Okay, now I don't feel so bad about missing Monday night's mission during the blizzard. I just finished 24 hours of SAR time in two days.
First, about that stranded family with the small kids: I heard from a couple of teammates that the subjectswere located at around 4:00 on Tuesday morning in good condition. Eight members of our team had driven five hours in extremely poor conditions and were close to the search area when the family was found by another agency with a snowcat. So, our team turned around, stopped for breakfast, and made it back to Flagstaff at 11 a.m. What a night!
On Tuesday, when I finished digging out my mom after digging out myself—digging out our driveways and my vehicle, I mean—I fished my cellphone out of my pocket three layers down and saw that I had a message. It was SAR. I contacted our coordinator to see if they'd left yet, and he said to come on down.
Seven hours later, we were back at the SAR building after rescuing two stranded elk hunters who were stuck several snow-covered miles down a Forest Service road. Their vehicles and those belonging to dozens of other hunters may very well have to wait till spring to be back on pavement again.
But the rescues weren't over on Tuesday night. In fact, they're still ongoing today, Thursday, and may continue into the weekend, with SAR crews, Forest Service and DPS personnel, and other agencies using snowcats, snowmobiles, vehicles with Mattrax, and helicopters to carry out the rescues.
What I'm wondering is, aside from all of those who've been able to call for help with their cellphones, how many others are stuck in forests around the county who've not been able to contact anyone? I know helicopters have been launched to search from above, and snowmobile and snowcat crews are searching as they make runs to extract known subjects. I hope folks have left detailed itineraries with family or friends at home, in case they aren't accounted for and we need to go looking for them.
Here's an article from the Arizona Daily Sun, detailing some of the rescues. They mention the number 30, but I was told there are many more than that: Stranded Hunters Holding Out
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.
Snowed In
I don't like not responding to a SAR call. It bothers me, and I feel like I should be out there helping instead of staying comfortable at home. Maybe that's silly—we all can't be available all the time. And this time, I was stuck on Observatory Mesa with almost two feet of snow on and around my car, on the roads, and on the big, twisty hill that leads down into town, which hadn't been plowed for hours (See Flagtaff neighborhoods snowed in).
It was somewhere around 11 p.m. and still snowing and blowing with a vengeance, with ice and pine boughs clattering against our bedroom window when the phone rang. I knew it was SAR before I even looked at the phone.
And I wanted to go, but I knew I couldn't get the car out and down the hill anytime soon. So, I called the SAR coordinator on duty and told him I could snowshoe into town if someone could pick me up. Heck, I could snowshoe all the way to the SAR building, but that would take a while. He told me he'd call me back in 20 minutes if he needed me.
So, I turned on the light and read for a while, waiting. I could be dressed and snowshoeing in about five minutes if he called. But the phone didn't ring a second time.
The call-out message said a family with three very young children was "stuck in a snowbank somewhere" on the Mogollon Rim. That would be about an hour-and-a-half drive in good weather. I'd heard on the scanner that part of Lake Mary Road was closed due to snow drifts, so a drive to the rim right now would also include a detour around Mormon Lake. In those conditions, towing the snowcat and snowmobiles could easily take hours.
I thought about my teammates—whoever was out there—throughout the night, wondering how it was going. I thought about the stranded family, too. Sometimes, the Mogollon Rim gets more snow than we do here in Flagstaff, and we were pushing past two feet by the middle of the night.
So I don't know what happened last night or if the team is even back yet. If I hear anything or read something in the paper, I'll let you know. In the meantime, it's back outside to continue digging out, so I can be ready for the next call.
Communication Is Key
Why does it often seem like family members don't communicate as well as strangers do?
I don't mean to sound cranky. Besides, I enjoy SAR missions and the company of my teammates. But looking for those who aren't lost and who don't even know they're missing can get to be a drag. Not that we have any way of knowing that until the person is found, of course.
And not that I blame the parents for worrying and calling 9-1-1 when they realized their grown daughter hadn't returned to their family campsite. She had left on Tuesday morning in her truck with the big horse trailer, two horses, and one dog. Early Wednesday morning, her parents discovered she hadn't returned. So of course they were concerned.
But apparently there had either been a miscommunication or, more likely, a lack of it, because the subject was found in good condition, oblivious to the fact that anyone was looking for her. That is, until the DPS helicopter landed nearby after spotting the truck and trailer from the air and soon made contact with her. Then those of us searching Forest Service roads heard the confirmation and "Code 4" over the radio and began making our way back to Incident Command. But I guess the never-lost lady decided to continue with what she'd been doing rather than return to the family's campsite to see her folks, who were very grateful for our efforts, we were told.
The team rendezvoused at our staging area, debriefed, and then drove the hour and a half back to Flagstaff, refueled the vehicles, put all of the equipment away, and went home following that seven-hour mission.
And that's about all there is to say about that one.
