I returned from the SAR conference on Sunday, April 20, tired but excited about all that I'd learned, both the new skills and others that were reinforced. And now, less than 12 hours later, I have a chance to put some of those skills to use.
At 0300, my pager sang its little song. As usual, I went from sleeping to vertical in a split second, pulling on my fleece-lined tights, hiking shoes, thermal top, fleece jacket, and winter coat. Minutes later, I was driving across town to the SAR building. It may be spring, and the days are often in the sixties now, but nights are still sub-freezing. In this arid climate, the difference between night and daytime temperatures is often as much as 60 degrees. So, what you might wear in mid-afternoon would be very inadequate at night and in the early morning hours.
The 17-year-old boy we're now looking for was under-dressed for the conditions when he and a friend took off running at 10:00 last night, as a Sheriff's deputy approached to check out their vehicle. The boys had parked along a Forest Service road in an unusual spot, the deputy said, and he drove up without flashing light to investigate. Before he'd stopped his patrol car, the two teenagers emerged from the vehicle and ran into the forest. The deputy did not pursue them.
Soon, the young driver returned to the car. He was the registered owner. But his friend, for whom he gave a false name to the deputy, did not come back. Instead, he disappeared into the cold night wearing just shorts, a sweatshirt, and tennis shoes.
Jay (name changed), the person we're searching for, is not from or familiar with this area, where he's visiting his aunt and uncle who live south of Flagstaff in Mountainaire. The deputy told us he found a bong and marijuana grinder on the ground not far from the car, and the one boy-driver who returned admitted they'd been smoking pot and some other drug, too. Jay is currently on probation, which has a lot to do with why he ran when he saw the deputy's car.
The deputy released the driver, who then went to Jay's aunt and uncle's house. At about 2 a.m., he decided to wake them and tell them what had happened. As I understand it, they then called the Sheriff, and that's how the deputy found out who it is that's missing, since the friend had given him the false name earlier. The original deputy and others who were called to assist have been searching for Jay since soon after he disappeared, patrolling roads and walking the immediate area near where the teenagers had parked. It is now 4:30 a.m., and three of us volunteers and Cassie, our K-9 assistant, have arrived to help.
Cassie smells the scent article, a pair of Jay's jeans provided by his uncle, and is off like a shot with her handler, Al, in tow at the end of her 30-foot lead and myself and Scott close behind. At first, Cassie is definitely on scent as we depart from where the boys ran off. She heads toward a concrete tunnel under the highway, filled with a foot of standing water, then north along the barbed wire fence just below I-17. Al and I hear the occasional semi truck pass by on the highway above as we follow Cassie, searching for clues and prints as we go while keeping up with the dog.
Soon, Cassie begins casting side-to-side; she's unsure of the track now and easily distracted, not to mention clearly frustrated. The strong winds have dispersed the scent and made it difficult for her pick up. Eventually, she's lost the track altogether, and we return to the beginning to give it another try.
And Cassie goes right back to the tunnel. However, instead of passing it by this time, she gets very excited and wants to go into the standing water and under the highway. But Al holds her back, and we look through the tunnel as we did before. Still don't see anything. It's daylight now, but we shine our lights in the murkiness, just to be sure.
From above the tunnel, I look down at the water at the entrance and see no disturbance in the mud or rocks. We decide to climb the steep bank, carefully cross the divided highway, and check the other side.
We know the deputy had called for backups when the boys ran off, and some had arrived up on I-17, above the tunnel, just minutes later. As Al, Cassie, and I reach the pavement, we see the deputies' footprints along the side of the highway. None were made by sneakers, of that we're sure, but there's not much chance that Jay went up and over with the flashing blue lights visible from below. Cassie appears to confirm that as we climb the embankment. She doesn't pick up on anything.
On the other side of the highway, there's no disturbance in the algae on the standing water as it emerges from the tunnel, and Cassie isn't detecting anything with her nose. Al takes her in a big circle, checking. Nothing. As the DPS helicopter also circles, we decide that Jay did not cross the highway, at least not here, and we return to the other side. There's much more traffic now, so crossing is trickier.
Jay's mother and stepfather have arrived, as well as the aunt and uncle, so quite a few people are standing around. Another SAR call-out eventually produces four more volunteers, and we give them a rundown of what we know and what we've done so far. Cassie is now in the truck--—a ground-scent dog is not going to be effective on this search, since the wind has made it impossible for her to follow the track—and we'll continue the search without her. She did the best she could.
Now we split up. Scott drives one of the SAR vehicles, while Dave and Howard go up to the highway and soon are following some prints along the edge of the road, heading south. We don't know what type of sneakers Jay is wearing, so we can't be sure if we're seeing his tracks. Val, Oly, and I walk north, paralleling the Forest Service road as we search the woods and open areas between the trees and I-17. I show them where Cassie had stopped earlier on her first attempt, having lost any scent at that point, and we continue in that direction.
And, as it turns out, the three of us are going the right way. We hear on our radios that a deputy has located Jay near Flagstaff's airport, not all that far from our current location. He doesn't say "Code 4," but I'm assuming the boy is okay for lack of any other information. All SAR volunteers start heading back to base.
As we slowly drive away to return to the SAR building, we see Jay get out of a patrol car and approach his waiting family, which now includes his father. We know his father works for the Department of Corrections in a different city, because he'd offered to have more dogs from his department—the kind that air-scent, which is what we would have needed to have any chance in this wind. We also know Jay lives with his mother and stepfather. As we drive past them, we see a tall, red-faced boy who looks like he's angry and on the verge of tears jump back as his father lunges at him. A deputy grabs the father before he can strike Jay, and we drive off, leaving the family drama behind. The boy may have gotten himself into trouble again, but at this moment, I can't help but feel bad for him. Dad could have started off with a hug.
These are my stories as a volunteer member of the Sheriff's Search and Rescue team in Coconino County, Arizona. I'll share what it's like to go from a beginner with a lot to learn to an experienced and, hopefully, valuable member of the team, as well as the missions, training, and other activities along the way.
Training
Practice, practice, practice. I hear it all the time from SAR instructors, and it's so true. We learn skills in training, and they often seem clear at the time, but it's like most things: You don't use it, you lose it. Sometimes there's a stretch between missions, and not all missions require all skills, so you can get rusty. As for me, if I don't start practicing right after learning a skill in class, I don't really get it down to begin with.
Over the past few weeks, I've taken part in the following trainings:
Although the instructor told me it can actually be easier to maneuver the larger trailer on a goose-neck hitch than the smaller trailer hitched to the back of the vehicle, which is more sensitive to every little move of the steering wheel, I figured I would rarely, if ever, have occasion to tow a horse trailer. The ATV trailers, however, are called for frequently, so I might as well learn the harder way. All I can say is, that skill is going to take me a LOT of practice to master.
At the end of the day, the instructor said he'd recommend that I be allowed to drive with the trailer as long as someone with experience is riding with me. Sounds good to me; I'll never have a chance to practice if I don't actually take the wheel on missions. They say to go slow. Ha! They'll be telling ME to hurry up!
When it comes to GPS, many people are what are called "out-of-the-box users." They buy the gadget, take it out of the box, and go on an outing without first learning how to use the thing. Also, many people rely on a GPS but have no map or compass with them—or map and compass skills, for that matter. But a GPS is an electronic device, right? Si it can fail. It can drop and break. It can run out of batteries when you have no replacements. Sometimes, it doesn't work at all in certain areas because it's can't access enough satellites. So it's really important to have map and compass skills too, not to mention alternative navigation in case your GPS decides to give up the ghost.
Many GPS owners know how to mark the location of their vehicle and then, later, use that recorded landmark as a "go to" to return to where they started. That's all well and good, but it's only one of many functions of a GPS and certainly not enough for SAR missions.
For example, a GPS can be used to mark coordinates of footprints and other clues, determine areas that have already been searched, convert from one coordinate system and map datum to another (i.e., when communicating with the DPS helicopter using lat/long and WGS84 map datum versus the UTM coordinate system and NAD27 Conus datum we often use on the ground in SAR), give Incident Command the location of the subject when that person is found, and so on. We use our GPSs on just about every mission, though we always have our maps and compasses, as well.
Some of the training sessions I attended over the past couple of weeks were held at the annual three-day Search & Rescue Conference in Heber, AZ. In attendance were SAR volunteers and coordinators from teams all over the state, as well as a few from other states. Classes were given for ground-pounders like me and for mounted and K-9 units, with multiple concurrent classes to choose from.
In addition to those I attended, classes included Lost Person Behavior, Basic and Advanced ATV, Alzheimer's and Dementia Subject Behavior, Personal Locator Beacons, Map and Compass, Wilderness First Aid, Introduction to Technical Ground Support, and so forth. It was a fantastic, albeit tiring, weekend, packed with learning.
And I'm now really noticing the improvement in my abilities and confidence, especially with the skills I've learned and had occasion to put to use multiple times now. It feels great feeling.
Over the past few weeks, I've taken part in the following trainings:
- Truck and trailer training (10 hours)
- Navigation Refresher Field Day (8 hours)
- GPS (8 hours: four in the classroom, four in the field)
- UTV (utility terrain vehicle) training
- Venomous Insects and Animals of Arizona
- Tracking (4 hours)
- Patient Packaging (3 hours)
Although the instructor told me it can actually be easier to maneuver the larger trailer on a goose-neck hitch than the smaller trailer hitched to the back of the vehicle, which is more sensitive to every little move of the steering wheel, I figured I would rarely, if ever, have occasion to tow a horse trailer. The ATV trailers, however, are called for frequently, so I might as well learn the harder way. All I can say is, that skill is going to take me a LOT of practice to master.
