Searching for a Man and His Horse

If this call-out is for another out-of-bounds snowboarder, I'm not sure if I'll respond. It's after dark as usual, and not only am I tired but it's so cold out. My husband and dog are all wrapped up, warm and cozy in the blankets, as I call in to see what's going on. I just don't feel like I'm up to snowshoeing all night.

Oh. It's a call-out for a missing cowboy and his horse, and the cowboy is hearing impaired. Well... that's different.

I'd surely regret not responding, so I leave a message that I'm on my way. Two hours later, I'm riding with Al, towing the ATV trailer along a muddy dirt road, with Sergeant D in his patrol car and two other SAR vehicles ahead and one behind us. I hate to say it, but based on my own thoughts at the time my pager went off, I don't think another out-of-bound snowboarder or skier would have drawn quite as many volunteers from their beds on this frigid winter night.

Nearly four hours after the initial call, we finally reach the staging area. What a long drive, 31 miles of it slow-going on unpaved roads on Babbitt Ranches. It also took us a rather long time to get things ready at the SAR building, in part because we had some difficulty with the trailer hitch. I hope our missing cowboy isn't too cold out here, somewhere in all this vast, open space, as he waits to be found.

Now we're given our briefing and maps of the area—thousands of acres of grazing land with a network of dirt roads and very spread-out camps. The briefing says we're looking for a 28-year-old man named Brandon on a bay horse. Brandon is not wearing his hearing aids but does have a heavy jacket and a lighter. He did not, however, bring any food or water, which surprises me; I'd have assumed a cowboy out on the range would have some provisions, especially since his horse can carry both him and his gear.

Babbitt Ranch staff conducted a search earlier this evening when they realized Brandon was overdue, and the DPS helicopter is now en route. The other bit of information in the briefing is that Brandon has cancer and stopped taking his medication a week ago. Since that time, he's been vomiting and has been depressed. Oh. That certainly changes what I've been thinking. Maybe Brandon isn't actually lost, if you know what I mean. I try to shake off such a thought.

Tonight, I'm assigned to ride with a volunteer named Phillip, and we'll take one of the trucks to a cowboy camp where Brandon has been staying. We'll keep our eyes peeled along the way, of course. Meanwhile, four volunteers will be on ATVs and several others in SAR vehicles. Sergeant D will stay at the staging area, where he'll continue to gather information, plot any significant coordinates we call in, and alter our assignments as needed.

Phillip hands me the big map. "You're the navigator," he says. "If we get lost, it's your fault." I've never met Phillip before, but I glance over and he's smiling. I open the map and turn on my headlamp as we begin bumping along. Minutes later, I don't want to let on that I'm still looking for our current location. There are just too many lines on this thing. But I finally figure it out, just in time to tell Phillip to turn right. Seems there are many two-tracks out here that are not on the map. Great.

As the night passes and we drive, we stare into the blackness. There's a spotlight on the driver's side, but I'm limited to the beam of my flashlight. Periodically, I jump out to open a gate, then close it behind us as we make our way toward our destination. I half expect that, at any moment, a bay horse with an empty saddle, reigns hanging, will gallop out of the darkness and cross the path of our headlights. But the only movement we detect is the occasional form of a cow or a rabbit zipping across the road.

I see a light in the distance. How far off it is or how big, I can't tell. We stop driving and stare. Is it a campfire? One moment the light looks yellow, then it appears blue-ish. Phillip and I contemplate the light for several minutes, drive a little further, then stop and stare some more.

Eventually, Phillip says, "Why don't you go ahead and triangulate it so we can get a fix on the location." Um... triangulate. Right. I know we learned this in SAR academy. I know I need my compass. Yep.

I get out of the truck and hold the little thing in the palm of my hand. "You need to move away from the truck," Phillip tells me through the open window. "The metal will interfere." I knew that. So I move several yards and once again hold up the compass. Shoot, I can't remember. I swallow my pride and go back to ask for help.
When Phillip gets out and shows me what to do, I feel silly. I knew that.

We take a bearing on the light, then transfer it to our map and draw a line. Then we drive further, to another known point, and take another bearing, draw another line, and find that the intersection of the two lines is off the map. Whatever that light source is, it's far away, and Phillip now seems quite sure it's not a campfire but rather a street lamp or a light on a building. He thinks it appears to flicker because something—a tree branch perhaps—is between us and it, and the branch or other object is bobbing in the breeze. Okay, I guess I'll accept that.

