Namaste From Nepal

Hey, everybody, just a note before my post: I'm here in Pokhara now with Ingo. SO glad to be here, and I'll fill you on the trip here soon. But I have to tell you that the internet connection here is... SO... freaking... slow that I'm going to be limited to how many individual emails I'll be able to respond to. And uploading photos and certainly video may be near impossible. We'll see how it goes once they get a gadget that will allow me to log on with my own computer. Maybe that will help. In the meantime, please know that I'm reading every one of your messages and LOVE them! I'll answer when and if I can.

I hope to get caught up to the present soon, but, for now, here's what I wrote yesterday (which seems like ages ago) but was unable to send until now....

Sylvia, a solo traveler from Switzerland, gave me good advice yesterday. About Nepal she said, "Expect nothing ... except that things will work out." I realized in less than 24 hours that those are words I'll need to live by for the next three months.

Yesterday was like living 10 days within the space of one. And now it's 2:15 a.m. on the next. What will this day of surprises bring? The plan is that it will take me from Kathmandu to the much smaller city of Pokhara, also known as the city of lakes. Thankfully, Sylvia is going there, too. I'm glad to have such a confident travel companion who knows I'm unsure of myself and is gracious enough to help.

When I wondered aloud how we'd get a paper plane ticket—little is done electronically here, so it seems, and Yolanda had arranged for our travel by phone with an agency—Sylvia patted me on the arm and said not to worry, it would work out. I paid Yolanda (cash only, no credit cards accepted) for the ticket but received nothing tangible or digital in return as one would expect in the U.S., where we'd get at least a confirmation email or receipt.

At 8:30 a.m., give or take some Nepal time, which could be a while, Karna and his friend and cyber cafe partner, Dikpal, will return to the guest house to walk with me and Sylvia to the airport. They know a shortcut, they said.

But that's still hours away, so back to yesterday...

Like tonight, I couldn't sleep for long after I was dropped off in the middle of the night, showered, and rearranged my belongings. I was awake at 2 a.m., listening to dogs bark, which they did again at 4:30. Soon after, the sky began to lighten and a nearby rooster started to crow, so I climbed out my window onto the veranda again and watched my surroundings materialize and people begin to stir as the morning progressed. A man in a nearby open window began tap-tap-tapping, and the tapping continued for hours. What he was working on, I'll never know. Children played with a puppy in an adjacent courtyard, while their mother (I assume) was busy sweeping around them. A motorbike zipped by in the alley. Later, a man carrying a large load of newspapers announced his presence, or perhaps the headlines, as he passed outside the hotel gate.

At 6 a.m., I ventured downstairs. The guest house was quiet, but I found three of the staff—two brightly clothed women, one in vibrant blue, the other in fuchsia, and an orange-shirted man—sweeping and tidying in the courtyard. I sat at a table, just watching them and two resident dogs until Yolanda appeared and sat down with me.

"How do you know Ingo?" I asked her. And in her Swiss-accented English she explained, "A friend introduced us. I was looking for property in a remote area, and Ingo is trying to sell the resort at Shyauli Bazaar. So I went there in January. It is a beautiful place—you will love it—but it is too big for me alone. Maybe if I had partners. I believe Ingo told me about you then."

Yolanda went on to explain a bit about the Maoist rebels (I'm really trying to understand what's happening here in Nepal) and the current strike, now five days old. For those five days and who knows how many more, businesses have been forcibly closed and driving forbidden, with the exception of ambulances, the police, and some leniency for foreigners, of which there are relatively few right now in the city. People can't earn a living with this going on. ATMs are running out of money, and people are running out of food. Schools have been shut down for weeks, well before the general strike began.

"Why do they comply?" I wanted to know. The answer: because they risk certain punishment if they don't. As I also read in the newspaper, the Maoists will vandalize the shops and beat shopkeepers who ignore the rules of the strike. Same for those who defy the ban on driving.

Later, as I walked with Karna and Dikpal to their cyber cafe, I asked them how everyone knows these rules (and there are others). "They are announced," Dikpal replied. His English is quite good, easier for me to understand than Karna's. "They tell it on the streets, in the paper, and on the news."

"There's more electricity right now, " he added, "because businesses and factories are closed, so it's not shut down as much."

I said, "It must be difficult to run a cyber cafe when the power is shut off for hours twice a day."