At the end of the day, the instructor said he'd recommend that I be allowed to drive with the trailer as long as someone with experience is riding with me. Sounds good to me; I'll never have a chance to practice if I don't actually take the wheel on missions. They say to go slow. Ha! They'll be telling ME to hurry up!
When it comes to GPS, many people are what are called "out-of-the-box users." They buy the gadget, take it out of the box, and go on an outing without first learning how to use the thing. Also, many people rely on a GPS but have no map or compass with them—or map and compass skills, for that matter. But a GPS is an electronic device, right? Si it can fail. It can drop and break. It can run out of batteries when you have no replacements. Sometimes, it doesn't work at all in certain areas because it's can't access enough satellites. So it's really important to have map and compass skills too, not to mention alternative navigation in case your GPS decides to give up the ghost.
Many GPS owners know how to mark the location of their vehicle and then, later, use that recorded landmark as a "go to" to return to where they started. That's all well and good, but it's only one of many functions of a GPS and certainly not enough for SAR missions.
For example, a GPS can be used to mark coordinates of footprints and other clues, determine areas that have already been searched, convert from one coordinate system and map datum to another (i.e., when communicating with the DPS helicopter using lat/long and WGS84 map datum versus the UTM coordinate system and NAD27 Conus datum we often use on the ground in SAR), give Incident Command the location of the subject when that person is found, and so on. We use our GPSs on just about every mission, though we always have our maps and compasses, as well.
Some of the training sessions I attended over the past couple of weeks were held at the annual three-day Search & Rescue Conference in Heber, AZ. In attendance were SAR volunteers and coordinators from teams all over the state, as well as a few from other states. Classes were given for ground-pounders like me and for mounted and K-9 units, with multiple concurrent classes to choose from.
In addition to those I attended, classes included Lost Person Behavior, Basic and Advanced ATV, Alzheimer's and Dementia Subject Behavior, Personal Locator Beacons, Map and Compass, Wilderness First Aid, Introduction to Technical Ground Support, and so forth. It was a fantastic, albeit tiring, weekend, packed with learning.
And I'm now really noticing the improvement in my abilities and confidence, especially with the skills I've learned and had occasion to put to use multiple times now. It feels great feeling.
Update: Missing Man Found
Just after I finished my last post, I checked the Arizona Daily Sun website and found the following update:
Missing man found near Mormon Canyon
By Daily Sun Staff
The Coconino County Sheriff’s Office and the Coconino County Sheriff’s Search and Rescue Unit successfully located a man who had been missing since Sunday morning. According to a press release from CCSO, searchers found Fredrick Daniel Boone, 50, walking on Forest Service Road 82 about 1/4-mile north of Mormon Canyon. Boone was last seen near Winona at about 8 a.m. Sunday. He intended to hike in on the forest road to locate his truck, which was stuck somewhere off that road. Boone was tired, cold and hungry, and had minor injuries to his legs from walking through thick underbrush and minor injuries to his hands from trying to free his vehicle from the mud and rocks, but he did not require medical attention.
-----
I'm so glad Fredrick was found but sorry we weren't able to locate him sooner.
Missing man found near Mormon Canyon
By Daily Sun Staff
The Coconino County Sheriff’s Office and the Coconino County Sheriff’s Search and Rescue Unit successfully located a man who had been missing since Sunday morning. According to a press release from CCSO, searchers found Fredrick Daniel Boone, 50, walking on Forest Service Road 82 about 1/4-mile north of Mormon Canyon. Boone was last seen near Winona at about 8 a.m. Sunday. He intended to hike in on the forest road to locate his truck, which was stuck somewhere off that road. Boone was tired, cold and hungry, and had minor injuries to his legs from walking through thick underbrush and minor injuries to his hands from trying to free his vehicle from the mud and rocks, but he did not require medical attention.
-----
I'm so glad Fredrick was found but sorry we weren't able to locate him sooner.
Once Was Not Enough
Okay, this is weird. Two nights in a row, same guy.
Saturday evening, my pager goes off shortly after eight. Steve is getting sleepy, but I'm happy for some pending adventure to work off my unused energy. Sergeant D's message says this is a call-out for a lost motorist whose vehicle got stuck somewhere down a Forest Service road. The man walked away from his vehicle earlier today and has been wandering around in the pinion-juniper forest for hours, no idea where he is. But he's gotten to a place where he has a cell phone signal and called for help.
I'm actually surprised I've made it to the Search & Rescue building before getting the ol' 10-22. Given the circumstances, I'm betting that Ranger, the DPS helicopter, is going to find this guy. The light of a cell phone screen is pretty easy for them to spot at night, and if his cell phone is still working, they can have an ongoing dialog with the lost motorist and probably hone in on his position. In fact, as I'm changing into proper clothing for a cold night's mission, I can hear radio traffic just outside the bathroom door, and, sure enough, Ranger, Dispatch and the lost man are communicating. The man tells Dispatch he can hear and then see the helicopter, and he describes Ranger's relative position. But six of us volunteers continue to get ready, just in case. We get the ATV trailers hooked up, sign out radios, grab extra batteries, ATV helmets, and .... oh, okay, put it all away; they've got the guy. And he's in an open field where Ranger can land.
So I go home, sleep, spend a wonderful 10th anniversary Sunday with my husband, have dinner and ... beep, beep, beep! But Steve doesn't mind--the good-natured soul that he is--so off I go to search and, hopefully, rescue. Besides, the same guy is missing for a second night in a row? This time, there's no cell phone contact. I have to respond to this one.
The scenario goes like this: At approximately 8:00 this morning, this guy's soon-to-be ex-wife drops him off along the same Forest Service road he drove down yesterday. He wants to go find his vehicle, a 3/4-ton Ford 250 pickup. Apparently, everything he owns is in that truck. But the soon-to-be ex doesn't want to drive her car too far down the unpaved road, so she drops the man off at a rock-filled gully about 4 miles in. Then the subject, dressed in Carhardt coveralls and a baseball cap, proceeds to walk at least nine miles to where he thinks his truck is located. This 50 year-old long-time smoker was apparently carrying a grocery bag filled with Camel cigarettes. As far as we know, that's all he was carrying.
At about 3pm, the subject made a cell phone call to his wife, but the call was broken up. He was talking about getting a tow truck. (Note to self: that means he'd probably found his vehicle by then.) But I guess that was the extent of the conversation when the call was dropped. Sergeant D has made repeated calls to the man's phone but has had to leave messages. The cell phone company has confirmed which tower the call utilized and that the phone is now powered down, which could mean a dead battery. They gave a range of 4 miles for that cell tower, though my companions this evening don't put much stock in that information; they seem to think the range can be much further. At any rate, the subject's wife didn't hear from him again and he didn't return to the shelter in Flagstaff, where he's been staying.
Tonight, we have the same group of volunteers as last night, plus eventually three more. We split into three groups, two towing ATV trailers, and spread out. I'm riding with Scott and Ken, studying the map as we turn off I-40 east onto Forest Service Road 82 with three ATVs on our trailer. Another group with ATVs is heading up the same road from the south, so we're making our way towards each other. Two others have driven further down I-40 to begin searching closer to the cell phone tower.
About four miles in, we clearly see where the subject was dropped off at the rock-filled gully. It isn't that bad; even in a car, it could be crossed, and the road looks good up ahead. Poor guy had to walk a lot further than necessary, in my opinion. We stop now and then to get out and look for footprints, but we aren't sure what type of shoes the man was wearing, and there appears to have been vehicle traffic which could have wiped out most, if not all, prints on the road.
We soon flag down a group of woodcutters in three trucks, who at first seem hesitant to talk to us. The men in the first two trucks deny seeing anyone today, but according to the two men and one young boy in the third truck, they saw our guy before they began woodcutting around noon. After looking at our map, which Scott and Ken spread out on the hood of their truck, and being shown where we're standing and where certain features are on the map, the woodcutters seem to agree on where they saw Fredrick. I can't help but wonder about their information, primarily because they were fed the description of the subject's clothing and approximate location. But I suppose I should go along with it as being true. Scott and Ken seem to think so.
We continue down the road and come to a fork. FSR 82 goes to the right, FSR 233 to the left. We wander around, the wind whipping as it's been doing all day. I walk slowly along the left side of 233, though we're feeling quite confident that the subject headed down 82; that assumption goes along with what the woodcutters said and is more in the direction of the man's rescue location from last night. But then I find something. The butt of a cigarette, just a couple of yards down 233. The little camel picture is still visible--that's the subject's brand!--and the butt is squishy, so it seems fresh. Yippee! I found a clue! But ... well, my companions, who have 25 combined years of experience with CCSSAR, don't think it helps us much. They say there's no footprint near it, that the piece of cigarette could have blown over here, and that the woodcutters say they saw the subject further down FSR 82 (the other road) earlier today. Oh, phooey. But I stick the little souvenir clue in my pocket, anyway.
Okay, I admit it! You dragged it out me. I'm a little competitive. I wanna find me a clue! I wanna find the guy and have the "old-timers" say, "Hey, Deb is pretty good at this." Well, maybe next time. And hopefully that next time will be tonight.