We move on and eventually arrive at the camp, which is composed of buildings, not tents as I'd thought. No one is home but some cows and horses in the corral. No bay horses, either. As another SAR team is following some horse prints that could have been made by any cowboy's horse, Phillip and I make the long drive back to Incident Command, receive our next assignment, and head out again. I'm struggling to stay awake in the passenger seat as the horizon begins to brighten.

Ranger, the DPS helicopter, flies over our current location, which is a large, dry stock tank. (In the southwest, a stock tank is a man-made watering hole for livestock.) Phillip and I are out of the vehicle now, and he's wandering around the perimeter of the tank. I feel a bit lost, myself. Wide open spaces like this—that is, searching for a comparatively small human being in such a vast area—kind of confounds me. Where to look? Again, too many choices. So I just start walking around, looking at the ground then into the distance. There are a lot of pinion pine and juniper bushes in this area, any one of which could be hiding a person or even a horse from view. I squint and look as far off as I can, trying to see what probably isn't there.

It's now morning, full light, and we hear on the radio that Sergeant D has made a second call-out for more volunteers, including the mounted unit. After nearly 12 hours, those of us who've been searching all night will soon need a rest. In fact, Sergeant D just called Phillip and me and told us to take at least a half-hour break right where we are.

But that break doesn't last more than a few minutes. Brandon is found! Turns out, the ATV team following the horse prints had picked the right set of hoof prints after all. Brandon is a bit disoriented and very hungry, but he's otherwise Code 4: He's okay. What a relief!

Phillip and I plot the coordinates just given by the team who've located the subject and find that he isn't very far from our location. Less than a mile away in a drainage area. Interesting that he didn't stick to a road since his job for yesterday was to ride a particular two-track to check on some cattle and return the way he'd come. No idea how he got lost, but I guess that's not really so important, at least not to us. Still, it's tough not to be curious.

Another curious thing is that Sergeant D had contacted Brandon's family who live out of state, and they say he's in perfect health. No mention of cancer as another cowboy suggested or any other medical problems. Well, I guess we volunteers may never know for sure. But that's the way it goes—in SAR, we find and we rescue but often don't get the whole story, either before or after the mission. Oh well, at least all ends well yet again, and that's what matters most.

Searching Out of Bounds

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not Always "Code 4"

My feet are wet. We've been down here in Pumphouse Wash for hours. Most of the time, we've struggled along the edges of the frozen pools, maneuvering over snow-covered boulders and brush, sometimes post-holing up to our hips. Occasionally, we cross over the ice if the going looks easier on the other side or if something "over there" warrants a closer look. I've broken through the ice several times, submerging one boot or the other, but even Gor-Tex doesn't help when water gets in over the top. At least I'm dressed for the conditions, though. We're told the man we're looking for, a 38 year-old husband and father of two named Stephan, is not.

Tonight, four of us are following a set of tracks we know for sure belong to our subject. We know this because his car is parked just off the road above, and we could see his prints heading away from the vehicle. We also know they're his prints because one of the four of us who are down in the wash is Stephan's best friend, searching with us whether we like it or not, and apparently he's familiar with the shoes Stephan is wearing. They're like trail-runners—not the best choice of footwear for a walk in the snow.

Why don't we want Stephan's friend with us? Well, in part, because his adrenaline—his urgency to find Stephan—is making him move too fast, so we're going too fast trying to catch up with him. An important lesson we're taught in Basic SAR training is to take our time. For one thing, moving too quickly may cause one of us to get hurt, and if a SAR member is injured, the search is suspended to deal with that immediate situation. That, of course, takes up precious time, which can make a crucial difference to the lost and possibly injured victim. Also, if we're rushing, we may miss or obscure vital clues. Right now, we're afraid that, in his haste, Stephan's friend might walk over tracks or perhaps even pass by Stephan himself, who may not be able to respond. I think, by this time, we're all silently worried.

Stephan's wife was the one who knew something was wrong, when it got dark and he hadn't returned from what was supposed to be a short afternoon hike beginning at about noon. Being a long-time local resident and avid hiker, he's familiar with Pumphouse Wash, which is pretty close to the road in this area, so we're thinking he may be hurt. Maybe Stephan went as far as the waterfall, now frozen I'd guess, and fell. Maybe he broke his leg. We're told he's in good physical condition and has even taken wilderness survival classes, but today Stephan left his backpack in his car. Perhaps he thought, since it was sunny and he wasn't going all that far, he wouldn't need any gear or extra layers of clothing.

But now, the once-sunny and relatively mild winter day has become a clear and extremely cold night. The snow is glittering in the moonlight and it's beautiful down in the wash, surrounded by ponderosa pine under a star-filled sky, but that's just a fleeting thought as I concentrate on the search and try to ignore my own growing discomfort.

