No call-outs since the Sedona plane crash, but some other news and events to share...
We had an Alternative Navigation class on Saturday, November 15. By "alternative navigation," I'm referring to navigation without the use of gadgets such as a compass, GPS, or altimeter. Skills we learned and practiced in the field included navigating by the sun, celestial navigation, and using terrain to our advantage with techniques like aiming off, safety baselines, funneling, catch features, pacing, and more. Let me just say, this stuff takes practice!
I took this course, taught by one of our team's navigation experts, last year and intend to take it every time it's offered. These are skills that definitely require time and repetition to master and continued use to keep sharp. I find celestial navigation fascinating, and I was so impressed by our instructor's knowledge. And a little jealous, too.
Anyhow, I wrote an article about Alternative Navigation on my SARstories blog. Click here if you're interested in taking a look.
A writer from the Arizona Daily Sun took the classroom portion of the Alt. Nav. training and, that afternoon, a photographer accompanied us for a short time in the field, so a newspaper article is in the works. I'll let you know when it appears.
In other news, several specially selected team members went out to the Little Colorado River in the area of Hopi Salt Canyon to collect some evidence located by the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service. The evidence was potentially connected to the case of Reinhard Kirchner, a German national who went missing in early spring 2007. In April of last year, after 61 year-old Kirchner failed to meet his fiancee in Las Vegas as planned, his abandoned vehicle was found near the north rim of the Little Colorado River gorge. A large ground and air search involving multiple agencies and counties followed, but after six days of searching about 56 square miles of rugged terrain, the SAR mission was called off.
At our general meeting last night, Sergeant D said the items Fish & Game found could just be a river runner's stash. Still, investigation continues, including the potential for DNA testing on the items.
Also at last night's meeting, we were told that the pilot from the downed Piper near Sedona, 51-year-old Rockney Mark Herring, is still alive and has been stabilized. Apparently, he's also been awake. Boy, is that great news!
And with that, I'm off to the uniform shop to pick up my new, very yellow winter coat (it's one of our team colors, you see) that now has search and rescue patches on it. That way, people will know why I'm wearing a bright yellow winter coat and won't just assume I'm either color blind or unfashionable.
These are my stories as a volunteer member of the Sheriff's Search and Rescue team in Coconino County, Arizona. I'll share what it's like to go from a beginner with a lot to learn to an experienced and, hopefully, valuable member of the team, as well as the missions, training, and other activities along the way.
A Plane Crash in Sedona
Al and I stood along the fire line, staring at the smoldering wreckage.
"Is that part of a wing?" I asked.
"No, that's a stabilizer," he said. "That's part of a wing over there. I think this was a Piper, but I can't tell for sure."
It was a little after 8 a.m. How different the crash site looked now that the sun was up. During the night, the wreckage had been illuminated by the light of the full moon and the orange glow of flames, making it seem almost surreal. But now, in the stark light of day, it was all too vivid and all too real.
At about 5:30 p.m. on Thursday, November 13, my pager had gone off. It was a 300 code for a rescue, so I was surprised to hear our captain's message that this was an airplane disaster. At the time, he didn't know if it was a private or commercial plane, how many people were involved, or the status of the victims. He did know the location, near Schnebly Hill Road in Sedona.
At least a dozen volunteers had responded to the SAR building by the time the call-out was cancelled, but that didn't mean the mission was over. As more information came in, Lieutenant Christian told us that only four of us would be needed for the night, two to station themselves at the intersection of Schnebly Hill Rd. and the rough two-track that led relatively close to the crash site and two to spend the night watching over the wreckage. Al and I were the two who'd spend the night with what was left of the plane. And the two men who hadn't survived.
And that's what was foremost in my mind as I lay on the ground nearby, inside my bivy bag with my head on my backpack. I had forgotten my ground pad, and there wasn't a clear spot anywhere to be found that was free of rocks, but my own discomfort was nothing. All I could think about were the people affected by this crash: the two men who'd died, the pilot who'd somehow crawled from the wreckage with second- and third-degree burns over half his body, and the rest of their families. It's one thing to hear about tragedies in the news—it's quite another to be so... well, up close and personal.
As it turned out, the three victims were related: two brothers, Michael and Tommy Johnson, and their cousin, Rockney Mark Herring. I saw their picture when Michael's son, Micah, held up his cellphone to show Al and me the photo the morning following the crash, when we returned to the intersection at Schnebly Hill Rd. after being relieved by two other SAR members. He and other family members were there, waiting to be taken to the scene. Seeing the pictures of the men whose remains we'd watched over during the night really had an impact on me.
Micah said that his dad, Michael from Phoenix, and his uncle Tommy of Texas hadn't seen one another in nearly 10 years. They'd been enjoying a sightseeing flight with their cousin Rockney, the pilot, when, after refueling at the Sedona Airport, their Piper PA 32-260 fixed-wing, single-engine aircraft lost power and went down in that rugged, heavily treed area about eight miles east of Sedona.
A vacationing New York firefighter camping nearby had been the first on the scene. He found the injured pilot lying next to a tree and rendered first aid until a DPS rescue helicopter was able to land and transport the patient. Arriving in the darkness a few hours after the crash, the first thing I'd seen in the firelight was what turned out to be the pilot's mangled headset on the ground next to a tree, marked with evidence tape.
When we hiked up to the crash site, a lieutenant, a deputy, and numerous Forest Service personnel were there. The Forest Service folks had cut a fire line around the wreckage and were finishing up their work for the time being. Al and I would keep tabs on the fire during the night to be sure the flames didn't kick up again or cross the fire line.
As the others prepared to leave, the deputy asked if Al and I would be comfortable up there on our own. The deputy would remain at the intersection on Schnebly Hill Rd. where he had provisions in his patrol car, and we could call him by cellphone or radio if we needed him at the site. We were also given numbers to call if there were an issue with the fire.
It was a long night, with the moon so bright I could read small print without my headlamp. Unfortunately, the only thing I did have to read was the info sheet that came with my brand new bivy bag. Which, by the way, I found out isn't quite adequate for mid-November, particularly between 2 and 4 a.m. With the rocks, the cold, the radio traffic I monitored throughout the night, and frequent fire checks, especially when the breeze picked up, there wasn't much sleep happening.
"You awake?" I heard Al ask sometime around 1:30.
"Yeeeaaahhh," I groaned.
"I'm going to take a walk around the crash site to make sure everything's okay."
From my location upwind of the fire, I watched Al disappear behind illuminated smoke. Looking at my moonlit surroundings, I was struck by how quiet it was, except for the occasional crack or pop from the embers or some shifting piece of plane or smoldering tree limb.
Al returned to his own spot amongst the rocks, and we both lay there for another six hours or so, my bivy and his space blanket crinkling intermittently as we both tried to find comfortable positions for a few minutes at a time. I was relieved when the sun came up and things would soon be happening. At some point, the National Transportation Safety Board and Medical Examiner would arrive, then Michael and Tommy's remains would be removed from beneath the wreckage.
But before that happened, media helicopters were on the scene, flying in slow circles above our heads. I thought about how different it was here on the ground, standing only feet from what I'd normally just see on the news.
From the Arizona Daily Sun: Family Mourns Brothers Killed in Plane Crash
"Is that part of a wing?" I asked.
"No, that's a stabilizer," he said. "That's part of a wing over there. I think this was a Piper, but I can't tell for sure."
It was a little after 8 a.m. How different the crash site looked now that the sun was up. During the night, the wreckage had been illuminated by the light of the full moon and the orange glow of flames, making it seem almost surreal. But now, in the stark light of day, it was all too vivid and all too real.
At about 5:30 p.m. on Thursday, November 13, my pager had gone off. It was a 300 code for a rescue, so I was surprised to hear our captain's message that this was an airplane disaster. At the time, he didn't know if it was a private or commercial plane, how many people were involved, or the status of the victims. He did know the location, near Schnebly Hill Road in Sedona.
At least a dozen volunteers had responded to the SAR building by the time the call-out was cancelled, but that didn't mean the mission was over. As more information came in, Lieutenant Christian told us that only four of us would be needed for the night, two to station themselves at the intersection of Schnebly Hill Rd. and the rough two-track that led relatively close to the crash site and two to spend the night watching over the wreckage. Al and I were the two who'd spend the night with what was left of the plane. And the two men who hadn't survived.