Wilderness First Responder
I was nearing the end of my one-year grace period for getting my Wilderness First Responder (WFR) recertification. If I didn't recertify in time, I'd have to take the full 80-hour course all over again (for a third time) to get that WFR card, so I signed up for a two-day Wilderness First Aid (WFA) class, held this past weekend at the law enforcement complex here in Flagstaff. The WFA class can be used in place of the standard three-day WFR recert course, with a written test and practical exam tacked onto the normal WFA curriculum.
So, what is all this WFR and WFA stuff, you ask, and does a volunteer have to be certified in one or the other to participate with search and rescue?
As for the second question, no. At least not here in Coconino County. SAR volunteers are not required to have medical training—though many do, including some EMTs, paramedics, and nurses on the team—and we're limited to Basic Life Support (BLS) as far as the medical care we can give in the backcountry, along with some splinting. But I'm sure this varies among SAR teams.
In my case, I haven't had the opportunity to use much of what I've learned in WFR courses "for real" in the field. Yet. But I feel better having the training in case I ever do need to make use of it, either in SAR or as a recreational hiker if I come across someone who's injured or ill in the backcountry. And, by "backcountry" I mean more than one hour from definitive medical care. That's the line used to differentiate between wilderness and urban medicine. With the number of SAR missions I go on and the amount of hiking I do on my own, chances are that, sooner or later, I'll have to put that WFR training to use.
Even if you're already an EMT, paramedic, nurse, or doctor, if all of your training is in urban medical care, I think some wilderness medical training would be great to have if you ever work or travel in the backcountry. This is because the backcountry environment means extended contact with a patient, whose condition and needs may change over time. It also means less-than-ideal conditions, like heat and cold, rain and wind, altitude and darkness, all of which can lead to increased stress on you, the rescuer. Improvisation is another thing that also goes hand-in-hand with wilderness medicine, when we often have only the gear on our backs and maybe a patient's gear to use to treat and splint.
A great book that really drives home the conditions faced by wilderness medical providers is Mountain Rescue Doctor: Wilderness Medicine in the Extremes of Nature
by Christopher Van Tilberg, a member of Oregon's Crag Rats SAR team. You can read my review of the book in Wilderness Survival and Rescue Reading.
As far as wilderness medicine classes, here are general course descriptions:
Wilderness First Aid is a fast-paced, 16- to 24-hour class given over two or three days, covering a wide range of wilderness medicine topics for people who travel and work in the outdoors. Half the class time is spent completing practical skills, case studies, and scenarios, so students aren't just sitting and listening to an instructor the whole time but are instead putting their new skills to use constantly.
The next step up from WFA is the 40-hour Wilderness Advanced First Aid, a five-day class focusing on stabilization, treatment, and evacuation guidelines of patients in backcountry environments. There's more emphasis on long-term patient care and specific injury evaluation than in the WFA class.
The Wilderness First Responder course is an 80-hour curriculum designed to provide students with "the tools to make critical medical and evacuation decisions in remote locations"(NOLS). Like WFA, WFR students are constantly practicing their skills by participating in scenarios and case studies. Adult & Child CPR is also included in this course.
And then there's Wilderness EMT certification (W-EMT), the highest level of wilderness medicine training available. This is a 180-hour, month-long class that combines wilderness medicine with urban medical care practices, including time at a hospital and in an ambulance.
I took my first WFR class in 1996 with SOLO and my second 80-hour course as well as recert through the Wilderness Medicine Institute, a branch of the National Outdoor Leadership School.
So, what is all this WFR and WFA stuff, you ask, and does a volunteer have to be certified in one or the other to participate with search and rescue?
As for the second question, no. At least not here in Coconino County. SAR volunteers are not required to have medical training—though many do, including some EMTs, paramedics, and nurses on the team—and we're limited to Basic Life Support (BLS) as far as the medical care we can give in the backcountry, along with some splinting. But I'm sure this varies among SAR teams.
In my case, I haven't had the opportunity to use much of what I've learned in WFR courses "for real" in the field. Yet. But I feel better having the training in case I ever do need to make use of it, either in SAR or as a recreational hiker if I come across someone who's injured or ill in the backcountry. And, by "backcountry" I mean more than one hour from definitive medical care. That's the line used to differentiate between wilderness and urban medicine. With the number of SAR missions I go on and the amount of hiking I do on my own, chances are that, sooner or later, I'll have to put that WFR training to use.
Even if you're already an EMT, paramedic, nurse, or doctor, if all of your training is in urban medical care, I think some wilderness medical training would be great to have if you ever work or travel in the backcountry. This is because the backcountry environment means extended contact with a patient, whose condition and needs may change over time. It also means less-than-ideal conditions, like heat and cold, rain and wind, altitude and darkness, all of which can lead to increased stress on you, the rescuer. Improvisation is another thing that also goes hand-in-hand with wilderness medicine, when we often have only the gear on our backs and maybe a patient's gear to use to treat and splint.
by Christopher Van Tilberg, a member of Oregon's Crag Rats SAR team. You can read my review of the book in Wilderness Survival and Rescue Reading.As far as wilderness medicine classes, here are general course descriptions:
Wilderness First Aid is a fast-paced, 16- to 24-hour class given over two or three days, covering a wide range of wilderness medicine topics for people who travel and work in the outdoors. Half the class time is spent completing practical skills, case studies, and scenarios, so students aren't just sitting and listening to an instructor the whole time but are instead putting their new skills to use constantly.