But, alas, at 1am, the subject has yet to be found. After riding around on increasingly rough roads, getting a bit hung up towing that ATV trailer through some tight spots, and finding lots of footprints, none of which we could be sure belonged to the man we're looking for, Sergeant D tells us to call it a night. The DPS helicopter, unavailable on Sunday, will be back after dawn to fly the area. Maybe they can spot the subject's truck from the air, and if the truck is found, hopefully Fredrick will be with it.
Before leaving the SAR building, we give our Coordinator a run-down of what we did, what we found--including my little cigarette butt, which he seems to think is important--and where Scott and Ken think Ranger should concentrate their search. Driving home a few minutes later, I'm feeling a little frustrated. I really wanted to drive down FSR 233. If ... or, I should say, when ... the subject is found, I'll be really interested to know where he was.
http://www.debralauman.com/
Saturday evening, my pager goes off shortly after eight. Steve is getting sleepy, but I'm happy for some pending adventure to work off my unused energy. Sergeant D's message says this is a call-out for a lost motorist whose vehicle got stuck somewhere down a Forest Service road. The man walked away from his vehicle earlier today and has been wandering around in the pinion-juniper forest for hours, no idea where he is. But he's gotten to a place where he has a cell phone signal and called for help.
I'm actually surprised I've made it to the Search & Rescue building before getting the ol' 10-22. Given the circumstances, I'm betting that Ranger, the DPS helicopter, is going to find this guy. The light of a cell phone screen is pretty easy for them to spot at night, and if his cell phone is still working, they can have an ongoing dialog with the lost motorist and probably hone in on his position. In fact, as I'm changing into proper clothing for a cold night's mission, I can hear radio traffic just outside the bathroom door, and, sure enough, Ranger, Dispatch and the lost man are communicating. The man tells Dispatch he can hear and then see the helicopter, and he describes Ranger's relative position. But six of us volunteers continue to get ready, just in case. We get the ATV trailers hooked up, sign out radios, grab extra batteries, ATV helmets, and .... oh, okay, put it all away; they've got the guy. And he's in an open field where Ranger can land.
So I go home, sleep, spend a wonderful 10th anniversary Sunday with my husband, have dinner and ... beep, beep, beep! But Steve doesn't mind--the good-natured soul that he is--so off I go to search and, hopefully, rescue. Besides, the same guy is missing for a second night in a row? This time, there's no cell phone contact. I have to respond to this one.
The scenario goes like this: At approximately 8:00 this morning, this guy's soon-to-be ex-wife drops him off along the same Forest Service road he drove down yesterday. He wants to go find his vehicle, a 3/4-ton Ford 250 pickup. Apparently, everything he owns is in that truck. But the soon-to-be ex doesn't want to drive her car too far down the unpaved road, so she drops the man off at a rock-filled gully about 4 miles in. Then the subject, dressed in Carhardt coveralls and a baseball cap, proceeds to walk at least nine miles to where he thinks his truck is located. This 50 year-old long-time smoker was apparently carrying a grocery bag filled with Camel cigarettes. As far as we know, that's all he was carrying.
At about 3pm, the subject made a cell phone call to his wife, but the call was broken up. He was talking about getting a tow truck. (Note to self: that means he'd probably found his vehicle by then.) But I guess that was the extent of the conversation when the call was dropped. Sergeant D has made repeated calls to the man's phone but has had to leave messages. The cell phone company has confirmed which tower the call utilized and that the phone is now powered down, which could mean a dead battery. They gave a range of 4 miles for that cell tower, though my companions this evening don't put much stock in that information; they seem to think the range can be much further. At any rate, the subject's wife didn't hear from him again and he didn't return to the shelter in Flagstaff, where he's been staying.
Tonight, we have the same group of volunteers as last night, plus eventually three more. We split into three groups, two towing ATV trailers, and spread out. I'm riding with Scott and Ken, studying the map as we turn off I-40 east onto Forest Service Road 82 with three ATVs on our trailer. Another group with ATVs is heading up the same road from the south, so we're making our way towards each other. Two others have driven further down I-40 to begin searching closer to the cell phone tower.
About four miles in, we clearly see where the subject was dropped off at the rock-filled gully. It isn't that bad; even in a car, it could be crossed, and the road looks good up ahead. Poor guy had to walk a lot further than necessary, in my opinion. We stop now and then to get out and look for footprints, but we aren't sure what type of shoes the man was wearing, and there appears to have been vehicle traffic which could have wiped out most, if not all, prints on the road.
We soon flag down a group of woodcutters in three trucks, who at first seem hesitant to talk to us. The men in the first two trucks deny seeing anyone today, but according to the two men and one young boy in the third truck, they saw our guy before they began woodcutting around noon. After looking at our map, which Scott and Ken spread out on the hood of their truck, and being shown where we're standing and where certain features are on the map, the woodcutters seem to agree on where they saw Fredrick. I can't help but wonder about their information, primarily because they were fed the description of the subject's clothing and approximate location. But I suppose I should go along with it as being true. Scott and Ken seem to think so.
We continue down the road and come to a fork. FSR 82 goes to the right, FSR 233 to the left. We wander around, the wind whipping as it's been doing all day. I walk slowly along the left side of 233, though we're feeling quite confident that the subject headed down 82; that assumption goes along with what the woodcutters said and is more in the direction of the man's rescue location from last night. But then I find something. The butt of a cigarette, just a couple of yards down 233. The little camel picture is still visible--that's the subject's brand!--and the butt is squishy, so it seems fresh. Yippee! I found a clue! But ... well, my companions, who have 25 combined years of experience with CCSSAR, don't think it helps us much. They say there's no footprint near it, that the piece of cigarette could have blown over here, and that the woodcutters say they saw the subject further down FSR 82 (the other road) earlier today. Oh, phooey. But I stick the little souvenir clue in my pocket, anyway.
Okay, I admit it! You dragged it out me. I'm a little competitive. I wanna find me a clue! I wanna find the guy and have the "old-timers" say, "Hey, Deb is pretty good at this." Well, maybe next time. And hopefully that next time will be tonight.
But, alas, at 1am, the subject has yet to be found. After riding around on increasingly rough roads, getting a bit hung up towing that ATV trailer through some tight spots, and finding lots of footprints, none of which we could be sure belonged to the man we're looking for, Sergeant D tells us to call it a night. The DPS helicopter, unavailable on Sunday, will be back after dawn to fly the area. Maybe they can spot the subject's truck from the air, and if the truck is found, hopefully Fredrick will be with it.
Before leaving the SAR building, we give our Coordinator a run-down of what we did, what we found--including my little cigarette butt, which he seems to think is important--and where Scott and Ken think Ranger should concentrate their search. Driving home a few minutes later, I'm feeling a little frustrated. I really wanted to drive down FSR 233. If ... or, I should say, when ... the subject is found, I'll be really interested to know where he was.
http://www.debralauman.com/
Search and Rescue News
I wish I had a SAR story to tell you from the past few weeks, but no recent call-outs have led to actual missions. But that's not to say nothing's been going on.
On the afternoon of Sunday, March 16, during a brief snow storm that created whiteout conditions on I-40 west of Flagstaff, we got a stand-by (888) page about a huge vehicle pileup, which we later learned involved 139 cars and trucks! When I called in and heard Sergeant D's message, my husband and I were driving through town and soon came to an I-40 underpass. Looking up, we saw semi after semi parked along the highway. Traffic was backed up for at least 20 miles. Our coordinator said search and rescue volunteers might be needed to help with evacuations, so Steve and I headed home, and I got my gear together for a winter mission.
A few hours later, another stand-by page came through, and this time the message stated that four SAR personnel were on scene and may need to be relieved if the situation continued past 2200 hours. There had never been an actual call-out so, at the time, I didn't know who those four SAR personnel were. I hesitate to admit it, but I felt a little jealous; I wanted to be out there helping, too. But I assumed Sergeant D had directly contacted the most experienced members of the team. That turned out to be the case, as I learned at the next team meeting.
Our SAR meetings are held the third Thursday of each month, and one of the usual items on the agenda is to review the past month's missions, both those involving volunteers and any that involved just sheriff's deputies. This month, we learned that Sergeant D had been out of town when the pile-up occurred, so he contacted our SAR captain (also a volunteer) and three others to respond in his absence while he was en route. Those four men helped evacuate uninjured motorists stranded on the interstate. City busses were also taken out of service here in Flagstaff and sent to transport people stuck in the backup and bring them to a local shelter at a school, opened by two Red Cross members who also happen to be SAR volunteers.
We learned that two people had died in the accident, while numerous others were injured, some critically. Helicopters were unable to land close to the injured, many of whom had to be carried by EMS personnel quite a distance on stretchers. The photos and video on the Arizona Daily Sun website the next day revealed just how massive this pile-up was. By 2200 hours, however, SAR services were no longer needed, so Sergeant D didn't make any additional call-outs.
Mini training sessions are also held at those monthly general meetings. This time, it was patient packaging: how to place an injured or ill victim in a litter, strap them in, and transport them out of the backcountry. The type of litter used in this training was a "break-apart" litter, which, as the name implies, separates into two pieces for ease of carrying to the patient's location. Available in both stainless steel (34 pounds) and titanium (20 pounds), this litter's light weight also makes it easier to transport than other one-piece, heavier devices. There's a wheel attachment as well, so the litter can be rolled along the ground where possible rather than carried.