And that's what was foremost in my mind as I lay on the ground nearby, inside my bivy bag with my head on my backpack. I had forgotten my ground pad, and there wasn't a clear spot anywhere to be found that was free of rocks, but my own discomfort was nothing. All I could think about were the people affected by this crash: the two men who'd died, the pilot who'd somehow crawled from the wreckage with second- and third-degree burns over half his body, and the rest of their families. It's one thing to hear about tragedies in the news—it's quite another to be so... well, up close and personal.
As it turned out, the three victims were related: two brothers, Michael and Tommy Johnson, and their cousin, Rockney Mark Herring. I saw their picture when Michael's son, Micah, held up his cellphone to show Al and me the photo the morning following the crash, when we returned to the intersection at Schnebly Hill Rd. after being relieved by two other SAR members. He and other family members were there, waiting to be taken to the scene. Seeing the pictures of the men whose remains we'd watched over during the night really had an impact on me.
Micah said that his dad, Michael from Phoenix, and his uncle Tommy of Texas hadn't seen one another in nearly 10 years. They'd been enjoying a sightseeing flight with their cousin Rockney, the pilot, when, after refueling at the Sedona Airport, their Piper PA 32-260 fixed-wing, single-engine aircraft lost power and went down in that rugged, heavily treed area about eight miles east of Sedona.
A vacationing New York firefighter camping nearby had been the first on the scene. He found the injured pilot lying next to a tree and rendered first aid until a DPS rescue helicopter was able to land and transport the patient. Arriving in the darkness a few hours after the crash, the first thing I'd seen in the firelight was what turned out to be the pilot's mangled headset on the ground next to a tree, marked with evidence tape.
When we hiked up to the crash site, a lieutenant, a deputy, and numerous Forest Service personnel were there. The Forest Service folks had cut a fire line around the wreckage and were finishing up their work for the time being. Al and I would keep tabs on the fire during the night to be sure the flames didn't kick up again or cross the fire line.
As the others prepared to leave, the deputy asked if Al and I would be comfortable up there on our own. The deputy would remain at the intersection on Schnebly Hill Rd. where he had provisions in his patrol car, and we could call him by cellphone or radio if we needed him at the site. We were also given numbers to call if there were an issue with the fire.
It was a long night, with the moon so bright I could read small print without my headlamp. Unfortunately, the only thing I did have to read was the info sheet that came with my brand new bivy bag. Which, by the way, I found out isn't quite adequate for mid-November, particularly between 2 and 4 a.m. With the rocks, the cold, the radio traffic I monitored throughout the night, and frequent fire checks, especially when the breeze picked up, there wasn't much sleep happening.
"You awake?" I heard Al ask sometime around 1:30.
"Yeeeaaahhh," I groaned.
"I'm going to take a walk around the crash site to make sure everything's okay."
From my location upwind of the fire, I watched Al disappear behind illuminated smoke. Looking at my moonlit surroundings, I was struck by how quiet it was, except for the occasional crack or pop from the embers or some shifting piece of plane or smoldering tree limb.
Al returned to his own spot amongst the rocks, and we both lay there for another six hours or so, my bivy and his space blanket crinkling intermittently as we both tried to find comfortable positions for a few minutes at a time. I was relieved when the sun came up and things would soon be happening. At some point, the National Transportation Safety Board and Medical Examiner would arrive, then Michael and Tommy's remains would be removed from beneath the wreckage.
But before that happened, media helicopters were on the scene, flying in slow circles above our heads. I thought about how different it was here on the ground, standing only feet from what I'd normally just see on the news.
From the Arizona Daily Sun: Family Mourns Brothers Killed in Plane Crash
A First Snow's Mission
It's still Sunday. I got home from the "Drunk on Devil's Head" mission at 4:30 this morning. At five-something this afternoon, we had another call-out. Between the two missions, Steve and I enjoyed a midday dog walk, during which the sun was shining and it warmed up enough that I shed my winter coat and tied it around my waist. Sometime during the afternoon, however, while we were busy painting our bathrooms (too yellow, unfortunately), the clouds moved in, the temp dropped, and white stuff began falling for the first time this season.
And now I'm in a warm SAR vehicle, while several of my teammates are hiking in the precipitation, alternating between flurries and whiteout conditions throughout the evening. Three other volunteers have driven around to the other end of this five-mile section of the 800-mile Arizona Trail, which stretches from the U.S.–Mexico border to the Utah state line. The two lost subjects, a man and woman, are stuck between Sandy's Canyon and Marshall Lake.
This is a basic unprepared hiker scenario: no maps, no lights (save for the flash of a camera, we're told), improper clothing. But they do have a cellphone that ain't dead yet. So, when they got lost and it got dark, the couple called for help.
As a result of cellphone communication with a deputy, we pretty much know where the stranded hikers are located. In fact, they can see our spotlight from here at Incident Command and even heard the deputy yell when he walked a short distance into the forest. So, as the crow flies, they aren't far from here, but there's a canyon between us and them, and they can't safely move in the dark. They're also now wet and cold.
Fifteen of us are out tonight, so more than enough SAR as long as things go smoothly and no one gets hurt or overly hypothermic. That's why I'm toasty and snug in the vehicle along with two of my teammates, while four others are getting some exercise. The leader of the ground team just called in some coordinates on the radio, and I could hear him huffing and puffing.
Time passes as my vehicle-mates and I chat about this and that. I keep one ear on radio comms and the other on the conversation in the truck. Oh good, they have voice contact. And soon, the ground team reaches the subjects. They're going to warm the two up and give them additional clothing before hiking them out.
Turns out, they're closer to the other SAR vehicle near Marshall Lake, so that's where they're headed. The rest of us drive around to rendezvous there.
We wait for a while until the ground team arrives with the rescued hikers, who appear to be in their fifties or so. They look happy and grateful. I can't hear what they're saying, but I see their smiles, their single Camelbak (water pack) and one water bottle, the camera around the man's neck, their cotton sweatshirts. While I don't personally condone hiking with cellphones to the exclusion of other essential gear, it's a good thing they were able to make that call tonight. Otherwise, severe hypothermia would most likely have caught up with them before anyone else would have.
Another happy ending.
And now I'm in a warm SAR vehicle, while several of my teammates are hiking in the precipitation, alternating between flurries and whiteout conditions throughout the evening. Three other volunteers have driven around to the other end of this five-mile section of the 800-mile Arizona Trail, which stretches from the U.S.–Mexico border to the Utah state line. The two lost subjects, a man and woman, are stuck between Sandy's Canyon and Marshall Lake.
This is a basic unprepared hiker scenario: no maps, no lights (save for the flash of a camera, we're told), improper clothing. But they do have a cellphone that ain't dead yet. So, when they got lost and it got dark, the couple called for help.
As a result of cellphone communication with a deputy, we pretty much know where the stranded hikers are located. In fact, they can see our spotlight from here at Incident Command and even heard the deputy yell when he walked a short distance into the forest. So, as the crow flies, they aren't far from here, but there's a canyon between us and them, and they can't safely move in the dark. They're also now wet and cold.
Fifteen of us are out tonight, so more than enough SAR as long as things go smoothly and no one gets hurt or overly hypothermic. That's why I'm toasty and snug in the vehicle along with two of my teammates, while four others are getting some exercise. The leader of the ground team just called in some coordinates on the radio, and I could hear him huffing and puffing.
Time passes as my vehicle-mates and I chat about this and that. I keep one ear on radio comms and the other on the conversation in the truck. Oh good, they have voice contact. And soon, the ground team reaches the subjects. They're going to warm the two up and give them additional clothing before hiking them out.
Turns out, they're closer to the other SAR vehicle near Marshall Lake, so that's where they're headed. The rest of us drive around to rendezvous there.
We wait for a while until the ground team arrives with the rescued hikers, who appear to be in their fifties or so. They look happy and grateful. I can't hear what they're saying, but I see their smiles, their single Camelbak (water pack) and one water bottle, the camera around the man's neck, their cotton sweatshirts. While I don't personally condone hiking with cellphones to the exclusion of other essential gear, it's a good thing they were able to make that call tonight. Otherwise, severe hypothermia would most likely have caught up with them before anyone else would have.
Another happy ending.
Drunk on Devil's Head
So I think there's a bit of a pattern emerging here. I tell you how unusually quiet it's been for a while, then beep, beep, beep! Well, it's more of a song my pager emits than a series of monotonous beeps... but my point is, the thing seems to go off not long after I make that sort of comment. That's what happened the other night after I finished the "PLB's and Plenty of Z's" entry. I'd been reading in bed (Lost in the Amazon, it's called), and my book had just settled on my face when I was jolted awake by that familiar little song.
