I had no time to get nervous. Art, our acting coordinator tonight in Sergeant D's absence, pointed at me and said, "You and Mike get your stuff together, and Ranger will take you in." For a second, my mouth dropped open—my first helicopter ride!—but I snapped it shut and went to get my gear in order.
Tonight's mission is a search for an overdue hiker in the Woods Canyon area near Sedona. This same now-31-year-old man was short-hauled six years ago by two of the volunteers on tonight's mission, both retired helicopter pilots. They tell us that the subject, Andrew, is missing part of his skull as a result of that past climbing accident. We're hoping he didn't fall sometime today and hit that vulnerable part of his head.
Andrew was supposed to have gone on a day hike, but night came and he hadn't returned. Soon after his girlfriend reported him missing, Andrew's vehicle was located here where SAR personnel have now convened to begin the search.
Tonight's search could have been a long one with so much area to cover. We first would have looked for tracks beginning from Andrew's vehicle and gone from there. But, luckily, Ranger, the DPS helicopter, was able to locate the victim. At first, the pilot radioed that he could see nothing but thick brush, but then Art suggested he fly along the rim. And, moments later, we heard the crew had spotted the subject down in the canyon. His condition, however, could not be determined, nor could the pilot or crew member tell if there would be a way to get to Andrew without technical skill and equipment. So, in the interest of time, Art has chosen me and Michael, an experienced canyoneer, to be flown in, closer to the rim, to see if we can determine Andrew's condition and a possible route to his location.
Next thing I know, I'm being led to the waiting helicopter by the crew member. He didn't have tell ME twice to stay low! I once saw an episode of ER, where a surgeon got his arm lopped off by a rotor, and it sure was graphic. So I'd have crawled on my belly if he'd let me. But all in one piece and with my pride intact, I'm loaded into the helicopter, my backpack handed in to me, and told to buckle up and put the headset on. That last instruction keeps me busy for most of the flight, and I never am able to get the thing snug on my head or the microphone in the proper position in front of my mouth.
It's an odd sensation, flying in a helicopter at night, not being able to see much of anything until we're close to the ground again and the spotlights illuminate the treetops. The flight is smooth, but just feet from the ground, we start to wobble as if the pilot has to fight to land. I'm not sure why that is, but we soon touch down, Mike and I shed our headsets and seat belts, grab our packs, and are physically whisked away from the chopper. The crew member quickly gives us directions on how to get to the rim above the victim's location, then Mike and I stay low until the noisy metal bird takes off and we can stand upright and put our packs on.
After being redirected a couple of times by Ranger, watching us from above, we find the correct two-track they'd been talking about—there are several in this area—and then find the stock tank and drainage the crew member had described. It's rough going, but we're soon on the rim of Woods Canyon, picking our way along through cactus and brush. It's a steep drop and not looking promising.
But just before we begin to call out, an excited voice comes from the darkness below. "Hey! Am I glad to see you!" Well, at least we know Andrew's alive. He's seen our lights, and we begin calling back and forth to get a fix on his location. We've overshot him and double back.
"Andrew, are you hurt?" Mike calls down.
"Well, I hit my head pretty hard! And it's bleeding."
Uh-oh. Not the head again.
"Have you lost much blood?" Mike asks.
"Well, yeah, a decent amount. I have a shirt wrapped around it."
Mike asks, "Can you walk?"
"Yeah, I can walk!"
Well, that's a plus. Mike tells Andrew to stay put, though, and we continue to look for a way down. Eventually, as I work the radio and communicate with Art back at Incident Command, Mike finds a spot where he thinks he can down-climb. He takes off his pack, and I illuminate the way as he gives it a try. I figure if Mike falls, at least I'll be in one piece up top and can call for more help.😏
But Mike makes it down the trickiest part, and from there it's not so bad, he says. I hear him calling back and forth to Andrew, and suddenly a head pops up from the brush below. Andrew has followed Mike's voice and come up to meet him. Then, with Mike carrying Andrew's pack, the two of them climb back to where I'm standing.