With our largest member as the guinea pig, we put the rig to the test. Wheel or no wheel, it's not an easy feat, even on a level, carpeted floor, let alone in the great outdoors with all of the rocks, roots, slopes, and other obstacles that come with it. After transporting the first "patient" around the room, we released him and nominated Val, my companion from the sheep herder search, to be the next volunteer and proceeded to learn how to strap someone in to ensure they don't slide up or down and out if, for example, they're being hoisted into a hovering helicopter or up or down a cliff.
Having been a volunteer victim myself for Wilderness First Responder classes, I know that being strapped into a litter and carried and jostled and jolted and tilted can make a person nauseous, so I piped up for the first time during a SAR meeting to make that point. (Losing last meal while in a prone position on one's back is not a good thing, after all.) That comment prompted a short discussion about keeping the patient in mind during an evac and appointing one rescuer to keep talking to and monitoring the subject. So I was glad I mustered the guts to open my mouth.
Besides the break-apart, our unit has other types of patient transport devices, including plastic litters that can slide along snow and ice, as well as a new piece of equipment that, by using a pump, has the air sucked out of it so it conforms to the patient's body. I don't recall the name of that device, and Sergeant D is still waiting to receive the pump, so we couldn't try it out at the meeting.
In the weeks following the huge traffic pile-up and most recent team meeting, there have been a couple more page-outs. One came in just as Steve and I were returning from the long Easter weekend we spent at Zion National Park. Really tired and dirty, I opted not to respond. Sergeant D's message said the call-out was primarily for the technical team, but any available general members were encouraged to respond, to assist with a possible litter-carry. How appropriate, considering our recent mini-training.
Sergeant D's message also said that a pilot actually saw a climber fall off Steamboat Rock in Sedona. Wow, I thought, that sounds really bad. It wasn't easy to NOT respond, but I found out later that it didn't matter: No climber was ever found, and no one had been able to contact the reporting party. Could it have been a hoax? Or did a pilot (in a small plane, I assume) think he saw something he didn't?
Another call-out came last night, just as I was getting ready for bed. I had to be at the office at eight this morning (I work two days a week as a leasing agent at an apartment complex), but I decided to respond. Who needs sleep anyway? The message stated that two kids had wandered off from a broken-down school bus in the very rural Mormon Lake area about 45 minutes from Flagstaff. But not long after five of us got to The 105 building and had begun getting our equipment and ATVs ready, the kids were located. In fact, they were home already. All that was needed then were a couple of volunteers to go out to Mormon Lake and get the deputy's vehicle unstuck. So I went home and to bed instead.
And that's about it for now. I've read several missing person stories in the local paper recently, including one about a 29-year-old guy who walked away from Grand Canyon Village, where he lives and works for a concessionaire in the National Park, and hasn't been seen for at least a week. He was apparently upset at the time of his disappearance. But no clues to his whereabouts or destination have been found, and it's not even known if he's in the area. I keep thinking one of these articles will turn into a Coconino County Sheriff's Search and Rescue mission , but, so far nothin'.
On the afternoon of Sunday, March 16, during a brief snow storm that created whiteout conditions on I-40 west of Flagstaff, we got a stand-by (888) page about a huge vehicle pileup, which we later learned involved 139 cars and trucks! When I called in and heard Sergeant D's message, my husband and I were driving through town and soon came to an I-40 underpass. Looking up, we saw semi after semi parked along the highway. Traffic was backed up for at least 20 miles. Our coordinator said search and rescue volunteers might be needed to help with evacuations, so Steve and I headed home, and I got my gear together for a winter mission.
A few hours later, another stand-by page came through, and this time the message stated that four SAR personnel were on scene and may need to be relieved if the situation continued past 2200 hours. There had never been an actual call-out so, at the time, I didn't know who those four SAR personnel were. I hesitate to admit it, but I felt a little jealous; I wanted to be out there helping, too. But I assumed Sergeant D had directly contacted the most experienced members of the team. That turned out to be the case, as I learned at the next team meeting.
Our SAR meetings are held the third Thursday of each month, and one of the usual items on the agenda is to review the past month's missions, both those involving volunteers and any that involved just sheriff's deputies. This month, we learned that Sergeant D had been out of town when the pile-up occurred, so he contacted our SAR captain (also a volunteer) and three others to respond in his absence while he was en route. Those four men helped evacuate uninjured motorists stranded on the interstate. City busses were also taken out of service here in Flagstaff and sent to transport people stuck in the backup and bring them to a local shelter at a school, opened by two Red Cross members who also happen to be SAR volunteers.
We learned that two people had died in the accident, while numerous others were injured, some critically. Helicopters were unable to land close to the injured, many of whom had to be carried by EMS personnel quite a distance on stretchers. The photos and video on the Arizona Daily Sun website the next day revealed just how massive this pile-up was. By 2200 hours, however, SAR services were no longer needed, so Sergeant D didn't make any additional call-outs.
Mini training sessions are also held at those monthly general meetings. This time, it was patient packaging: how to place an injured or ill victim in a litter, strap them in, and transport them out of the backcountry. The type of litter used in this training was a "break-apart" litter, which, as the name implies, separates into two pieces for ease of carrying to the patient's location. Available in both stainless steel (34 pounds) and titanium (20 pounds), this litter's light weight also makes it easier to transport than other one-piece, heavier devices. There's a wheel attachment as well, so the litter can be rolled along the ground where possible rather than carried.
With our largest member as the guinea pig, we put the rig to the test. Wheel or no wheel, it's not an easy feat, even on a level, carpeted floor, let alone in the great outdoors with all of the rocks, roots, slopes, and other obstacles that come with it. After transporting the first "patient" around the room, we released him and nominated Val, my companion from the sheep herder search, to be the next volunteer and proceeded to learn how to strap someone in to ensure they don't slide up or down and out if, for example, they're being hoisted into a hovering helicopter or up or down a cliff.
Having been a volunteer victim myself for Wilderness First Responder classes, I know that being strapped into a litter and carried and jostled and jolted and tilted can make a person nauseous, so I piped up for the first time during a SAR meeting to make that point. (Losing last meal while in a prone position on one's back is not a good thing, after all.) That comment prompted a short discussion about keeping the patient in mind during an evac and appointing one rescuer to keep talking to and monitoring the subject. So I was glad I mustered the guts to open my mouth.
Besides the break-apart, our unit has other types of patient transport devices, including plastic litters that can slide along snow and ice, as well as a new piece of equipment that, by using a pump, has the air sucked out of it so it conforms to the patient's body. I don't recall the name of that device, and Sergeant D is still waiting to receive the pump, so we couldn't try it out at the meeting.
In the weeks following the huge traffic pile-up and most recent team meeting, there have been a couple more page-outs. One came in just as Steve and I were returning from the long Easter weekend we spent at Zion National Park. Really tired and dirty, I opted not to respond. Sergeant D's message said the call-out was primarily for the technical team, but any available general members were encouraged to respond, to assist with a possible litter-carry. How appropriate, considering our recent mini-training.
Sergeant D's message also said that a pilot actually saw a climber fall off Steamboat Rock in Sedona. Wow, I thought, that sounds really bad. It wasn't easy to NOT respond, but I found out later that it didn't matter: No climber was ever found, and no one had been able to contact the reporting party. Could it have been a hoax? Or did a pilot (in a small plane, I assume) think he saw something he didn't?
Another call-out came last night, just as I was getting ready for bed. I had to be at the office at eight this morning (I work two days a week as a leasing agent at an apartment complex), but I decided to respond. Who needs sleep anyway? The message stated that two kids had wandered off from a broken-down school bus in the very rural Mormon Lake area about 45 minutes from Flagstaff. But not long after five of us got to The 105 building and had begun getting our equipment and ATVs ready, the kids were located. In fact, they were home already. All that was needed then were a couple of volunteers to go out to Mormon Lake and get the deputy's vehicle unstuck. So I went home and to bed instead.
And that's about it for now. I've read several missing person stories in the local paper recently, including one about a 29-year-old guy who walked away from Grand Canyon Village, where he lives and works for a concessionaire in the National Park, and hasn't been seen for at least a week. He was apparently upset at the time of his disappearance. But no clues to his whereabouts or destination have been found, and it's not even known if he's in the area. I keep thinking one of these articles will turn into a Coconino County Sheriff's Search and Rescue mission , but, so far nothin'.
Search and Rescue K-9: Our New Team Member, Cassie
A few months ago, just after our search and rescue team acquired a special member with an extra-special skill, I became part of our newly-formed K-9 committee. On January 17th, an article in the Arizona Daily Sun stated, "Like all volunteers with the Coconino County Sheriff's Office's Search and Rescue unit, Cassie wears a snappy vest with a departmental patch on it and a badge bearing her name and a photo. She's a dedicated professional, working daily to keep sharp her mind and body--especially her nose."
Though most trained working dogs usually cost thousands of dollars—I've heard figures up to $20,000—Cassie was donated to our unit by a Tuscon breeder who has also provided dogs to the Border Patrol Search, Trauma & Rescue Team.
Cassie now lives with Al and Joan, husband and wife members of our team, whom I first met during SAR Academy. Al is very agile and quick, and, being Cassie's primary handler, that athleticism certainly comes in handy. I recently had an opportunity to go out in the field with Al, another member of our committee, and Cassie, who works on a 30-foot lead, and that four-legged girl is fast, especially when she's sure she's on a scent. The three of us took her out for a training session, not only for Cassie but also for those of us who'll be working with her. And I was impressed.