After descending into the wash via a small drainage, Stephan chose to walk on the ice, where there is enough of a dusting of snow to make his prints fairly easy to spot with our flashlights. While my two SAR companions and Stephan's friend follow the prints, however, I scan the slopes on either side, just in case Stephan tried to climb back up at some point. I'm afraid that if we're all looking in the same direction, we might miss something.

Tonight, we have several groups of SAR volunteers spread out in the area, while Sergeant D is at Incident Command back up at the road. When we arrived at approximately 9 p.m. at the site where Stephan left his car, his friend was already there. It seems he, along with his wife and Stephan's wife, had gone out earlier in the evening to have a look on their own, but they followed the prints only a short distance before calling the sheriff's office.

Once we arrived, Sergeant D gave us our instructions, and three of us—myself and two very experienced volunteers—began following the prints with Stephan's friend following us. When we reached the point where Stephan had turned and headed into the side drainage, we asked his friend to return to the road to talk to the deputy. Knowing Stephan so well and having hiked with him many times, he might be able to share more information that would aid in the search—it's where he could be of the most help, my teammates explained. He reluctantly agreed.

Maybe an hour and a half later, however, Stephan's friend came bushwhacking down into the wash again, having slipped away from Incident Command, and intercepted the three of us. This time, though, we call out and tell the friend to stop and wait for us. I stare at the ground, embarrassed, as one of my teammates gives him a polite but stern talking-to, then explains why we do things the way we do. After some objection, he agrees to cooperate and do things "our way."

As we now continue the search at the proper pace, at times losing the tracks then soon picking them up again, we listen to occasional radio communications. The other field teams are searching either side of the wash from above. Ranger, the DPS helicopter, is overhead, sometimes flying directly over our position, briefly illuminating the area like midday. In those moments, I look anywhere and everywhere I can, hoping to spot something I'd missed in the dark. Our shouts into the night are not returned.

Eventually, the tracks we're following seem to stop and shuffle, as if Stephan was looking around, trying to make a decision. The most experienced among us is very helpful, explaining what information he's learning from the prints and what additional clues he's seeing—things my inexperienced eyes don't pick up on until they're pointed out to me. As we go along, however, I'm finding that I'm seeing more, understanding more. It's like reading a story in those prints and other clues.

And now we see something else: some of Stephan's footprints are pointing in the opposite direction from the way we've come. Did he take just a few steps back and then turn around again? We aren't sure. We keep following the tracks in our original direction until, finally, we know for certain Stephan had turned around.

At that point, we find something more: his digital camera lying on the ice. His friend is now very excited. Agitated almost. "That's his! That's Stephan's camera!" he exclaims. He tries to turn it on to see what pictures Stephan may have taken and if perhaps they'd give us any more clues, but the camera battery is dead, frozen, or both.

We now see that Stephan's prints keep going in the opposite direction, often right alongside his first set of tracks. Why hadn't we noticed that earlier? Was it because we were going too fast? That second set of prints leads all the way back to where he initially came down into the wash, but the tracks don't turn uphill into the side drainage. Instead, they pass by that point and head further up the wash.

How come we hadn't spotted that—that the footprints went in both directions—when we first got down here? Perhaps because it made more sense that Stephan had gone down the wash, toward the waterfall. We've been told there's a large pool below the waterfall that Stephan may have wanted to check out, maybe to take his kids skating on it when the ice is thick enough.

We keep following in Stephan's footsteps another difficult quarter-mile or so. And now it appears he's begun to fall, causing large chunks of ice to crack under the weight of his body. His prints are zigzagging, no longer going in a more direct line. That's not a good sign—his coordination seems to be failing. A sure sign of hypothermia.

Each time we lose Stephan's track then discover another print, one of us says, "I've got him!" In fact, I think that's what we've been saying all night. Why we've said it that way, I have no idea. But, walking behind my companions, I'm so used to hearing, "I've got him!" that I assume, this time, my teammate is seeing yet another footprint. 

But when I take a few more steps, then move to the side to look, my heart stops. "Oh my God!" is what comes out of my mouth, in a voice that doesn't sound like my own. This time, it really is him.

We all know Stephan is dead, lying there on his back, his arms bent at the elbows as if he just sunk to his knees and lay down on the ice. Frozen. I can't take my eyes off of him. I'm shocked though not surprised, if that makes any sense. Stephan's friend is standing over him, silent, as my teammate feels for a pulse. He tries again, this time for more than a minute. Just to be sure.