Yeah, Andrew is indeed pretty bloody. The t-shirt wrapped around his head is soaked through, and I see blood down the side of his face and on the back of his shirt. He looks and sounds alert, though, and despite a little wobbliness, which he claims is from fatigue, Andrew says he can walk with us. I stay close behind our subject as he follows Mike, ready to lower Andrew to the ground if he passes out. We make our way back toward the landing zone, so Ranger can pick him up.
Soon, however, we see headlights. SAR personnel have been able to drive out fairly close to the landing zone, as I've been monitoring on the radio, but they can't get all the way there; the going has gotten much too rough. And while I have the landing zone (LZ) coordinates on my GPS, and my gadget tells me the LZ is not in the same direction as the headlights, Mike thinks the lights and LZ are one and the same location. He politely vetoes my statement that the LZ is "over there" and wants to head directly for the lights, where we know for sure someone is waiting. If nothing else, he says, Andrew can be driven back to a waiting ambulance. As we move toward the vehicle, I hear Ranger on the radio, repeatedly saying we're going the wrong way, but I continue to follow Mike's lead nonetheless.
In the end, we get to the vehicle, which really isn't all that far from the LZ. Oly, one of the retired pilots, is there and, having more medical experience than the rest of us, quickly checks Andrew—more of a verbal check than physical—and then walks Andrew to the helicopter. Ranger will take Andrew directly to the hospital, while Mike and I drive out with Oly and another volunteer on the long, rough Forest Service road.
The night seems to have flown by and, thankfully, has ended well. I feel like I was more a part of the mission's outcome than ever before.
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 James Canyon Rescue
Imagine hiking into a quiet canyon on a beautiful spring day. Where the canyon becomes a narrow slot and the creek bed falls off dramatically into a deep, narrow pool, you set up your canvas and paints on a ledge above the water. What a perfect spot on a perfect day.
But then one bad step changes everything. You slide, then fall, 50 feet into that deep pool, where the shaded water is icy cold. The fall results in a fractured femur and ankle and possibly a broken pelvis. It's 2:00 in the afternoon, but no one is anywhere near, no one can hear you call, and the walls of slickrock surrounding the pool are sheer and impossible to free-climb even if you weren't injured. So, cold and in pain, you wait. And wait and wait for hours.
Luckily, you manage to float to the edge of the deep pool, where you find just enough of a toe-hold to keep yourself from sinking. Nightfall finally comes. You know your family knows where you've gone, and they'll eventually come looking for you. And, sure enough, in the middle of the night after three hours of searching, your father finds you and runs for help.
That's when our search and rescue team, members of Highland Fire Department, Guardian Medical, and DPS become involved in the effort to save the 20-year-old victim who's fallen into James Canyon. It's a rugged area without a trail, and a carry-out of this 270-pound young man will take hours and be a risky undertaking for both victim and rescuers. But, first, the rescuers have to figure out how to get him up, out of the cold water, and onto the ledge above.
The first call-out earlier tonight was for technical team members of our SAR unit. About an hour later, another page came, this time for additional ground-pounders to assist with the rescue, at w. I responded to the SAR building and then, along with three others, to the staging area at James Canyon.
While the three other volunteers leave the scene to retrieve drinks and food, I stay behind with the deputy and listen to the radio communication between the rescuers in the canyon below, DPS, and incident command. At 2 a.m., after a technical maneuver requiring a rather elaborate pulley system, the victim is out of the water. He's severely hypothermic, and paramedics begin trying to warm him and stabilize his injuries. I listen to all of this on the radio and piece together the bits of that communication into a mental picture of what's going on down there.
Then I hear they need IV bags and other supplies, meaning someone needs to hike down from my location. The other three ground-pounders haven't returned yet, so I get my chance to help. After my pack is loaded with the medical supplies and I'm given instructions on how to find my way to the rescuers and victim, I start out on my own.
Though usually on edge in the woods at night, adrenaline keeps my nerves at bay. The route is marked with glow sticks and flagging tape, though the tape is sometimes difficult to find after they'd run out of glow sticks to lead the way. Twice I've had to double back and search for the route while carefully watching my step and climbing over blowdowns and boulders.