Karna agreed. "Oh, yes. Very difficult. It makes it hard to pay the rent."  He meant both the rent on the shop—about 1000 rupees per month, which is equivalent to approximately US $150—and rent on the nearby 10x10-foot room he shares with several other young men.

I later saw that room when Karna and Dikpal invited me up for tea. (And I must say, I've never had tea as tasty as the Masala  I've had in Nepal.) When we arrived, I followed their example and took off my shoes before entering. My trail runners looked out of place among the pairs of flip-flops and quite a bit larger. I noticed the big window was covered with cloth, but there was no glass. Inside, I found others seated on two single beds, watching the news on a small TV.  A girl and boy got up, and Karna motioned for me to sit in their place. I felt odd about them giving up their spots for me as they left the room.

The reporter was speaking Nepali, but I didn't need to understand the language to understand what I was seeing. It was amazing what had been going on in the city just a short time before, some of it right outside the cyber cafe while I was tucked inside. The storefront was closed, but we'd entered through a side door from an unlit hallway. From inside the small, dim space where I found several computer cubicles but nothing that resembled a cafe, I occasionally heard commotion out on the street: sirens and shouting and chanting.  Karna and Dikpal would go out to look.

"Come see," they urged, but I shook my head and continued looking through my email, which was comforting. It was my connection to what I was familiar with.

While I waited for my video to upload—slow, slow going in Nepal—I asked the boys... well, they're 24 and 26 years of age, so despite their much younger appearances, I should call them men... I asked them about how they came to know Ingo.

Karna did some of the explaining, but, thankfully, Dikpal helped me understand what he said. I think he'd realized I was having trouble making out Karna's words.

"We are grateful to Ingo and respect him very much. If it were not for him, we would not have this education. Maybe 2nd year only. Ingo found us in our village not too far from Shyauli Bazaar and brought us to his school. It was wonderful there."

I wanted to ask the young men more details about their lives before Ingo came into them, but I admit I was shy about what felt to me like prying. I'll have to get over that, I suppose, if I'm to write the book that is the main purpose of my time here.

"When the Maoists came, when we were young boys," Dikpal explained, "we had to hide in the jungle, so they wouldn't take us."

I asked if the Maoists still do that—force children 12 and over to join them... or else—but Karna said no, not since the end of the war.

******

After a few hours, I gave up my cyber-connection to the world at large and, despite their offer of free service, paid Karna and Dikpal the going rate for their internet and a bit extra for their help, coming to get me from the airport and today from the hotel and walking with me through the city. We talked some about how far foreign currency goes here in Nepal, and I told them the equivalent in rupees how much we'd pay for certain things in the US. Of course, things are at least somewhat relative to income levels, but Karna and Dikpal looked quite surprised.

Karna and Dikpal wanted to take me to Boudha Stupa, a nearby Buddhist temple. Dikpal explained that he and Karna are a combination of Hindu and Buddhist (if I understood him correctly) and pointed out a Hindu god portrayed at the temple. We couldn't go inside, but large numbers of people walk clockwise around the outside as a form of religious observance, and some lie on the ground—"prostrate themselves," Dikpal said—especially in the morning and evening. Among the many awkward things I said throughout the day, I replied, "I guess people have to be careful not to step on them." Karna and Dikpal laughed.

We walked in the rain for a bit, then spent a couple of hours at Karna's room. While I was there, a taller young man came in, and I recognized him from Debra Kaufman's documentary, "A School of Their Own," about the Riverside School whee Karna and Dikpal also grew up. I'll have to find out his name, but I was shy to talk to him, and he seemed not to notice me. He was quiet, intent on watching the news of the strike. He smiled only when a little girl came in and danced in what little floor space there was in the room. Maybe I'll have the chance and courage to speak to him when I return to Kathmandu at the end of the trip.

Why does asking so many questions feel strange? How do I draw people out and encourage them to tell me details about their lives—lives that are so much different and difficult than my own.  Will they feel like I'm judging? What questions should I not ask? What's too personal? If they know I'm writing a book, will they be reluctant to share things with me? Will they tell me the bad with the good? And how do I get used to the idea of exposing people's lives like that? Yes, I have much to learn and get used to.

At 6 p.m., Karna and Dikpal deposited me back at Yolanda's guest house, seeming unsure about being there and hanging back when I went inside. After speaking with Yolanda and learning the few details about the flight to Pokhara, I made arrangements to meet the young men in the morning. They laughed when I suggested a time—far too early and too long in advance of the flight, I'm sure they were thinking—but they agreed with a smile to come fetch me and Sylvia too.