The page-out was initiated by our team captain, also a volunteer, since Sergeant D is out of town. This would be a search for a 43-year-old male who'd driven up to the top of Mt. Elden, drunk (or had gotten drunk up there, perhaps) earlier in the afternoon and hadn't been seen since. The reporting party said the man was not dressed for the cold. It was now a little after 10 p.m. on Saturday, below freezing in town at 7,000 feet and certainly colder at over 9,000.
I've never driven up Elden Lookout Rd. before, just hiked to the top via various trails. And I think I prefer the hiking. The trails are fairly strenuous but not nearly as rough on the body as bouncing up that dirt road, which is more a jumble of boulders than actual dirt. As a passenger that night, I was holding on to the "oh-sh*t" bar with both hands. Even my seat belt wasn't enough to keep my head from bumping the roof of the vehicle a time or two. And that drive took us a while. I'm thinking I may have been able to hike up there faster.
At any rate, there ended up being 13 of us searchers and rescuers on the mountain, including two deputies. When we convened at the tailgate of one of our pickups, a usual location for a team briefing, we learned some additional details:
Originally, there had been four in the party: the man who's now missing, his girlfriend, his brother, and a friend. They drove together to the top of the mountain, where they drank and they drank. Then they argued. Then, the brother and the friend took the vehicle and left the mountain. Bye-bye! Meanwhile, the now-missing man and his girlfriend continued to argue and walked southward, across an open area called Turkey Park, and apparently slid aways down the side of Devil's Head.
Just to give you an idea of the terrain, it's basically one long mountain with three peaks: Little Elden to the east, Elden in the middle, and Devil's Head to the west. Mt. Elden, the highest of the three, and Devil's Head are mostly separated by a grassy area called Turkey Park. You can drive right up to the top of Elden or, just below Turkey Park, take the other prong of the forked road and go to Devil's Head.
Anyhow, the reporting party this evening had been the missing man's girlfriend. The details were a bit fuzzy, but I think the man had slid further down Devil's Head than his girlfriend had (at one point someone said she'd actually pushed him)—or perhaps not but was maybe drunker than she was—and he couldn't get back up, either due to injury, inebriation, or maybe both. I'm not sure about any of that, but I do know the girlfriend climbed back up to Turkey Park, then walked all the way down Elden Lookout Rd., and somehow got a ride back to town where she called 911.
Okay, so before breaking into ground teams, we gathered around a clear footprint definitely made by the man we were looking for when he and his girlfriend had started walking southbound, first on the road and then overland toward the rim. He was wearing cowboy boots.
We then divided into several groups. One team of three had arrived a bit before the rest of us and were already headed to the area the girlfriend had described as where they'd gone off the side of Devil's Head. The rest of us were assigned to scouting the interior of Turkey Park—"purposeful wandering," as our leader for the evening described it—searching the perimeter of Turkey Park along the rim and searching the radio and lookout towers at the summit of Mt. Elden. We had no idea if the subject had perhaps left the area where his girlfriend had last seen him. We had no idea if he was badly hurt or if he was suffering from severe hypothermia. Or both. Alcohol only makes matters worse, of course.
I was on the three-person team doing the purposeful wandering around the interior of Turkey Park. We spread out about, oh, 30 feet or so and searched the tall grass and clumps of short trees, calling out the subject's name as we always do and looking closely in case he was there but unresponsive.
Eventually, Team 1, who'd gone to the general area last seen, found what looked to be a slide pattern. And, soon afterward, they had voice contact from below. I was actually a little surprised how accurate the girlfriend's description had been, given her altered state at the time of the slide.
Turns out, the man was not seriously hurt. Nor was he apparently stuck, at least not by then, because he walked up to meet the SAR team. After warming him up, the rest of the ascent was quite slow as apparently the man had to, uh, stop and dispose of some "cookies" shall we say (okay, barf) every so often. At the request of Team 1, other SAR members brought Gatorade down to the dehydrated guy. Eventually, he was handed over, wobbling, to a deputy, who drove him home.
I heard the subject was lucky he hadn't slid off the edge of Devil's Chair, which is a sheer cliff. I'm not familiar with that area on an up-close-and-personal basis, but if you see it from a distance, that's what the formation looks like: a big chair. All in all, things turned out much better than some of us had anticipated. A heavy-duty hangover is nothing compared to a broken neck.
Anyhow, that's how I spent Saturday night till 4:30 Sunday morning. No Zs that night.
PLBs and Plenty of Zs
I'm still here! Didn't want you to think I'd gotten tired of SAR blogging. No, there just hasn't been a lot of action lately. At least, nothing that's panned out.
We did have a call last Monday morning, I think it was, around 9 a.m. I was in Walmart at the time (yippee!), looking for stuff for our new house, when my back pocket started beeping a tune. A 200 (search) page for a couple of overdue woodcutters on or near the Hualapai Reservation, which is about a three-hour drive from Flagstaff.
It turned out to be a good drill, basically. Several of us proceeded to load tech gear, ATVs, the Ranger UTV, cubes of water, MREs and snacks, and full gas cans, then drove for about 15 minutes before the mission was 10-22'd. The woodcutters had been located near Peach Springs. So we did an about-face, returned to the SAR building, and unloaded and put away all the gear. And that's been about it over the past couple of weeks. I've had way too many full nights of sleep. I'm thinkin' something will happen soon.
Oh, and we did have another cancelled call-out on the afternoon of Saturday, October 25, just as we were finishing up a rather frustrating personal locator beacon, or PLB, training. (I'll get back to that in a sec.) It sounded like a pretty dire call at that. A girl—not sure if it was an adult or child—had been attacked by bees about four miles up the West Fork of Oak Creek, and she was having an anaphylactic reaction. It was going to be a tough litter-carry, possibly involving some wading in places where the creek fills the canyon. And word through the grapevine was that first responders (not sure if that meant medics, deputies, or civilians) were already "working a code." So we were thinking this might end up being one very rugged body recovery by the sound of things.
On my way across town to the SAR building, though, the mission was cancelled. At the time, I thought perhaps the girl had been short-hauled since her condition was apparently very serious. But I later found out she'd been given epinephrine and walked out on her own. Glad to hear that.
So, back to the PLB training. To read specifics about this and other types of devices used to transmit distress signals, you can visit the Search and Rescue Satellite-Aided Tracking, or SARSAT, website. As for me, I refer to the thing that emits the distress signal as a "gadget," and the device responders use to track down the gadget (and hopefully the person/s needing help) as a "gizmo." Gadget and gizmo... got it?
So, first we had a classroom session. We learned about the different types of beacons—PLBs used for land-based applications, ELTs for aviation use, and EPIRBS for maritime use—and the basics of how they work. Seemed pretty straightforward at that point.
Then, we went out behind the Sheriff's office, where Sergeant D turned on the training PLB gadget, and we walked a couple hundred yards across the parking lot where we used the gizmo to locate the gadget. Of course, we could see the gadget from where we were standing with the gizmo. Straight line, no obstacles, flat terrain. I understood how it worked and figured, hey, this is easy!
And then it was time to take the gadget and gizmo into the field. We relocated to Fort Tuthill, where the plan was to take turns going off into the woods with the gadget with about a 10-minute head start, and then the rest of the group would use the gizmo to locate the source of the distress signal.
Well, the first time out, things went fine. Trees, yeah, but pretty flat. Now, the gizmo, by the way, makes a continuous, rather annoying sound—a constant, high-pitched, whiny beep—which the responders have to listen to the whole time they're searching. This first trial didn't take us that long so none of us mentioned anything about stomping on the whiny thing. Second time around, though: different story.
We were all over the place, with me using the gizmo for the first hour. At least, it seemed that long. But the thing couldn't seem to make up its gizmo mind. I was getting conflicting signals, first this way and now that. We were now in hilly terrain with lots of rocks and other obstacles, and I guess the signal was bouncing all over the place.
Eventually, I held the gizmo out to Sergeant D and asked (trying not to sound desperate), "Do you wanna try?" thinking at that point, I must be doing something wrong. I'm not sure what our leader was thinking, but he wasn't saying much as the rest of us followed him follow the gizmo.
A few members of our team, who'd been using the low-tech method of detecting a PLB signal with a radio set to a certain frequency and a body shield (if you really want an explanation, feel free to let me know in the blog comments, and I'll give it my best try), had disappeared. I hadn't noticed they'd walked off, leaving just me and another lady following Sergeant D. I looked around and didn't see them anywhere.
