A Busy Memorial Day Weekend for Search and Rescue

The San Francisco Peaks / Wikipedia -- CC

It was a bright, sunny day in Flagstaff, but I was nervous about going up that mountain I've hiked so many times before. My nerves were because that clear spring day was unseasonably cold and extremely windy in town, more than 5,000 feet lower than up on the exposed ridge. I have what I think is a healthy respect for those conditions, which made me pause to reconsider them when our coordinator walked over to those of us who'd congregated at the base of the trail and said no one was obligated to go up if they didn't feel comfortable or prepared.

I quickly looked through the extra clothing in my SAR pack, now adjusted for warmer weather, and decided I had just enough (thermals, fleece, and Gore-tex) for the freezing temps we'd face up there. But I was still on edge about the wind, which would be much stronger on the ridge. Ultimately, I decided to go up with my teammates.

This was to be a body recovery. Our team knew that before we'd left the SAR building, where a group of us had been in the midst of a Saturday technical rescue training. Others were doing P-SAR (preventative search and rescue) in a popular ATV area, which always sees a lot of activity and often a number of accidents over the Memorial Day weekend. A couple of those SAR volunteers also responded to this mission on the mountain.

We'd been informed that a couple of hikers had come upon an unresponsive man a short distance from the 12,633-foot summit of Mt. Humphreys and immediately began CPR. One of the hikers continued to work on the victim while another called 911 (there's cellphone coverage high on the mountain). Sadly, after about half an hour of effort, CPR was unsuccessful. No one knew at that point how long the then-unidentified man had been down when the hikers found him.

What was obvious, however, when our team, including our coordinator who hiked up with us, arrived at the victim's location was that he was a runner. And that's what he'd obviously been doing—an early trail run to the summit—when he'd died among the rocks and rime ice. None of us recognized this man, who we eventually found out was from Goodyear, AZ. He was 53 years old and appeared to be exceptionally fit.

In fact, he'd recently run a marathon and was, according to his family, doing high-altitude training here in Flagstaff for an upcoming event. So said the news article I read a few days later. I'd been scanning the paper each day for any information.

At the time of the mission, though, I looked at this man for long moments every now and then, thinking, who are you? And who might be waiting for you at home?

When this man, lying among the rocks, had woken up that morning, it had probably been a day like most any other day. Or so he'd thought. I'll bet he'd been feeling fine. Probably better than fine. I didn't know a thing about him at the time, but I was sad for him and for his family and friends, whoever they might be.

But back to work...

As our team braced against the uncomfortable conditions on the ridge, discussing options for bringing the man's body down the mountain, we all noticed a rather sudden drop in the wind. So, in an attempt to take advantage of the improved conditions, however long they might last, our coordinator made a call to DPS and, within a short time, we heard the helicopter approaching. One of the best pilots there is anywhere hovered, the helicopter visibly shifting and swaying, buffeted by the gusts that were still plenty strong, as he and his medic assessed the situation, and those of us on the ridge hoped aloud that this alternative would work.

It could, the pilot said over the radio. The winds were too strong for a short-haul, but he would go land down at Snowbowl, remove a door, prepare the cargo net, and burn off some fuel, then return to hover over our location.

Still, nothing was certain until that actually happened. We took shelter on the lee side of some boulders as we waited for the helicopter to return. If the cargo net maneuver didn't work, then it was back to plan A or B or... well, something much more difficult for us mere mortals on the ridge.

In less than an hour, the man who'd died on Humphreys earlier that day was air-lifted from the mountain as those of us who'd gone up to help began descending the long way.

*********

That wasn't the only time this recent Memorial Day weekend that our SAR team was called to Mt. Humphreys. The night before the body recovery, on Friday, May 25, several of our members rescued hikers from the saddle who were unprepared for the cold.  

Another group was rescued from the nearby Kachina Trail.

*********

Our K9 team was also busy over the weekend, after hikers found a human skull at a small campsite in Forest Lakes. K-9 handlers Cindy and Dianne and their dogs were called to search the area and eventually located 26 more bones and other evidence, but there was no vehicle around and no ID found.

Sheriff's Office investigators are asking for the public's help to identify the man based on items located. Investigators believe the man had a 44-inch waist and wore size double-extra-large shirts. A Bass Pro Shop hat and a tan hat with a red diver's symbol on it were also found, as well as a Harley Davidson bandana, red Peterbilt suspenders, fishing waders, and a green five-gallon water jug. The man was possibly last wearing a tan T-shirt and blue jeans.

See: Weekend No Holiday for County Sheriff's Office

Remember the Telephone Game?

Sometimes search and rescue is a little like that game I played at camp when I was a kid. Someone would start out with a couple of sentences and whisper them into the ear of the next kid in line. That kid would then whisper to the next and so on, until the message reached the last person and they announced the message. Then it was compared to the original message, and nearly every time, it was at least a little, if not very, different.

I don't know the chain of communication in this latest SAR case, but by the time I saw the Facebook post by a local newsperson who listens to and reports on scanner traffic, it was "MAJOR MEDICAL: 3 APS employees have fallen from a ledge while working on a power box on Mt. Elden." I began changing into my mission clothes immediately.

Soon afterward, SAR was actually called, and I headed right out. This was going to be a long, difficult mission, I thought, evacuating three injured patients off that rugged mountain. Apparently, they were not on or near a trail.

Soon, nine of our volunteers rendezvoused with Flagstaff Fire Department personnel at the base of Mt. Elden along the gas pipeline trail. Two of our members, who had responded directly to the mountain while the rest of us loaded Stokes litters and other technical rescue equipment, climbed up to the power company workers, who were visible from below. There were actually seven of them up there.

When the rest of the responding SAR members arrived on scene, we and Flag Fire were informed that everyone on the mountain was mobile and could be walked down. What had happened to the injuries I'd read about online—a leg injury, a foot injury, and one complaining of "severe chest and stomach pains?"

Apparently, there was one guy with a reoccurring bad knee that was bothering him today but no leg injury. There was no evidence of a foot injury that I was aware of, and I was told the chest and stomach pains had been cramps from dehydration, relieved by the water and Gatorade brought up to them by the first responders on scene.

Those of us preparing to climb up were asked to bring mountain rope and other gear to rig some safety handlines as a precaution during the bouldering left to be done to reach the bottom. Some of the APS workers were tired and, though they'd been rehydrated, might be at greater risk of tripping and falling on shaky legs. We also brought extra helmets and headlamps in case it got dark before everyone was down.

In the end, the mission went smoothly, and all were in good spirits and good shape. No one requested or wanted medical attention.

From what I heard, the APS workers had, earlier that morning, left a couple of their vehicles at the base of the mountain, then carpooled to the summit. They were, as one man put it, on a "reconnaissance mission" to scope out an electrical line that was going to be built (or rebuilt maybe). "It wasn't one of the smartest things we've ever done," he said.

I'm not sure what exactly happened up there, but they didn't seem prepared—physically or otherwise—for a day on the mountain. I believe several of the workers had made it down or most of the way down to their vehicles at the bottom but had then gone back up to assist the other three. If there had been any kind of fall, I didn't hear anyone mention it. Who knows? Just glad it all worked out well and with daylight to spare.

Two for the SAR Dogs: A Night Search on the San Francisco Peaks

Two very dehydrated hikers were lost with no lights and no other gear and separated from each other. One of them had a cellphone and, luckily, a signal. He finally decided to call for help after hiking ahead of his friend, who could go no further.

They'd come up from the Verde Valley to hike to the summit of Humphreys beginning at 3 p.m., but unbeknownst to them, they were not actually on the Humphreys Trail. Instead, they'd hiked down the Kachina Trail, away from Humphreys. At some point, they decided to go off-trail anyway and up toward a different summit. Eventually, the two turned back when their energy supplies and daylight started to fade quickly.

At about 9:30 p.m., I heard SAR activity on the online scanner, so I knew the call-out was coming. At around 10:00, it did, and I and five other volunteers, including one K9 handler with two search dogs, responded. In three pairs of two, myself with the handler and the two youngest of her four air-scenting golden retrievers, split up per our assignments and headed to our starting locations.

Cindy and I began hiking with the dogs from the trailhead at Snowbowl. Another pair of searchers drove down Schultz Pass Rd., then headed up the Weatherford Trail to intersect with the Kachina Trail from the other end, and our third pair of searchers drove down Friedline Prairie Road to that trailhead, to hike up and intersect the Kachina Trail at another location. So, we were searching from both ends and in the middle. I had a feeling, based on the information our coordinator was given by the one hiker on the phone, that Cindy and I were closest to the subjects' locations.