Well, I suppose I should try to sleep again for a while.  I'm anxious for the sun to come up and can't wait for breakfast. I realized too late yesterday that I'd not eaten anything but a little Nepali snack of dried rice and some kind of bland but appealing, crunchy, flour-based thing (thanks to Karna) since breakfast yesterday. Amazing how you can completely forget your hunger for a while when your other senses are close to being overwhelmed.

Nepal!

Written sometime in the middle of the night on Wednesday, May 5th (or 6th):

The word of the day is "adapt." Adapt to the surroundings, the circumstances, the culture, because Deb definitely is not in northern Arizona.

Flying into Kathmandu, I pressed my face against the window, looking for any sign of life or light in the darkness below. Were we still above the clouds at 11 miles out? (So said the computer screen on the seat back.) I couldn’t see a thing. Then, five minutes out, I began to see some twinkling lights, but nothing like you would expect from a city. And now I know why: The power has been shut down in Kathmandu, and what light there is is running on battery power or candle flames. Good thing I brought my headlamp.

It's been a long time since I exited a plane onto a tarmac. Once the man who blocked the aircraft doorway as he asked a flight attendant for some papers she didn’t have let us down the steps, there was no longer any direction. No one in a purple jacket or dress suit was waiting inside the airport to answer travelers' questions as there had been in Hong Kong. So, I followed the small crowd—most of the passengers had gotten off at the stop in Bangladesh—who walked up to a row of kiosks and filled out immigration paperwork. (Good thing I brought a pen, which I then loaned to another traveler.) That done, I followed the "With Visa" sign since I'd gotten my 90-day visa in advance from the Embassy of Nepal in Washington D.C.

When I approached the man behind the tall desk, I opened my passport, pointed at the visa stamp, and said to the top of his head, "They didn't write in an expiration date, but I leave on August first." He said nothing and didn't look up. He just wrote the date on my visa, 90 days from today, and handed it back to me. I followed other passengers to baggage claim.

Yippee! My luggage arrived. I'd had my doubts and was resigned to the fact that I might have to wear those same travel-dirty clothes for at least another day or so. I glanced over at the three somber men seated behind a table with a sign that read, "Mishandled Luggage: Complaining Desk." I was prepared to have to walk over and say, with a smile of course, “I'm not really complaining, but my luggage is missing.” Happily, that was unnecessary.

As I hauled my bags down the next hall and around the next corner, thinking, wow, I didn't bring enough stuff; these bags are pretty light, I saw a bunch of faces on the other side of a glass wall. I immediately recognized Karna. Then I saw the sign ("Namaste, Deb Lauman") he told me he and his friend would make, which they were holding against the glass, upside down. I waved, and they came around and met me outside.

After a quick hello, Karna and his friend (I didn't catch his name, only that he's Karna's partner at the cyber cafe they own) took my bags and loaded them into the trunk an old Toyota sedan. In turn, each of the boys reached up (because I'm significantly taller at 5-foot-5) and placed yellow satin scarves around my sweaty neck with a "Namaste, Deb. Welcome to Nepal."

(Photo: Karna and his friend have trouble opening the trunk of the car.)

Then came the drive to Yolanda's hotel. It was a white-knuckler as we twisted and turned, narrowly avoiding concrete barriers jaggedly aligned down the middle of the road. The streets were deserted and the city dark. What I could see of it as we passed looked like bombed out buildings from the second World War.

Soon, we turned abruptly down a narrow alleyway, barely wide enough for the car. The two men in front (there was a third man, a driver who was also a friend, Karna said) didn't speak at all, and Karna and I were also pretty quiet in the back seat. He did say, though—or at least I THINK he said—something about having to take the Maoist strikes day by day, hour by hour, and this was a night they were able to drive. It would have been a very long and rather eerie walk to the hotel had they not been able to use the vehicle. [Later: I realized they took a risk coming to get me, though they were safe while I was actually with them since I'm a foreigner.]

Suddenly, the car stopped (good thing I'd been bracing myself, or I would have tasted the back of the front passenger seat), and I hesitated as Karna and his partner got out. This was it? Apparently. Dogs started barking behind a locked gate, and I soon heard a woman say, "Who's there?" No one else answered, so I said, "It's Deb. I think I'm staying here." Given the accent, I assumed the voice wasYolanda, Ingo's Swiss friend (though I don't know how or how well they know each other).

