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?