And that turned out to be the case. About three-quarters of a mile in, the dogs alerted, and we soon had voice contact with the first subject. We found him sitting in the middle of the trail in the dark. After thanking us for coming out, the first thing on his mind was water. He ended up drinking four liters before I eventually hiked him back to the trailhead. Other than being very dehydrated and hungry with a resulting headache, and a bit chilly (so I lent him one of my jackets), he was in good condition and denied needing medical attention. I stayed with him while Cindy and the dogs continued up the trail to try to locate the second hiker.

The young man I was with told me that, for a while, he'd practically carried his friend, who was in worse shape. Finally, the friend had said he had to stop and lay down, while the first guy kept going. At some point, he too had stopped, but the two remained in distant voice contact. That is, until the weaker of the two either fell asleep or passed out for a time. When he awoke, he later said, there was no answer from his friend. That's because his friend (the one I was with) had decided to try to keep going with the light from his phone. He'd made progress for about another 45 minutes before he again had to stop. I believe it was then that he'd called 9-1-1.

DPS helicopters were not available to assist with the search, but a Guardian medical helicopter was able to come out. They didn't locate either hiker with their night vision equipment, but they did help in relaying communications for us once Cindy lost radio contact with me and with our coordinator back at the Snowbowl trailhead.

About a mile or so past where we'd found the first subject, the dogs again alerted, this time heading off trail, up-slope into a gully. In the distance, Cindy heard the jingling of the bells on the dogs' collars increase in speed, meaning they were running. Then she heard a bark, as one of her dogs will often do when alerting at night. Then the dogs returned to her, gave their other alerts—jumped on her—and took off back into the gully as Cindy followed. Soon, as the dogs ran back and forth between the human they'd found and their handler, Cindy made voice contact with the second subject.

Thankfully, after he too was hydrated, the second hiker was able to walk out with Cindy and eventually met me, his friend, and our coordinator back at the trailhead. After all the obligatory information was gathered, some preparedness information given to the two subjects, and the second young man declined medical attention, we all went on our way. I was home at 3a.m.

Thank you to those super SAR dogs for making our job that night easier and faster. Had the second hiker been unresponsive, finding him without the dogs would have been a much longer, more difficult task.

Cindy and her search dogs on another mission.

More Lost Hikers Rescued on the Peaks

Last month, there were two groups of lost hikers on the San Francisco peaks, two nights in a row. The first group was very hypothermic when rescuers from Coconino County SAR arrived, and a teammate of mine told me he didn't think one (at least) would have survived the night. These hikers had all lost the trail and then darkness caught up with them. Good thing there's a cellphone signal up there.

At this time, the Mt. Humphreys Trail is still covered with snow in some sections and still quite deep with a lot of blowdowns, making it very difficult to follow. One of my teammates who was hiking up there recently and knows the mountain intimately helped another disoriented hiker make his way back down to the Arizona Snowbowl ski area, likely avoiding a search and rescue later that same day or night.

This past Monday night, there was another call for the rescue of yet another lost hiker on Mt. Humphreys. Using a GPS app on his phone, the Ohio man texted his coordinates to his wife back in Ohio, who then contacted Coconino County Sheriff's dispatch at around 5:30 p.m.  Eight search and rescue volunteers were then dispatched to the coordinates and located the lost hiker. After helping him get warm, they escorted him down the mountain to  his vehicle. He declined medical attention.

Please remember, if you're going to hike Mt. Humphreys, especially when the trail is in such "challenging" shape, carry extra layers of clothing, two light sources and extra batteries, food and plenty of water, a topographic map (Humphreys Peak Quad), a GPS (if you know how to use it), and a fully charged cellphone. Keep in mind that you'll be hiking at elevations ranging from 9,500 to 12,600 feet, which is a lot more difficult—and colder and often much windier—than hiking at sea level or even down in Flagstaff at 7,000 feet, so it will take you quite a bit longer.

For current trail conditions, contact the Coconino National Forest Ranger District at 1824 S. Thompson St., Flagstaff, AZ 86001 or call 928-527-3600.

*******

To follow up on the fundraiser for injured Coconino County Search and Rescue team member Scott Baker, held this past Saturday, I'm told more than $11,000 was raised for the Baker family on that day. Thank you to all who participated and helped make this event such a success!

Buried Alive on Purpose (Me, That Is)

I suppose if you have to get buried alive, it's best if it's done by fellow SAR members who will also dig you out.

When my cell phone rang and I saw it was our coordinator, I figured I was being selectively called for a mission, which happens now and then when only a small number of searchers and/or rescuers are needed.

But that wasn't the case this time. No, this time I was asked to be the live avalanche victim for our team's third and final Mountain Rescue Association test—the Snow & Ice/Alpine test—to be held on Agassiz Peak on March 6th.

"We'll give you a straw so you can breathe," the sergeant said.

I laughed (a little). "Very funny," I replied... but noticed the absence of a chuckle on the other end. Um... uh-oh.

As it turned out, I didn't even get the straw. After trudging up to the test area with evaluators, I turned my beacon to transmit and, as my teammates got closer, lay down in the hole that was dug out to fit my body. When they got within minutes of being in view of the (fake) avalanche path, with me and a deceased dummy (without a beacon) buried in it, one of the evaluators from Las Vegas shoveled several inches of snow over my face, leaving a small air space. With one eye, I could see a bit of blue sky as I waited for rescue and the snow melted by my warm breath trickled onto my face and down my neck.

Within minutes, I heard snowshoes crunching quickly across the mountainside, coming toward my head, as one of the searchers picked up my beacon signal with his own beacon and honed in on my location. Moments later, a shovel nailed me on the leg. I emitted a muffled "ow!" which wasn't part of my instructions, then went back to being the verbally unresponsive victim I was supposed to be.

Soon, the snow was removed from my wet face, and two more teammates showed up to begin a medical evaluation. Being "pain-responsive only," I moaned when my right rib cage and upper right leg were palpated. Otherwise, I kept my eyes closed and stayed as limp as I could. That is, until I started shivering uncontrollably. That part was real.

Honestly, I've never been so cold in my life. My alpine clothing has always been sufficient in the past, but then again, I've never tested it by lying on, let alone being buried in, the snow for any length of time. Though a small closed cell foam pad had been placed between my core and the snow, moisture eventually soaked through my two bottom layers to my legs, and the cold seeped into my arms through layers of thermal underwear, fleece, and my lined coat and to my head through my wool hat. My attending teammates covered me with a space blanket and whatever else they had with them, but without the evacuation team there with extra hands and the Bowman bag and litter, they couldn't get me off the snow. So, they tended to me—for fake and real issues—including placing a traction splint on my right leg for the fake femur fracture, and we waited.

Oh, right... I was let out of my hole to go for a quick pee break, but that movement did little to warm me up. Then back to my hole and (sort of) unresponsive state I went to wait for the others. When they arrived and I was lifted onto the Bowman bag, I warmed up right away. Or I should say, I was less cold at that point. Once packaged like a burrito in the litter, I stopped shivering completely and relaxed for the ride down the mountain, secured by rope and my capable teammates. The ride was a smooth one... while it lasted.

Then I heard at the same time my teammates did, "Rig for raise!" Oh, crud. The evaluators wanted to see the team display a "hot changeover" and alpine raising skills. With my eyes closed and face mostly covered by warm layers, going up felt just like going down. The only difference for me was that I heard the litter attendants' breathing become more labored with the extra effort of going uphill at altitude.

And then I heard an evaluator yell, "Okay, unpackage her and let her out!"

Shoot. There went my easy ride down the mountain, not to mention the warmth of the gear burrito I'd been in the middle of.

When I was helped to my feet, I was colder than ever. As my teammates who are alpine certified continued testing on various skills, several others on the mountain worked to boil water to make me hot drinks and started a small fire. Shivering despite additional layers and a wool blanket wrapped around me and chilled on the inside, I danced around and waited. Once I got hot liquid into me, sipping as I leaned over the fire, I finally warmed up again. By the time the testing was over and we were ready to hike out, I felt like myself again, vowing to invest in some better alpine clothing right away.