I asked Karna if I should pay for the ride. He didn't know, he said, and went around to the driver's side to speak to the man behind the wheel. The car sped off, and Karna said nothing, so I followed Yolanda, who'd unlocked the gate and led us inside the dimly lit building and up a few flights of stairs. Karna and his partner followed with my luggage.

Yolanda explained that there may or may not be power in an hour or so. She showed me into my room and pointed out the bottle of water and candle on the small table. She said breakfast would start at 6:30.

Karna and friend stood side by side in the hallway. How would they get home, Yolanda asked. Karna said they would go on foot. I asked Karna if I would see him tomorrow and if I could visit his cyber cafe. (There's no wireless here, so I'm writing this on battery power in the hopes I can send it from the cafe tomorrow.) Karna said he would come back in the morning. Yolanda asked him what time, and when he hesitated, I told him that I would be here whenever it was convenient and not to rush. I can tell already that this is not a city that I'll be exploring on my own, particularly given the present political conditions and strikes.

When the two young men left and Yolanda closed the door behind her, the first thing I did was open a window. Two panes, each double locked. The room felt a bit oppressive, so I needed to let in some air. I pushed open the outer window and climbed onto a veranda (I'm sure there's a door somewhere, probably from the hallway). I needed to try to get my bearings—where am I?—even in the dark.

(Photo: My small hotel room. Sorry about the lousy quality. It was late, and I still need to figure out the settings on my camera.)

How quiet for a city. The only sounds I heard—and that I'm still hearing as I lie on the thin mattress by the open window—are barking dogs and, I believe, an occasional parrot. And crickets. I see only one dim light in a nearby window. But there are no traffic sounds. No people sounds.

I had a much-needed shower, too. A cold shower, but that's just a statement of fact, not a complaint. Why complain at all? Things are as they are, and I have no expectations. I'm just here to see and hear and learn and take it all in.

And the other word of the day: alone. It's one thing to be by yourself in familiar surroundings, even in places you've never been but that are familiar culturally. Here,  halfway around the world in a place that, so far, bears little to no resemblance to my life at home, I feel very much alone. But I'm not afraid or nervous. I'm just here.

So are the mosquitoes. Hence, the lavender mosquito netting that's presently tied up above the bed. But rather than let it down, I think I'll attempt to end the lives of those that got in, close the screenless window, and try to daydream myself to sleep.

Next day: Posting this in a hurry. Karna and his friend, Dikpal, have opened their internet cafe for me to do this and check email, but we had to come in through a side door. The Maoist strike means all businesses, including this one, must be closed. Otherwise, they risk vandalism and then some. I'm trying to get a plane to Pokhara ASAP, to be where Ingo is. Kathmandu is not a place I want to hang out right now, though Yolanda's hotel is very nice and feels safe. Yolanda is helping me and another traveler get one of the limited planes out right now. More soon...

Leavin' On A Jet Plane Today

This morning I feel like I did the day I left for the beginning of my six-month Appalachian Trail hike filled with anticipation but anxious about the unknown. And like that adventure, I leave today for my three-month stay in Nepal with no doubt I can finish what I'll start. Who knows what future starts this experience will lead to, but how dull life would be if we always knew what was in store for us.

So, I'm down here in Phoenix, having just woken up in a shaft of sunlight with a sweat ring around my neck. What a difference a two-hour drive can make. Had I awakened back in Flagstaff, where it was snowing yesterday morning, I would have grabbed a fleece as soon as I got out of bed. But I'd better get used to waking up warm, as it'll soon be monsoon season in Nepal, hot and extremely humid.

My plane leaves at eight this evening. I change airlines in Los Angeles, then sit for another 13-some-odd hours in another flying tin can with a couple hundred of my closest friends (flying is not my favorite pastime) till I arrive in Hong Kong. After 13 hours wandering and people-watching there, and I'll be in another airborne capsule for seven hours until I land in Kathmandu at 10:30 p.m. on May 5 (which is about 9:15 a.m. on the 5th here in Arizona, I believe.)