The next step up from WFA is the 40-hour Wilderness Advanced First Aid, a five-day class focusing on stabilization, treatment, and evacuation guidelines of patients in backcountry environments. There's more emphasis on long-term patient care and specific injury evaluation than in the WFA class.
The Wilderness First Responder course is an 80-hour curriculum designed to provide students with "the tools to make critical medical and evacuation decisions in remote locations"(NOLS). Like WFA, WFR students are constantly practicing their skills by participating in scenarios and case studies. Adult & Child CPR is also included in this course.
And then there's Wilderness EMT certification (W-EMT), the highest level of wilderness medicine training available. This is a 180-hour, month-long class that combines wilderness medicine with urban medical care practices, including time at a hospital and in an ambulance.
I took my first WFR class in 1996 with SOLO and my second 80-hour course as well as recert through the Wilderness Medicine Institute, a branch of the National Outdoor Leadership School.
Trusting My Gear and My Teammates
Have I mentioned that I'm a bit afraid of heights? Well, make that afraid of "exposure" more like. Either way, being suspended 100 feet above the ground between two sides of a canyon isn't exactly within my comfort zone.
But that's where I found myself on Saturday, with some of my technical rescue teammates on one side of the canyon at Paradise Forks, lowering me, and the others on the opposite side, raising. There was a main line and a belay line on either side, with me somewhere in the middle, hanging while attached to all four ropes.
I could have said no. More than one of my teammates said, "Deb, if you don't feel comfortable with this, no problem. You don't have to do it." I may have hesitated at that suggestion for a split second, but I said, "No, I'm fine with it."
I tried my best to look and sound at ease. Besides, it's better I do it—go over the edge—as much as possible, to get more comfortable with the skills and with the feeling of trusting my life to gear and teammates.
And I couldn't be safer than with SAR. We do things carefully, with redundancy and with safety checks. As I was tying into the main and belay lines, a teammate was watching closely. Then I was checked over by three other experienced people—everything from my seat and chest harnesses to my caribiners and knots. The safety officer for the exercise also checked all anchors and main line and belay setups. Then, when all team members were ready, I walked off the edge. Wheeee!
Truth be told, it was actually quite fun. A teammate later told me I had a bit of a "newborn giraffe" look when I was temporarily set down on a pinnacle around mid-canyon, but I soon got my feet under me and stood up on my own. Then I was once again lifted and brought the rest of the way across the canyon. It turned out to be a very smooth ride.
One very useful, real-world example of how this maneuver would come in handy would be if, say, a victim were stranded on some sort of pinnacle like the one where I was briefly set down or on the top of a vehicle trapped in swiftwater. A rescuer could be lowered and suspended to a point somewhere between two stable sides, to where the victim is located, do a pick-off or package a patient in a litter, and then be raised along with that victim to either side.
This Saturday's tech team practice also included working with a guiding line, used to keep rescuer and rescue-ee away from rock walls and obstacles, making the lower and raise easier on both. I thought these setups were pretty fascinating, and I was excited to be part of them and to find that I could actually be useful. By George, I'm learnin' me stuff!
I've honestly been nervous that I wouldn't remember some of the basics when we'd move on to more advanced skills, even though I've been practicing those basics on the side. But I now realize that the basics come into play all the time. They're a foundation for the more advanced skills, so I get to use them even as we advance to more complex maneuvers. I find this all pretty exciting, though I still not have the nerves. And maybe that's a good thing. Getting too comfortable can lead to errors, so I've heard and read.
Other than training, we've also had a couple of call-outs. One ended quickly when a teammate who responded directly to the last known point (LKP) because he lives nearby, found the subject soon after he started searching. Not a happy ending, I'm afraid.
Then, last night, our team was called to assist Navajo PD in locating an overdue hunter on the reservation. The man was found... well, he found us... and was just fine. In fact, he was wondering who we were all looking for. Just a case of miscommunication with the reporting party, so it seems.
Oh, and finally (for now), on a recreational note: I recently went on a great hiking and car-camping trip to northern Arizona and southern Utah in the Paria-Vermillion Cliffs Wilderness Area, where I visited a place called White Pocket and the now internationally known Wave. Here's one of the many photos I took of the Wave before my camera went kaput (again):
If you want to see more of my pics and read an article I wrote about the hike, see Hiking The Wave In Coyote Buttes.
Now off to replenish the snack supply in my 24-hour pack before our next call-out.
A Trail Lost
There one minute (sort of) and gone the next. It happens a lot.
The guidebook they were using has only hand-drawn, cartoony maps that sure don't lend themselves to good navigation. It's a popular guidebook by a well-known local hiker and mountain biker, but all it's really useful for is deciding where to hike. From there, a topo map along with a Flagstaff or Sedona trails map is what you need.
The Harding Trail, which is the hike our subjects had chosen for the day that turned into a long night, is very difficult to follow on the rim, with sporadic and confusing cairns and what I'm told is barely visible, if not altogether invisible, trail in some places.
