WRITING
Anatomy of a Rescue
by Lucian Childs
Published in a slightly different form in the Anchorage Press, Nov. 1995
A forty-person rescue effort kicks into gear when an autumn hike takes a nearly fatal turn.
AFTER A SUMMER OF INTENSIVE HIKING, you’ve planned one last trip. It’s the last week of October and the mountains are covered with a thin layer of snow, what we Alaskans call termination dust. A chill fills the air outside your window. Still, the incessant clouds of summer linger, keeping at bay winter’s bitter cold. You worry though about hiking so late in the season. You’ve heard stories: the Japanese family caught last fall in a sudden storm, found frozen in a snowdrift on a trail just outside of town.
You scrunch a sweater in the bottom of your pack, toss in some water, an apple and some trail mix. You grab the first aid kit, but toss it aside. You decide not to pack a flashlight or matches. You tell yourself, “It’s only a day hike.”
In a half an hour, you’re puffing your way up the steep Falls Creek Trail with your friends, Greg, Steve and Matthew. Greg takes the lead, Steve just behind. Matthew stops every few hundred yards to smell tree bark, breathe in the mossy air.
You bring up the rear, walking first through tall willows, then alder thickets and, finally, over tundra covered with three inches of clean, white snow. The trail disappears up a steep slope and you soldier up it. When the group reaches the head of the valley, you look out over a beautiful, white, windswept bowl circled by craggy mountains.
The afternoon’s early darkening sky catches you off guard. It is getting cold.
The group heads back down. When you get to the top of the steep snow-covered slope, you see Steve sit, his legs out in front of him, then glissade down, gliding first to one side, then the other, carving a lazy S into the thin layer of snow. After him, Matthew slides down uneventfully, then Greg.
It’s your turn.
- - - -
Matthew looks up and watches his friend veer out of control. Sliding down the pitch, his friend heads, not toward the bottom of the hill, but sideways toward the creek. He hits a bump and flips twice in the air, tumbling over the slick rocks. Panic sears through Matthew’s limbs when he sees his friend laying motionless, face down in the icy water.
Semiconscious, his friend has gotten onto hands and knees. He is bleeding profusely from the back of his head, the blood making red thick stringy fingers in the icy water. Matthew pulls him onto the bank. It freaks him out when the flap of loose scalp peals back to expose the whiteness of his friend’s skull.
- - - -
Steve, arriving seconds later, hears Matthew say, “Get help. Tell them to send a helicopter.” A feeling of controlled panic comes over Steve. He takes his extra clothes out of his pack and throws them on the ground for his friends to use. Then he runs down the mountain, out of instinct, his body remembering past marathons, miles of training. He runs out of fear, seeing in his mind again his friend tumbling out of control into the freezing water.
After taking off his jacket and handing it to Matthew, Greg quickly follows suit. Greg has recently run a 5K marathon and is in training for another, still, he can not overtake the older man as they negotiate the muddy, root-encumbered trail in the chill evening air.
- - - -
“Can you hear me?” It is Matthew; you’re not sure what he is saying. There is this curious electric halo just underneath everything. Matthew seems freaked out about something, but is being coy about telling you what. The something he doesn’t say frightens you.
It is very quiet. Where is everybody? You are holding your head, though you’re not sure why. When you take your hand away, hot, viscous liquid rushes down around your ears, your eyes. “Oh, Matthew. I’m bleeding.”
“It is very bad,” he says finally.
Your clothes are completely soaked, boots are filled with water. There is no feeling in your buttocks. If you had brought that first aid kit, you could slip comfortably into its thermal blanket and rest.
A light snow drifts down from the darkening sky. You remember the Japanese family.
“We can’t stay here,” you say.
You get up. It is difficult to walk, though, with your right hand pressed against your head to stop the flow of blood. You collapse on the ground every few feet, propping your arm on the nearest available rock.
- - - -
Below, a bank of clouds is slowly making its way up the valley. Matthew is shivering in the chill wind it brings. Perhaps there will be no helicopter after all, he thinks. He is afraid his friend will bleed out and die. Feeling helpless, he begins to cry while the clouds creep up the valley.
Matthew believes in God, that he can intervene in our affairs, that there are angels. He is shouting prayers in his head for the clouds to go away, shouting deep, angry prayers to his God. A voice answers, “Don’t shout.”
The clouds retreat further down the valley.