Once I clear customs with my one large suitcase, mostly filled with t-shirts, synthetic convertible pants, at least 15 pairs of underwear, and nearly as many pairs of socks, along with a half-empty duffel bag and a carry-on backpack full of electronics, I'll hopefully find HRDSN member Karna Bahadur Dura and Yolanda, Ingo's Swiss friend who runs a hotel not far from the airport. I'll go to the hotel for at least one night, but I hear there could be "political unrest" in the city, so I may make my stay in the capital a very short one before flying to Pokhara.

As with all mostly unplanned adventures, and even most that are planned to a T, we shall see.

A New Generation of Nepali SAR Dogs

I wanted to share some videos with you from the Himalaya Rescue Dog Squad Nepal's training and breeding center in Shyauli Bazaar. I'll be trekking from Pokhara to Shyauli Bazaar in June, along with HRDSN leader Ingo Schnabel and two SAR K-9 trainers from Germany.

(If you can't view the embedded videos here, I've added direct YouTube links below each.)

Shyauli Bazaar in Lamjung at the Middim Khola River is one of the most beautiful places in Nepal. Here, you'll see HRDSN's newest litter of SAR dogs-to-be.

Direct link

Meet Hunter, a SAR dog donated to HRDSN by Lynn Martin from Oregon. Lynn teaches at the Dog Obedience Academy. Here's Hunter demonstrating his man-trailing skills after just a few lessons.

Direct link

See a bit of the daily "shaping" training at Shyauli Bazaar. "The shaping or fine-tuning of the dogs' performance has to be done step by step. With the help of the clicker training method and voice commands in Nepalese language, the dogs learn to negotiate obstacles of different kinds and shapes. This is preparation for entering and searching collapsed buildings for disaster victims."

Direct link

And here's Dunston, reporting his find to his handler and leading him back to the subject. "Rückverweisen" is German for "search, find, report back and then lead your handler to the subject."

The way Dunston communicates a find is jumping up and placing his paws on his handler's chest. This method is taught step by step with clicker training and small treats and is used with dogs who don't like to bark at a discovered person. Dunston was never a barker, and since he is an excellent air-scenting dog, he was trained to do his reporting (or alerting) in this manner.

 

Direct link 

A Walk In The Woods

There's no news article link to give you for this one. I guess the ending didn't make it a newsworthy story. Still, a disabled teen did spend a cold night in the woods, and search and rescue, local firefighters, and members of CERT (Community Emergency Response Team) did spend all night looking for him, wandering the forest, Forest Service roads and trails, tracking, and knocking on doors in Munds Park.

He'd left the house around 5 p.m. on Friday but hadn't returned home by dark. The first searchers on scene checked what was said to be his usual route to Frog Tank, but there was no sign of the subject, legally an adult but mentally much younger, who wasn't dressed well for what was becoming a very cold night.  It had, after all, been a rather warm spring day.

We'd brought ATVs with us but were told the young man would probably be afraid of searchers, so the vehicle noise certainly wouldn't help. Not to mention the muddy and very wet conditions that would have made driving difficult. Even on foot, my search partner and I encountered some obstacles, at one point stopped by a wide and deep, swiftly moving creek swollen with spring runoff. We talked to two of our teammates who'd arrived on the opposite side of the creek, compared notes about our perspective assignments, and since our next search assignment was on their side and theirs on ours, we swapped.

As my companion and I looked for prints around a stock tank and seasonal ponds and along water-filled washes, we had to climb over barbed wire fences, slog through the mud, watch our step on jagged rocks and mounds of snow, and at one point, cross a very rickety suspension bridge. Meanwhile, we called the subject's name as nicely as we could, adding that he wasn't in trouble and we just wanted to help. We'd stop to listen for any response, but all we heard were coyotes.

And the only tracks we found belonged to critters, big and small. Other searchers even spotted some fresh mountain lion prints. In the pitch dark, I couldn't help but wonder if we were being watched.

Another search team did, however, find human prints in the woods. They matched prints they'd spotted around the subject's home. Incident Command had checked and described the tread on the boots of those who'd arrived first on scene to do a hasty search and ruled those out, so everyone was optimistic these were the missing teenager's prints. But the tracks were eventually lost in rocky terrain.

At daybreak, weary searchers were replaced by a fresh crew. But it wasn't long before the subject was located, Code 4 (fine), as he was walking back home.

Nepal Update: A Documentary and Photos From The HRDSN

With five weeks to go until I leave for Nepal, I've been learning as much as I can about the country and their only SAR team, which not only responds to calls for missing and injured trekkers but also to disaster situations, like earthquakes, floods, and landslides. The Himalayan Rescue Dog Squad Nepal, or HRDSN, also provides medical aid to remote villages and even started a school that defied Nepal's caste system and gender prejudice.