Despite the less-than-adequate guidebook amp, the two lost ladies were better prepared than some. They had water and snacks. They had a light source (although I think they had just one between the two of them). They had the means to start a campfire and the ability to make and receive phone calls with their charged-up cellphone. They also stayed put until we found them. Then we put out their campfire with our extra water, gave the chilly hikers extra layers of clothing from our warm-up bag, and walked them back to the SAR vehicles. From there, they were given a ride back to the campground below in Oak Creek Canyon, where they had left their vehicle.
And what a great turnout we had for the team. I didn't actually count, but we had at least 16 people show up for this Monday-night search. We had two teams of two on ATVs, driving Forest Service roads and rough two-tracks. We had teams in SUVs, also searching roads (the lost hikers had reported they were on a road, though it turned out to be a no-longer-used, barely-discernible road), and four of us were designated as a hiking team.
After we four hikers also searched by vehicle for a while, we parked the truck and headed cross-country toward the trail, which runs along the rim of Oak Creek Canyon, calling and blowing our whistles as we went. Just as we thought we heard a distant shout, DPS Ranger (the helicopter) showed up, spotted the subjects' campfire, and briefly hovered above them.
We searchers headed in the general direction the helicopter had hovered, less than a half-mile from our location. As we continued to hike, I entered into my GPS the coordinates Ranger had given to Incident Command and confirmed our distance and direction to the subjects, whose responses to our calls were growing louder. Within minutes, we arrived to find two relieved ladies in good shape, standing close to their warming fire.
I was home at 1:30 a.m.
Now it's off for a few days to the Escalante area in Utah to do some hiking. Hopefully, my SAR friend and I will get one of the daily permits to hike The Wave. I've heard it's awesome.
The guidebook they were using has only hand-drawn, cartoony maps that sure don't lend themselves to good navigation. It's a popular guidebook by a well-known local hiker and mountain biker, but all it's really useful for is deciding where to hike. From there, a topo map along with a Flagstaff or Sedona trails map is what you need.
The Harding Trail, which is the hike our subjects had chosen for the day that turned into a long night, is very difficult to follow on the rim, with sporadic and confusing cairns and what I'm told is barely visible, if not altogether invisible, trail in some places.
Despite the less-than-adequate guidebook amp, the two lost ladies were better prepared than some. They had water and snacks. They had a light source (although I think they had just one between the two of them). They had the means to start a campfire and the ability to make and receive phone calls with their charged-up cellphone. They also stayed put until we found them. Then we put out their campfire with our extra water, gave the chilly hikers extra layers of clothing from our warm-up bag, and walked them back to the SAR vehicles. From there, they were given a ride back to the campground below in Oak Creek Canyon, where they had left their vehicle.
And what a great turnout we had for the team. I didn't actually count, but we had at least 16 people show up for this Monday-night search. We had two teams of two on ATVs, driving Forest Service roads and rough two-tracks. We had teams in SUVs, also searching roads (the lost hikers had reported they were on a road, though it turned out to be a no-longer-used, barely-discernible road), and four of us were designated as a hiking team.
After we four hikers also searched by vehicle for a while, we parked the truck and headed cross-country toward the trail, which runs along the rim of Oak Creek Canyon, calling and blowing our whistles as we went. Just as we thought we heard a distant shout, DPS Ranger (the helicopter) showed up, spotted the subjects' campfire, and briefly hovered above them.
We searchers headed in the general direction the helicopter had hovered, less than a half-mile from our location. As we continued to hike, I entered into my GPS the coordinates Ranger had given to Incident Command and confirmed our distance and direction to the subjects, whose responses to our calls were growing louder. Within minutes, we arrived to find two relieved ladies in good shape, standing close to their warming fire.
I was home at 1:30 a.m.
Now it's off for a few days to the Escalante area in Utah to do some hiking. Hopefully, my SAR friend and I will get one of the daily permits to hike The Wave. I've heard it's awesome.
Daylight Makes All The Difference
In the dark, someone who's 150 feet away may as well be 150 miles away if you don't choose a path to their exact location or come close enough and happen to shine your light in the right direction. That is, if that someone can't respond.
It's hard not to beat yourself up over it—to keep rehashing it in your mind. Or, I should say, in my mind. I thought about suggesting to my teammate (my husband in this case) that he and I circle through the woods around the ATV while we were waiting for our third field team member to join us. Why didn't I? Because I thought that had already been done? Maybe.
But even if we had circled around the ATV, there still was no guarantee we would have seen him. We wouldn't have gone very far in, only far enough to try cutting for sign. So we probably wouldn't have walked right to that spot. And even 10 feet away, in the lights of our headlamps, it was difficult to make out shapes on that dark, moonless night. Was that a stump or a log? A bush or a big rock? A man? So many dark shapes could have been a man.