Matthew feels an enormous helping presence all about and other smaller presences as well. It is as if time has stopped. He looks down at his friend, who is struggling to get back on his feet. He feels a deep connection to him, to everyone. It seems to Matthew now that the universe has a consciousness that honors, above all, this essential human connection.
“I can see the lights of cars on the road,” Matthew says.
“Oh, Matthew. The road is miles away still,” his friend says.
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Guner Wilson has spent an unsuccessful weekend on the Kenai River fishing for late run silvers. He is returning to Anchorage when one of his buddies spies a couple of cars stopped at the side of the road near a trailhead parking lot. A man is talking through the window of the first car while another waves for him to stop. “Do you have a cell phone,” the second man says, “we have an emergency.” Wilson taps out 911 and hands the phone through the window.
- - - -
State Trooper Lee Oly has just handled a possible DWI at the corner of Lake Otis and Seward Highway. Returning to his car, Dispatch notifies him that the Anchorage Police Department has just patched through a report of a hiking accident.
After arriving at the Falls Creek parking lot, Trooper Oly takes control of the situation in a calm, firm, almost military manner. It becomes obvious by questioning the two hikers that ground support will be needed to accurately access the location and condition of their wounded companion.
He has Dispatch telephone someone on the contact list for the Alaskan Mountain Rescue Group (AMRG), who then initiates the Callout to the group’s members. Trooper Oly then notifies the Rescue Coordination Center (RCC) at Kulis Air National Guard Base that an operation is now underway.
Michael Thompson is the first member of the AMRG to arrive at the parking lot, having been notified in the Callout while at home. As the first member on the scene with the necessary training, he is designated the group’s Incident Commander. As such, he will remain at the trailhead parking lot to coordinate communications.
After appraising himself of the situation, Thompson waits for his crew to assemble. Rick Ford arrives lightly packed—emergency gear, ski poles, a few extra clothes—having been told this is a quick “scoop and run” operation.
Thompson and Trooper Oly decide that, with bad weather setting in, a helicopter evacuation is their best shot at quickly retrieving the hiker and getting him out alive. Because Trooper One, the State Trooper’s helicopter, is unavailable, they contact RCC with the recommendation that Kulis scramble the Air National Guard’s 210th RSQ Rescue Squadron.
Soon other AMRG members arrive in the parking lot and begin preparations for the ascent. Thompson must wait until at least four of his most experienced people arrive before he can send them out to locate and stabilize the injured hiker.
This Quick Response Team, or Hasty Team as it is called, will be in constant contact with Incident Commander Thompson, who will relay their progress to Trooper Oly. Oly will inform the Rescue Coordination Center at Kulis Air National Guard Base, who in turn will communicate to their parajumpers in the 210th’s helicopter. This circuitous chain of communications is made necessary by the signal-blocking mountainous terrain and the nearly impenetrable roar of the chopper.
At last, a five member Hasty Team is assembled comprised of Rick Ford, Soren Orley, Scott Horacek, Todd Deis and Doug Fesler. Rick and Soren’s EMT I rating will be needed when the team reaches the wounded man.
They leave the parking lot at 7:15 p.m., power-walking with ski poles up the steep path. It is getting dark, and after twenty minutes they lose the trail. They proceed up the creek towards the reported location of the injury, the beams of their flashlights casting long, eerie shadows on the ground.
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You see the lights bobbing down below and you hope it’s them. Who “them” is you don’t know. Someone. Help. You have come to rest on this rock surrounded by thick alders, a miserable place for a helicopter to land. Still, you can go no further. Your limbs feel like lead and you’re nauseous. You’ve been a sport, joking with Matthew on the way down, trying to make him feel at ease, but you’re not Superman.
In a few moments, people with packs and ski poles surround you. “Who is the President of the United States?” one asks. You’re tempted to say Woodrow Wilson, but you’re afraid he might take you seriously.
“Clinton.”
“What is the date?”
“It’s the Sunday before Halloween,” you say, hoping this will satisfy him.
“What is your name?”
You tell him. You are so glad he’s here.
Someone is palpating your spine, asking you if it hurts. Another is removing the sweater wrapped around your head. You feel warm blood spilling down your neck.
- - - -
Rick Ford is holding the injured hiker’s head when he feels the convulsions begin, the vomit flow. He is prepared for the nausea, typical of head wound victims. He is not prepared for the convulsions to continue like this, like a petit mal, like someone who is dying.