Oh, and I should mention... the team passed the test! Yay, Coconino County Sheriff's SAR!  Ours is now only the fourth MRA-accredited team in the Southwest region. It's been a long and sometimes stressful effort but worth it. Our team will be formally voted in as an MRA member at their Spring conference this June 16–19 in Eagle, Colorado. 

What a Strange Mission

Things changing on a dime during a SAR mission isn't anything unusual; situations are often dynamic, and we're accustomed to altering the plan, often more than once during a search or rescue. But this one takes the cake for the weirdest twists and turns during any mission I've been on over the past few years.

So, okay, this is my best attempt to explain...

First, we responded to a call-out for overdue hikers in the area of Schnebly Hill Rd. in Sedona. That was sometime around 5:30 p.m.

As we were loading gear and getting ready to deploy, there was a second call-out, this one for a search on Mt. Elden. Technical team members were requested for that mission. Several of us were already at the SAR building, so we split off from the other group heading to Schnebly Hill. Others tech members would be responding directly to the mountain and rendezvous with us there.

Apparently, a couple of hikers on Mt. Elden had reported hearing someone yelling from somewhere above them. That was all we knew.

Information-gathering was ongoing as five of us drove to a trail access to the waterfall area. En route, a teammate who was handling ops (operations) advised us that we should split up—drop two of us off at Buffalo Park to hike east and try to make voice contact with whoever was out there... or might be out there, possibly stuck or injured on the mountain.

In the meantime, a deputy had hiked in toward the waterfall (which is usually more of a trickle on a steep slope covered with huge boulders that eventually cliffs out) and was able to make voice contact... with someone. After hearing from that someone that he was not injured but was stuck on a ledge, the deputy hiked back to meet with SAR members at the parking area.

Over the radio, our ops leader gave the rest of us approximate coordinates of where the voice came from, and we all headed that way. I was one of the two hiking from Buffalo Park, so we had a longer distance to cover than the others.

Somewhere along the line—not quite sure of the exact timing of all this—two of my teammates who live near Mt. Elden got a head start on climbing and also eventually made voice contact... with someone.

At one point, I heard radio traffic stating the subject had an ankle injury and would need a litter evacuation. Huh? Why had the stranded person not told the deputy he was hurt? Or was this a new injury since then? An evac team began preparing to hike in with the litter and  ropes.

Then the information changed again. No injury now. We all kept moving toward the coordinates we'd been given.

Soon, the going got much tougher. The trail Sueanne and I had been following petered out so we used game trails instead, and the terrain steepened to the point where we had to use our hands to scramble. The spear-like agave and prickly pear cactus became formidable obstacles. (I later discover scrapes on my legs that I somehow hadn't felt during the mission. And Sueanne put her hand right on a prickly pear while climbing.)

Okay, so...

We saw our teammates' lights above and continued in their direction when, all of a sudden, we heard a scream. Was that an animal? It didn't sound very human. Then we heard it again. Yep, human alright, and it sounded bad. There was some radio talk amongst the rest of the team and IC (Incident Command) about that scream. Someone said, "He sounds altered." Uh-huh. A head injury? Drugs?

Eventually, Sueanne and I had climbed to the location where most of the rest of the team had stopped. The other two who'd gotten a head start were above us—some were guessing 50 feet above, some 100 feet... no one was quite sure—and they'd now gotten a visual on two people.

Is this getting too long? Sorry, I'll try to speed it up...

So, long story shorter, we had one young guy on a cliff. He's the one who'd screamed. The other guy—older, who turned out to be a homeless man who'd been living in a cave somewhere on the mountain for more than 10 years—said the younger guy was suicidal. The "cave man" was yelling in a threatening way at my two teammates, who were in a precarious situation, both terrain-wise and otherwise.

Were either of the subjects armed? Were they dangerous? The older guy from the cave was demanding our teammates shut off their headlamps and climb down in the dark. Afraid of having rocks hurled at them (or worse) while clinging to the side of the cliff, they retreated to a safer location and requested law enforcement assistance. Two deputies began hiking toward the mountain. In the meantime, the rest of us were told to hold our position.

As we later learned, when the cave man continued to yell and demand our teammates turn off their lights and hike down in the dark, they'd responded with something like,"No, we're not going to do that. You two go that way, and we'll go the other way." Then they turned off their lights and stayed put for about 15 minutes as they watched the two subjects move off. That's when the rest of us were informed they might be headed toward us and that we should turn off our headlamps, too, but talk so we wouldn't startle them. No, we didn't want to surprise those two.

Eventually, IC told us to return to base. We waited till our teammates above descended to our location, and then the nine of us picked our way down the mountain. Maybe half a mile from the parking area, word traveled up to the front of our line of SAR volunteers that the younger subject had come up behind the last person. No sign of the cave man.

Our teammate in the back, who I'm sure was a bit startled, had said, "Hey... where ya goin'?"

And the young man replied, "Down."

"Well... do you want to walk with us?

"Okay," the subject had agreed. He was clearly dehydrated, weak, and cold.

The rest of us were asked to wait as two SAR members in the back stopped to give Eric—that was his name—some water, snacks, and a jacket. He was very tall and extremely thin, wearing all black clothing and untied combat boots. His shaggy hair hung down over his face but not enough to conceal his blackened eyes. Was that makeup? Or bruises?

When Eric was able to continue walking, we went the rest of the way to Incident Command at the parking lot. At one point, I stopped and Eric passed me, and I watched him sway. I was ready to grab him if he fell over.

When he saw the lights from the deputies' vehicles and waiting ambulance, Eric repeatedly looked at my teammate Sueanne, an EMT who'd evaluated him after he joined us. He was clearly nervous.

He also looked very familiar.

When we arrived at the vehicles, Eric was helped into the waiting ambulance as I walked over to hear what one of the deputies had to say. He told of a close encounter with the cave man, a dark shadow moving through the forest. That dark shadow must have brought Eric down to where we were (followed us without our knowing it), set him in our direction, and then slinked off. When the cave man passed the deputy, he hadn't responded to his request (or order, I would assume) to stop. They'd be looking for that dark shadow in the morning, he said.

As my teammates and I were headed back to the SAR building, someone mentioned that Eric had said he was from Munds Park. And that's when I knew why he looked so familiar; we'd searched for him earlier this year when he walked away from the group home where he was (is?) living.

So, how did he come to be on that ledge on Mt. Elden? Did the cave man lure him up there? Or did he find him up there? Eric said he started walking in the morning, but we weren't sure if that was accurate. He said he hadn't had anything to eat or drink in a day, and he certainly wasn't dressed for the temperature. Had he been out there all night, the result likely would not have been good.

And who had been talking to the deputy when he first made voice contact? Eric or the other guy?

Well, I'm sure I've left out some details, but that's the gist of it. Kinda weird, huh?

As far as the other mission—the one in Sedona we'd initially responded to—I don't know yet what happened with that, but I think I heard someone say it had been wrapped up fairly quickly. 

And here's a media release about a rescue (that I wasn't able to respond to) in the same waterfall area on Mt. Elden the night before these two missions: (content was removed) Search and Rescue Locates and Rescues Overdue Hiker on Mt. Elden

What a Workout! A Patient Carry on the Peaks

She looked up at me from the Stokes litter, her eyes, nose, and mouth lined with dried blood, her upper lip, deeply split. She'd need some stitches there. I saw blood spattered on her shirt.

A drop of my sweat just missed her face. She noticed and seemed to smile at me apologetically with her eyes, but her injured mouth didn't move. The woman did answer, though, whenever someone asked how she was doing. She was okay, she would say, but her neck was bothering her.

She and her husband, both in their early 60s, had been enjoying a hike on a perfect afternoon on the Kachina Trail, the sky almost as blue as our SAR shirts, when she tripped and did a face-plant right into a rock. She'd injured her neck in the fall and, clearly, her face. We weren't sure if she had a concussion, but she was experiencing some anomalies with her vision.

She didn't complain a bit, though, as we maneuvered the litter up and down the rough trail, lifting it over rocks and sometimes struggling to maintain our footing on the narrow trail. It was not a smooth ride.

I'd been in the check-out line at the grocery store when the call came in. It would take me at least 45 minutes to get home, put all the perishable food away, and then get to the SAR building. Too long. So, I called our  coordinator and asked where I could meet the team. I was told to drive to Snowbowl Road and, from there, take FS 522 (Friedline Prairie Road) about a mile in and look for the SAR vehicles at the corrals. From there, I'd hike up an unofficial trail to intersect the Kachina Trail. The patient was closer to the midpoint of the trail than the trailhead, so this would be a faster route.