During the training, we took turns getting lost. Then, whoever was handling Cassie would give her a sample of the scent, and off she'd go with handler in tow.
When it was my turn to lay the track, I tried to trip her up. I zigzagged along the route, circled a tree, jumped across some areas still covered with snow and, just before selecting a hiding place, went around a large water tank the more difficult way—clockwise—where the tank is up against a rock-covered slope. I went three-quarters of the way around the tank and then hid behind a tree.
Sure enough, Cassie found me. I was later told she did double-back at one point when she lost my trail, but she figured out where she'd gone wrong and picked it again. When she got to the water tank, Cassie followed my scent the way I'd walked instead of taking the easier and shorter route—counterclockwise—to where I was hiding, proving what I'd been told: that Cassie is a ground-scent tracker rather than a dog who follows an air scent. If she'd been following my air scent, she likely would have gone counterclockwise around the tank.
I'd assumed Cassie would be excited when she found the person she was tracking, but that wasn't the case. When she found me, she just kept sniffing around my feet, almost as if I weren't there. What she does get excited about is her toy. As the Daily Sun article pointed out, "Cassie doesn't work for treats, but she does earn plenty of praise and a fun tug-of-war session with a chunk of rubber hose attached to a long piece of rope." After Cassie completed each task, Al would pull out the toy as her reward, and she would go berzerk.
Another statement from that article definitely holds true, as I've found each time I've been around Cassie: "Not a hyperactive dog, but not one to sit still, Cassie smells chairs, asphalt, garbage bins, the floor, pant legs—her snout is in perpetual motion, twitching while it turns this way and that. This dog was born to sniff."
But the reporter did leave something off her list of where Cassie sticks her nose; when I first met her, it was like, "Wooh! Watch that big shnoz!" I've never met a dog who views and catalogs the world quite so much through its snout.
My primary role regarding Cassie will be as the "nav/comm" person, meaning the one who takes charge of the maps, GPS and compass, and radio while following—perhaps at times running—behind the handler, who will be too busy working with the search dog to navigate and communicate with incident command or other field teams at the same time. I'll also assist the other members of the committee with K-9 fundraising and community events to introduce Cassie to the public.
I've yet to work with Cassie on an actual mission, but I'm looking forward to being part of it when it happens. It's up to our coordinator, Sergeant D, to decide if a mission calls for Cassie's expertise, and I'm hoping we'll soon have an opportunity to show the public what she can do.
Though most trained working dogs usually cost thousands of dollars—I've heard figures up to $20,000—Cassie was donated to our unit by a Tuscon breeder who has also provided dogs to the Border Patrol Search, Trauma & Rescue Team.
Cassie now lives with Al and Joan, husband and wife members of our team, whom I first met during SAR Academy. Al is very agile and quick, and, being Cassie's primary handler, that athleticism certainly comes in handy. I recently had an opportunity to go out in the field with Al, another member of our committee, and Cassie, who works on a 30-foot lead, and that four-legged girl is fast, especially when she's sure she's on a scent. The three of us took her out for a training session, not only for Cassie but also for those of us who'll be working with her. And I was impressed.
During the training, we took turns getting lost. Then, whoever was handling Cassie would give her a sample of the scent, and off she'd go with handler in tow.
When it was my turn to lay the track, I tried to trip her up. I zigzagged along the route, circled a tree, jumped across some areas still covered with snow and, just before selecting a hiding place, went around a large water tank the more difficult way—clockwise—where the tank is up against a rock-covered slope. I went three-quarters of the way around the tank and then hid behind a tree.
Sure enough, Cassie found me. I was later told she did double-back at one point when she lost my trail, but she figured out where she'd gone wrong and picked it again. When she got to the water tank, Cassie followed my scent the way I'd walked instead of taking the easier and shorter route—counterclockwise—to where I was hiding, proving what I'd been told: that Cassie is a ground-scent tracker rather than a dog who follows an air scent. If she'd been following my air scent, she likely would have gone counterclockwise around the tank.
I'd assumed Cassie would be excited when she found the person she was tracking, but that wasn't the case. When she found me, she just kept sniffing around my feet, almost as if I weren't there. What she does get excited about is her toy. As the Daily Sun article pointed out, "Cassie doesn't work for treats, but she does earn plenty of praise and a fun tug-of-war session with a chunk of rubber hose attached to a long piece of rope." After Cassie completed each task, Al would pull out the toy as her reward, and she would go berzerk.
Another statement from that article definitely holds true, as I've found each time I've been around Cassie: "Not a hyperactive dog, but not one to sit still, Cassie smells chairs, asphalt, garbage bins, the floor, pant legs—her snout is in perpetual motion, twitching while it turns this way and that. This dog was born to sniff."
But the reporter did leave something off her list of where Cassie sticks her nose; when I first met her, it was like, "Wooh! Watch that big shnoz!" I've never met a dog who views and catalogs the world quite so much through its snout.
My primary role regarding Cassie will be as the "nav/comm" person, meaning the one who takes charge of the maps, GPS and compass, and radio while following—perhaps at times running—behind the handler, who will be too busy working with the search dog to navigate and communicate with incident command or other field teams at the same time. I'll also assist the other members of the committee with K-9 fundraising and community events to introduce Cassie to the public.
I've yet to work with Cassie on an actual mission, but I'm looking forward to being part of it when it happens. It's up to our coordinator, Sergeant D, to decide if a mission calls for Cassie's expertise, and I'm hoping we'll soon have an opportunity to show the public what she can do.
Never Too Early for a Joy-Ride
It's 4 a.m. We're on our way to search for a 25-year-old man named Jason. Jason decided to take his new, yellow Yamaha ATV for a spin at 1:00 this morning, riding loops around the campsite (and his wife). On one of those loops, Jason disappeared. Hmm...
In our briefing, under the heading of "Subject," we're given Jason's age, ethnicity, height, weight, and the fact that he's wearing all black clothing. It also states, "Reported to have ETOH on board." I have no idea what that is, so, going by the context, I sort of assume it's a drug. But, shame on me: I'm soon corrected when Al explains that ETOH is a fuel additive that gives the machine extra power. (I didn't know ATVs needed extra juice; they seem plenty powerful to me in their "natural state.") I'd have thought that detail would have been listed under the heading of "Vehicle," but anyhow...
We're also informed that Jason has with him a Mini-Maglite, cigarettes, and a lighter. He has no known medical conditions. I hope, given the circumstances, that that last bit of information still holds true. Darkness, trees, ditches, cinder hills, and a souped-up ATV don't necessarily mix all that well. And there's some indication that Jason may have tied one on, or at least had a few drinks, before he went for the ride. I'm thinking this isn't sounding so good.
As Al drives, I'm silently reviewing what I learned in Wilderness First Responder class about initial scene and patient assessment. This time, the blood and broken bones might be for real.
We're almost at the campsite now, bumping along a dirt road. Deputies have already been out in the area, searching, and the DPS helicopter is in the air for an "NVG" (night vision goggle) flight. But...
Oh. Never mind. Jason just walked into camp. Code 4, we hear over the radio. His ATV broke down somewhere along the power line. Well, we don't rescue ATVs, so back to The 105 to unload we go.
-----------------------------------
Later today, at 1:00 in the afternoon as Steve and I are finishing lunch at our favorite pizza place, my pager goes off again. I call in and hear that a father and three young children got their ATVs stuck in the mud.
I hang up without leaving a message, to think this one over for a minute. So, we have to go pull them out of the mud? Do I want to do that on this lazy weekend afternoon?
Seconds later, that becomes irrelevant when my pager goes off again. 10-22. Mission cancelled. That was fast.
-----------------------------------
At 4:50 p.m., my pager beeps for the fourth time today. By now, Steve and I are at home. I call in and Sergeant D's message says there's been a snowmobile accident with injuries, and the medics need assistance with access. He needs volunteers who can drive snowmobiles and the Thiakol. Well, I did drive a snowmobile about 12 years ago up at the North Rim. Does that count?
Probably not. We have a snowmobile training coming up on March 29th, which I'm scheduled to attend, so I guess I'll have to wait till after that. Still, I wonder if they could use my help anyway. But it doesn't matter now—a fifth page with another 10-22. What a day for some search and rescue, hurry up and wait, and cancel that!
In our briefing, under the heading of "Subject," we're given Jason's age, ethnicity, height, weight, and the fact that he's wearing all black clothing. It also states, "Reported to have ETOH on board." I have no idea what that is, so, going by the context, I sort of assume it's a drug. But, shame on me: I'm soon corrected when Al explains that ETOH is a fuel additive that gives the machine extra power. (I didn't know ATVs needed extra juice; they seem plenty powerful to me in their "natural state.") I'd have thought that detail would have been listed under the heading of "Vehicle," but anyhow...
We're also informed that Jason has with him a Mini-Maglite, cigarettes, and a lighter. He has no known medical conditions. I hope, given the circumstances, that that last bit of information still holds true. Darkness, trees, ditches, cinder hills, and a souped-up ATV don't necessarily mix all that well. And there's some indication that Jason may have tied one on, or at least had a few drinks, before he went for the ride. I'm thinking this isn't sounding so good.
As Al drives, I'm silently reviewing what I learned in Wilderness First Responder class about initial scene and patient assessment. This time, the blood and broken bones might be for real.
We're almost at the campsite now, bumping along a dirt road. Deputies have already been out in the area, searching, and the DPS helicopter is in the air for an "NVG" (night vision goggle) flight. But...