We did search for tracks while we waited, and there were many of them on the dirt road around the ATV. We looked at the deputies' boots and ruled out those two sets of prints. There was a third set of prints that were different. Maybe, we thought. But then we looked at a family member's shoes. The third set of tracks were his. We looked up and down the road, which had been driven heavily since the ATV was found. We saw no other footprints or partials there, so we looked at the ground on either side of the road near the quad. It's really difficult to find tracks on pine needles. Is that animal or human? Is that even a depression at all? There are so many deer and elk in those woods.
Then our third teammate arrived and we began our assignment.
Many of us had been so close that night, and then we searched so miles. I didn't think our subject would walk all that far, though, given what we'd been told about him.
But you just can't know for sure. If he were conscious and anywhere near the quad (the last known point, or LKP), he'd have seen the campfire and the lights of our vehicles. Or he'd have heard us calling or even just talking. In fact, the air was so clear, cold, and still that night, field teams could hear each other's voices—a conversation, not a shout—a half-mile away. And we did shout and blow our whistles, too, as we searched. After the helicopter passed over, we shouted some more. And we looked. We shined our lights this way and that and walked closer to any "suspicious" shapes. There were many.
You want to believe the person you're searching for can hear you if you get close enough. You want to believe they can respond, but you look as hard as you can in case they can't. We covered a lot of ground that night—just not the right piece of ground.
At about 4 a.m., we returned to our SAR vehicles, near the LKP, to rest for a little while. At first light, we'd resume the search.
But we didn't have to. As soon as the sun came up, one of our team members, standing near where where the ATV's driver had left the machine, looked into the woods and saw "something that didn't look right." He walked into the trees, closer to that something, and saw it was indeed a man.
At least he'd died doing something he loved, people said. And he'd gotten his buck, which lay no more than 10 feet in front of where the man who was hunting it took his own last step.
One hundred fifty feet away might as well have been 150 miles that dark night, because he couldn't respond.
To this man's family and friends, my sincere condolences. I'm sorry this search didn't have a happy ending.
It's hard not to beat yourself up over it—to keep rehashing it in your mind. Or, I should say, in my mind. I thought about suggesting to my teammate (my husband in this case) that he and I circle through the woods around the ATV while we were waiting for our third field team member to join us. Why didn't I? Because I thought that had already been done? Maybe.
But even if we had circled around the ATV, there still was no guarantee we would have seen him. We wouldn't have gone very far in, only far enough to try cutting for sign. So we probably wouldn't have walked right to that spot. And even 10 feet away, in the lights of our headlamps, it was difficult to make out shapes on that dark, moonless night. Was that a stump or a log? A bush or a big rock? A man? So many dark shapes could have been a man.
We did search for tracks while we waited, and there were many of them on the dirt road around the ATV. We looked at the deputies' boots and ruled out those two sets of prints. There was a third set of prints that were different. Maybe, we thought. But then we looked at a family member's shoes. The third set of tracks were his. We looked up and down the road, which had been driven heavily since the ATV was found. We saw no other footprints or partials there, so we looked at the ground on either side of the road near the quad. It's really difficult to find tracks on pine needles. Is that animal or human? Is that even a depression at all? There are so many deer and elk in those woods.
Then our third teammate arrived and we began our assignment.
Many of us had been so close that night, and then we searched so miles. I didn't think our subject would walk all that far, though, given what we'd been told about him.
But you just can't know for sure. If he were conscious and anywhere near the quad (the last known point, or LKP), he'd have seen the campfire and the lights of our vehicles. Or he'd have heard us calling or even just talking. In fact, the air was so clear, cold, and still that night, field teams could hear each other's voices—a conversation, not a shout—a half-mile away. And we did shout and blow our whistles, too, as we searched. After the helicopter passed over, we shouted some more. And we looked. We shined our lights this way and that and walked closer to any "suspicious" shapes. There were many.
You want to believe the person you're searching for can hear you if you get close enough. You want to believe they can respond, but you look as hard as you can in case they can't. We covered a lot of ground that night—just not the right piece of ground.
At about 4 a.m., we returned to our SAR vehicles, near the LKP, to rest for a little while. At first light, we'd resume the search.
But we didn't have to. As soon as the sun came up, one of our team members, standing near where where the ATV's driver had left the machine, looked into the woods and saw "something that didn't look right." He walked into the trees, closer to that something, and saw it was indeed a man.
At least he'd died doing something he loved, people said. And he'd gotten his buck, which lay no more than 10 feet in front of where the man who was hunting it took his own last step.
One hundred fifty feet away might as well have been 150 miles that dark night, because he couldn't respond.
To this man's family and friends, my sincere condolences. I'm sorry this search didn't have a happy ending.
Congratulations Are in Order
Recently, at both the Arizona State Search & Rescue Conference and last night's Coconino County Board of Supervisors meeting here in Flagstaff, our coordinator, Sergeant Aaron Dick, and long-time volunteer Dennis Gill were both honored for their excellent work with the team. Aaron was awarded Arizona SAR Coordinator of the Year, and Dennis, who's been with the team for 25 years, was given the award for Arizona SAR Volunteer of the Year.
That's Aaron on the left, behind the lady in purple, and Dennis on the right.
Many of our team members showed up to support Aaron and Dennis, wearing our uniform shirts. Half the room was a sea of yellow.