I just finished watching the one-hour documentary, A School of Their Own by Debra Kaufman, who sponsors a Nepali student. Debra went to Nepal to meet the child, and it was then that she discovered how the Riverside School's mission intersected with the country's fight for democracy and freedom. The school struggled to stay afloat during Nepal's bloody, 10-year civil war, during which the police accused the children of being Maoist rebels while the rebels themselves were forcibly drafting children over 12 years of age into their army.

I learned a lot about education in Nepal, the 10-year People's War, and the HRDSN's special school in this documentary, which "shows how children, even in the most extreme circumstances, can lead a nation to a better future."

And here are some photos from the HRDSN, taken by Ingo and other team members:

Below, Ingo distributes application forms for medical aid and numbers for the line of men. They will have their turn after the women and children have been treated. The villagers are Muslims, most from Rautahat. The former Hindu Kingdom of Nepal didn't come to their aid following a flood, but HRDSN did.

This next photo was taken in 2002. While the HRDSN's medical disaster unit stopped on its way to the Terai Flood disaster in Rautahat, they stayed overnight at a school compound in Lothar, Makwanpur District. The local people took that opportunity to line up their children for medical checkups by Ingo and the team. Most of these kids suffered from diarrhea and chronic bronchitis.

The first villagers arrived early in the morning at a HRDSN medical camp.

This is James Scott, an Australian trekker who went missing in the Gosaikund and was found 43 days later. This picture (with Ingo) was taken in 1992, a year after his ordeal, when James came back to thank his rescuers.

And this is Ingo today, with Tara, one of the HRDSN's next generation of rescue dogs.

This is Lobsang Ngodup, co-founder HRDSN in 1989. Ingo met Lobsang 37 years ago while trekking with his dog, Nelson, in the Himachal Pradesh. Up in the mountains at a place called Tiuni, there was a little shop run by Tibetan man (that was Lobsang) who sold dry yak meat. The two became friends and shared a dream of starting rescue dog teams in Nepal and India for earthquake relief.

This next photo was taken during a HRDSN student fitness training in 1999. The boy on the right is Karna Dura, who I'll be meeting in Kathmandu. Karna is now at the Lalit Kala Campus, studying business management and fine arts and, with some of his schoolmates, runs a cyber cafe.

This is another Nepali citizen I may meet. He (or she?) lives at the HRDSN headquarters at Shayauli Bazaar...

 And the, um... dish on the platter in this last photo (for now) is, I'm told, a delicacy. 

Nepal Adventure Update: A Visitor From The U.N.

I recently got some exciting news from Ingo Schnabel (pictured here), founder of the Himalaya Rescue Dog Squad Nepal (HRDSN).

While I'll be with Ingo and the others in Pokhara and Shayauli Bazaar, the squad will be visited by Adrian DeCastro, PhD., special adviser and counselor at the United Nations. Dr. DeCastro and some of his colleagues and potential donors are very interested in the HRDSN's work and want to see things firsthand in Nepal. This means a lot to the squad, including the potential for funding infrastructure and equipment they desperately need. So, I'll really look forward to meeting Dr. DeCastro and learning more about this unfolding aspect of the HRDSN story.

Oh, and I finally booked a flight... and then another flight... and another. Twenty-three hours and 17 minutes of flying time and 14 hours, 48 minutes of waiting in between those flights, and I'll be in Nepal. Phoenix to LAX to Hong Kong for a mighty long layover to Kathmandu. After a few days in Kathmandu, I'll take a short flight to my final destination: Pokhara.

A Snowy Search Near Munds Park

"Everybody be quiet for a second!" I had to raise my voice over the sound of the wind and radio traffic, neither of which stopped on my command. Nor did the racket caused by the icy pellets hitting my hood.

But my three tracking companions abruptly stopped talking, as I unzipped my jacket to turn down my radio. I thought I'd heard something just as we'd started moving again. If I had heard something, it was certainly far off and in the opposite direction than we'd been headed.

Another tracker said he thought he'd heard something, too.

"I'm going to shout," I told my teammates, then let out the loudest, high-pitched yell that I could. And then we all waited. Seconds later, I exclaimed, "Yes! I heard a bark!"  My teammates moved towards me and listened. Then we all heard it. Definitely a dog, and it was now actively barking.