Oh. Never mind. Jason just walked into camp. Code 4, we hear over the radio. His ATV broke down somewhere along the power line. Well, we don't rescue ATVs, so back to The 105 to unload we go.
-----------------------------------
Later today, at 1:00 in the afternoon as Steve and I are finishing lunch at our favorite pizza place, my pager goes off again. I call in and hear that a father and three young children got their ATVs stuck in the mud.
I hang up without leaving a message, to think this one over for a minute. So, we have to go pull them out of the mud? Do I want to do that on this lazy weekend afternoon?
Seconds later, that becomes irrelevant when my pager goes off again. 10-22. Mission cancelled. That was fast.
-----------------------------------
At 4:50 p.m., my pager beeps for the fourth time today. By now, Steve and I are at home. I call in and Sergeant D's message says there's been a snowmobile accident with injuries, and the medics need assistance with access. He needs volunteers who can drive snowmobiles and the Thiakol. Well, I did drive a snowmobile about 12 years ago up at the North Rim. Does that count?
Probably not. We have a snowmobile training coming up on March 29th, which I'm scheduled to attend, so I guess I'll have to wait till after that. Still, I wonder if they could use my help anyway. But it doesn't matter now—a fifth page with another 10-22. What a day for some search and rescue, hurry up and wait, and cancel that!
SAR Is Hurry Up and Wait... and Wait
We've been standing here for two hours—me, two other volunteers, and Sergeant D—waiting to see if this is for real.
The helicopter flew earlier this afternoon and is now returning for another pass. For maybe a minute about an hour ago, I'd been sitting on an ATV with an armed police officer on another, but just as we were about to head out, a second officer arrived, and I had to give up my wheels and go back to just standing here. Darn, I was actually looking forward to getting some ATV experience. But... oh well.
The page came at around 5 p.m., while Steve and I were hanging out at a coffee shop. Apparently, a man in the area of Flagstaff's urban trail system (FUTS), in the woods south of Butler Avenue, had fallen and broken his leg and called for help. My husband said he could use some exercise and fresh air after sitting in that coffee shop for so long, so he offered to walk home and let me take the car to respond to the SAR building directly, and I accepted. The quicker I could get there the better since it would soon get dark and the injured hiker would be lying out there in pain, waiting for rescue. Now, however, we're not so sure the caller was a hiker. Or that he is injured.
When the team and our coordinator, Sergeant D, get to the staging area near Sam's Club—not the usual sort of location for a search and rescue mission to begin—a police officer is there, with two others already in the woods. The subject had contacted dispatch at least a couple more times since the original call, and, at one point, what sounded like arguing was heard in the background. Hence, the armed officers on ATVs.
Other interesting things came out of those subsequent calls. At first, the man said he had a green tent. Then it turned red. He said he had gasoline and a lighter, but, when asked to start a small signal fire, which the helicopter could spot, he refused, saying that would "hurt nature." The man would not even give his name. Given the search area, a popular place for transients to camp in the forest close to town, we're now thinking this man, who seems unwilling to participate in his own rescue, may just be jerking us around. Someone said he sounded drunk.
We hear on the radio that officers are talking to transients in the area, trying to figure out who may have called. One man tells them he thinks he knows who it was, but that lead goes nowhere. Wrong guy.
While all of this is going on, two members of our mounted unit show up. Huh, that's kind of strange for this type of mission. But Sergeant D explains that he was having trouble getting ground-pounders to respond tonight, so he made some calls to mounted. Many of our regulars are currently on an overnight as part of the "snow and ice" technical training, and others are out of town. Assuming this was a legitimate search and rescue mission—as he always would—Sergeant D wanted to get as many people out as possible.
Time goes on, and the horseback riders finish saddling up and head out to search. One of the ATV drivers returns for rope, to help get the other ATV out of the mud. And I keep standing here. Sergeant D suggests to dispatch that an officer go to the nearby convenience store and inquire about who may have recently purchased one of those disposable, prepaid cell phones. Sometimes store clerks get familiar with transients and can identify them. By now, the other two volunteers have gone back to the truck to keep warm and maybe take a nap, but I'm too nosy. So I just stand here some more.
Eventually, the officers return from the forest and decide that enough time and resources have been spent on this mission that seems to be going nowhere, with a supposed victim who won't help us help him. So they call their boss—the Police Chief, I assume—and Sergeant D calls his, and they receive permission to suspend. Sergeant D confirms that the caller was recorded, so he can enter those conversations into the report as evidence that the subject was being uncooperative.
We can't help but wonder if he's watching us from somewhere. Was this a test? Or was this guy just messing around? In any case, we tried.
The helicopter flew earlier this afternoon and is now returning for another pass. For maybe a minute about an hour ago, I'd been sitting on an ATV with an armed police officer on another, but just as we were about to head out, a second officer arrived, and I had to give up my wheels and go back to just standing here. Darn, I was actually looking forward to getting some ATV experience. But... oh well.
The page came at around 5 p.m., while Steve and I were hanging out at a coffee shop. Apparently, a man in the area of Flagstaff's urban trail system (FUTS), in the woods south of Butler Avenue, had fallen and broken his leg and called for help. My husband said he could use some exercise and fresh air after sitting in that coffee shop for so long, so he offered to walk home and let me take the car to respond to the SAR building directly, and I accepted. The quicker I could get there the better since it would soon get dark and the injured hiker would be lying out there in pain, waiting for rescue. Now, however, we're not so sure the caller was a hiker. Or that he is injured.
When the team and our coordinator, Sergeant D, get to the staging area near Sam's Club—not the usual sort of location for a search and rescue mission to begin—a police officer is there, with two others already in the woods. The subject had contacted dispatch at least a couple more times since the original call, and, at one point, what sounded like arguing was heard in the background. Hence, the armed officers on ATVs.
Other interesting things came out of those subsequent calls. At first, the man said he had a green tent. Then it turned red. He said he had gasoline and a lighter, but, when asked to start a small signal fire, which the helicopter could spot, he refused, saying that would "hurt nature." The man would not even give his name. Given the search area, a popular place for transients to camp in the forest close to town, we're now thinking this man, who seems unwilling to participate in his own rescue, may just be jerking us around. Someone said he sounded drunk.
We hear on the radio that officers are talking to transients in the area, trying to figure out who may have called. One man tells them he thinks he knows who it was, but that lead goes nowhere. Wrong guy.
While all of this is going on, two members of our mounted unit show up. Huh, that's kind of strange for this type of mission. But Sergeant D explains that he was having trouble getting ground-pounders to respond tonight, so he made some calls to mounted. Many of our regulars are currently on an overnight as part of the "snow and ice" technical training, and others are out of town. Assuming this was a legitimate search and rescue mission—as he always would—Sergeant D wanted to get as many people out as possible.
Time goes on, and the horseback riders finish saddling up and head out to search. One of the ATV drivers returns for rope, to help get the other ATV out of the mud. And I keep standing here. Sergeant D suggests to dispatch that an officer go to the nearby convenience store and inquire about who may have recently purchased one of those disposable, prepaid cell phones. Sometimes store clerks get familiar with transients and can identify them. By now, the other two volunteers have gone back to the truck to keep warm and maybe take a nap, but I'm too nosy. So I just stand here some more.
Eventually, the officers return from the forest and decide that enough time and resources have been spent on this mission that seems to be going nowhere, with a supposed victim who won't help us help him. So they call their boss—the Police Chief, I assume—and Sergeant D calls his, and they receive permission to suspend. Sergeant D confirms that the caller was recorded, so he can enter those conversations into the report as evidence that the subject was being uncooperative.
We can't help but wonder if he's watching us from somewhere. Was this a test? Or was this guy just messing around? In any case, we tried.
Searching for a Man and His Horse
If this call-out is for another out-of-bounds snowboarder, I'm not sure if I'll respond. It's after dark as usual, and not only am I tired but it's so cold out. My husband and dog are all wrapped up, warm and cozy in the blankets, as I call in to see what's going on. I just don't feel like I'm up to snowshoeing all night.
Oh. It's a call-out for a missing cowboy and his horse, and the cowboy is hearing impaired. Well... that's different.
I'd surely regret not responding, so I leave a message that I'm on my way. Two hours later, I'm riding with Al, towing the ATV trailer along a muddy dirt road, with Sergeant D in his patrol car and two other SAR vehicles ahead and one behind us. I hate to say it, but based on my own thoughts at the time my pager went off, I don't think another out-of-bound snowboarder or skier would have drawn quite as many volunteers from their beds on this frigid winter night.
Nearly four hours after the initial call, we finally reach the staging area. What a long drive, 31 miles of it slow-going on unpaved roads on Babbitt Ranches. It also took us a rather long time to get things ready at the SAR building, in part because we had some difficulty with the trailer hitch. I hope our missing cowboy isn't too cold out here, somewhere in all this vast, open space, as he waits to be found.
Now we're given our briefing and maps of the area—thousands of acres of grazing land with a network of dirt roads and very spread-out camps. The briefing says we're looking for a 28-year-old man named Brandon on a bay horse. Brandon is not wearing his hearing aids but does have a heavy jacket and a lighter. He did not, however, bring any food or water, which surprises me; I'd have assumed a cowboy out on the range would have some provisions, especially since his horse can carry both him and his gear.