Several hours later at about 7 a.m., following the recovery of Stephan's body, we're back at the Sheriff's office, sitting in a circle, waiting to get this mandatory debriefing over with. It's a counseling session, basically, with three specialists who haven't arrived yet. But we're all exhausted and just want to go home. And I think we all agree: It isn't the sight of death that bothers us—it's that the mission ended this way. That a young, healthy, experienced hiker who knew the area and was so close to his vehicle—so close to warmth and safety—who could have worked up a sweat in no time if he'd only just headed back uphill toward his car, apparently died of hypothermia.

We're now told he probably died even before we were called out to search. When we first found Stephan, I remember immediately thinking of his wife, how we had glanced at one another as I'd walked past her as we began the search. I wonder what she was thinking. But I'm too tired to talk about any of it right now.

Searching for a Sheep Herder

This time, we've had a little advance notice about the search. When I got the page yesterday evening and called in, Sergeant D's message stated that we would meet at The 105 (SAR building) at 7am, to head out to the Navajo Reservation to search for a sheep herder who's been missing for several days. At this point, I don't know why there has been a delay in starting the search.

This mission calls for both ground-pounders and the mounted unit. We ground-pounders will need to bring ATVs, too. From what I know of the area we're going to, near Gray Mountain, it's like much of the Navajo Reservation: wide open spaces dotted with very spread out homes, hogans, and outbuildings. Desert grassland, basically.

We're given a printed briefing, which states that the subject we're looking for, a 43 year-old Native American male, was last seen wearing baggy pants and a tank top. Definitely not sufficient clothing for this time of year, and it's been especially cold lately. The subject was possibly suffering from delirium tremens (DTs, or alcohol withdrawal) and was reported to be having hallucinations.

Apparently, our subject went to a sheep camp near Gray Mountain and, at some point on the afternoon of the 29th or 30th of November, walked away from that camp, thinking someone was following him. He ended up at a hogan, where the occupant gave him a jacket and told him to go home.

The subject then walked to his brother's hogan. Still suffering from DTs, he told his brother he was going to walk home to Cameron... about 20 miles away. He left without the jacket at approximately 8 p.m. during a severe winter storm and hasn't been seen since. Navajo Police have been searching ever since, and DPS Air Rescue (helicopter) flew a daytime search on the 3rd and then a night flight without success.

As we get things ready at The 105, I try to make myself useful. I ask what we need and grab ATV helmets and gas cans. At the same time, I watch others as much as possible. I'm told that we should leave our own gear in our personal vehicles until we're ready to leave, so it isn't in the way. Also, we should be sure we load our own gear in the vehicle we'll be riding in, just in case we receive instructions to go to different locations.

It's a long ride to the staging area at the sheep camp. We turn off the highway onto a dirt road and meet with Navajo PD before continuing on to where we'll begin our search. Our coordinator leans on the hood of a sheriff's vehicle, looking at a topographic map of the area. The other officers and a couple of our most experienced volunteers are in the inner circle with Sergeant D, discussing possible plans of action, how to best use our resources, and what they know so far. I stand outside the circle, listening and thinking of all sorts of questions I'd like to ask, but I keep quiet.

When they've decided how to proceed, I find out that I'll be on an ATV, which makes me a little nervous. The first and only time I've ever ridden a four-wheeler was during basic SAR training, and there were certain maneuvers I was too chicken to do, like ride up and down a rather large cinder hill. Flat ground is one thing; hills and washes are quite another. This should be interesting.

We continue on toward the sheep camp in the SAR trucks, with the ATVs still on the trailers. I'm riding with Val, one of the most experienced members of our team, who's been doing this for something like 25 years. In fact, I hear he used to do Sergeant D's job before retiring and becoming "just" a volunteer.

Val is very quiet—perhaps contemplative might be a better word—and I wonder what he's thinking. He's driving slowly, and I see him looking out his side window at the ground just beside the truck. At one point, we stop and Val gets out to look at something in the road, a piece of litter of some sort. Then he looks off into the distance. I just sit there, and he eventually gets back in, still saying nothing.

Okay, I guess I should start looking around, too. I roll down my window and scan the ground alongside the road as we go. Footprints maybe? I alternate between staring at the ground and scanning the open countryside.

I see a dark form at the top of a mesa. "What's that?" I ask Val, pointing. Silently, he hands me a pair of binoculars. Oh... it's a hawk sitting on a boulder. A big hawk indeed, but without the binoculars, I couldn't tell how big or small it really was. Darn, I was hoping I'd spotted the missing man, watching us from above. I imagine him standing up there, waiting to see if anyone cares enough to come look for him. I imagine him smiling as he sees that, yes, they do.

