and third-degree burns over half his body, and the rest of their families. It's one thing to hear about tragedies in the news—it's quite another to be so... well, up close and personal.

As it turned out, the three victims were related: two brothers, Michael and Tommy Johnson, and their cousin, Rockney Mark Herring. I saw their picture when Michael's son, Micah, held up his cellphone to show Al and me the photo the morning following the crash, when we returned to the intersection at Schnebly Hill Rd. after being relieved by two other SAR members. He and other family members were there, waiting to be taken to the scene. Seeing the pictures of the men whose remains we'd watched over during the night really had an impact on me.

Micah said that his dad, Michael from Phoenix, and his uncle Tommy of Texas hadn't seen one another in nearly 10 years. They'd been enjoying a sightseeing flight with their cousin Rockney, the pilot, when, after refueling at the Sedona Airport, their Piper PA 32-260 fixed-wing, single-engine aircraft lost power and went down in that rugged, heavily treed area about eight miles east of Sedona.

A vacationing New York firefighter camping nearby had been the first on the scene. He found the injured pilot lying next to a tree and rendered first aid until a DPS rescue helicopter was able to land and transport the patient. Arriving in the darkness a few hours after the crash, the first thing I'd seen in the firelight was what turned out to be the pilot's mangled headset on the ground next to a tree, marked with evidence tape.

When we hiked up to the crash site, a lieutenant, a deputy, and numerous Forest Service personnel were there. The Forest Service folks had cut a fire line around the wreckage and were finishing up their work for the time being. Al and I would keep tabs on the fire during the night to be sure the flames didn't kick up again or cross the fire line.

As the others prepared to leave, the deputy asked if Al and I would be comfortable up there on our own. The deputy would remain at the intersection on Schnebly Hill Rd. where he had provisions in his patrol car, and we could call him by cellphone or radio if we needed him at the site. We were also given numbers to call if there were an issue with the fire.

It was a long night, with the moon so bright I could read small print without my headlamp. Unfortunately, the only thing I did have to read was the info sheet that came with my brand new bivy bag. Which, by the way, I found out isn't quite adequate for mid-November, particularly between 2 and 4 a.m. With the rocks, the cold, the radio traffic I monitored throughout the night, and frequent fire checks, especially when the breeze picked up, there wasn't much sleep happening.

"You awake?" I heard Al ask sometime around 1:30.

"Yeeeaaahhh," I groaned.

"I'm going to take a walk around the crash site to make sure everything's okay."

From my location upwind of the fire, I watched Al disappear behind illuminated smoke. Looking at my moonlit surroundings, I was struck by how quiet it was, except for the occasional crack or pop from the embers or some shifting piece of plane or smoldering tree limb.

Al returned to his own spot amongst the rocks, and we both lay there for another six hours or so, my bivy and his space blanket crinkling intermittently as we both tried to find comfortable positions for a few minutes at a time. I was relieved when the sun came up and things would soon be happening. At some point, the National Transportation Safety Board  and Medical Examiner would arrive, then Michael and Tommy's remains would be removed from beneath the wreckage.

But before that happened, media helicopters were on the scene, flying in slow circles above our heads. I thought about how different it was here on the ground, standing only feet from what I'd normally just see on the news.

From the Arizona Daily Sun: Family Mourns Brothers Killed in Plane Crash