Babbitt Ranch staff conducted a search earlier this evening when they realized Brandon was overdue, and the DPS helicopter is now en route. The other bit of information in the briefing is that Brandon has cancer and stopped taking his medication a week ago. Since that time, he's been vomiting and has been depressed. Oh. That certainly changes what I've been thinking. Maybe Brandon isn't actually lost, if you know what I mean. I try to shake off such a thought.
Tonight, I'm assigned to ride with a volunteer named Phillip, and we'll take one of the trucks to a cowboy camp where Brandon has been staying. We'll keep our eyes peeled along the way, of course. Meanwhile, four volunteers will be on ATVs and several others in SAR vehicles. Sergeant D will stay at the staging area, where he'll continue to gather information, plot any significant coordinates we call in, and alter our assignments as needed.
Phillip hands me the big map. "You're the navigator," he says. "If we get lost, it's your fault." I've never met Phillip before, but I glance over and he's smiling. I open the map and turn on my headlamp as we begin bumping along. Minutes later, I don't want to let on that I'm still looking for our current location. There are just too many lines on this thing. But I finally figure it out, just in time to tell Phillip to turn right. Seems there are many two-tracks out here that are not on the map. Great.
As the night passes and we drive, we stare into the blackness. There's a spotlight on the driver's side, but I'm limited to the beam of my flashlight. Periodically, I jump out to open a gate, then close it behind us as we make our way toward our destination. I half expect that, at any moment, a bay horse with an empty saddle, reigns hanging, will gallop out of the darkness and cross the path of our headlights. But the only movement we detect is the occasional form of a cow or a rabbit zipping across the road.
I see a light in the distance. How far off it is or how big, I can't tell. We stop driving and stare. Is it a campfire? One moment the light looks yellow, then it appears blue-ish. Phillip and I contemplate the light for several minutes, drive a little further, then stop and stare some more.
Eventually, Phillip says, "Why don't you go ahead and triangulate it so we can get a fix on the location." Um... triangulate. Right. I know we learned this in SAR academy. I know I need my compass. Yep.
I get out of the truck and hold the little thing in the palm of my hand. "You need to move away from the truck," Phillip tells me through the open window. "The metal will interfere." I knew that. So I move several yards and once again hold up the compass. Shoot, I can't remember. I swallow my pride and go back to ask for help.
When Phillip gets out and shows me what to do, I feel silly. I knew that.
We take a bearing on the light, then transfer it to our map and draw a line. Then we drive further, to another known point, and take another bearing, draw another line, and find that the intersection of the two lines is off the map. Whatever that light source is, it's far away, and Phillip now seems quite sure it's not a campfire but rather a street lamp or a light on a building. He thinks it appears to flicker because something—a tree branch perhaps—is between us and it, and the branch or other object is bobbing in the breeze. Okay, I guess I'll accept that.
We move on and eventually arrive at the camp, which is composed of buildings, not tents as I'd thought. No one is home but some cows and horses in the corral. No bay horses, either. As another SAR team is following some horse prints that could have been made by any cowboy's horse, Phillip and I make the long drive back to Incident Command, receive our next assignment, and head out again. I'm struggling to stay awake in the passenger seat as the horizon begins to brighten.
Ranger, the DPS helicopter, flies over our current location, which is a large, dry stock tank. (In the southwest, a stock tank is a man-made watering hole for livestock.) Phillip and I are out of the vehicle now, and he's wandering around the perimeter of the tank. I feel a bit lost, myself. Wide open spaces like this—that is, searching for a comparatively small human being in such a vast area—kind of confounds me. Where to look? Again, too many choices. So I just start walking around, looking at the ground then into the distance. There are a lot of pinion pine and juniper bushes in this area, any one of which could be hiding a person or even a horse from view. I squint and look as far off as I can, trying to see what probably isn't there.
It's now morning, full light, and we hear on the radio that Sergeant D has made a second call-out for more volunteers, including the mounted unit. After nearly 12 hours, those of us who've been searching all night will soon need a rest. In fact, Sergeant D just called Phillip and me and told us to take at least a half-hour break right where we are.
But that break doesn't last more than a few minutes. Brandon is found! Turns out, the ATV team following the horse prints had picked the right set of hoof prints after all. Brandon is a bit disoriented and very hungry, but he's otherwise Code 4: He's okay. What a relief!
Phillip and I plot the coordinates just given by the team who've located the subject and find that he isn't very far from our location. Less than a mile away in a drainage area. Interesting that he didn't stick to a road since his job for yesterday was to ride a particular two-track to check on some cattle and return the way he'd come. No idea how he got lost, but I guess that's not really so important, at least not to us. Still, it's tough not to be curious.
Another curious thing is that Sergeant D had contacted Brandon's family who live out of state, and they say he's in perfect health. No mention of cancer as another cowboy suggested or any other medical problems. Well, I guess we volunteers may never know for sure. But that's the way it goes—in SAR, we find and we rescue but often don't get the whole story, either before or after the mission. Oh well, at least all ends well yet again, and that's what matters most.
Oh. It's a call-out for a missing cowboy and his horse, and the cowboy is hearing impaired. Well... that's different.
I'd surely regret not responding, so I leave a message that I'm on my way. Two hours later, I'm riding with Al, towing the ATV trailer along a muddy dirt road, with Sergeant D in his patrol car and two other SAR vehicles ahead and one behind us. I hate to say it, but based on my own thoughts at the time my pager went off, I don't think another out-of-bound snowboarder or skier would have drawn quite as many volunteers from their beds on this frigid winter night.
Nearly four hours after the initial call, we finally reach the staging area. What a long drive, 31 miles of it slow-going on unpaved roads on Babbitt Ranches. It also took us a rather long time to get things ready at the SAR building, in part because we had some difficulty with the trailer hitch. I hope our missing cowboy isn't too cold out here, somewhere in all this vast, open space, as he waits to be found.
Now we're given our briefing and maps of the area—thousands of acres of grazing land with a network of dirt roads and very spread-out camps. The briefing says we're looking for a 28-year-old man named Brandon on a bay horse. Brandon is not wearing his hearing aids but does have a heavy jacket and a lighter. He did not, however, bring any food or water, which surprises me; I'd have assumed a cowboy out on the range would have some provisions, especially since his horse can carry both him and his gear.
Babbitt Ranch staff conducted a search earlier this evening when they realized Brandon was overdue, and the DPS helicopter is now en route. The other bit of information in the briefing is that Brandon has cancer and stopped taking his medication a week ago. Since that time, he's been vomiting and has been depressed. Oh. That certainly changes what I've been thinking. Maybe Brandon isn't actually lost, if you know what I mean. I try to shake off such a thought.
Tonight, I'm assigned to ride with a volunteer named Phillip, and we'll take one of the trucks to a cowboy camp where Brandon has been staying. We'll keep our eyes peeled along the way, of course. Meanwhile, four volunteers will be on ATVs and several others in SAR vehicles. Sergeant D will stay at the staging area, where he'll continue to gather information, plot any significant coordinates we call in, and alter our assignments as needed.
Phillip hands me the big map. "You're the navigator," he says. "If we get lost, it's your fault." I've never met Phillip before, but I glance over and he's smiling. I open the map and turn on my headlamp as we begin bumping along. Minutes later, I don't want to let on that I'm still looking for our current location. There are just too many lines on this thing. But I finally figure it out, just in time to tell Phillip to turn right. Seems there are many two-tracks out here that are not on the map. Great.
As the night passes and we drive, we stare into the blackness. There's a spotlight on the driver's side, but I'm limited to the beam of my flashlight. Periodically, I jump out to open a gate, then close it behind us as we make our way toward our destination. I half expect that, at any moment, a bay horse with an empty saddle, reigns hanging, will gallop out of the darkness and cross the path of our headlights. But the only movement we detect is the occasional form of a cow or a rabbit zipping across the road.
I see a light in the distance. How far off it is or how big, I can't tell. We stop driving and stare. Is it a campfire? One moment the light looks yellow, then it appears blue-ish. Phillip and I contemplate the light for several minutes, drive a little further, then stop and stare some more.
Eventually, Phillip says, "Why don't you go ahead and triangulate it so we can get a fix on the location." Um... triangulate. Right. I know we learned this in SAR academy. I know I need my compass. Yep.
I get out of the truck and hold the little thing in the palm of my hand. "You need to move away from the truck," Phillip tells me through the open window. "The metal will interfere." I knew that. So I move several yards and once again hold up the compass. Shoot, I can't remember. I swallow my pride and go back to ask for help.
When Phillip gets out and shows me what to do, I feel silly. I knew that.
We take a bearing on the light, then transfer it to our map and draw a line. Then we drive further, to another known point, and take another bearing, draw another line, and find that the intersection of the two lines is off the map. Whatever that light source is, it's far away, and Phillip now seems quite sure it's not a campfire but rather a street lamp or a light on a building. He thinks it appears to flicker because something—a tree branch perhaps—is between us and it, and the branch or other object is bobbing in the breeze. Okay, I guess I'll accept that.
We move on and eventually arrive at the camp, which is composed of buildings, not tents as I'd thought. No one is home but some cows and horses in the corral. No bay horses, either. As another SAR team is following some horse prints that could have been made by any cowboy's horse, Phillip and I make the long drive back to Incident Command, receive our next assignment, and head out again. I'm struggling to stay awake in the passenger seat as the horizon begins to brighten.