Still reacclimating after my three months at a much lower altitude in Nepal, I was breathing heavily as I climbed, wondering how far up the trail the intersection was. I'd never hiked up from that road before. I pushed myself to maintain a steady pace as I tried to catch up with my teammates. Before I reached intersection, I saw a blue SAR shirt up ahead.

The last two teammates in the initial group were moving slowly. One of them wasn't feeling too well. The other, just ahead, was keeping an eye on her while carrying the extra weight of the backboard on his own back in addition to his pack. At the intersection, he handed off the backboard to me and stayed behind to check on our teammate. I pushed on, unsure how far up that roller coaster of a trail the rest of the team, the patient, and two Guardian medics were located. Turned out, they were farther up than I expected.

Just before I reached the others, one of my teammates met me on the trail and relieved me of the backboard. A fast hiker with long legs, he'd headed down to see if he could speed up the process of getting the backboard to the patient's location, so they could get her secured in the litter and ready for the carry-out. By that time, she'd been there for a couple of hours, and it would take a least a few more to get her to the waiting ambulance.

With just seven of us on the litter, it was a difficult evacuation. Only one person at a time could take a break, while the rest shifted sides to at least rest one arm a bit.

Using a piece of webbing hitched to the litter railing, crossed behind my neck and over my shoulders, and held by the hand away from the litter helped me make more of a contribution to the effort. Without the webbing, my arm on the litter was doing all the work, which meant my lack of upper body strength compared to my male teammates made me less effective. But my sore, tired arms and dripping sweat were testament to the fact that I was trying my hardest to help. By the time we reached the ambulance a few hours later, I was spent.

A day after the rescue, we received a nice thank you email from the patient's husband. He said his wife was doing well and didn't have a concussion after all. It's a rather rare treat to hear from a subject or the family after a mission.

*******

The next day, our team received another call-out for another litter carry, this time on the Humphreys Trail. But one of our team members who lives near Humphreys responded directly and quickly and was able to walk the patient out. So the SAR response was canceled.

Two days after that, during the compass class field exercise for this year's SAR Academy members, we received yet another call-out for a litter carry off of Humprheys Trail. Seven of the 13 of us helping with the class left, reconvened at the SAR building to get some equipment, and then drove Code 3 (fast, like an ambulance) to the mountain, lights and sirens going. (I have to admit, that's fun.) By the time we reached the trailhead, however, that patient was also already at the trailhead.

He Tweeted While He Waited

Kinda funny. Today on Twitter, when I mentioned that I'd been up most of last night on Mt. Humphreys on a SAR call-out, one of my followers responded and gave me the Twitter user name of the young man we'd fetched off the mountain. So I took a peak at his profile page and saw that our subject had been tweeting while waiting for us to arrive. Which is why his cellphone battery just about pooped out, I guess.

But if I were stuck up there at 11,000-some-odd feet in the dark, shivvering in my shorts and t-shirt and without a light, I'd be nervous and wish I could tweet away, too, I suppose. 

Anyhow, I spent most of last night on that same mountain I was up and down, up and down... and up... and down the last time I posted, which was what? Saturday? This time, I drove up in the dark at about 11 p.m. Heck, I could just about do it with my eyes closed now.

On the way, one of my teammates said, "In SAR, we all have our thing. And THIS is your thing." He was referring to me being the UTV driver. Hmm... can I change my thing to something else?

So okay, where was I? Oh, the mission.

Well, it turned out fine. We drove "my little red car" up the ski run and parked it at the bottom of our extremely steep shortcut to intersect with the trail at around 11,400 feet, slipping on the scree. I was grabbing at tree branches, trying not to tip over backwards—boy, would that have been embarrassing—and to our surprise, made voice contact with the young man as soon as we reached the trail. We'd thought he was beyond the saddle as far as the first false summit and then on a scree slope about 800 to 1,000 feet down. In fact, he was just a short distance off the trail, having missed a switchback in the dark and ended up on a boulder field. Well, good. The would be much easier, relatively-speaking, than we'd expected.

After we handed over some Gatorade and extra clothing to the cold hiker, then explained that we wanted to descend, not down the trail but down our steeper but shorter route to the parked UTV, and our subject quickly agreed, the three of us SAR members and one relieved hiker made our way back down the mountain.

The end. (For now.)

Arizona Daily Sun article: Hiker Rescued Off Of Humphreys Peak Early Monday

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My latest SAR Stories News post: Search & Rescue and Social Media

Up and Down the Mountain... and Up and Down... and Up and Down

 "What did he say?" I asked the paramedic sitting next to me, loudly enough to be heard above the UTV's noisy engine. With that racket and my helmet on, I couldn't hear what a teammate perched on top of the litter on the back of the Ranger had just shouted.

The Polaris Ranger UTV is the red machine pictured here:

And we were headed up this mountain (although there was no snow):

"Oh, he's just talkin' trash," the young lady from the Guardian crew replied.

Must not like my driving, I figured. I had come rather close to that last big drop. But, really, there wasn't much room on the other side.

In the end, I didn't lose anybody off the UTV, which is always a plus. I'd never driven the thing up that high on the mountain, so I was a little nervous on the first run, sitting forward on the seat, gripping the steering wheel with my sweating, gloved hands.

By my third time up and down to the spot called Midway on a grass- and rock-covered ski slope at the Arizona Snowbowl, I had the drive down quite well. By then, I knew just where to point the vehicle to minimize the bumping and grinding (of rocks on metal below) and the possibility of tipping over.

What I was doing was shuttling SAR members, Guardian medics, and equipment, including a break-apart litter, webbing and rope, to the highest point we could get to by all-terrain vehicle. I was doing this so they (and eventually I) could hike, steeply, off-trail to the saddle and possibly beyond. The patient turned out to be above treeline, though the initial information had placed him close to the bottom. Big difference there.

The hiker had strained or sprained (not broken, I don't believe) his ankle. Apparently, he'd done some hobbling, but there was no way he was going to make it from the ridge about 4 miles down to the lodge on the Humphreys Trail. So we were headed up to carry him down in the litter. It would take hours.

By then, the helicopter was in the air. To my surprise, the pilot was able to set down at the saddle once the landing zone (LZ) was cleared of hikers by... someone 🤷 and the patient was brought aboard. In a way, that was a relief to us, the ground crew, but at the same time, helicopter rescues do carry some risk. But those in charge know what they're doing and weighed the pros and cons for both the rescuers on the ground and those in the air and made the decision to go with the helicopter.

Search and rescue volunteers and paramedics continued carrying out our assignment until we were told to do otherwise. You just don't know if things will change and we'll be needed after all—not until the patient is aboard the helicopter and on the way to the other LZ near the waiting ambulance.

Once that was accomplished, our incident commander got on the radio and told the paramedic I'd shuttled to Midway, already on her way up to the saddle with a few of my teammates, to return to the drop-off point for pickup. Then he told me to turn around and go get her. I was already close to the bottom where I'd been headed to shuttle more personnel.

So, back up I went, picked up the paramedic, and had her back down at the lower LZ just as the patient was being carried from the helicopter to the waiting ambulance the paramedic had originally come from. That meant the ambulance didn't have to wait for her. What timing! (I'm good.)

Then I went BACK up the mountain again to retrieve my teammates, who'd been told to hold their position a bit longer, I guess. (It was hard to hear the radio traffic over that UTV noise and through the helmet, and I had no one to translate for me while I was driving alone.)

"Watch that big drop on the right," my SAR-mate advised on the way back down. He was the one I didn't hear on the first trip up. I considered giving him a few (more) gray hairs but decided to give him a break. 😊

11 Hours Of Sleep And I'm Back On Track

Eleven hours. That's what it took to make me feel human again. I've been running on fumes lately.

First, it was the 3 a.m. page on Saturday morning. I'd been asleep, to some degree at least, for three hours. When the pager went off, I was jolted awake but just lay there, pondering what to do. I was supposed to meet some of my teammates at 8:00 for the next phase of the Rock Rescue Academy, so maybe I'd skip this call-out.

But, of course, I had to phone in to see what was going on: four overdue hikers who'd left at 4 p.m. yesterday to walk a moderate, three-mile trail. I'd say they were overdue.

And I was still lying there in the dark when the pager went off a second time about 10 minutes later. I checked the code, thinking perhaps it was a 10-22 (a cancellation), but no, it was another try. Must not be getting much of a response.