Eventually, Sergeant D radioed the others, and we learned they'd found the guy with the gadget a long time ago. What? The gizmo had failed us while the low-tech method had worked? When I saw where the guy with the gadget had been the whole time, I realized we'd passed pretty close to his location early on in the search. Ugh.
So, then Sergeant D took the low-tech method out of the equation, grabbed the gadget, wished the rest of us luck, and took off to hide. Basically, the gizmo took us in a huge circle, leading us to think Sergeant D was on the move with the thing the whole time. So, a moving distress signal, right? We even thought, based on the signals we were getting, that he'd gone back to the vehicles. But, when we got there, not only was there no sign of Sergeant D, but the gizmo was registering no signal at all. Nada. Dead.
Frustrated, we called Sergeant D on the radio, and he gave us coordinates. We used our GPSes to go to those coordinates, thinking we were looking for him and/or the gadget, but we soon realized he'd gotten us fairly close but not right to the spot. He continued to give us hints; we continued to try to follow the directions the gizmo seemed to be leading us in, but we wandered all over the place with no luck. Finally, thankfully, Sergeant D called the whole thing off. We'd apparently walked right by him more than once.
Was it the hills and obstacles interfering, making the signal bounce all over the place? Or was it us, the searchers using the gizmo, who were the problem? What I do know is that I was hearing that whiny beep in my dreams for several nights thereafter.
We did have a call last Monday morning, I think it was, around 9 a.m. I was in Walmart at the time (yippee!), looking for stuff for our new house, when my back pocket started beeping a tune. A 200 (search) page for a couple of overdue woodcutters on or near the Hualapai Reservation, which is about a three-hour drive from Flagstaff.
It turned out to be a good drill, basically. Several of us proceeded to load tech gear, ATVs, the Ranger UTV, cubes of water, MREs and snacks, and full gas cans, then drove for about 15 minutes before the mission was 10-22'd. The woodcutters had been located near Peach Springs. So we did an about-face, returned to the SAR building, and unloaded and put away all the gear. And that's been about it over the past couple of weeks. I've had way too many full nights of sleep. I'm thinkin' something will happen soon.
Oh, and we did have another cancelled call-out on the afternoon of Saturday, October 25, just as we were finishing up a rather frustrating personal locator beacon, or PLB, training. (I'll get back to that in a sec.) It sounded like a pretty dire call at that. A girl—not sure if it was an adult or child—had been attacked by bees about four miles up the West Fork of Oak Creek, and she was having an anaphylactic reaction. It was going to be a tough litter-carry, possibly involving some wading in places where the creek fills the canyon. And word through the grapevine was that first responders (not sure if that meant medics, deputies, or civilians) were already "working a code." So we were thinking this might end up being one very rugged body recovery by the sound of things.
On my way across town to the SAR building, though, the mission was cancelled. At the time, I thought perhaps the girl had been short-hauled since her condition was apparently very serious. But I later found out she'd been given epinephrine and walked out on her own. Glad to hear that.
So, back to the PLB training. To read specifics about this and other types of devices used to transmit distress signals, you can visit the Search and Rescue Satellite-Aided Tracking, or SARSAT, website. As for me, I refer to the thing that emits the distress signal as a "gadget," and the device responders use to track down the gadget (and hopefully the person/s needing help) as a "gizmo." Gadget and gizmo... got it?
So, first we had a classroom session. We learned about the different types of beacons—PLBs used for land-based applications, ELTs for aviation use, and EPIRBS for maritime use—and the basics of how they work. Seemed pretty straightforward at that point.
Then, we went out behind the Sheriff's office, where Sergeant D turned on the training PLB gadget, and we walked a couple hundred yards across the parking lot where we used the gizmo to locate the gadget. Of course, we could see the gadget from where we were standing with the gizmo. Straight line, no obstacles, flat terrain. I understood how it worked and figured, hey, this is easy!
And then it was time to take the gadget and gizmo into the field. We relocated to Fort Tuthill, where the plan was to take turns going off into the woods with the gadget with about a 10-minute head start, and then the rest of the group would use the gizmo to locate the source of the distress signal.
Well, the first time out, things went fine. Trees, yeah, but pretty flat. Now, the gizmo, by the way, makes a continuous, rather annoying sound—a constant, high-pitched, whiny beep—which the responders have to listen to the whole time they're searching. This first trial didn't take us that long so none of us mentioned anything about stomping on the whiny thing. Second time around, though: different story.
We were all over the place, with me using the gizmo for the first hour. At least, it seemed that long. But the thing couldn't seem to make up its gizmo mind. I was getting conflicting signals, first this way and now that. We were now in hilly terrain with lots of rocks and other obstacles, and I guess the signal was bouncing all over the place.
Eventually, I held the gizmo out to Sergeant D and asked (trying not to sound desperate), "Do you wanna try?" thinking at that point, I must be doing something wrong. I'm not sure what our leader was thinking, but he wasn't saying much as the rest of us followed him follow the gizmo.
A few members of our team, who'd been using the low-tech method of detecting a PLB signal with a radio set to a certain frequency and a body shield (if you really want an explanation, feel free to let me know in the blog comments, and I'll give it my best try), had disappeared. I hadn't noticed they'd walked off, leaving just me and another lady following Sergeant D. I looked around and didn't see them anywhere.
Eventually, Sergeant D radioed the others, and we learned they'd found the guy with the gadget a long time ago. What? The gizmo had failed us while the low-tech method had worked? When I saw where the guy with the gadget had been the whole time, I realized we'd passed pretty close to his location early on in the search. Ugh.
So, then Sergeant D took the low-tech method out of the equation, grabbed the gadget, wished the rest of us luck, and took off to hide. Basically, the gizmo took us in a huge circle, leading us to think Sergeant D was on the move with the thing the whole time. So, a moving distress signal, right? We even thought, based on the signals we were getting, that he'd gone back to the vehicles. But, when we got there, not only was there no sign of Sergeant D, but the gizmo was registering no signal at all. Nada. Dead.
Frustrated, we called Sergeant D on the radio, and he gave us coordinates. We used our GPSes to go to those coordinates, thinking we were looking for him and/or the gadget, but we soon realized he'd gotten us fairly close but not right to the spot. He continued to give us hints; we continued to try to follow the directions the gizmo seemed to be leading us in, but we wandered all over the place with no luck. Finally, thankfully, Sergeant D called the whole thing off. We'd apparently walked right by him more than once.
Was it the hills and obstacles interfering, making the signal bounce all over the place? Or was it us, the searchers using the gizmo, who were the problem? What I do know is that I was hearing that whiny beep in my dreams for several nights thereafter.
A Search for Moving Targets
We were sitting in a coffee shop again, my husband and I, when my pager went off. That's a common pastime for us on Sunday afternoons, when we like to relax and chat. At about 7:00 p.m., after several hours of that relaxing and chatting, we were just getting ready to peel our butts off the vinyl seats when I got the call-out for a rescue on Mt. Elden.
I thought I'd be the last one to the SAR building since I had to drop Steve off at home before driving across town. But only two of the eight volunteers responding were there when I arrived, and as it turned out, we all had to stand by for another hour anyway. Two tech team members were already on the mountain doing a hasty search, and, via radio communications, it sounded as though the rest of us might not be needed at all—just a couple of hikers without lights who'd lost the trail. However, a second potential SAR mission was unfolding at the same time.
And it was that second situation the eight of us responded to, ending up an hour south in Sedona instead of ten minutes away on Mt. Elden. Two stranded mountain bikers had used a cellphone to call for help.
When we rendezvoused with the deputy waiting at Midgley Bridge, he called the subjects and asked them to turn on their headlamps, which we immediately spotted in the distance—little pinpoints of light against the dark backdrop of a mountain. Well, this didn't look like a big deal, really.
Uh-huh.
Victor, our team leader that night who knows the area well, suggested the best course of action would be to hike from the other side of the ridge, from Schenbly Hill Rd. up and over the saddle, and descend to the subjects, then bring them back the way we'd come.
Steve and I had hiked that non-system, or what some call "social," trail, most of which is not on the map, a couple of years ago, and I recalled it being tough to locate in places on the other side of the mountain while fairly easy to follow on the side where tonight's subjects were. Obviously, though, the bikers had strayed quite a distance from the trail. But since I couldn't remember where to access the beginning of the trail on their side of the mountain, I didn't suggest an alternative to Victor's plan. By contrast, the access on Schnebly Hill Rd. is easy to locate because the route begins with a short out-and-back trail that is on the map, and that trailhead has its own parking area. (Hope that makes sense.)