Ranger, the DPS helicopter, flies over our current location, which is a large, dry stock tank. (In the southwest, a stock tank is a man-made watering hole for livestock.) Phillip and I are out of the vehicle now, and he's wandering around the perimeter of the tank. I feel a bit lost, myself. Wide open spaces like this—that is, searching for a comparatively small human being in such a vast area—kind of confounds me. Where to look? Again, too many choices. So I just start walking around, looking at the ground then into the distance. There are a lot of pinion pine and juniper bushes in this area, any one of which could be hiding a person or even a horse from view. I squint and look as far off as I can, trying to see what probably isn't there.
It's now morning, full light, and we hear on the radio that Sergeant D has made a second call-out for more volunteers, including the mounted unit. After nearly 12 hours, those of us who've been searching all night will soon need a rest. In fact, Sergeant D just called Phillip and me and told us to take at least a half-hour break right where we are.
But that break doesn't last more than a few minutes. Brandon is found! Turns out, the ATV team following the horse prints had picked the right set of hoof prints after all. Brandon is a bit disoriented and very hungry, but he's otherwise Code 4: He's okay. What a relief!
Phillip and I plot the coordinates just given by the team who've located the subject and find that he isn't very far from our location. Less than a mile away in a drainage area. Interesting that he didn't stick to a road since his job for yesterday was to ride a particular two-track to check on some cattle and return the way he'd come. No idea how he got lost, but I guess that's not really so important, at least not to us. Still, it's tough not to be curious.
Another curious thing is that Sergeant D had contacted Brandon's family who live out of state, and they say he's in perfect health. No mention of cancer as another cowboy suggested or any other medical problems. Well, I guess we volunteers may never know for sure. But that's the way it goes—in SAR, we find and we rescue but often don't get the whole story, either before or after the mission. Oh well, at least all ends well yet again, and that's what matters most.
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.
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.
Not Always "Code 4"
My feet are wet. We've been down here in Pumphouse Wash for hours. Most of the time, we've struggled along the edges of the frozen pools, maneuvering over snow-covered boulders and brush, sometimes post-holing up to our hips. Occasionally, we cross over the ice if the going looks easier on the other side or if something "over there" warrants a closer look. I've broken through the ice several times, submerging one boot or the other, but even Gor-Tex doesn't help when water gets in over the top. At least I'm dressed for the conditions, though. We're told the man we're looking for, a 38 year-old husband and father of two named Stephan, is not.
Tonight, four of us are following a set of tracks we know for sure belong to our subject. We know this because his car is parked just off the road above, and we could see his prints heading away from the vehicle. We also know they're his prints because one of the four of us who are down in the wash is Stephan's best friend, searching with us whether we like it or not, and apparently he's familiar with the shoes Stephan is wearing. They're like trail-runners—not the best choice of footwear for a walk in the snow.
Why don't we want Stephan's friend with us? Well, in part, because his adrenaline—his urgency to find Stephan—is making him move too fast, so we're going too fast trying to catch up with him. An important lesson we're taught in Basic SAR training is to take our time. For one thing, moving too quickly may cause one of us to get hurt, and if a SAR member is injured, the search is suspended to deal with that immediate situation. That, of course, takes up precious time, which can make a crucial difference to the lost and possibly injured victim. Also, if we're rushing, we may miss or obscure vital clues. Right now, we're afraid that, in his haste, Stephan's friend might walk over tracks or perhaps even pass by Stephan himself, who may not be able to respond. I think, by this time, we're all silently worried.
Stephan's wife was the one who knew something was wrong, when it got dark and he hadn't returned from what was supposed to be a short afternoon hike beginning at about noon. Being a long-time local resident and avid hiker, he's familiar with Pumphouse Wash, which is pretty close to the road in this area, so we're thinking he may be hurt. Maybe Stephan went as far as the waterfall, now frozen I'd guess, and fell. Maybe he broke his leg. We're told he's in good physical condition and has even taken wilderness survival classes, but today Stephan left his backpack in his car. Perhaps he thought, since it was sunny and he wasn't going all that far, he wouldn't need any gear or extra layers of clothing.
But now, the once-sunny and relatively mild winter day has become a clear and extremely cold night. The snow is glittering in the moonlight and it's beautiful down in the wash, surrounded by ponderosa pine under a star-filled sky, but that's just a fleeting thought as I concentrate on the search and try to ignore my own growing discomfort.
After descending into the wash via a small drainage, Stephan chose to walk on the ice, where there is enough of a dusting of snow to make his prints fairly easy to spot with our flashlights. While my two SAR companions and Stephan's friend follow the prints, however, I scan the slopes on either side, just in case Stephan tried to climb back up at some point. I'm afraid that if we're all looking in the same direction, we might miss something.
Tonight, we have several groups of SAR volunteers spread out in the area, while Sergeant D is at Incident Command back up at the road. When we arrived at approximately 9 p.m. at the site where Stephan left his car, his friend was already there. It seems he, along with his wife and Stephan's wife, had gone out earlier in the evening to have a look on their own, but they followed the prints only a short distance before calling the sheriff's office.
Once we arrived, Sergeant D gave us our instructions, and three of us—myself and two very experienced volunteers—began following the prints with Stephan's friend following us. When we reached the point where Stephan had turned and headed into the side drainage, we asked his friend to return to the road to talk to the deputy. Knowing Stephan so well and having hiked with him many times, he might be able to share more information that would aid in the search—it's where he could be of the most help, my teammates explained. He reluctantly agreed.
Maybe an hour and a half later, however, Stephan's friend came bushwhacking down into the wash again, having slipped away from Incident Command, and intercepted the three of us. This time, though, we call out and tell the friend to stop and wait for us. I stare at the ground, embarrassed, as one of my teammates gives him a polite but stern talking-to, then explains why we do things the way we do. After some objection, he agrees to cooperate and do things "our way."
As we now continue the search at the proper pace, at times losing the tracks then soon picking them up again, we listen to occasional radio communications. The other field teams are searching either side of the wash from above. Ranger, the DPS helicopter, is overhead, sometimes flying directly over our position, briefly illuminating the area like midday. In those moments, I look anywhere and everywhere I can, hoping to spot something I'd missed in the dark. Our shouts into the night are not returned.
Eventually, the tracks we're following seem to stop and shuffle, as if Stephan was looking around, trying to make a decision. The most experienced among us is very helpful, explaining what information he's learning from the prints and what additional clues he's seeing—things my inexperienced eyes don't pick up on until they're pointed out to me. As we go along, however, I'm finding that I'm seeing more, understanding more. It's like reading a story in those prints and other clues.
And now we see something else: some of Stephan's footprints are pointing in the opposite direction from the way we've come. Did he take just a few steps back and then turn around again? We aren't sure. We keep following the tracks in our original direction until, finally, we know for certain Stephan had turned around.
At that point, we find something more: his digital camera lying on the ice. His friend is now very excited. Agitated almost. "That's his! That's Stephan's camera!" he exclaims. He tries to turn it on to see what pictures Stephan may have taken and if perhaps they'd give us any more clues, but the camera battery is dead, frozen, or both.
We now see that Stephan's prints keep going in the opposite direction, often right alongside his first set of tracks. Why hadn't we noticed that earlier? Was it because we were going too fast? That second set of prints leads all the way back to where he initially came down into the wash, but the tracks don't turn uphill into the side drainage. Instead, they pass by that point and head further up the wash.
How come we hadn't spotted that—that the footprints went in both directions—when we first got down here? Perhaps because it made more sense that Stephan had gone down the wash, toward the waterfall. We've been told there's a large pool below the waterfall that Stephan may have wanted to check out, maybe to take his kids skating on it when the ice is thick enough.
We keep following in Stephan's footsteps another difficult quarter-mile or so. And now it appears he's begun to fall, causing large chunks of ice to crack under the weight of his body. His prints are zigzagging, no longer going in a more direct line. That's not a good sign—his coordination seems to be failing. A sure sign of hypothermia.
Each time we lose Stephan's track then discover another print, one of us says, "I've got him!" In fact, I think that's what we've been saying all night. Why we've said it that way, I have no idea. But, walking behind my companions, I'm so used to hearing, "I've got him!" that I assume, this time, my teammate is seeing yet another footprint.
But when I take a few more steps, then move to the side to look, my heart stops. "Oh my God!" is what comes out of my mouth, in a voice that doesn't sound like my own. This time, it really is him.
We all know Stephan is dead, lying there on his back, his arms bent at the elbows as if he just sunk to his knees and lay down on the ice. Frozen. I can't take my eyes off of him. I'm shocked though not surprised, if that makes any sense. Stephan's friend is standing over him, silent, as my teammate feels for a pulse. He tries again, this time for more than a minute. Just to be sure.
Several hours later at about 7 a.m., following the recovery of Stephan's body, we're back at the Sheriff's office, sitting in a circle, waiting to get this mandatory debriefing over with. It's a counseling session, basically, with three specialists who haven't arrived yet. But we're all exhausted and just want to go home. And I think we all agree: It isn't the sight of death that bothers us—it's that the mission ended this way. That a young, healthy, experienced hiker who knew the area and was so close to his vehicle—so close to warmth and safety—who could have worked up a sweat in no time if he'd only just headed back uphill toward his car, apparently died of hypothermia.
We're now told he probably died even before we were called out to search. When we first found Stephan, I remember immediately thinking of his wife, how we had glanced at one another as I'd walked past her as we began the search. I wonder what she was thinking. But I'm too tired to talk about any of it right now.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)