Sure enough, when I called the SAR number again, I heard the identical message and, this time, left a message of my own. After testing my voice, which doesn't always work well when I'm awakened suddenly in the middle of the night, I think I mumbled something like, "This is Deb. I'm not sure what to do because of tech practice later today, but I'm responding." And as I was getting dressed for the mission, the pager went off for a third time. I called in yet again and heard a modified message from our Coordinator, stating that this mission "superseded" the technical rescue training.

About an hour and a half later, six of us were en route to the Blue Ridge area when a deputy located the four overdue hikers. So we made our U-turn and headed back to town, taking it easy so as to avoid a collision with an elk. The big creatures were everywhere in the early morning hours—hundreds of them grazing on the huge meadow that is Lower Lake Mary (unless it happens to have water in it, which is rather rare). They were also grazing along the road, sometimes standing in the road and running across it. I double-checked my seat belt and, from the back seat, kept my eyes peeled for large mammals.

So, Rock Rescue Academy (tech training) was back on. By the time I got home, I had just over two hours until I'd have to return to the SAR building. I figured it would be less painful to go without sleep than try to take a short nap, so I walked my dog and then played around on the computer until it was time to go. Soon, I was loading my gear into a SAR vehicle for the ride to the area where we'd be practicing.

At 5:30 p.m., I was home again after eight hours of training. During the field session, we put together what we'd learned about lowering, raising, and belaying into a working system, each of us rotating between stations, including command, main line, belay, edge, safety and attendant, with the attendant being the one who went over the edge. We practiced both "cold changeovers," when a lowering system is changed to a raising system while the attendant is securely on the ground below, and "hot changeovers," where the attendant is mid-face and must be raised back up. These skills took a lot of concentration on my part, especially being so sleepy, and needless to say, I was pretty well spent by the time training was over.

So, that was Saturday. On Sunday, we had another call-out, this one for a rescue on Mt. Humphreys.

Back to the SAR building I went and then up a mountain, helping carry the wheel for the litter up an off-trail route. We accidentally went a bit out of our way when we headed too far east and missed the intersection with the Humphreys Trail.

After correcting for our mistake and just as we were getting close to the patient's location at around 11,000 feet, we saw that the short-haul attempt was successful. Which was a very good thing. Given the subject's location on a steep, boulder-covered slope at the site of an old plane crash, and with the limited number of people we had between SAR personnel and Guardian medics, it would have been a very long and difficult litter carry. We all breathed a sigh of relief as we watched the helicopter fly off with the patient and our short haul- certified coordinator at the end of a long rope. Following a brief break, we turned around to bushwhack our way back down.

When the mission was over, my day was not. Not until about 11 p.m. when I finally crawled into bed and pulled the blankets over my head. I didn't budge until my dog insisted on going outside at 10:00 the next morning.

Drunk on Devil's Head

So I think there's a bit of a pattern emerging here. I tell you how unusually quiet it's been for a while, then beep, beep, beep! Well, it's more of a song my pager emits than a series of monotonous beeps... but my point is, the thing seems to go off not long after I make that sort of comment. That's what happened the other night after I finished the "PLB's and Plenty of Z's" entry. I'd been reading in bed (Lost in the Amazon, it's called), and my book had just settled on my face when I was jolted awake by that familiar little song.

The page-out was initiated by our team captain, also a volunteer, since Sergeant D is out of town. This would be a search for a 43-year-old male who'd driven up to the top of Mt. Elden, drunk (or had gotten drunk up there, perhaps) earlier in the afternoon and hadn't been seen since. The reporting party said the man was not dressed for the cold. It was now a little after 10 p.m. on Saturday, below freezing in town at 7,000 feet and certainly colder at over 9,000.

I've never driven up Elden Lookout Rd. before, just hiked to the top via various trails. And I think I prefer the hiking. The trails are fairly strenuous but not nearly as rough on the body as bouncing up that dirt road, which is more a jumble of boulders than actual dirt. As a passenger that night, I was holding on to the "oh-sh*t" bar with both hands. Even my seat belt wasn't enough to keep my head from bumping the roof of the vehicle a time or two. And that drive took us a while. I'm thinking I may have been able to hike up there faster.

At any rate, there ended up being 13 of us searchers and rescuers on the mountain, including two deputies. When we convened at the tailgate of one of our pickups, a usual location for a team briefing, we learned some additional details:

Originally, there had been four in the party: the man who's now missing, his girlfriend, his brother, and a friend. They drove together to the top of the mountain, where they drank and they drank. Then they argued. Then, the brother and the friend took the vehicle and left the mountain. Bye-bye! Meanwhile, the now-missing man and his girlfriend continued to argue and walked southward, across an open area called Turkey Park, and apparently slid aways down the side of Devil's Head.

Just to give you an idea of the terrain, it's basically one long mountain with three peaks: Little Elden to the east, Elden in the middle, and Devil's Head to the west. Mt. Elden, the highest of the three, and Devil's Head are mostly separated by a grassy area called Turkey Park. You can drive right up to the top of Elden or, just below Turkey Park, take the other prong of the forked road and go to Devil's Head.

Anyhow, the reporting party this evening had been the missing man's girlfriend. The details were a bit fuzzy, but I think the man had slid further down Devil's Head than his girlfriend had (at one point someone said she'd actually pushed him)—or perhaps not but was maybe drunker than she was—and he couldn't get back up, either due to injury, inebriation, or maybe both. I'm not sure about any of that, but I do know the girlfriend climbed back up to Turkey Park, then walked all the way down Elden Lookout Rd., and somehow got a ride back to town where she called 911.

Okay, so before breaking into ground teams, we gathered around a clear footprint definitely made by the man we were looking for when he and his girlfriend had started walking southbound, first on the road and then overland toward the rim. He was wearing cowboy boots.

We then divided into several groups. One team of three had arrived a bit before the rest of us and were already headed to the area the girlfriend had described as where they'd gone off the side of Devil's Head. The rest of us were assigned to scouting the interior of Turkey Park—"purposeful wandering," as our leader for the evening described it—searching the perimeter of Turkey Park along the rim and searching the radio and lookout towers at the summit of Mt. Elden. We had no idea if the subject had perhaps left the area where his girlfriend had last seen him. We had no idea if he was badly hurt or if he was suffering from severe hypothermia. Or both. Alcohol only makes matters worse, of course.

I was on the three-person team doing the purposeful wandering around the interior of Turkey Park. We spread out about, oh, 30 feet or so and searched the tall grass and clumps of short trees, calling out the subject's name as we always do and looking closely in case he was there but unresponsive.

Eventually, Team 1, who'd gone to the general area last seen, found what looked to be a slide pattern. And, soon afterward, they had voice contact from below. I was actually a little surprised how accurate the girlfriend's description had been, given her altered state at the time of the slide.

Turns out, the man was not seriously hurt. Nor was he apparently stuck, at least not by then, because he walked up to meet the SAR team. After warming him up, the rest of the ascent was quite slow as apparently the man had to, uh, stop and dispose of some "cookies" shall we say (okay, barf) every so often. At the request of Team 1, other SAR members brought Gatorade down to the dehydrated guy. Eventually, he was handed over, wobbling, to a deputy, who drove him home.

I heard the subject was lucky he hadn't slid off the edge of Devil's Chair, which is a sheer cliff. I'm not familiar with that area on an up-close-and-personal basis, but if you see it from a distance, that's what the formation looks like: a big chair. All in all, things turned out much better than some of us had anticipated. A heavy-duty hangover is nothing compared to a broken neck.

Anyhow, that's how I spent Saturday night till 4:30 Sunday morning. No Zs that night.

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.

Two SAR in One Day, Take Two

First, there was the suspicious rental car and empty baby carriage left at the Midgley Bridge parking lot. At 3 a.m. on Sunday, Sergeant D sent out a page, and seven of us shook off sleep and responded. We drove down the switchbacks into Oak Creek Canyon to the bridge, where our coordinator updated us on what little additional information he'd gotten so far.

There was a campground ticket on the dash. The campsite, deserted since Saturday, had been checked. Another camper said they'd seen two women but no baby at that site. In the tent was a suitcase with a sleeping bag and a few other items inside, and that suitcase had an airline tag on it. The baby carriage at the bridge also had an airline tag on it. Also at the campsite, a book was found: "The Last Lecture" by Randy Pausch, a professor who lost his battle with cancer earlier this year. A family photo was tucked into the book. The rental car company's computers were currently down, so we didn't yet have information from them, but a locksmith was on the way to open the vehicle, inside of which Sergeant D could see a cellphone.