So, the eight of us drove around to Schnebly Hill Road, which apparently hasn't seen any maintenance in years, and arrived at the trailhead about 40 minutes later. It was a rough ride, and I'm surprised none of the three SAR vehicles ended up with at least one flat tire.
Before beginning the hike, Victor divided us into two teams, designating me the leader of Team 1—my first time officially being named a leader. (I had to smile at that. How cool.) I'd communicate with Incident Command back at Midgely Bridge on 1-Baker, while another team member would keep her radio on the SAR frequency for communication between us and Team 2 when necessary. The other two members of Team 1 would keep their radios off for the time being, to preserve the batteries. Then the eight of us started up the trail together.
As we went along, we set out glow sticks in spots that were a bit confusing or might prove to be on the way back. At one point, we had to bushwhack around a stretch where the route would have taken us too close to a fall hazard. Erring on the side of caution as we're always supposed to, we picked our way through some cactus, coming back to the trail in a safer spot to continue the traverse.
Soon, we ascended an open slickrock face to a flat area not far from the saddle. At that point, our two teams split up. Mine would stay put while Team 2 went up and over. Team 1 would stand by in case backup was needed and eventually take over when the subjects were retrieved. They'd be handed off to us for the descent to the vehicles.
Maybe that second part—the hand-off—was merely to make my team feel more useful, but there really was no need for all eight of us to continue to the subjects, especially because the going would get rough off-trail. So, my group of four made ourselves comfortable and enjoyed a beautiful, still night filled with moonlight and shooting stars.
While one of my teammates, new to the unit and rearing to go, was very fidgety and not happy about staying behind, I was quite content. I've learned over time that we all perform a function during a mission, even if we have to sit tight for a while. Sometimes, waiting as backup becomes vitally important. Even searching an area with a low probability of finding a subject, or driving perimeter roads while other team members are searching high-probability areas, is crucial to a mission, even if it means just ruling out, or "clearing," those places. Besides, after not hiking this route for quite some time and my memory of the details being fuzzy, I felt the four team members who continued on were best skilled to deal with a potentially technical situation, especially with it being darker on the other side of the saddle despite the bright moon, in the mountain's shadow.
As it turned out, I'm glad I was on the team who stayed put. Monitoring radio communications between Team 2 and IC, I could hear they were encountering some difficulty. When they left the trail to try to access the subjects, Team 2 soon found themselves in a tricky spot with significant fall hazards. And, in the meantime, the subjects had become moving targets, apparently now trying to self-rescue. Despite phone calls from the deputy and verbal communication between Team 2 and the subjects, shouting back and forth, the two men who'd called for help were not listening to those who were trying to help them.
At that point, Team 2 had gone far enough down the other side in rough terrain that backtracking would have been more difficult than continuing a descent toward Midgley Bridge... with or without the subjects. The fidgeting member of my team kept asking me to call and see if he could go join Team 2 since he's from Sedona and felt he knew the area better than they did. When I refused to make that call, he asked why we shouldn't just go back to the vehicles then. But I felt we should stay where we were until Team 2 or Incident Command instructed us otherwise. We had radio communication, so they'd let us know.
At the same time, I didn't feel it necessary to interrupt Team 2, as they were obviously busy negotiating hazardous terrain. So, I had a wee bit of a tug-of-war, shall we say, with the one teammate who, like every SAR member, will have to get used to taking direction from those with more experience. I got instructions from Victor, and my new teammate would have to live with a few decisions from me. So there.
After listening to Team 2's increasingly frustrated transmissions for quite some time, Victor told IC they'd decided to hunker down and stay put till daylight, when it would be easier to see. They were still in voice contact with the subjects who had by then split up. Meanwhile, my team was instructed to return to the vehicles on Schnebly Hill Rd. and drive back around to IC at Midgely Bridge, where we'd see what our next assignment would be, if any, for this mission. On the hike back to the vehicles, we collected the glow sticks we'd set out on the way up, after first confirming with Victor that his team wouldn't need them.
When we arrived at the bridge more than an hour later, nothing had changed. There was some talk about our Team 1 hiking another trail to try to get close to the subjects from that way, but we and the deputy decided that wasn't such a hot idea. Comparing the location of the subjects and the nearest point on that trail, the distance between the two was significant given the terrain. Instead, we decided to make a run into town for coffee and snacks, then return to IC and wait.
To make a long story a bit shorter, I'll wrap this up by saying that one of the two subjects made his way to the SAR members still in the field. At that point, he just wanted water for himself and his buddy, and SAR gave him what he asked for. Victor then decided to assist the mountain bikers down to the trail my team had briefly considered hiking up, though the two men would have to carry their bikes.
Once on the well-maintained trail, Victor and his two teammates left the subjects to ride or walk their bikes out on their own. Team 2 arrived at the road maybe 10 minutes before the subjects, wet past their knees from the creek crossing. SAR waited until they arrived and were being interviewed by the deputy before we departed for Flagstaff.
After a 10-hour mission that we thought would take less than half that time, we signed out and headed for home just as the sun was coming up.
A Mock Search... And Then Some
It's like following a horse race. Team 1 gives their coordinates to Sergeant D over the radio, and I, listening in, plot those coordinates on my map. Then Team 2 gives their location, then Team 3. Team 2 is in the lead! They're gaining on us! Not that we're moving.
What the heck am I talking about, you ask? Well, I'm sitting near the edge of an alpine meadow, a couple hundred yards above the Kachina Trail. Joe is here, too, reading his thick computer programming textbook. I suggested he bring something to read because I knew we'd be out here a while. We're "lost," you see. Oh, and I have a leg injury, though I'm not really sure which part of which leg is injured. I'll come up with that once we're found.
Sergeant D left an envelope for me at the SAR building yesterday, with "Confidential information for Deb" written on it, sealed with yellow evidence tape. It felt so... official. In the envelope was a copy of the briefing the new unit members and their experienced instructor-members would be given for today's simulated mission. Sergeant D also gave me coordinates for the place where Joe and I should wait ... and wait ... and wait.
The two of us arrived at the trailhead at noon today for our head start and hiked 2.7 miles to this location, following the digital compass on my nine-year-old Magellan GPS. We positioned ourselves a bit farther from the trail than the coordinates indicated, far enough that passers-by wouldn't notice us but close enough that we could keep an eye out for SAR. If they walk by but don't call out or blow a whistle, we're not gonna yell. Heh-heh.
It's a beautiful yet chilly day up here at close to 10,000 feet, and now, at 4:30 p.m., I feel the air getting colder. Joe and I move a bit further into the meadow, to escape the growing shadows creeping our way and soak up what's left of the sunlight.
We're just about midway along the Kachina Trail. One group of searchers started from the western end, where Joe and I parked. Another group began at the Weatherford trailhead on Schultz Pass road, requiring more than a mile of additional hiking to get to the junction at the eastern end of the Kachina Trail. Those two groups are working toward one another, while the third group, who drove in on a Forest Service road, are hiking north, up an old two-track. They should intersect the Kachina Trail not far to the west of our location. It'll be interesting to see (or hear, rather) which way they turn once they get there. And there's now been a fourth team designated, made up of two unit members who parted with one of the original teams and are now heading back to Incident Command because one of them is experiencing some "mountain sickness."
We also know from radio communication that two tracking/trailing search dogs and their handlers are in the field, too. But I guess their noses don't know what—I mean, who—they're sniffing for, because they have no scent article of mine or Joe's. Must be the dogs in training I heard about, belonging to a couple who are new to the unit.
I hear my watch beep: 5:00. And soon I think I hear a distant call. It's faint, but who else besides SAR would be yelling out here? Joe and I listen closely. Yep, that must be them. We let them get closer, until we can clearly hear them calling Joe's name. I give Joe the nod, and he yells back.
And then... silence. A long silence. Joe and I look at each other, puzzled.
We later find out that when Joe called back the first time, the teams, which by then were all within earshot as they closed in on our position and one another at roughly the same time, froze. I could just imagine them all standing there, holding their collective breath, listening as hard as they could. I would have had a giggle-fit watching that.
Joe and I stay mute too. Ha!
Finally, someone breaks the silence and gives another yell. Joe responds, and then—and I'm laughing as I write this—they all start yelling like mad and blowing whistles. Such excitement! Poor Joe, he has to keep calling back and calling back. "Hey!" "Over here!" "Hey!" Meanwhile, I'm just sitting here in the tall grass. I mean, I can't yell, my leg is broken. Yeah, definitely broken. Maybe even a nice icky compound fracture.