Eventually, we reach the sheep camp, which is composed of a couple of trailers, a hogan, a collection of ramshackle outbuildings, a few horses, and about a dozen skinny rez dogs. Poor pups. I'd love to take them all home. They stand around, looking at us hopefully; maybe we'll have a bit of food. Later, I guess.

After more discussion between Sergeant D and one of the Navajo police officers, it seems the plan of action has changed a bit. Not sure why. But the difference it makes to me is that I won't be on an ATV after all. (Phew!) Instead, I'll continue to ride with Val, and we'll first check out some empty sheep corrals.

We're given a description of the tread of the subject's boots, the only known print remaining after the storm being one on the roof of a trailer here at the camp. He had jumped up there, ranting about being chased, before he took off. Sergeant D makes sure the subject didn't take a weapon with him, because he doesn't want to put us volunteers in any unnecessary danger. I sure appreciate that.

Val and I get back in the truck. We end up in and out of that vehicle for many hours, bumping along often barely-there dirt roads, stopping periodically to search the ground for prints, to search abandoned buildings, to stop at a residence to talk to the elderly occupant, or to check a nook or cranny or wash. We keep our eyes out for birds circling an area or unusual wildlife activity. Could the subject have crawled into a crevice in the rocks if he thought someone was chasing him? Into or even under an empty structure? Hidden in a wash or under a juniper tree? Did he walk directly toward Cameron, or did he wander in an entirely different direction? Most of the time, I don't know where to look—there are too many choices.

Val is still so quiet, but eventually I start asking questions. What are you looking at? What are you doing now? Why are you doing that? You're going to drive this truck up there? I begin to take some initiative, pointing out certain footprints, none of which turn out to be like the subject's. I walk away from the truck at times, looking at this and that on my own. Hoping I'll notice something of interest or find a real clue.

But nothing. As daylight starts to dwindle, we reconvene with Sergeant D and the other volunteers back the sheep camp. While waiting for one more ATV team and two riders from the mounted unit, things are pretty quiet. I sit on a rock and hand out granola bars to the rez dogs. The subject's grandmother and sister make Navajo fry bread over a fire pit and offer a whole stack to the volunteers and officers. (I'm sort of on a diet, and fry bread sure isn't diet food, but turning it down just wouldn't be right. I do slip pieces to the dogs, but, man, is this stuff tasty!) Eventually, all of the volunteers are back, including one on an ATV with a flat tire, which made the going extra slow and difficult. The horseback riders look really tired. Unfortunately, none of us have anything to report. No clues. Nothing.

After three more days of searching, still nothing. Three months later, the story remains the same. Is it possible we'll never know what happened to the missing sheep herder?

A Thanksgiving Search and Rescue

Stuffed with turkey and fixins, my husband and I are walking to our car after Thanksgiving dinner at his boss's house when my SAR beeper goes off. I call in, and the coordinator's message says that while on a hike in Oak Creek Canyon, a woman and her teenage son have gotten separated from two younger children. 

It was the two younger kids who returned to the motel and, when it eventually got dark, reported to the front desk that their mother and brother might be lost, without lights, food or water, or warm clothing. The temperature is already at or below freezing and will certainly fall as the night goes on. 

With Steve's blessing, I drop him off at home and head to The 105, which is what we call our SAR building. I now keep my search and rescue gear in the car.

My beeper has been quite active lately and always during the night, but all of the calls since my first mission on Mt. Humphreys have been 10-22'd. Most of those cancellations have happened while I was en route to The 105. I'd hear the beeper go off for a second time, and, after a quick glance at the code to confirm, I'd find a convenient place to turn around and head back home. Within 15 minutes, I was slipping back under the covers and yacking at my poor, sleeping husband for a while because now I was wide awake. 

One mission was called off just as the team was getting underway to the staging area, having spent the better part of an hour loading gear and ATVs. But at least I got another chance to watch the experienced folks hook up the trailers, load and secure equipment, and go through the whole business of getting things ready to go, often with my face close to their hands as they worked with straps, clips, pins, chains, and other gizmos and widgets. I've gotten used to the hurry-up-now-go-home scenario. Sometimes, situations just resolve themselves before we get there.

So far, though, tonight's mission is still a go. And it looks like quite a few other volunteers are up for some after-dinner activity. I count eight of us at The 105, and I hear at least two more are responding from the south, heading into Oak Creek Canyon from below. 