The seven of us SAR volunteers and Sergeant D huddled over the Sedona trails map, laid out on the hood of his truck and illuminated by our eight headlamps. We had no idea what to expect from this search, but we had tech gear with us just in case.

It was decided that two team members would hike to the bottom of the canyon and make their way under the bridge. Midgely Bridge had been used as a jumping-off point, so to speak, a number of times before, so we needed to rule that out. We hoped.

Meanwhile, two other teams of two would hike two of the three trails that depart from the area. The third trail, which climbs Wilson Mountain, would be covered next. Our seventh team member, a man in his mid-seventies, would drive around to other trailheads to check for vehicles and people and to pick us ground-pounders up when we got to the other ends of our assigned trails.

My companion and I covered the three-mile Huckaby Trail, calling, "hello!" and "anybody out here?" I blew my loud whistle periodically, making my ears ring.

Eventually, we learned a name via radio transmissions between Sergeant D, dispatch, and another deputy, and then we called, "Laura!" as we went along. Apparently Laura had rented the car, and Sergeant D had been in contact with her friends and family by dialing numbers programmed in her cellphone, which he'd retrieved from the car. Laura was from Canada.

After a careful creek crossing on some narrow logs, Scott and I continued along the trail as the sun came up, but we soon stopped when we thought we heard a distant whistle. We called and listened again, straining our ears against the sound of the wind in the trees. When we were sure we were hearing a whistle, we announced it over the radio, only to learn we were hearing one of our other teams above us on another trail.

Our radios were pretty quiet as we hiked, but just before Scott and I reached the end of our trail, we heard Sergeant D's voice. "The two subjects just arrived at the bridge, Code 4."

They had been a short distance up the Wilson Mountain Trail — the one we hadn't yet checked. They'd been on their way down yesterday evening when darkness overtook them and, with no light, had decided to stay put until the morning. Apparently, they weren't particularly shaken up about their unplanned, bare-bones campout, but, boy, were they freaked out when they got back to their car and found a bunch of Coconino County Sheriff's Search & Rescue vehicles all around it. I expect some rapid follow-up calls to worried family and friends took place.

Oh, and the mysterious baby carriage had no connection to the two women. Tucked into a carriage pocket was a Phoenix hotel map. It's my guess that a couple with a baby got back to their hotel and, when they unloaded the car, they said to one another, "I thought you put the carriage in the trunk."

So, after breakfast with my teammates and the drive back to Flagstaff, I returned from that little adventure soon after my husband had rolled out of bed. We spent a relaxing Sunday together, much of that time sitting at an outdoor cafe where I think I actually fell asleep for a few minutes while I had my head tilted back with my face to the sun. But after a long early-evening walk with our dog, my pager went off again.

This call was for a carry-out on Kendrick Peak. It was a girl with a knee injury, Sergeant D said, and would probably be at least a six-hour deal. Without enough people to take shifts, we'd only be able to switch sides of the litter, to give one arm a break for a while, rather than switch out people.

But, as has been the case lately, things didn't turn out quite like we expected. After the long drive to the trailhead, one SAR member who lives nearby and responded directly to the scene had already reached the victim and victim's friend, along with a deputy who'd headed up the trail on his own. They were apparently a good hour's hike up there, but they were going to try an assisted walk-out.

Sergeant D decided to send four of us who had Wilderness First Responder (WFR or "woofer") training up the trail with medical gear, so we could make a brace for the girl's knee and help with the walk-out. The others would remain behind in case we ended up needing the litter after all. Since the victim had already refused ambulance transport, there were no Guardian medical personnel on the scene, just search and rescue.

We set off at a good clip, not rushing but not wanting to waste time getting up there to help. Thinking we had the better part of an hour's climb, we were surprised to see lights heading toward us well before then. I stepped aside as a rather beefy and very sweaty deputy whooshed by with a girl on his back. Wow! Can he come with us all the time?

Our group did have to pause briefly while the deputy removed his gun belt. The weapon and other equipment around his waist was jammed into the injured hiker's backside and inner thighs. I'd imagine that was probably painful enough to distract her from her injured knee. Seeing how she limped and wobbled when the deputy momentarily set her down, I can see why the attempted assisted walk-out hadn't worked.

A short time later, the grateful victim, her friend, and their two growling dogs were returned to their vehicle, and we headed back to the SAR building to fill up the trucks so they'll be ready to go for the next call-out, put away the tech gear, and then drive our sleepy selves back home.

Just before midnight, my head hit the pillow, and I didn't budge till 9 a.m.

Carrying a Man off Mt. Humphreys

Two days later, my arms are still sore — but in a good way. I feel like I did something and actually helped, compared to the rescue on Mt. Humphreys a couple of months ago (about which I now realize I didn't write a blog entry). During that earlier rescue involving a man from Mississippi who'd broken his ankle when he stepped over a log and landed wrong, I was tentative and only put my hands on the litter a few times. Granted, it was a more difficult evacuation along a somewhat treacherous and snowy route, but I felt more like a bystander than a useful part of the team.

This time around, we were called to evacuate a hiker in his early 50s who'd experienced shortness of breath and chest tightness while descending from the 12,633-foot summit. We were told that the man, named Andrew, has a stint in his heart but is accustomed to climbing Camelback Mountain in Phoenix quite often and has also climbed Mt. Humphreys since the stint was put in. So, this wasn't anything new for him.

When I arrived at the trailhead, having responded directly to the mountain rather than the SAR building, a small team including at least one of our volunteers and a medic was already on the trail. Their goal was to locate Andrew and determine his condition. Meanwhile, another team, including two more SAR members and additional medical personnel, was loading gear into a vehicle, preparing to drive up a ski area service road and then switchbacks on one of the runs to try to get the equipment closer to the subject.

By having access to that locked service road, search and rescue is able to bypass part of the Humphreys Trail and, therefore, save crucial time and human energy. It also allows us to evacuate a subject more quickly. When I got to the staging area, however, Andrew's exact location on the trail was still unknown.

As I waited with our coordinator, team captain, and Guardian Medical battalion chief in the parking lot at the lodge, another contingent of our SAR team arrived. They brought with them our new Polaris Ranger UTV, which I learned to drive at the SAR conference in Heber, Arizona, earlier this year.

Sergeant D pointed at me and said, "Deb is the certified driver." Yay, I was gonna get to drive the "little car" on it's maiden mission! 

Okay, I thought to myself, the gas is on the right, brake on the left. I can do this.

So, up the service road I went with my cohort, Liz, squished in the middle next to me and Scott, a very experienced member of our team, next to her. Behind us was the rest of our crew in a SAR vehicle. I was directed to stop on the service road rather than continue up the switchbacks on the ski run, so the UTV drive was easy and without any of the steep side-tilt that makes me a wee bit nervous. Phew.

From where we parked, our group continued on foot, straight up the mountain with a break-apart titanium litter with the wheel attached, to intersect the trail. As we huffed and puffed and sweat, the initial team found Andrew, and the second team, who had driven up the ski slope, also made their way to that location. Our group arrived at the trail several hundred feet below the subject, so we continued huffing and puffing, taking turns pushing and pulling the litter. If it was this tough without a patient in it, I couldn't wait to see how difficult this was going to get. At least we'd be going down, I thought.

But I soon found that going down didn't seem to make much difference. If anything, it was more difficult. But at least we had a lot of people to help, so we all were able to switch out and change sides (and, therefore, arms) as often as needed.

I was happy to find that our subject was alert and generally in good spirits, though he'd needed significant assistance standing up and getting over to the litter. During the carry-out, the medics continuously monitored his blood pressure and pulse, and a portable machine printed out what looked like an EKG. Apparently, the oxygen the medics were giving Andrew was helping. The only things that seemed to be bothering him during the evacuation were a sore back due to insufficient padding on the litter and concern about how much the helicopter ride to the hospital was going to cost. (No one seemed sure about the answer, given that it was a Guardian, not a DPS, helicopter that was en route to the mountain. Someone replied, "I think it's the same cost as an ambulance ride.")

I do want to mention how great it was to see that another hiker, who'd happened along when Andrew was in distress, had stopped and stayed with him. I don't know the young man's name, but he not only assisted with the carry-out and carried Andrew's backpack, but he told Andrew he'd drive his vehicle to the hospital and meet him there. Andrew had come to Mt. Humphreys alone, but he left with a friend. What a great guy.