Soon, we see search and rescue—two field teams almost at the same time—emerge into the meadow below. They don't spot us right away, though Joe is now standing, waving his arms as he calls back. And now I hear, "There he is! Up there!" And the mass of people and two bounding brown dogs start moving our way. Within about five minutes, I'm being licked and slobbered on (by the dogs, that is), and as the third team catches up and joins the rest, Joe and I are soon surrounded by about 20 people. Gee, such great attention.
They ask me if I'm cold. No, I say. But Al, one of the experienced members along to provide guidance, looks at me sternly and says, "Oh, yes, Yes, you are."
Oh... okay, I'm cold. Very cold. Yes, new members, the subject needs some of your spare clothing. Yeah, that's much better. Am I hungry or thirsty? I look at Al. Nooooo, not hungry or thirsty. I just ate and drank recently, thank you (which is true). And Al tells me I have a fractured right ankle joint. Ouch! A dog just stepped on it. If this were for real, that woulda hurt.
New member Tom, an EMT, uses a SAM splint, bandannas, and two thick sticks to secure my broken ankle. Then I'm plopped into the litter, and Ken gives a demo on patient packaging.
Now, of course, I can't scribble on my notepad, so into past tense I go...
Part of the group heaved me into the air, as others struggled to attach the wheel beneath the litter. After some technical difficulties, we started to roll ... and bounce ... and jolt. It's kinda funny, looking up at all those faces, listening to the jumble of communication amongst people not used to working together and not used to transporting a person in a litter. At the same time, I was rather comfy and could have taken a nap, actually, had I not gotten dumped out, forced to hike on my miraculously healed ankle after everyone had had a turn handling the litter.
By then, the sun had set, and we proceeded single-file to hike out, our headlamps glowing like a moving line of luminaries along the trail. We chatted as we walked, older members and new ones getting to know one another. I heard some SAR stories shared, and everything was hunky-dory... until, boom! Down goes Laura, one of the new recruits. Uh-oh. This time, the ankle injury was real.
Now Tom the EMT wasn't pretending as he evaluated and splinted another ankle. After a very brief, unsuccessful attempt at an assisted walk-out, we got another patient-packaging demonstration. With a about a mile to go to vehicles, we all took turns on the litter, our real patient apologizing along the way. What an unfortunate way to begin a search and rescue career.
At midnight, I finally arrived home, about four hours later than I'd expected.
-----------------
In my last entry, I'd mentioned how our pagers hadn't gone off in a while, so I was having a premonition things were about let loose. Well, twice in one day, on that same day, it did. Two injured hikers on two mountain trails. Twice, a bunch of us, including a number of new members who'd just received their pagers, responded to the SAR building, anticipating long litter-carries. Twice the missions were 10-22'd, because Guardian medical personnel ended up going in and getting the victims before we arrived. Well, now the new folks know firsthand what "hurry up and go home" means. It happens.
Don't Tell, But...
There's a little training exercise planned for the new members who are just finishing Coconino County's Basic SAR Academy. Their pagers will go off tomorrow—not tellin' when—just like it's a real mission. They'll respond to the SAR building, sign in, sign out radios, load gear, and respond to Incident Command, which will be at the Kachina Trail parking area up on the peaks.
And who will they be lookin' for? Why, li'l ol' me and my teammate, Joe. We'll be sitting out there, all bundled up (it's supposed to be cold and windy, and we'll be at an elevation of over 10,000 feet) with goodies to keep us warm and occupied. We'll bring books and dinner too, because who knows how long we'll be waiting to be found. We'll also have radios so we can eavesdrop on the searchers' progress.
When they eventually find us, one of us is going to require a litter carry. Joe and I will draw straws, arm wrestle, and fight about who gets to be the injured one, but I sure hope I win. I've been a fake patient before, and riding in that litter makes me feel rather icky (meaning nauseous).
This whole mock SAR mission is dependent on the fact that no real mission takes precedence. It's been vewwy, vewwy quiet for a while. In fact, when I returned from a recent trip to Colorado, I was surprised to find I hadn't missed any missions while I was gone. Hm, makes me think the elk poo is about to hit the fan.
And who will they be lookin' for? Why, li'l ol' me and my teammate, Joe. We'll be sitting out there, all bundled up (it's supposed to be cold and windy, and we'll be at an elevation of over 10,000 feet) with goodies to keep us warm and occupied. We'll bring books and dinner too, because who knows how long we'll be waiting to be found. We'll also have radios so we can eavesdrop on the searchers' progress.
When they eventually find us, one of us is going to require a litter carry. Joe and I will draw straws, arm wrestle, and fight about who gets to be the injured one, but I sure hope I win. I've been a fake patient before, and riding in that litter makes me feel rather icky (meaning nauseous).
This whole mock SAR mission is dependent on the fact that no real mission takes precedence. It's been vewwy, vewwy quiet for a while. In fact, when I returned from a recent trip to Colorado, I was surprised to find I hadn't missed any missions while I was gone. Hm, makes me think the elk poo is about to hit the fan.
Two SAR in One Day, Take Two
First, there was the suspicious rental car and empty baby carriage left at the Midgley Bridge parking lot. At 3 a.m. on Sunday, Sergeant D sent out a page, and seven of us shook off sleep and responded. We drove down the switchbacks into Oak Creek Canyon to the bridge, where our coordinator updated us on what little additional information he'd gotten so far.
There was a campground ticket on the dash. The campsite, deserted since Saturday, had been checked. Another camper said they'd seen two women but no baby at that site. In the tent was a suitcase with a sleeping bag and a few other items inside, and that suitcase had an airline tag on it. The baby carriage at the bridge also had an airline tag on it. Also at the campsite, a book was found: "The Last Lecture" by Randy Pausch, a professor who lost his battle with cancer earlier this year. A family photo was tucked into the book. The rental car company's computers were currently down, so we didn't yet have information from them, but a locksmith was on the way to open the vehicle, inside of which Sergeant D could see a cellphone.
The seven of us SAR volunteers and Sergeant D huddled over the Sedona trails map, laid out on the hood of his truck and illuminated by our eight headlamps. We had no idea what to expect from this search, but we had tech gear with us just in case.
It was decided that two team members would hike to the bottom of the canyon and make their way under the bridge. Midgely Bridge had been used as a jumping-off point, so to speak, a number of times before, so we needed to rule that out. We hoped.
Meanwhile, two other teams of two would hike two of the three trails that depart from the area. The third trail, which climbs Wilson Mountain, would be covered next. Our seventh team member, a man in his mid-seventies, would drive around to other trailheads to check for vehicles and people and to pick us ground-pounders up when we got to the other ends of our assigned trails.
My companion and I covered the three-mile Huckaby Trail, calling, "hello!" and "anybody out here?" I blew my loud whistle periodically, making my ears ring.
Eventually, we learned a name via radio transmissions between Sergeant D, dispatch, and another deputy, and then we called, "Laura!" as we went along. Apparently Laura had rented the car, and Sergeant D had been in contact with her friends and family by dialing numbers programmed in her cellphone, which he'd retrieved from the car. Laura was from Canada.
After a careful creek crossing on some narrow logs, Scott and I continued along the trail as the sun came up, but we soon stopped when we thought we heard a distant whistle. We called and listened again, straining our ears against the sound of the wind in the trees. When we were sure we were hearing a whistle, we announced it over the radio, only to learn we were hearing one of our other teams above us on another trail.
Our radios were pretty quiet as we hiked, but just before Scott and I reached the end of our trail, we heard Sergeant D's voice. "The two subjects just arrived at the bridge, Code 4."
They had been a short distance up the Wilson Mountain Trail — the one we hadn't yet checked. They'd been on their way down yesterday evening when darkness overtook them and, with no light, had decided to stay put until the morning. Apparently, they weren't particularly shaken up about their unplanned, bare-bones campout, but, boy, were they freaked out when they got back to their car and found a bunch of Coconino County Sheriff's Search & Rescue vehicles all around it. I expect some rapid follow-up calls to worried family and friends took place.
Oh, and the mysterious baby carriage had no connection to the two women. Tucked into a carriage pocket was a Phoenix hotel map. It's my guess that a couple with a baby got back to their hotel and, when they unloaded the car, they said to one another, "I thought you put the carriage in the trunk."