During our mission briefing, we'd been told the woman we were looking for had called a friend the previous afternoon and said she was going to walk her dog and then come home. But she never returned, and her vehicle was located the following morning at the overlook on I-17 south of Munds Park. We'd also been told that the dog, a husky/shepherd mix named Max, is aggressive and protective so we should be very cautious if we encounter him. But, at this point, the barking was quite a distance off, across a canyon and possibly over the rise beyond.

Almost immediately, the four of us designated Tracking Team 3 took off in the direction of the sound, taking turns shouting and blowing whistles then quickly stopping to listen. "Tanya!" we called, hoping to hear a shout back from the 39-year-old mom we were looking for. "Max!" we yelled, hoping the dog would keep barking.

Once down in the canyon, we lost the sound but kept moving. Eventually, we split up, with two staying in the canyon as it rounded the base of the hill and two of us heading up-slope, trying to pick up the barking again.

We called and listened, called and listened, but it seemed the barking had stopped. As my teammate was talking with Incident Command on the radio, I moved further toward the far side of the hill and continued calling. And then I heard another bark. It still seemed rather distant. Was the dog moving?

The two of us continued in the direction of the sound, then stopped short. Suddenly, the barking was very close, and we caught sight of movement through the thick brush maybe 50 feet away. That was definitely Max! We watched the dog pace while we waited for our teammates to arrive before moving any closer. "Tanya!" we called a few more times, but there was no response.  Was she over there?

Finally, four of our teammates arrived, and we all moved in. Max moved off. No sign of Tanya in the immediate area. Two trackers followed Max, who was dragging his leash, and four of us began looking around.

Soon after, we found articles of clothing mostly buried in fresh snow right where Max had been pacing. A definite sign... but not a good one. We all knew this was likely evidence of paradoxical undressing, a phenomenon often associated with severe hypothermia. One of the items was partially burned, indicating that Tanya had made a futile attempt to start a fire. The other discarded articles of clothing were intact and not burned at all.

The four of us proceeded to search the immediate area, doing some "purposeful wandering" and then line-searching as best we could over the dense, rocky terrain, looking under pinion pine and juniper trees as we slowly worked our way back and forth. But we found no further evidence. Or Tanya.

After a long day of searching, often in blizzard conditions, we hiked out to base as our weary selves were replaced by fresh searchers with fresh eyes and bodies. For the rest of that evening, throughout the night and into the next day, the searching continued, with volunteers from our county and Yavapai County Search and Rescue working together.

At around noon on Wednesday, Tanya Morris's body was located by search dogs about 100 feet from where we'd found her clothing and boots. She'd been covered in snow and not immediately visible.

See: Missing Woman Found Dead South Of Munds Park

Added 3/16: Tanya Morris's obituary was in the paper today. She had four children and a life-partner of 14 years.

SAR and the Art of Hurry-Up-and-Waiting

This had started out as Yavapai SAR's (YSAR's) mission, since the search area was mostly in their county. But when a night and most of the next day went by without locating the subjects, our team was asked to assist.

The two men, one in his early 50s and the other in his 60s, had driven their UTV all the way from Camp Verde to where it eventually ran out of gas, a long way down a network of Forest Service roads somewhere between Beaver Creek and West Clear Creek.

Lucky for the stranded pair, who apparently had no provisions for staying out overnight in those cold and snowy/rainy conditions, they found shelter in a nearby line cabin—a structure used by cowboys out on the range—and were able to make a cellphone call to 911.

I heard they'd told dispatch they were cold, hungry, and thirsty but they weren't sure of their exact location, and the weather and road conditions were quickly deteriorating. So was their cellphone battery. And a cell tower ping provided only a very general area, so that gave us no additional information beyond what had been relayed to us by Yavapai County.

So south we went toward the Mogollon Rim with six Coconino SAR volunteers and a coordinator, towing our Mattrax (a Suburban with tracks instead of tires) and four snowmobiles, only to later realize the snowmobiles would be useless. There was snow on the ground and more coming down, but once off the pavement, there wasn't enough snow over all the mud and rocks to use those machines.

So wherever we'd go, we'd have to go in the Mattrax or on foot, the hard way. But we had such a long distance to cover, slogging through the muck wouldn't be practical or really possible. And then, how would we get the two men out if we located them? Using a vehicle was necessary.