“I’ve lost his pulse,” a teammate yells. Rick thinks about all the bodies they have taken off mountains all over the state. Of the fifteen missions the AMRG has been on this year, two-thirds have been body retrievals, not rescues. He is tired of it and he worries it may be happening again.
- - - -
They are shouting at you, shining flashlights in your eyes, telling you to stay awake. You think one of the men is trying to hold your hand, and you reach for it. You continue to hold his hand even after you realize he is only trying to take your pulse. You are joking with them to show them that you are alright. You need to feel you are alright.
You hear the crackle of the radio. Hear someone ask for the helicopter’s current position. You hear someone ask for the hospital to be alerted, for them to have a brain surgeon standing by.
Then, all hell breaks loose.
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Parajumper Mike Wayte from the Air National Guard’s 210th RSQ Squadron has been on call since five in the morning, assigned to the Pave Hawk rescue helicopter. He is at home, halfway through an uneventful twenty-four hour rotation, when, just after dinner, he gets the call to scramble from the Command Post at Kulis.
Arriving at the base, he collects his gear, and is briefed. Wayte is a highly trained and decorated parajumper and medic, having received the Guard’s highest humanitarian award for a Mt. McKinley rescue. Expecting another mountain rescue, he gets into climbing harness, packs ropes, carabiners and the like. Soon the other members of the team arrive: Scott Denton, the second parajumper; Dick Hawkins, the Pave Hawk helicopter commander; Bob Garger, the flight engineer and a few others.
The fixed-wing aircraft, the HC130, with its five-man crew has already departed. They will act as the eyes and ears of the mission, relaying from high above the Pave Hawk’s flight status to both the Air National Guard Command Post and the RCC at Kulis.
Due to the rough terrain, Thompson, the AMRG’s Incident Commander, has recommended the Air Guard bring the Jungle Penetrator, which Wayte’s team loads along with their other gear. The Penetrator, a simple metal cylinder about four feet tall with narrow folding flanges around its base, will make it possible to evacuate the hiker should he be in an area too heavily-wooded to lower a gurney.
The Pave Hawk wobbles into the air and takes off. Soon, the great searchlight illuminates the dark, silty waters of Cook Inlet’s Turnagain Arm as they make their way to base camp at the Falls Creek parking lot. Scott Denton takes the left scanner position, while Bob Garger takes the right. It will be their job to make sure the blades of the helicopter don’t slice into the narrow walls of Falls Creek Canyon.
The night vision goggles Mike wears make it easy to locate the cars and flashlights at the parking lot, and, after hovering there for a few minutes above the inlet, they receive their orders to proceed up the valley.
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Julia Moore brings a bagel and a cup of hot apple cider to the hiker who is huddled in his car trying to stay warm. A little disappointed at not having made the Hasty Team, she is glad to receive the assignment to help these men. She sees how they blame themselves, second-guessing their decisions. She assures them that they did the right thing coming down the mountain together. It seems to help.
Going back to the other members of the AMRG, she assists with the preparation of the evacuation team, who will kick into gear should a ground extraction be called for. Some fifteen members have now assembled and are breaking down the wheeled gurney and placing its parts into packs. Others stow the ropes and lowering devices they’ll need to navigate the gurney and the now stabilized, but severely wounded man, down the steep trail.
Incident Commander Thompson is worrying about his decision to hold back the evacuation team. He is ninety-nine percent certain the 210th Air Guard will be able to effect a successful retrieval, but the deck of clouds that covers the inlet behind him is again moving up the valley. He knows the 210th must abort should visibility deteriorate. His team would then need two hours to get into place, package the injured man in the gurney and bring him down. He fears the hiker wouldn’t survive that long or that rough a trip down the mountain.
- - - -
Steve, the wounded hiker’s friend, is nervously pacing back and forth, cleaning up the trash in the parking lot. He joins Greg in the car. Neither talks. Strange, droning Indian music is playing on the radio. They sit listening to the hypnotic sounds, thoughts turning inward. Over the inlet behind them, a blaring white light hovers, the Pave Hawk preternaturally still, its power temporarily held in abeyance. Then a crashing roar passes above them, dark shadows of bare trees fleeing before it.
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Through the green light of the night vision goggles, Mike sees the flashlights and flares of the Hasty Team. After directing the pilot to the location of the drop, he slaps his carabiner into the hoist on the rappel line, gives the nod and starts his descent. Below him in the glaring white light, the alders are whipping about madly; debris picked up in the rotor wash swirls menacingly through the air. Members of the Hasty Team are crouched on either side of a prostrate figure on a mat, hiding their faces with their hands. At the head of the mat, a man looks directly up into the beam of the searchlight.