One way to get from here in Flagstaff at 7,000 feet to Sedona at about 4,200 feet is to drive the switchbacks down through Oak Creek Canyon. It's an approximately 45-minute (and very scenic) drive. Toward the bottom of the canyon, where it's noticeably warmer at that lower elevation, are a few resorts. One of these—Junipine—is where a family from Tennessee is staying over the long, holiday weekend, and, today, Mom and three of her kids decided to take an afternoon walk up the nearby A.B. Young Trail. This trail leads hikers up 30-some-odd switchbacks to a remote, wooded area called East Pocket at roughly the same elevation—and therefore, temperature—as Flagstaff. East Pocket is about an hour's drive from town, at the end of a dirt road.

As we now head down that very long, dirt road in SAR vehicles, we listen to radio traffic on the frequency we were told to use tonight and receive further information from Sergeant D. Another deputy has already hiked up the whole trail from the bottom, calling for the missing hikers, then searched at the top in both directions along the rim for about half an hour with no results. So we say that he has "cleared" the trail itself. 

The deputy is now heading back down to Junipine, and our volunteers at that end are beginning to search the canyon below. Perhaps Mom and son did hike down but, for some reason, didn't make it back to their motel. Between the upper and lower trailheads, however, there's no place to get off the trail; it's extremely steep and rugged if you step off the switchbacks. And from the top, there really is no alternative, non-technical route to get to the bottom of the canyon. So chances are good that our missing hikers are somewhere in the ponderosa pine forest in East Pocket.

We drive as far as we can toward the upper trailhead, stopping once along the way to wake a group of camping hunters to ask if they've seen or heard anything of interest. Nope. So we park near the fire tower about a mile from the A.B. Young Trail and begin searching for clues. 

One volunteer stays with the vehicles, running the flashing blue lights and, now and then, a siren, in hopes the hikers might see or hear us. One searcher climbs the fire tower, but no one is up there. Three of us—myself and two veteran SAR members—start down the path from the fire tower toward the trail, while a second group heads in another direction to cover more ground. There are lots of prints in the dirt, but we can't be sure any of them belong to our subjects, who we're told are wearing sneakers. We see plenty of sneaker prints but don't have a description of the subjects' treads.

We call and blow whistles as we slowly walk along and study the ground and surrounding darkness with our headlamps and flashlights. After each call or whistle, we stop for a long moment and listen. Actually, one of my companions did have to remind me to be silent, to give someone a chance to respond. I feel a little silly; I guess it's the adrenaline making me babble. So I listen extra hard as I hold my breath, hoping I'll be the one to hear a faint, far-off call. Alas, minutes later, we all hear a reply—repeated, enthusiastic replies—from two very relieved hikers.

The woman and her son are both shivering uncontrollably but are otherwise "code 4," meaning they're okay. I offer some extra clothing from my pack and a bottle of water. One of the other two volunteers with me does the same, while the third walks closer to the rim to get a better radio signal. I can't hear what he's saying, but I know he's reporting to Incident Command that we've found the hikers.

Turns out, they'd intentionally separated from the two younger children shortly after reaching the top of the trail earlier this afternoon. The kids wanted to return to Junipine, while their mom and older brother decided to wander around for a while. In doing so, however, they couldn't find their way back to the top of the trail. It soon got dark, which made matters worse, not to mention much colder. By the time we find them around midnight, they've been out here for ten hours instead of the two or three they'd expected.

It's a quiet ride back to Flagstaff, with the two exhausted hikers in the back of our vehicle. My SAR companions explain that it will be an hour's drive to town and then another 45 minutes back to Junipine. Thankfully, we're eventually informed by radio that our coordinator will meet us at the Sheriff's office and drive the hikers down to their motel, saving us tired searchers an hour and a half extra driving, round-trip.

Despite what I'm sure was an embarrassing lesson in preparedness that mother and son get from one of our most experienced volunteers once we reach the Sheriff's office, they seem sincerely grateful. I'm sure this will be a Thanksgiving they'll remember for a long time. I sure will.

My First Search and Rescue Mission

I'm sound asleep when my pager goes off. This is the first time I've heard the little gadget do its thing since it was given to me when I completed Basic SAR training, and I literally fall out of bed. Man, that's loud. At least, it seems loud when it's pitch dark and I'm in the middle of a dream. 

My heart is pounding. I get out of bed and fumble for the light, then dig through the pile of clothes and shoes to find the source of the beeping. In the pocket of my jeans, I locate the pager, now chirping intermittent reminders, as if to say, "Uh, sorry I woke you up, but... I have a mission for you." By this time, my husband is stirring. He shields his eyes from the bright light and groans.

"My beeper beeped!" I announce with an inappropriately big grin. Yay! Now I'm fully awake.