After about 40 minutes, I see the light of the rescuers' fire and make my way to where the victim is lying, strapped to a backboard, wrapped in sleeping bags and blankets, and surrounded by at least 15 men including several SAR members. I hand off the medical supplies and find myself a spot around the fire.
A decision has been made by Incident Command, with much discussion between DPS, the technical rescue team, and the deputy in charge. DPS will attempt a short-haul at first light instead of rescuers trying to carry the victim out of the canyon. The injured young man, thoroughly doped up on IV pain meds, moaned in pain nonetheless when he was carefully moved closer to the fire. I can only imagine how painful a long, rugged carry-out would be. There's absolutely no way to be gentle on this kind of terrain, not to mention how difficult it would be to carry such a big guy on a level trail. That said, the young man's size and extra body fat were probably the only things that kept him alive in the icy cold water for all those hours. A smaller person probably would have succumbed to hypothermia long before the rescue.
I watch the victim as I and the others wait for daylight and the helicopter to return. A short haul can't be performed by just any pilot, but, luckily, one trained to do short hauls is available, and a deputy on scene here in the canyon is certified to be on the end of the rope with the victim. I've seen this maneuver on video but never up close and personal.
At 5:30 am, we hear the helicopter approaching and quickly secure all of the gear strewn about. It's already very cold in the canyon, but the wind created by the helicopter makes it downright frigid. I feel like I'm in the middle of an Arctic hurricane as the Bowman bag is lowered. At least rescuers are able to shield themselves and take some cover from the wind; the victim is stuck out there, strapped down flat on his back.
Then the helicopter moves away, so the victim, backboard and all, can be packaged up and he and the deputy can be readied for the short haul. Once everything is in order, the helicopter is summoned back and the rest of us move away again.
It's kind of scary yet exciting to watch. Eventually, the helicopter is directly overhead. As the deputy gives the signal that he's ready, he and the victim are lifted, spinning, out of the canyon, the deputy slightly clipping a tree on their way up. And I watch them whisked off, high in the sky, to the waiting ambulance.
It seems anticlimactic, watching the helicopter return for the cargo net full of gear, then retracing our steps the staging area. We now have somewhat of a trail to follow part of the way up, since firefighters with chainsaws worked through the night to clear a path, just in case a carry-out had become necessary. Thank goodness it wasn't!
But, wow, what a rescue. That's one lucky young man. Lucky that his family knew where he'd gone and had planned to look for him if he didn't return by dark. Lucky that he was able to find a foothold on the edge of the pool, which probably prevented him from drowning. Lucky he didn't sustain even more serious injuries from the fall or lose consciousness (which would likely have meant drowning), and lucky that he didn't have to suffer through an extremely difficult and dangerous carry-out. My role in the rescue was minimal by comparison, but I'm glad to have been a part of it and thrilled to have witnessed a life saved.
But then one bad step changes everything. You slide, then fall, 50 feet into that deep pool, where the shaded water is icy cold. The fall results in a fractured femur and ankle and possibly a broken pelvis. It's 2:00 in the afternoon, but no one is anywhere near, no one can hear you call, and the walls of slickrock surrounding the pool are sheer and impossible to free-climb even if you weren't injured. So, cold and in pain, you wait. And wait and wait for hours.
Luckily, you manage to float to the edge of the deep pool, where you find just enough of a toe-hold to keep yourself from sinking. Nightfall finally comes. You know your family knows where you've gone, and they'll eventually come looking for you. And, sure enough, in the middle of the night after three hours of searching, your father finds you and runs for help.
That's when our search and rescue team, members of Highland Fire Department, Guardian Medical, and DPS become involved in the effort to save the 20-year-old victim who's fallen into James Canyon. It's a rugged area without a trail, and a carry-out of this 270-pound young man will take hours and be a risky undertaking for both victim and rescuers. But, first, the rescuers have to figure out how to get him up, out of the cold water, and onto the ledge above.