And there's Beverly, sneaking in behind the Board of Supervisors to take pictures as Sheriff Bill Pribil presents Aaron with his plaque.
I know the whole team was proud of our leader and of Dennis's many years of volunteer service. They're both so great at what they do and totally deserve the recognition. Congratulations, guys!
And as far as recent call-outs go...
On Monday morning, the team began a search in the area of Sycamore Canyon for two overdue hikers, who'd intended to go for a day hike on Saturday. The team had fanned out to first search for their Jeep because the reporting party, the wife of one of the hikers, was unsure of their exact destination.
Our plan was that, once the subjects' vehicle was located, that team would begin a hasty search on foot. But the two subjects were able to make a cellphone call to the reporting party before we found their Jeep. They emerged uninjured from the canyon a short time later, having been lost for 48 hours without cell service. See: Overdue Hikers Emerge Unscathed.
This morning, there was a call regarding two overdue hunters, but they too showed up as SAR was en route.
That's Aaron on the left, behind the lady in purple, and Dennis on the right.
Many of our team members showed up to support Aaron and Dennis, wearing our uniform shirts. Half the room was a sea of yellow.
And there's Beverly, sneaking in behind the Board of Supervisors to take pictures as Sheriff Bill Pribil presents Aaron with his plaque.
I know the whole team was proud of our leader and of Dennis's many years of volunteer service. They're both so great at what they do and totally deserve the recognition. Congratulations, guys!
And as far as recent call-outs go...
On Monday morning, the team began a search in the area of Sycamore Canyon for two overdue hikers, who'd intended to go for a day hike on Saturday. The team had fanned out to first search for their Jeep because the reporting party, the wife of one of the hikers, was unsure of their exact destination.
Our plan was that, once the subjects' vehicle was located, that team would begin a hasty search on foot. But the two subjects were able to make a cellphone call to the reporting party before we found their Jeep. They emerged uninjured from the canyon a short time later, having been lost for 48 hours without cell service. See: Overdue Hikers Emerge Unscathed.
This morning, there was a call regarding two overdue hunters, but they too showed up as SAR was en route.
Basic SAR Academy: The Final Exam
Twenty-four new members have now been added to our general SAR team following yesterday's final exam, a mock search and rescue in the Walnut Canyon area near Flagstaff.
The call-out came at about 10:30 a.m. on Saturday, when students, experienced team leaders, and other current members responded to the SAR building, as they would for a real call-out.
Once everyone was assembled and the gear loaded, our captain, Howard (pictured here), made sure everyone was accounted for. We were then briefed by our coordinator and divided into field teams before heading to the staging area.
Our coordinator, who would be acting as IC (incident command) along with our captain, had no idea where the two lost subjects were located. Only the subjects, who were also volunteers from our team, and one other member knew their location.
When we arrived at the staging area at the subjects' PLS (point last seen), we team leaders were given our assignments and then relayed that information to the rest of our field team. Team leaders were all experienced SAR members whose job it was to answer students' questions and make suggestions to "keep the ball in play." But it was up to the new folks to work together and figure things out while navigating and using the radio to communicate with IC and with other teams.
In this photo, my team hikes part of the Arizona Trail, calling the subjects' names, blowing whistles, and interviewing passing hikers, horseback riders, and mountain bikers. They also looked for boot tracks going off the main trail.
Eventually, another field team located the reporting party—one of the two missing hikers—who'd left his injured companion and climbed up out of the canyon to get a cellphone signal to call for help. Since the initial call, his cellphone battery had died, preventing any further communication. And he'd been lost, he said, at the time he called.
This one subject, while still confused about where he was, was able to give some details that helped the team locate the second subject at the bottom of the canyon. A (real) witness description from a child hiking with her parents also helped the team find the injured hiker.
Once the second subject was located, other field teams converged at that location, including the evac team with the litter and other medical equipment.
Then, the new members splinted the patient's (fake) broken ankle and were shown how to package her in the litter. Everyone had a chance to help carry the patient out.
Despite some confusion with radio communication, which is to be expected with so many field teams and new members, things went really well.
I wish we always had this many people to carry a litter!
We finished up the mission and were back at the SAR building around 6:30 p.m.
Later that night, there was a real call-out at 8:00. That one, for an injured hiker on Mt. Agassiz, was canceled after about five minutes, when the hiker made it to the parking lot and refused further assistance.
There was another call at 4:00 this morning. That call was also canceled, but not before about 15 volunteers, both new and not, responded to the SAR building and loaded gear.
Hopefully, the turnout will continue to be that good.
The call-out came at about 10:30 a.m. on Saturday, when students, experienced team leaders, and other current members responded to the SAR building, as they would for a real call-out.
Once everyone was assembled and the gear loaded, our captain, Howard (pictured here), made sure everyone was accounted for. We were then briefed by our coordinator and divided into field teams before heading to the staging area.
Our coordinator, who would be acting as IC (incident command) along with our captain, had no idea where the two lost subjects were located. Only the subjects, who were also volunteers from our team, and one other member knew their location.