As my husband pulls the quilt over his head, I dig through my bag, looking for the paperwork that came with the beeper. The code is 200. I find the instructions and see that 200 means it's a search. 300 would be a rescue with a known location. 400 is for a body recovery, 500 a call-out for the mounted unit, 600 an evidence search, 700 a disaster response (hope I never see that code pop up), 888 stand by, 900 is for an administrative message, and 10-22 means, never mind, go back to bed—mission cancelled. 

I call the number to listen to our SAR coordinator's message (Sergeant "D" is a Sheriff's deputy and the one paid member of our team) and find out what's happening: two lost hikers on Mt. Humphreys, without food and water and not dressed for the conditions. They called 9-1-1 on their cellphone, which is far too often the only item in people's modern-day version of the wilderness survival kit. When it works in the wilderness, that is.

Following Sergeant D's message, I leave a reply: I will be responding to the Search & Rescue building. Then I trip over myself, trying to get dressed and collect my gear as quickly as possible. This will take some practice.

I drive across town, concentrating on not exceeding the speed limit... too much. We were told in training that we are not allowed to try to wiggle out of a speeding ticket by telling the police officer that we're a SAR volunteer on our way to a mission. That would be grounds for getting kicked off the team. 

It's frustrating to go so SLOW, but I finally get to "The 105" building, where the Sheriff's SAR vehicles and equipment are stored. Two other volunteers are already there, going about the business of loading gear and getting ready to head to the mountain. 

I feel a little at odds, so I look for the sign-in sheet, record my name, team member number, and the time I arrived, get myself a radio (which I don't really know how to use yet), a radio harness (how do you put this thing on?) and re-organize my backpack until the guys are ready to roll. It's just going to be the three of us, I guess, about to climb Mt. Humphreys, Arizona's highest peak at 12,633 feet. I've been up there several times but never at night.

By the time we get to the mountain, I've managed to put on the radio harness, contorting myself in the backseat before realizing that undoing the clips first helps quite a bit. I even figured out how to turn the radio on, though what to do after that will have to wait.

Being with SAR, we don't have to start out from the trailhead near the ski lodge. Instead, we open a locked gate to a service road—if you can call that undulating, rutted, and very rocky thing a road—and slowly make our way higher up the mountain at an increasingly steep grade, bottoming out a time or two. 

When we can go no further in the vehicle, we step out into noticeably colder air here at around 10,000 feet compared to back in town at 7,000 feet. Scanning the mountain, a dark mass against a star-filled sky, we see a small glow to the northwest, just below the saddle. We've been told the lost hikers were able to start a fire to keep warm. Well, that must be them! And up we go. (I'm way too excited about this, but it is my first mission.)

Thing is, we aren't walking up a trail. No, the guys want to take the more direct and much steeper route and head straight for the glow. We struggle our way up a grassy ski run (no snow yet), my calves burning and heart racing in the thinner air, then veer off onto a talus and brush-covered slope. With each step up and forward, I slide at least a half-step back, sending rocks tumbling toward my companions behind me. Taking short bursts of quick steps seems to work better than going slow but requires a lot of effort, so I keep pausing to catch my breath. And with each pause, I begin to slide again. 

At this angle, we can no longer see the fire glow above, so we start calling out into the quiet darkness and blowing our whistles. Eventually, we hear a faint reply in the distance. They're way up there.

At about 1am, I hear giggling nearby. Well, at least they're not crying. 

Another longer burst of quick steps and I'm gasping hello to a young couple, huddled around their campfire. Actually, the first thing I say is, "Hi, I have to pee." (I figure I'll keep things lighthearted, not to mention that it's true.)

My SAR companions arrive moments later, and once we're sure everyone is okay, I take a few horizontal steps into the darkness, brace my feet against a firmly-anchored bush, and get some well-earned relief. Being a female on a SAR mission has its drawbacks.

Anyhow, it turns out that the hikers—out-of-towners who'd started up the mountain at 2pm, not carrying any lights or warmer clothing, and not realizing how much more difficult it is to hike at altitude—had lost the trail in the dark on their way back from the summit. After wandering around for as much as an hour, looking for the trail, they'd decided to stay put and call for help. They're now more than a little embarrassed when we inform them they're only about ten feet away from the Humphreys Trail, which we intersect just above their current location.

We put out the fire (at least they'd had a lighter), burying it in the dirt so as not to waste any of our drinking water, which we have to share with the very thirsty couple, and then proceed down the trail. It would be too treacherous to go down the way we just came up and put not only us volunteers but the lost-and-now-found hikers at risk of injury. The trail is the longer but safer way to descend.