So, after breakfast with my teammates and the drive back to Flagstaff, I returned from that little adventure soon after my husband had rolled out of bed. We spent a relaxing Sunday together, much of that time sitting at an outdoor cafe where I think I actually fell asleep for a few minutes while I had my head tilted back with my face to the sun. But after a long early-evening walk with our dog, my pager went off again.
This call was for a carry-out on Kendrick Peak. It was a girl with a knee injury, Sergeant D said, and would probably be at least a six-hour deal. Without enough people to take shifts, we'd only be able to switch sides of the litter, to give one arm a break for a while, rather than switch out people.
But, as has been the case lately, things didn't turn out quite like we expected. After the long drive to the trailhead, one SAR member who lives nearby and responded directly to the scene had already reached the victim and victim's friend, along with a deputy who'd headed up the trail on his own. They were apparently a good hour's hike up there, but they were going to try an assisted walk-out.
Sergeant D decided to send four of us who had Wilderness First Responder (WFR or "woofer") training up the trail with medical gear, so we could make a brace for the girl's knee and help with the walk-out. The others would remain behind in case we ended up needing the litter after all. Since the victim had already refused ambulance transport, there were no Guardian medical personnel on the scene, just search and rescue.
We set off at a good clip, not rushing but not wanting to waste time getting up there to help. Thinking we had the better part of an hour's climb, we were surprised to see lights heading toward us well before then. I stepped aside as a rather beefy and very sweaty deputy whooshed by with a girl on his back. Wow! Can he come with us all the time?
Our group did have to pause briefly while the deputy removed his gun belt. The weapon and other equipment around his waist was jammed into the injured hiker's backside and inner thighs. I'd imagine that was probably painful enough to distract her from her injured knee. Seeing how she limped and wobbled when the deputy momentarily set her down, I can see why the attempted assisted walk-out hadn't worked.
A short time later, the grateful victim, her friend, and their two growling dogs were returned to their vehicle, and we headed back to the SAR building to fill up the trucks so they'll be ready to go for the next call-out, put away the tech gear, and then drive our sleepy selves back home.
Just before midnight, my head hit the pillow, and I didn't budge till 9 a.m.
There was a campground ticket on the dash. The campsite, deserted since Saturday, had been checked. Another camper said they'd seen two women but no baby at that site. In the tent was a suitcase with a sleeping bag and a few other items inside, and that suitcase had an airline tag on it. The baby carriage at the bridge also had an airline tag on it. Also at the campsite, a book was found: "The Last Lecture" by Randy Pausch, a professor who lost his battle with cancer earlier this year. A family photo was tucked into the book. The rental car company's computers were currently down, so we didn't yet have information from them, but a locksmith was on the way to open the vehicle, inside of which Sergeant D could see a cellphone.
The seven of us SAR volunteers and Sergeant D huddled over the Sedona trails map, laid out on the hood of his truck and illuminated by our eight headlamps. We had no idea what to expect from this search, but we had tech gear with us just in case.
It was decided that two team members would hike to the bottom of the canyon and make their way under the bridge. Midgely Bridge had been used as a jumping-off point, so to speak, a number of times before, so we needed to rule that out. We hoped.
Meanwhile, two other teams of two would hike two of the three trails that depart from the area. The third trail, which climbs Wilson Mountain, would be covered next. Our seventh team member, a man in his mid-seventies, would drive around to other trailheads to check for vehicles and people and to pick us ground-pounders up when we got to the other ends of our assigned trails.
My companion and I covered the three-mile Huckaby Trail, calling, "hello!" and "anybody out here?" I blew my loud whistle periodically, making my ears ring.
Eventually, we learned a name via radio transmissions between Sergeant D, dispatch, and another deputy, and then we called, "Laura!" as we went along. Apparently Laura had rented the car, and Sergeant D had been in contact with her friends and family by dialing numbers programmed in her cellphone, which he'd retrieved from the car. Laura was from Canada.
After a careful creek crossing on some narrow logs, Scott and I continued along the trail as the sun came up, but we soon stopped when we thought we heard a distant whistle. We called and listened again, straining our ears against the sound of the wind in the trees. When we were sure we were hearing a whistle, we announced it over the radio, only to learn we were hearing one of our other teams above us on another trail.
Our radios were pretty quiet as we hiked, but just before Scott and I reached the end of our trail, we heard Sergeant D's voice. "The two subjects just arrived at the bridge, Code 4."
They had been a short distance up the Wilson Mountain Trail — the one we hadn't yet checked. They'd been on their way down yesterday evening when darkness overtook them and, with no light, had decided to stay put until the morning. Apparently, they weren't particularly shaken up about their unplanned, bare-bones campout, but, boy, were they freaked out when they got back to their car and found a bunch of Coconino County Sheriff's Search & Rescue vehicles all around it. I expect some rapid follow-up calls to worried family and friends took place.
Oh, and the mysterious baby carriage had no connection to the two women. Tucked into a carriage pocket was a Phoenix hotel map. It's my guess that a couple with a baby got back to their hotel and, when they unloaded the car, they said to one another, "I thought you put the carriage in the trunk."
So, after breakfast with my teammates and the drive back to Flagstaff, I returned from that little adventure soon after my husband had rolled out of bed. We spent a relaxing Sunday together, much of that time sitting at an outdoor cafe where I think I actually fell asleep for a few minutes while I had my head tilted back with my face to the sun. But after a long early-evening walk with our dog, my pager went off again.
This call was for a carry-out on Kendrick Peak. It was a girl with a knee injury, Sergeant D said, and would probably be at least a six-hour deal. Without enough people to take shifts, we'd only be able to switch sides of the litter, to give one arm a break for a while, rather than switch out people.
But, as has been the case lately, things didn't turn out quite like we expected. After the long drive to the trailhead, one SAR member who lives nearby and responded directly to the scene had already reached the victim and victim's friend, along with a deputy who'd headed up the trail on his own. They were apparently a good hour's hike up there, but they were going to try an assisted walk-out.
Sergeant D decided to send four of us who had Wilderness First Responder (WFR or "woofer") training up the trail with medical gear, so we could make a brace for the girl's knee and help with the walk-out. The others would remain behind in case we ended up needing the litter after all. Since the victim had already refused ambulance transport, there were no Guardian medical personnel on the scene, just search and rescue.
We set off at a good clip, not rushing but not wanting to waste time getting up there to help. Thinking we had the better part of an hour's climb, we were surprised to see lights heading toward us well before then. I stepped aside as a rather beefy and very sweaty deputy whooshed by with a girl on his back. Wow! Can he come with us all the time?
Our group did have to pause briefly while the deputy removed his gun belt. The weapon and other equipment around his waist was jammed into the injured hiker's backside and inner thighs. I'd imagine that was probably painful enough to distract her from her injured knee. Seeing how she limped and wobbled when the deputy momentarily set her down, I can see why the attempted assisted walk-out hadn't worked.
A short time later, the grateful victim, her friend, and their two growling dogs were returned to their vehicle, and we headed back to the SAR building to fill up the trucks so they'll be ready to go for the next call-out, put away the tech gear, and then drive our sleepy selves back home.
Just before midnight, my head hit the pillow, and I didn't budge till 9 a.m.
One Day, Two Missions
Okay, now I don't feel quite so bad about missing Wednesday's and Thursday's evidence search.
On Friday morning, just as my mom and I get to the hair salon for her 9:00 appointment (and my trim while her dye is doing its thing), my pager goes off. Shoot! I was going to miss another mission, I thought.
I called in and Sergeant D's message said it was a search for a missing hunter (kind of a recurring theme at this time of year) in the Marshall Lake area. Hmm, I contemplated, that's not far from where I live. So I left a message, saying I'd be tied up for a while but that I'd like to join in if the search was still ongoing after I dropped my mom off back at her house. Then I hung up and called Al, who I knew would be going on the mission. Al said he'd grab an extra radio for me.
I fidgeted while the hairdresser got my mom started, then fidgeted some more while she was combing away at my matted, curly mass. Twice I fished my ringing cellphone out of my pocket as she was trimming, trying not to move too much lest she snip off part of an earlobe. It was Al, calling to tell me he was going directly to Marshall Lake with Cassie, his and the team's tracking dog, to begin a hasty search. So, he'd relayed my request for a radio to another team member at the SAR building. Then it was Al calling again from his truck, asking if I knew a quicker way to get to Marshall Lake.