When we arrived at the staging area at the subjects' PLS (point last seen), we team leaders were given our assignments and then relayed that information to the rest of our field team. Team leaders were all experienced SAR members whose job it was to answer students' questions and make suggestions to "keep the ball in play." But it was up to the new folks to work together and figure things out while navigating and using the radio to communicate with IC and with other teams.
In this photo, my team hikes part of the Arizona Trail, calling the subjects' names, blowing whistles, and interviewing passing hikers, horseback riders, and mountain bikers. They also looked for boot tracks going off the main trail.
Eventually, another field team located the reporting party—one of the two missing hikers—who'd left his injured companion and climbed up out of the canyon to get a cellphone signal to call for help. Since the initial call, his cellphone battery had died, preventing any further communication. And he'd been lost, he said, at the time he called.
This one subject, while still confused about where he was, was able to give some details that helped the team locate the second subject at the bottom of the canyon. A (real) witness description from a child hiking with her parents also helped the team find the injured hiker.
Once the second subject was located, other field teams converged at that location, including the evac team with the litter and other medical equipment.
Then, the new members splinted the patient's (fake) broken ankle and were shown how to package her in the litter. Everyone had a chance to help carry the patient out.
Kay was such a good sport! She and Jerry, the other lost subject, had to sit around a long time before they were found. At least it was a warmer-than-usual fall day.
I wish we always had this many people to carry a litter!
We finished up the mission and were back at the SAR building around 6:30 p.m.
Later that night, there was a real call-out at 8:00. That one, for an injured hiker on Mt. Agassiz, was canceled after about five minutes, when the hiker made it to the parking lot and refused further assistance.
There was another call at 4:00 this morning. That call was also canceled, but not before about 15 volunteers, both new and not, responded to the SAR building and loaded gear.
Hopefully, the turnout will continue to be that good.
Are They Really Missing?
That's the question I couldn't help but wonder about all day. I tried not to think about it, though, and to focus instead on what we were doing: searching. But the information we had was sketchy, and the circumstances were such that the two people we were looking for could have been anywhere.
That's what it's like with search and rescue sometimes. There's not always a call for help from a lost subject on a cellphone. There's not always an empty vehicle sitting at a trailhead. Sometimes, a person is reported overdue and their exact destination is unknown. So, our SAR leaders go with the information they do have, and we volunteers get our assignments and search the most likely areas. Sometimes, those search areas can be very large and change as more information becomes available.
In this case, we were looking for a couple in their 70s, one of whom uses oxygen, who'd apparently gone to cut firewood but hadn't returned home the night before, so said a concerned neighbor. And being a concerned neighbor is a good thing, I'd say. Many times, concern for someone else's well-being or their home saves the day, so it's better to be safe than sorry and report those concerns. Imagine not doing so and then regretting it when things turn out badly.
So, it didn't bother me when, after hours of driving around in the Polaris Ranger, following vehicle tracks here, there, and anywhere they went within our large search area, and my teammates doing the same on ATVs and the DPS helicopter searching from above, we found out that the couple was just fine and had never been missing at all. They'd simply been... well, somewhere else.
Okay, so maybe I rolled my eyes and laughed a little at the situation as I tried to dust myself and my backpack off and pick the dirt out of my teeth. But I was happy that things had ended well. I was also relieved that some of the other scenarios that had been passing through my brain all day had not come true.
Besides, I learned some new tracking skills while we were out there. My teammate who was with me on the Polaris was with the Border Patrol for 27 years, so this experienced tracker could tell the type of vehicle at a glance, the direction of travel, and the age of the tracks by just by touching his finger to the dirt and by the color. He patiently took the time to show me what he was doing. So, thank you, Steve, for teaching me some new stuff!
That's what it's like with search and rescue sometimes. There's not always a call for help from a lost subject on a cellphone. There's not always an empty vehicle sitting at a trailhead. Sometimes, a person is reported overdue and their exact destination is unknown. So, our SAR leaders go with the information they do have, and we volunteers get our assignments and search the most likely areas. Sometimes, those search areas can be very large and change as more information becomes available.
In this case, we were looking for a couple in their 70s, one of whom uses oxygen, who'd apparently gone to cut firewood but hadn't returned home the night before, so said a concerned neighbor. And being a concerned neighbor is a good thing, I'd say. Many times, concern for someone else's well-being or their home saves the day, so it's better to be safe than sorry and report those concerns. Imagine not doing so and then regretting it when things turn out badly.
So, it didn't bother me when, after hours of driving around in the Polaris Ranger, following vehicle tracks here, there, and anywhere they went within our large search area, and my teammates doing the same on ATVs and the DPS helicopter searching from above, we found out that the couple was just fine and had never been missing at all. They'd simply been... well, somewhere else.
Okay, so maybe I rolled my eyes and laughed a little at the situation as I tried to dust myself and my backpack off and pick the dirt out of my teeth. But I was happy that things had ended well. I was also relieved that some of the other scenarios that had been passing through my brain all day had not come true.