Anyhow, to our relief, we finished the evacuation before dark. When we emerged from the trees onto the service road where I'd parked the UTV, our patient, still on the litter, was loaded onto the back of the vehicle. Next to him was a rear-facing seat for a medic. And I was again the driver.

Though my companion in the front asked me if the UTV could go any faster, I drove fairly slow, easing over the biggest bumps. Granted, Andrew had been rolled over lots of bumps during the carry-out, but I figured there was no need to jostle him any more than necessary. Besides, I knew from the traffic coming over the radio in my chest harness that the Guardian helicopter had not yet arrived at the landing zone (LZ). So there was no need to rush.

As we got closer to the LZ on the lower part of the Hart Prairie ski run—just a grassy field covered with prairie dog holes until the first winter snow—I heard that the helicopter was a minute out. What good timing. I could hear it approaching as I came to a stop in the parking lot at the edge of the field. I wanted to let them land, then wait for instruction before driving any closer. But then I heard the pilot say she was going to circle for a while to burn off fuel. I don't know much about helicopters, but I do know they're sensitive to weight, air temperature, and altitude, so I guess the pilot felt it was best to reduce the weight given the  conditions.

As it turns out, Andrew probably could have gotten to the hospital faster in the ambulance that was parked right next to us than he eventually did in the helicopter. But the medics felt he was stable, and Andrew himself seemed rather content. In fact, he was chatting with people coming off the trail, who walked over to see what was going on.

So, there was Andrew, flat on his back, strapped to the litter, which was strapped to the UTV, with several people standing around talking. Sergeant D even got his interview with Andrew done while we watched the helicopter make huge circles in the air.

About 20y minutes after we arrived near the LZ, the helicopter landed, and we carried Andrew over to it. The aircraft has a litter platform that angles out for loading. When you put the patient on there and then push the platform back into the helicopter, Andrew's feet are right next to the pilot.

Moments later, Guardian lifted off as I returned to the UTV. I managed to drive it onto the trailer—another first for me, and phew again—and then search and rescue and Guardian personnel had a debriefing before both teams went their separate ways.

All in all, the evacuation went very well. Good communication, good team work. And, this time, I definitely felt like part of it.

An All-Nighter on Kendrick Peak

I haven't slept for 36 hours, so if I sound loopy, that's my excuse. I was just drifting off to sleep last night when my pager jerked me awake and onto my feet. Two overdue hikers on Kendrick Peak, Arizona's fourth highest mountain at 10,418 feet.

I checked the clock: 11 p.m. Why were we being called out so late? Maybe the reporting party, one of the missing men's sons, kept thinking they'd show up at any moment and procrastinated. Oh well, no matter. Off I went.

When seven of us got to the mountain, a deputy was already climbing the 4.5-mile Kendrick Trail but had not had any voice contact with the subjects or found any sign of them. Another deputy filled us in on the details as the reporting party sat cross-legged on the ground nearby, not looking particularly alarmed by the situation. We were told the men were in their early fifties and weighed about 260 and 280 pounds. (I hope they'll be able to walk out on their own, I was thinking. A carry-out would be a doozy.) They had no lights, maybe one liter of water between them, were wearing t-shirts, and had no extra layers of clothing. They did have cell phones but had left them in the car.

Our plan: Four of us would start up the trail, putting our tracking skills to use and calling periodically, until we'd reach the point where the subjects had last been seen by the son as he was descending. (The older men had turned around, having decided they weren't up for continuing to the summit. The son was much faster and had already gone to the top.) At that point, at about 8,800 feet, we'd split into two groups of two searchers and go off trail. Meanwhile, the others would drive Forest Service roads around the base of the mountain.

As we all set off to carry out our assignments, Kingman DPS Ranger was searching from the air. The noise from the helicopter made it difficult to listen for any response to our calls. Every once in a while as we were hiking, one of us would stop suddenly and say, "Hey, I think I heard something." So we'd wait until the helicopter moved off, call again, and listen. Nothing. 

Though I had a hard time hearing anything but my own huffing and puffing. It wasn't easy keeping up with my speedy companions, who didn't seem winded at all. We spent about an hour on the trail before coming to the point last seen.

Even with our headlamps and flashlights off, we could easily see the trail; the moon was bright and the sky clear. Much of the trail was lined with rocks, but we did check for prints where drainages or game trails may have confused the men in the dark and caused them to veer off, but we found no evidence anyone had gone off the trail.

At the point last seen, we stopped for a drink and snack break while studying our topo map and discussing the next course of action, when we'd split into two and two. Meanwhile, we listened to radio traffic between Incident Command, Kingman Ranger, and the volunteers driving Forest Service roads. The men in one of our vehicles had stopped to call out and listen and thought they'd heard something in the distance, up on the mountain. Ranger was in the process of flying over that area.

Soon, we heard that the lost men had been spotted, high on the mountain, one of them waving a white cloth as the helicopter passed over. They appeared to be uninjured. Somehow, our SAR teammates and the two hikers had heard one another from over a mile away. Amazing how the sound had carried. Ranger transmitted some lat-long coordinates, which we converted to UTM and plotted on our map.

The decision was made that Ken and Joel would stay put and wait for the deputy to come back down the trail, then return with him to Incident Command while Al and I would contour around the mountain and make our way toward the subjects. They certainly had gone a long way off the trail somehow, and Al and I would have to bushwhack at least a couple of miles to get to them. The coordinates taken from the air were only approximate, so we'd have to gain voice contact and hone in on their exact location.

Meanwhile, Val and Joe would leave their vehicle and head up the mountain, too. Eventually, the four of us would rendezvous with the stationery subjects and escort them, hopefully under their own power, to the vehicle. We were all carrying extra drinks, snacks, headlamps, and clothing to share with them.

Initial voice contact with the subjects had been established at about 2:45 a.m. It was close to dawn by the time Val and Joe reached the men, and Al and I arrived a short time later, a bit bruised and scratched from the effort. The going was tedious and slow through thick stands of young aspen trees, piles of dead fall like oversized pickup sticks, and large boulder fields.

But we were happy to find two uninjured, albeit exhausted and dehydrated, men, both in good spirits. Seeing there was a female in the group, one of them gave me a humorous warning the moment I arrived, telling me he'd torn open the seat of his jeans so I might want to avoid the sight if I was easily embarrassed. "Ah, that's okay," Val said. "Deb hangs out with us."

We were able to turn off our headlamps soon after we began picking our way down the mountain as the sun came up. And now the going was painfully slow. I fidgeted each time we stopped to give the men a break. But they were good-natured and grateful, and we couldn't have hoped for nicer rescue-ees.

One of the men admitted to me they'd gone off-trail on purpose on their way down, cutting switchbacks in an attempt to make a beeline back to their car and shorten the distance. It was still daylight when they realized they were very lost, and matters only worsened when it got dark. Well, that plan certainly backfired.

When we finally reached the vehicle at about 8 a.m., rescuers and the rescued had the longest farewell session I've experienced so far, with the men telling us they're going to make a donation to our team. Very cool. Unexpected and unsolicited but very much appreciated.

When I signed out back at the SAR building around 9:45 a.m., I had just enough time to drive across town to pick up my mom for a full day of errand-running (she doesn't drive anymore) and a pre-planned lunch. I met Steve at home at 5:00. We had some dinner and ... my pager just went off again.

Did I say how much I enjoy this SAR stuff? Let's see what's goin' on now...

A Rescue on Mt. Elden

"What do you think?" I asked Liz. "Should I do it?"

I was standing at the base of a huge boulder, looking up. If I did get up there, would I eventually be able to get back down? I'm not very experienced at bouldering, and I'm kind of a chicken too. But, Liz, who is 20 years older and maybe six inches shorter than I am and therefore has shorter legs, seemed to think it would be fine to keep going. I looked up again and continued to ponder the situation.

Liz and I were the only non-technical members of the team climbing the south side of Mt. Elden on the night of July 29, en route to rescue four stranded hikers. With their single light source, they'd signaled S-O-S, which was not only noticed by someone in a neighborhood at the base of the mountain but recognized as a call for help and reported to the Sheriff. Lucky for them!