The first call-out earlier tonight was for technical team members of our SAR unit. About an hour later, another page came, this time for additional ground-pounders to assist with the rescue, at w. I responded to the SAR building and then, along with three others, to the staging area at James Canyon.
While the three other volunteers leave the scene to retrieve drinks and food, I stay behind with the deputy and listen to the radio communication between the rescuers in the canyon below, DPS, and incident command. At 2 a.m., after a technical maneuver requiring a rather elaborate pulley system, the victim is out of the water. He's severely hypothermic, and paramedics begin trying to warm him and stabilize his injuries. I listen to all of this on the radio and piece together the bits of that communication into a mental picture of what's going on down there.
Then I hear they need IV bags and other supplies, meaning someone needs to hike down from my location. The other three ground-pounders haven't returned yet, so I get my chance to help. After my pack is loaded with the medical supplies and I'm given instructions on how to find my way to the rescuers and victim, I start out on my own.
Though usually on edge in the woods at night, adrenaline keeps my nerves at bay. The route is marked with glow sticks and flagging tape, though the tape is sometimes difficult to find after they'd run out of glow sticks to lead the way. Twice I've had to double back and search for the route while carefully watching my step and climbing over blowdowns and boulders.
After about 40 minutes, I see the light of the rescuers' fire and make my way to where the victim is lying, strapped to a backboard, wrapped in sleeping bags and blankets, and surrounded by at least 15 men including several SAR members. I hand off the medical supplies and find myself a spot around the fire.
A decision has been made by Incident Command, with much discussion between DPS, the technical rescue team, and the deputy in charge. DPS will attempt a short-haul at first light instead of rescuers trying to carry the victim out of the canyon. The injured young man, thoroughly doped up on IV pain meds, moaned in pain nonetheless when he was carefully moved closer to the fire. I can only imagine how painful a long, rugged carry-out would be. There's absolutely no way to be gentle on this kind of terrain, not to mention how difficult it would be to carry such a big guy on a level trail. That said, the young man's size and extra body fat were probably the only things that kept him alive in the icy cold water for all those hours. A smaller person probably would have succumbed to hypothermia long before the rescue.
I watch the victim as I and the others wait for daylight and the helicopter to return. A short haul can't be performed by just any pilot, but, luckily, one trained to do short hauls is available, and a deputy on scene here in the canyon is certified to be on the end of the rope with the victim. I've seen this maneuver on video but never up close and personal.
At 5:30 am, we hear the helicopter approaching and quickly secure all of the gear strewn about. It's already very cold in the canyon, but the wind created by the helicopter makes it downright frigid. I feel like I'm in the middle of an Arctic hurricane as the Bowman bag is lowered. At least rescuers are able to shield themselves and take some cover from the wind; the victim is stuck out there, strapped down flat on his back.
Then the helicopter moves away, so the victim, backboard and all, can be packaged up and he and the deputy can be readied for the short haul. Once everything is in order, the helicopter is summoned back and the rest of us move away again.
It's kind of scary yet exciting to watch. Eventually, the helicopter is directly overhead. As the deputy gives the signal that he's ready, he and the victim are lifted, spinning, out of the canyon, the deputy slightly clipping a tree on their way up. And I watch them whisked off, high in the sky, to the waiting ambulance.
It seems anticlimactic, watching the helicopter return for the cargo net full of gear, then retracing our steps the staging area. We now have somewhat of a trail to follow part of the way up, since firefighters with chainsaws worked through the night to clear a path, just in case a carry-out had become necessary. Thank goodness it wasn't!
But, wow, what a rescue. That's one lucky young man. Lucky that his family knew where he'd gone and had planned to look for him if he didn't return by dark. Lucky that he was able to find a foothold on the edge of the pool, which probably prevented him from drowning. Lucky he didn't sustain even more serious injuries from the fall or lose consciousness (which would likely have meant drowning), and lucky that he didn't have to suffer through an extremely difficult and dangerous carry-out. My role in the rescue was minimal by comparison, but I'm glad to have been a part of it and thrilled to have witnessed a life saved.
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