First, we tried a shortcut to the search area, attempting to go in from the north near Stoneman Lake. As two of my teammates and I waited back at the furthest point our regular vehicles could go, the crew in the Mattrax continued on, successfully winching a large blowdown out of the way. Eventually, they were stopped by a 20-foot-wide, fast-running, swollen creek and steep bank on the opposite side. We'd have to go the long way in from the south.

So, back on the freeway we went, then 12 miles down Forest Road 618 (I think it was), heading lower in elevation where the snow was replaced by rain and the mud only got deeper. Once again, three of us and our coordinator waited for hours while the Mattrax crew did their thing.

Occasionally, when the precipitation let up, I'd get out of the truck to stretch my legs, slipping along the muddy road. At one point, I ventured into the darkness amongst the pinion–juniper and prickly pear to pee and sunk to the tops of my boots in mud. Then I got back in the vehicle to listen for more radio traffic, pick away at a really gross MRE I snatched from the coordinator's stash (because I'd forgotten to replenish the food in my pack), yack with my likewise-waiting teammates, and occasionally try to get comfortable enough to catch a few winks, which didn't happen.

Sometimes, going on a SAR mission means you're asked to stand by as backup. And I don't mind that at all (okay, I admit it; it's usually not much fun). Being a backup is important, and sometimes the backups turn out to be vital. In this case, though, I wasn't sure what kind of backup we three could provide, given that we had no other vehicle with us that could manage that kind of deep mud mixed with snow mixed with loads of rocks. Then again, we can't always anticipate what needs might arise, so wait we did through the night. At least we kept our coordinator company as he did his... well, coordinating and information gathering. I know he appreciated us being there.

At about 4 a.m., those of us doing the waiting were finally sent back to Flagstaff, towing the unnecessary snowmobiles. At that point, the Mattrax was headed back to base, low on fuel, but the stranded men had not been located. And that was still the case when we arrived back at the SAR building at 7:00. At that point, YSAR volunteers were returning to the search area.

Sometime later that morning, I got a message on Twitter from a YSAR member, telling me they'd finally located the subjects, who were in good condition. I'm sure they were extremely relieved to be back to warmth and food, home and family after two unexpected days and nights in that line shack.

 A Yavapai County SAR jeep used on this search

Photo courtesy of Jim Cobey, YSAR

Back From Ropes That Rescue

 

And, boy, am I ready for a full day at home in my PJs. Seven 10- to 12-hour days of rigging, rappelling, raising, and a lot of learning has left me tired, bruised, sore (from packing in and out heavy loads of gear and tweaking muscles in ways they aren't used to), punctured (with cactus spines), exhilarated, and much more educated about tech rescue than I was a week ago. 

Being an instructor-level course, it was a real challenge for me, but I've brought back a significant number of new tricks and skills and a much greater awareness of what's possible in the world of rigging and rope rescue.

In addition to all of the hands-on work, the class went into the physics behind anchors and pulley systems. I may not remember all of the details, but that information definitely gives me a better idea of why things work they way they do, not to mention what doesn't work and why certain setups would be dangerous.

Needless to say, the class was amazing. And so were my fellow students and the assistant instructors, who were also there to learn. All were very supportive, patient, and helpful to me when I occasionally (okay, frequently) got frustrated. At the same time, they encouraged me to venture outside my comfort zone and push myself.

I didn't go over the edge nearly as much as other participants, though, since I wanted to concentrate on rigging and belaying, which are skills I'll use with my own team more often than not at this stage.

If you'd like to see more (and larger) photos from the past week, see Ropes That Rescue Rigging Class Photos: Sedona, Arizona.

A Week Of Technical Rescue

My living room is filled with gear. A bunch is for cold-weather camping. The rest is a big pile of tech rescue equipment required for the Ropes That Rescue course I'll be taking in Sedona, Arizona, from Saturday, February 13th through the following Friday—seven straight days of rigging and knot-tying, rappelling, belaying, climbing (eek!), and mock rescues.

I'll be taking the Mountain Rescue Workshop, which concentrates on "a minimalist approach to mountain rescue procedures and teaches the access, stabilization and extrication of patients involved in mid-face free or aid climbing accidents." I'll be joined by 11 other students from Arizona and beyond for a week of physical activity and fun... and a little stress on my part, which always seems to accompany me on tech rescue trainings.

So I'll be back after class and will let you know how it went.