With my earlobes still intact after those two calls, I called my husband, a Flagstaff native, and asked if he knew of any alternate routes to the lake, on some unofficial dirt roads maybe. Nope. So I slipped my phone back into my pocket and behaved myself for the rest of my agonizingly long haircut, then changed into SAR clothes in the salon bathroom while the hairdresser continued on my mom's head. Tap, tap, tap went my foot as I tried to distract myself with tabloid magazines. (Did you know that Brittany Spears... uh, never mind.)
Okay, so fast forward to about 11 a.m. I got to Marshall Lake just as our team was preparing to depart the staging area and head into the field. Al was already out with Cassie along with the subject's brother and a scent article, a shirt the missing man had worn on a couple of days ago. The hunter, Robert, had been gone since 5 p.m. on Thursday, when he vanished while he and his brother and friend were out looking for elk. One minute he was there, the next he was gone, the friend told me.
The point last seen (PLS) was marked on the maps Sergeant D handed out to each searcher along with the briefing sheet. Robert, who was in his early fifties, was about 6-foot-2, 280 pounds, and had no known medical conditions. He was wearing leaf-patterned camo pants and jacket and a black shirt.
We were also told that Robert had been wearing sneakers, though his friend was unsure of the brand. Sergeant D and other SAR members had looked for prints around their campsite, but there were many different treads in the area.
The DPS helicopter was in the air as our team set off in pairs, some on ATVs, some in vehicles, and Scott and I on the Ranger UTV, which can be used to transport a patient. Scott and I followed a trio of hunters to some sneaker tracks they'd located. We spoke to a young couple camped nearby, then parked the Ranger and set off on foot.
Scott and I yelled and I blew my whistle as we climbed to the top of the mesa near the PLS. We saw quite a few tracks, but they were all boot prints. Meanwhile, another pair of SAR volunteers were following some sneaker prints along a dirt road, with the helicopter leap-frogging them and flying above some of the spur roads ahead. At one point, Scott and I, standing on an outcropping above Cherry Canyon, thought we heard a reply to our calls, but it turned out to be ATV Team 1 down below. Darn.
From there, we started downhill, following a wash. I believe Sergeant D had said that something like 40% of the time, lost hunters are found in washes. Hmm, interesting.
As was the next bit of info to come over the radio. Robert's sneakers were just found in the back of his truck. He was wearing boots when he disappeared. Boots with Vibram soles. Oh.
I don't know about Scott, but by then I was starting to get that sinking feeling. Were we going to find poor Robert, unresponsive or worse, somewhat hidden in the grass in his camo garb? I'd seen a vulture circling not long before. Maybe we should have checked over there. Maybe a stray bullet had missed an elk and... well, you get the idea.
Usually when I start to get "that feeling," the person turns up. Which held true this time, too. At about 2:30 p.m., we heard a deputy call Sergeant D on the radio. He said, "We just got word the subject may be at the Circle K on Lake Mary Rd." The Circle K? Wow, that's a long walk.
Scott and I turned around and slowly made our way back to the Ranger (which luckily I'd remembered to mark on my GPS), while a deputy went to the convenience store and confirmed that, yes indeed, it was Robert. He'd been there since 10:00 that morning. I could have picked him up when I drove by on my way to Marshall Lake. Ah well, all's well that ends well once again. That's much better than the scenario my imagination had been cooking up.
So then, at about 4 p.m., I got home coated with dust-covered sweat and waited for Steve to get home from work. I put off showering, and we walked our dog, made some dinner, ate, chatted, watched the presidential debate, and... you guessed it: My pager went off again. Good thing I hadn't showered yet. Would have been a waste of water, right?
And since I've already been long-winded enough, I'll just summarize:
Man goes for a hike with just a water bottle in his pocket. Man gets a bit misplaced. It gets dark, but hiker-man has no flashlight. He does have a cellphone, though, so he calls for help. Deputy responds and drives around, running his siren and talking to the lost man by phone while SAR team is on the way.
SAR arrives. Doo doo-doo! (That was a trumpet.) By now, deputy has some idea of the man's location based on when lost man said the siren was the loudest. So, SAR divides into two teams and heads out from different trailheads. We call, we blow whistles.
We make voice contact. We find man, escort man back to trailhead, then to Sergeant D, then to man's vehicle a few miles away. Happy, tired man goes home. SAR goes home. I go to bed without a shower. Poor husband, Steve.
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A few days later...
Just a little added information on the missing elk hunter who turned up at Circle K. He, uh, got a ride there. Yes, he did get lost and did spend the night in the great outdoors, but then, in the morning, he apparently found his way to one of the many forest roads in the Marshall Lake area and caught himself a ride.
Thing is—so we're told—that ride took him right past the campsite he'd been sharing with his brother and friend. So why didn't he stop there? I don't get it. Even if he didn't go right past the site, it was on THE main forest service road out there, just north of the lake, so it wasn't like it would have been hard to find. Why didn't he ask the driver to take him there?
Ah well, no sense in asking logical questions.
A Life Saved After All
I don't think any of us knew just how serious his condition really was. I'm referring to the man we recently evacuated from the Humphreys Trail after he'd experienced shortness of breath and chest tightness during his descent. While members of our SAR team along with Guardian crew were bringing him down in the litter, medics monitored the patient's condition. It seemed the longer he was on oxygen and the lower we went, the more his condition improved. He was talkative and not in any further distress, he said.
According to Sergeant D, though, who updated us at our general SAR meeting this past Thursday, the patient had a blood clot in his stint. Had he attempted to walk, he may have had a serious, potentially fatal heart attack.
When our coordinator gave us this news, Liz and I looked at each other with wide eyes. Sometimes you don't know what a difference a rescue is making in someone's life during the mission. Boy, I'm glad the Good Samaritan called for help when he came across Andrew sitting by the side of the trail.
On another note, we were paged at 1:15 Friday morning for a missing hunter with a history of diabetic coma. The man's companion had last seen him at 4:00 p.m. on Thursday, before he'd left in his truck from their camp in a remote area near the South Rim of Grand Canyon. The man had mentioned that if he did leave, he'd be going to a particular tank (a watering hole for livestock). But his friend had checked that tank and then drove around for another five hours without any luck. Then he called for SAR.
Coconino County is so big that it can take us a long time to get to an area before we can even begin to search. In this case, the point last seen was 30-some-odd miles down a dirt road and a nearly three-hour drive from Flagstaff. Two deputies were already in the area while we were on our way, gathering additional information and driving the network of dirt roads and two-tracks. At first light, we'd have the assistance of the DPS helicopter, too.
But as we were nearing the hunters' camp, we heard one of the deputies on scene call Sergeant D. "I hate to do this to you," he said. Al turned up the radio, and we leaned in to listen. Sure enough, they'd just made cellphone contact with the subject, who was about a mile and a half from camp, Code 4. He was fine, he said. No diabetic issues.
Al and I couldn't help but laugh—this kind of timing has happened a number of times before. But good, that's the end result we always hope for. After a little shut-eye for an hour, we turned around and drove back to Flagstaff.
According to Sergeant D, though, who updated us at our general SAR meeting this past Thursday, the patient had a blood clot in his stint. Had he attempted to walk, he may have had a serious, potentially fatal heart attack.
When our coordinator gave us this news, Liz and I looked at each other with wide eyes. Sometimes you don't know what a difference a rescue is making in someone's life during the mission. Boy, I'm glad the Good Samaritan called for help when he came across Andrew sitting by the side of the trail.
On another note, we were paged at 1:15 Friday morning for a missing hunter with a history of diabetic coma. The man's companion had last seen him at 4:00 p.m. on Thursday, before he'd left in his truck from their camp in a remote area near the South Rim of Grand Canyon. The man had mentioned that if he did leave, he'd be going to a particular tank (a watering hole for livestock). But his friend had checked that tank and then drove around for another five hours without any luck. Then he called for SAR.
Coconino County is so big that it can take us a long time to get to an area before we can even begin to search. In this case, the point last seen was 30-some-odd miles down a dirt road and a nearly three-hour drive from Flagstaff. Two deputies were already in the area while we were on our way, gathering additional information and driving the network of dirt roads and two-tracks. At first light, we'd have the assistance of the DPS helicopter, too.
But as we were nearing the hunters' camp, we heard one of the deputies on scene call Sergeant D. "I hate to do this to you," he said. Al turned up the radio, and we leaned in to listen. Sure enough, they'd just made cellphone contact with the subject, who was about a mile and a half from camp, Code 4. He was fine, he said. No diabetic issues.
Al and I couldn't help but laugh—this kind of timing has happened a number of times before. But good, that's the end result we always hope for. After a little shut-eye for an hour, we turned around and drove back to Flagstaff.
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