Besides, I learned some new tracking skills while we were out there. My teammate who was with me on the Polaris was with the Border Patrol for 27 years, so this experienced tracker could tell the type of vehicle at a glance, the direction of travel, and the age of the tracks by just by touching his finger to the dirt and by the color. He patiently took the time to show me what he was doing. So, thank you, Steve, for teaching me some new stuff!
Tracks! I See Tracks!
Okay, I didn't exactly shout about it. But I was pretty excited that my two little eyeballs, with the help of dust-covered glasses, a $5 flashlight, and another tracking class this past weekend, were able to pick out a partial print amongst pine needles on the dirt two-track. Yippee! (I didn't shout that either.)
It had to be them: the family of five we were looking for last night. I mean, how many other people would have been wandering around on those backwoods roads? As my teammate and I continued to follow the prints and impressions, we could see they were on top of all the tire tracks, and they were definitely fresh. So we'd track for a bit, then walk back and retrieve our ATVs and move them up, then return to tracking. Finally, we heard a faint response to my teammate's shout—a chorus of voices somewhere off in the trees.
This was one of those times when a short walk—20 minutes had been the plan, they later told us—turned into a long, chilly night. I'm sure it must have been an added frustration for the family, knowing there were flashlights and warm clothing back in their vehicle as they wandered around in the dark, trying to find their way out. They did have a cellphone, though, and luckily had reception too, so they were able to call for assistance.
So, this is yet another instance that makes me NOT feel silly about carrying my 24-hour pack with me all the time, even when I walk my dog in the woods I know so well around our house, and recommending that others do the same. A 24-hour pack doesn't have to weigh very much—mine is often around 12 pounds, including at least two liters of water—but it can literally save your life. Or at least make life more tolerable while you wait for help.
Okay, I'll stop preaching... so I can start complaining. Have I mentioned lately that I really dislike ATVs? I'm talking about driving them. I swear, they make me more nervous than rappelling off an 80-foot cliff (which makes me pretty darn nervous). Not only do I end up eating a lot of dirt and wearing a layer of dust because I'm always behind a teammate's quad because I'm such a slow driver, but I always feel like I'm going to tip over whenever the road is anything but flat. Those deeply rutted, rocky two-tracks really challenge my limited ATV skills, and I'm much too chicken to load or unload a quad from the trailer. Besides, I think being nervous can lead to problems when it comes to those heavy beasts, so better I don't try. That's how I see it.
I'm always a little bummed when I get assigned to an ATV rather than to hike. For some reason, though, the UTV—the Polaris Ranger side-by-side—doesn't bother me. At least, not where I've driven it so far, which includes up and down the switchbacks at the Snowbowl ski area.
Anyhow, I'm off to the monthly technical rescue team meeting tonight. These meetings are followed by a day-long field training on the weekend. I'm not sure what we'll be learning and practicing this time, but I thought I heard something about passing knots in raising and lowering systems. We shall see...
It had to be them: the family of five we were looking for last night. I mean, how many other people would have been wandering around on those backwoods roads? As my teammate and I continued to follow the prints and impressions, we could see they were on top of all the tire tracks, and they were definitely fresh. So we'd track for a bit, then walk back and retrieve our ATVs and move them up, then return to tracking. Finally, we heard a faint response to my teammate's shout—a chorus of voices somewhere off in the trees.
This was one of those times when a short walk—20 minutes had been the plan, they later told us—turned into a long, chilly night. I'm sure it must have been an added frustration for the family, knowing there were flashlights and warm clothing back in their vehicle as they wandered around in the dark, trying to find their way out. They did have a cellphone, though, and luckily had reception too, so they were able to call for assistance.
So, this is yet another instance that makes me NOT feel silly about carrying my 24-hour pack with me all the time, even when I walk my dog in the woods I know so well around our house, and recommending that others do the same. A 24-hour pack doesn't have to weigh very much—mine is often around 12 pounds, including at least two liters of water—but it can literally save your life. Or at least make life more tolerable while you wait for help.
Okay, I'll stop preaching... so I can start complaining. Have I mentioned lately that I really dislike ATVs? I'm talking about driving them. I swear, they make me more nervous than rappelling off an 80-foot cliff (which makes me pretty darn nervous). Not only do I end up eating a lot of dirt and wearing a layer of dust because I'm always behind a teammate's quad because I'm such a slow driver, but I always feel like I'm going to tip over whenever the road is anything but flat. Those deeply rutted, rocky two-tracks really challenge my limited ATV skills, and I'm much too chicken to load or unload a quad from the trailer. Besides, I think being nervous can lead to problems when it comes to those heavy beasts, so better I don't try. That's how I see it.
I'm always a little bummed when I get assigned to an ATV rather than to hike. For some reason, though, the UTV—the Polaris Ranger side-by-side—doesn't bother me. At least, not where I've driven it so far, which includes up and down the switchbacks at the Snowbowl ski area.
Anyhow, I'm off to the monthly technical rescue team meeting tonight. These meetings are followed by a day-long field training on the weekend. I'm not sure what we'll be learning and practicing this time, but I thought I heard something about passing knots in raising and lowering systems. We shall see...
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