- - - -
Matthew watches excitedly the spectacle about him as he attempts to shield his wounded friend’s eyes from the flying debris. Above him, he can make out only blinding light and a deafening noise. As the great machine approaches, he watches the alders bending ever lower, as if bowing to its authority. The AMRG members are crouching beside him, their packs tossing wildly about like jetsam on a stormy sea. Above, out of the whiteness, appears a man lowered on a long tether.
- - - -
Hitting the ground, Wayte appraises the situation—with the deck rolling in, they have few moments to waste. The area is too thickly wooded to lower the gurney quickly. To make matters worse, the second parajumper, Denton, needs to remain on the Pave Hawk to act as lookout. So Wayte will have to operate a tag-line from below, lest the gurney rotate wildly in the chopper’s rotor wash. He will not be able to accompany the injured man during the ascent. If the man loses consciousness again, he could choke to death on his own vomit.
He decides to take a chance.
- - - -
“Do you think you can ride this up?” the soldier with the helmet and funny goggles is asking you. He is talking about this weird garbage can looking thing that they lowered out of the searing light.
You think you can. They have bandaged your head tightly now to staunch the blood flow, but you worry about passing out in mid-air. Still, you see how the other people defer to this soldier, his training, his air of authority. You ask him if he will go up with you. He says he will.
They help you over to the Penetrator, this insignificant thing that is about to save your life. The soldier straps you in after you have straddled the narrow seat he has folded down for you. He takes a position just opposite you, mumbles something into his head set, and quickly you are in the air. He has told you not to look down, but you can’t help yourself. Far below, in the silvery blast of the search lamp you can see willow and alder, naked in the cold night air. You start to puke as you are being pulled into the Pave Hawk. Instinctively, you crawl on hands and knees into its big, cave-like belly as wave after wave of vomit spill through you.
- - - -
A silence quieter than any Matthew has experienced fills the night air. He looks at the empty sky where only seconds before had been the great machine, and feels absolute calm tinged with disappointment.
The AMRG members begin to stir, gathering up their gear. Two men are assigned to accompany Matthew down the mountain. Placing him between them, they descend at a quick pace. When they reach the parking lot, someone hands Matthew a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a cup of hot apple cider. Steve gives him a long hug.
In the parking lot, about ten people are milling about. Trooper Oly and a few of the AMRG people have gone, but AMRG’s Incident Commander, Thompson, has wanted to keep his people together for debriefing.
The men and women of the AMRG are shaking hands, patting backs. High-fiving. Later, there will be time for hind-sighting, but now congratulations are the order of the day: they saved a life. It’s a sweet sweet feeling. It’s why they do this.
- - - -
When Steve, Greg and Matthew arrive at Providence Hospital it is nearly midnight. They find you alone in Emergency Room Three. You are so glad to see them. Lying comfortably on a gurney, cocooned in white hospital blankets, you are smiling, joking with them while you wait. The more seriously injured need attention before you. You only require stitches. What Matthew saw on the mountain, the thing that freaked him out so, was the white fascia that covers the muscles of the head, not your skull. That, it turns out, is harder than anyone expected.
You promise your friends to go hiking again as soon as you’ve mended. But, you tell yourself, you’ll prepare before entering Alaska’s beautiful and dangerous backcountry, and never ever will you utter the words, “It’s only a day hike.”
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AFTERWORD
This story is too amazing not to be true. The names of the four friends are Steve Williams, Matthew Gurnett, Greg Johnson and myself, Lucian Childs.
On a personal note: By rough estimate some fourty people had a hand in this rescue operation back in 1995 and I would like to thank everyone involved. A special thanks goes to the Alaska Mountain Rescue Group. This all volunteer, non-profit organization is comprised of about sixty highly-trained men and women who routinely risk their own lives in order to save others. If you hike or mountaineer in Alaska, you should know they are standing by to save your butt if you should get in trouble. Their motto: Anytime. Anywhere.
If you would like more information about the AMRG, please go to their website. If you would like to make a tax deductible contribution, checks can be mailed to Alaska Mountain Rescue Group, PO Box 241561, Anchorage, AK 99524 or you can donate through PayPal. I encourage you to give them your support. It could, quite literally, save someone’s life.