My pager went off at 8:30 p.m., while my husband was at a Toastmasters meeting. Sergeant D's message said it would be a technical rescue, but non-tech ground-pounders could help carry gear up. So I scribbled a note to Steve—"SAR call, rescue on Elden, gotta git. Love, Me"—and headed across town to The 105 building. There, I met up with Liz and Al, and, after loading a bunch of equipment and extra bottles of water and electrolyte drink, we were soon on our way.

When we arrived at the trail access on a neighborhood cul-de-sac, Sergeant D and a number of resident bystanders were gathered around. Several tech team members had responded directly to that location and were already headed up the mountain toward the subjects to try to make contact. Liz, Al, and I loaded climbing gear and helmets into our packs and, along with another tech team member, set off at a fast clip. The sweat was dripping profusely in no time.

The four of us were on trail for just a short time, until we arrived at the base of a maze of huge boulders. We slowed significantly at that point and began to climb. As mentioned, bouldering is not my forte, but I managed quite well until we hit that gnarly spot where I asked Liz if she thought I should go for it. If she said yes, I'd go... eventually. But, to my relief, I pondered just long enough for Al to call down that that wasn't the right way. Phew! I wouldn't have to decide after all. The rest of the route was challenging but not quite as stressful for me as that one spot, particularly because it was so dark and I couldn't see just how far I'd have to fall.

Soon, we made voice contact with the rest of the tech team who, from their position higher up, had voice contact with the subjects and could see their light. From the point where Liz, Al, Phillip, and I were standing, the route became too technical for Liz and me, so we were instructed to sit tight for a while. Al stayed with us as Philip collected some of the extra gear and climbed up.

Perhaps half an hour later, as we listened to radio reports from those above and ropes were rigged, the tech team rendezvoused with the stranded hikers, who had cliffed out at the top of "The Waterfall." The three young men and one girl had no food or water, were wearing shorts and t-shirts (a bit chilly even for a summer night up on the mountain), and three were wearing sandals. Among them were two from France, one from Australia, and one from Washington State, who'd all met while staying at the youth hostel downtown. They said they'd taken the bus across town, hiked up the Elden Lookout Trail, then lost the trail when it got dark and ended up trying to descend the boulder-covered south side.

Though apparently experienced hikers, the four had not planned or prepared well at all and ended up in a precarious situation. But not only were they lucky the reporting party had seen and recognized their signal, they were also lucky to have some very experienced tech team SAR volunteers to get them down.

At three in the morning, after having gone much of the way down the mountain on my butt, even through the slippery, wet part, caring less about my pride than my neck and other fragile body parts, I signed out at the SAR building and headed home.

I must admit, I was proud of myself for making it up and down that route. It may have been fairly easy for some, but for me it was a confidence-building accomplishment. The adrenaline of that night helped carry me through my day at the office after only a couple hours of sleep.

Read the Arizona Daily Sun article about this rescue here: SOS signal alerts resident to stranded hikers on Mount Elden

Searching Out of Bounds

Ah, the lure of fresh powder. If you're a skier or snowboarder—which I'm not—you can probably relate. It must be so tempting to get out there in the fresh snow and make the first tracks after another winter storm has passed. This year, we've had above-average snowfall in Flagstaff, and that's a very good thing for our local ski resort. Some years, Snowbowl can open for only days or maybe weeks if they're lucky. The ski area doesn't manufacture snow (added later: they do now but not at the time of this search), so their business is entirely dependent upon nature, which has been very cooperative lately. Where there's heavy snow in the mountains, however, there can also be danger.

Within the past few weeks, search and rescue has received a number of calls from out-of-bound snowboarders who've ducked under the ropes at the ski area to enjoy the thrill of swooshing through pristine powder in the Kachina Peaks Wilderness. Trouble is, many of these same folks are not prepared, with no gear, food, or water in case they get stuck or lost. No map or avalanche beacon either. Often all they carry is a cellphone, and, lucky for them, they can usually get a signal from that area.

The calls are often similar—the skier or snowboarder, after getting off the chair lift and heading out of bounds, has gone down a gully, which has pulled them far from the ski area and the road. Eventually, the slope decreases to the point where a board or skis just won't go any further in snow that is sometimes several feet deep. One caller was very nervous about the fracturing, unstable snow all around him.

Going out of bounds is not illegal here, but a free, one-year permit issued by the Forest Service is required to do so. The permitting process is simply an opportunity for Forest Service personnel to speak to recreationists about the hazards of winter travel in the backcountry, to give them tips about what gear to carry and the additional risks involved when skiing or snowboarding off the maintained trails, where avalanche danger is mitigated. If someone requests help while out of bounds and is found not to have a permit, the fine is $75. There's no charge for the actual cost of rescue, which can easily be in the thousands of dollars.

This year, the call-outs for stranded out-of-bounders have, until tonight, been resolved when SAR volunteers or the deputy talked them back to the road. Their locations were determined using a DPS helicopter or the callers' descriptions of their surroundings. Then a rescuer was able to guide them by phone through the arduous work of slugging through the deep snow, sometimes pushing their boards ahead of them to cut a path while they followed on their knees, until they could be picked up somewhere along seven-mile Snowbowl Road.

And that was the case earlier today, when I and several other volunteers responded to the first of three calls. That initial call came at about 3 p.m., and, within an hour after we arrived at Snowbowl, the subjects emerged along the road. While waiting for the first two snowboarders, a second call came in, and that person was able to follow the tracks of other two. Scott and I picked him up at the same spot.

But things weren't over for us. A fourth snowboarder by the name of Edward was reported missing, this time by friends who hadn't seen their companion since shortly after going out of bounds at 10:30 this morning. The group had decided to snowboard in what's known as Third Gully. It was now about 5:30 p.m., and daylight was fading fast. We were told that Edward did not carry extra gear or a cellphone.

At midnight, we're still searching for Edward. There are now seven of us on snowshoes, split into three groups, and two guys in the Thiakol snowcat, which runs on tracks like a tank. The snow is so deep that when Scott and I were dropped off along a Forest Service road to head toward the bottom of Third Gully, the Thiakol driver jumped out and ended up buried to his waist. The snowshoes certainly help, but at times I still sink a couple of feet, and the going is extremely slow. At one point, Scott thought we'd gone at least a mile, but I checked my GPS and had to give him the bad news: We'd gone only half a mile in the last hour. Now, after six hours of this, I'm beginning to run out of steam.

As we listen to radio traffic, we know that one of our field teams is following some deep prints, which appear to be heading uphill along a snowboard track. Scott and I are crossing plenty of snowboard and ski tracks—going out of bounds seems to be a popular pastime these days—but the only prints we're seeing were made by a bobcat and the jackrabbit it was following.

I'm nervous tonight. It's eerie being out here in the still, quiet wilderness in the middle of the night, but that's not the issue. What's bothering me is that I'm afraid that, at any moment, we're going to come upon another frozen body. Just like the mission in Pumphouse Wash on January 20th.

The temperature tonight must be below zero. It's so cold, my fingers go numb within seconds when I expose my hands to work my GPS. Though the young man we're looking for is dressed for snowboarding, this frigid air seems to go right through any amount of clothing when you stop moving. And he's been out here for more than 14 hours now, so he must be really tired. If someone falls asleep in the cold, they can succumb to hypothermia and never wake up. I don't like these morbid thoughts.

Then, at about 1 a.m., a transmission comes over the radio, and I hold my breath. I can tell by the tone in Joel's voice when I hear him call Incident Command that he's excited. I hope it's the good kind of excited. And now he says, "We've made contact with Edward." There's a pause and then, "He's code four." Phew!

Turns out that Edward had gotten bogged down in deep snow quite far down the mountain and didn't know where he was. So he turned around and somehow made it up to over 10,000 feet, trying to go all the way back to where he and his friends had gone beyond the ropes. That must have taken an incredible physical effort. Eventually, it had gotten dark and Edward, who by then had done some damage to his knee, was tired and cold. That's when the lighter in his pocket probably saved his life. He made a depression in the snow and began burning pine needles. Our team searching the mountain from the top down at a point directly above where the other team was following the deep prints uphill smelled those burning needles and soon found our guy. We'd never expected to find him that high up.

It takes us another couple of hours for our teams, along with Edward, to snowshoe out of the wilderness area and another hour after that to load the Thiakol and other gear. Edward is delivered to medics to be checked out, and the volunteers go on their way. The mission isn't over until we return to the SAR building, fill the gas tanks, and put everything away, but at least this time we do so with a good feeling. This time, we saved a life instead of finding that one had already ended.