As the sun begins to rise over Flagstaff, we arrive at the ski lodge where we hand the rescue-ees over to the deputy. And now we have to hike back up about 1,000 vertical feet to retrieve our SAR vehicle.

Ten hours after signing in at The 105, I sign out and head home, where my husband is just waking up.

Becoming a Search and Rescue Volunteer

Ever get caught up in one of those news stories about an unfolding Search & Rescue operation, obsessively tuning in, day after day or every hour, to see if the person has been found? 

Like that autistic boy who went missing in West Virginia's Dolly Sods Wilderness. Or the climbers stranded on Oregon's Mount Hood. Sometimes the ending is a happy one—like the California father and his three teenage kids who were found, safe and generally sound (albeit cold), days after getting lost in an unexpected snow storm while they were looking for a Christmas tree.

Other times, the endings are tragic, like the case of the hiker in Georgia who set out with her dog near the Appalachian Trail and was later found murdered.

Sometimes there is no ending—the subject is never located. In other cases, the whereabouts of the victim is known, but bringing him or her out of the backcountry to safety and, perhaps, to medical care, or the care to them, is the challenge.

There are those who head into the wilderness unprepared and get into trouble. There are people who are as prepared as can be, but still accidents happen. There are those who fall and those who jump. Lost children. Alzheimer's patients who wander off. Avalanches and floods that carry away more than just trees and rocks.

What is it about a particular Search & Rescue mission that makes the national news take notice, while others warrant just a paragraph, tucked away in the local paper?

Sometimes, there is no story. At least, nothing printed in a public forum. But those stories are happening all the time, lives are being saved in the backcountry, all over the country on a daily basis, and those stories are a big deal to the people involved—on both ends of the rescue. I've never been searched for (that I know of) or rescued, but in October, 2007, after 53 hours of mandatory, basic training, I became a Search & Rescue (SAR) volunteer with the Coconino County, Arizona Sheriff's Search & Rescue Team.

At 38, I'm an experienced hiker, with a resume including a six-month, 2200-mile Appalachian Trail thru-hike, many shorter backpacking trips and countless day-hikes, but that was all about taking care of me, watching my own steps, handling my own gear.

Search & Rescue, on the other hand, means acquiring a whole new skill set. It means learning to look for and take care of others while, at the same time, watching out for my own well-being and, as a member of a team, that of other SAR volunteers. It means becoming proficient at map and compass—something I should have known as a backpacker. It means learning to use a GPS and how to communicate on a radio. I have to learn how to track and spot clues, and what to do with those tracks and clues once I find them. I'll need to learn how to use ropes and straps, and ride ATVs and snowmobiles. Low-angle rescue, high-angle rescue, snow and ice skills. And the list goes on.

So, why do I want to be a SAR volunteer? I suppose that "to help others" would be the politically correct answer. And, once I'm out there on a mission, I sure do want to find who we're looking for, and to find them alive and well and bring them home to hike--or climb, or ski, or camp, etc.--another day.

To be honest, though, I've always wanted to be "in on it." I've wanted to be part of what was going on out there on those missions I'd hear about on TV or read about in the paper. And I love the adventure of it all. Being in the woods or up on a mountain in the middle of the night, my headlamp lighting the ground in front of me and gear and gadgets on my back, dangling from my pack and stuffed in my pockets, with the DPS helicopter flying overhead while most of the world is asleep and someone is somewhere "out there," waiting to be found, is such a thrill. I love the confidence that comes with learning new skills, even if it's just figuring out how to hook the trailer to the SAR truck all by myself. Basically, I like to be useful.

So this is my journal as a member of SAR. I'm starting out pretty green, somewhat afraid to jump in and make a mistake. I hesitate to press the button on that radio I'm carrying and actually speak, for fear of not saying something "just right."

I watch other volunteers secure the ATVs to the trailer, but when I put my own hands on those uncooperative straps, I can't seem to figure out what to do with them. And I'm really afraid of those big, bad, four-wheeled machines that can do such bodily harm. I don't know how to maneuver a trailer without backing it into something. Or someone.

I've never done any bonafide rock climbing and have no clue what to do with a rope. I've passed the Wilderness First Responder medical course twice but have never used it for real; the blood and broken bones have always been fake. 

And I'm sure not the bravest person, to say the least, when it comes to the great outdoors. (Falling, bears, rattlesnakes, lightning ... yikes!) But I hope Search & Rescue will change all that—will help me improve me—and, in turn, I'll be able to help others. So I guess maybe my heart is, at least in part, in the right place.