A Bolt from the Blue

by Jennifer Woodlief

  The combination of Rod, Craig, and the litter was an incredible weight for the rangers to haul, and it was dangerous for the rope to rub against the rock as it went over the edge of the pitch. In addition, using the mechanical-advantage device after a rainstorm was a mess. Static ropes are meant to be dry, and the wet rope they were using kept jamming. It was proving much too difficult a job for just Leo and Marty, so George went up to help with the raising.

  It was at that point that Jack appeared up over the ledge. From the lower site, he had scrambled up a gully, traversed in to the south, downclimbed five feet, then jumped over a rock step to land. His last move required him to leap directly over Erica’s body, which he felt was disrespectful, but he forced himself to “push away the sad” and focus on his task.

  Jack quickly scanned the main line, the belay line, and the pulley system and felt it all looked solid. As he clipped in, he knew that he was trusting his life to the anchor. Jack had a strong preference for systems to be constructed with redundancy so that if one aspect failed, there was a backup structure to prevent disaster. While he was worried about the catastrophic failure of the anchor, Jack’s question to himself was, Would I lower my mother off this anchor? and his answer was that he would.

  Jack’s added strength dramatically increased the speed of the raising. The rangers maintain that they would never work so quickly as to compromise the safety of the group, but in this case, it didn’t seem possible that they could have performed any faster.

  They were moving together in unison, like, as it were, clockwork, a particularly apt metaphor given that time was their enemy at that moment. They knew that they could move their patient up to the top of the pitch, but they couldn’t control the setting sun. They weren’t sure they would be able to get Rod off the mountain by nightfall, but they were convinced that if it was physically possible for them to accomplish it in time, they would get it done.

  Craig made a radio call at 8:44, stating only, “Pretty hectic here . . .” before his voice faded away. A few minutes after that, Leo received a radio communication that there was only 35 minutes of flight time left. The light dimmed as the sun began to dip below the horizon. All of the rangers saw the beginnings of the sunset . . . and none of them said anything.

  Laurence was doing his part to stall, generally staying in air, flying around the scene. Flight regulations required all contract helicopter operations to be concluded 30 minutes after sunset. Initiating a flight too close to Pumpkin Hour was not permissible. In Laurence’s mind, the way around this rule was simply to remain in the air. He made the decision on his own to hang out in the sky, fearing that if he returned to the Saddle, the Forest Service might not let him back up. From the air, attuned to Laurence’s thought process and able clearly to visualize the only chance the rescue had of succeeding, Renny relayed the details about their status down to Brandon in Lupine Meadows.

  It would have taken Laurence two to three minutes to fly back to the Saddle, then another minute to get back off the ground with a long line, and there was a good chance that those minutes would be enough to ground him. Laurence knew that if the rangers were able to raise Rod in time to be extracted but the helicopter wasn’t in the immediate vicinity at that moment, the whole operation might fail. Rather than take the risk that he would be prevented from returning to the scene, Laurence chose to hover off to one side of the mountain in the dusk for a solid 10 minutes or more.

  As the litter approached the ledge at the top of the pitch, all of the rangers were acutely aware of the time clock on the mission. Still, one of them couldn’t help but comment on the obvious, calling out, “When’s Pumpkin Hour?”

  Leo’s response was simply a terse “Close.”

  As soon as the litter crested that edge, the rangers, spent with exertion but tensed for more effort, deferred to Craig for the next step.

  Meanwhile, Laurence was staving off pressure of his own, in the form of a “chippy guy” from the Forest Service who kept “screaming about Pumpkin Hour” on the radio. In response to the repeated warnings and admonishments, Laurence pushed the rangers to get Rod packaged. In consummate LP style, his version of exerting time constraints on them—which they understood implicitly—was calmly, quietly to radio the message, “Let’s not worry too much about packing this guy.”

  Craig calculated the math as to what remained to be done before Rod could be flown off the mountain while concurrently conducting another quick medical assessment of him. Rod’s condition had continued to degenerate; he was both sluggish and delirious, his mumbled responses to questions coming slower or not at all. Craig could hear the helicopter nearly on top of them, and when he looked over, he was surprised to be able to see right inside the aircraft. Renny and Laurence were directly at his eye level.

  Craig knew that it was time for him, as the medic responsible for Rod, to make a decision. It was getting dark, Rod was getting worse, and there were only so many more minutes of flight time. Standard procedure before a litter patient was attached to the short-haul rope was to package him in a position known as left lateral recumbent. The patient was supposed to be tipped at a 90-degree angle in the litter onto his left side, then packed in and strapped in that pose. The purpose behind the position was to reduce the risk that the patient would drown in his own vomit if he threw up during the short-haul flight. If the patient threw up while on his side, he would generally clear his own airway with gravity.

  Craig knew that if he worked as fast as possible, with no missteps, it would take him at least 15 minutes to repackage Rod securely into the correct position in the litter. He did not feel that he had that time. It was potentially possible, but if anything went wrong, the timing was much too tight. On the other hand, if he did not tip Rod onto his side and sent him off flat on his back in the litter, he would be taking an immense risk that Rod would choke to death in the air.

  Craig was trying to maintain his clarity, but it was difficult to concentrate with the helicopter ratcheting right in his line of sight. There seemed to be an immense amount of obstacles impeding his ability to reach a solution. Craig took a deep breath, blocked out the stress of the rotors roaring at the level of his head, insulated himself from the immense time pressure, and took a few seconds to review the options once more. Taking the time to repackage Rod on his side might destroy any chance he had of getting off the mountain that night. Allowing Rod to fly out on his back was too risky.

  He looked back over at Renny, leaning out of the doorless helicopter. Craig’s heart was pumping madly, but he knew what he had to do, and he did not hesitate. He pushed the button on his radio while simultaneously attaching himself to the short-haul line.

  As he clipped in, Craig requested Renny’s permission to fly Rod out “attended.” If Rod vomited while on his back in the air, Craig would be there to step on the litter rail and flip the litter upside-down as they flew.

  Craig hooked into the litter, parallel to Rod’s head, so he would be able to check his airway throughout the flight. He tried to explain to Rod that he was going to stay with him, but Rod had stopped communicating, and Craig wasn’t sure what information, if any, he was taking in. Craig did not expect him to live much longer. He still assumed that Rod was going to die in transit, but Rod would not be alone when it happened.

  At 8:49, Craig sent out the following radio transmission: “Patient attached with two daisies to litter and two to the God ring. Partially strapped to scoop, scoop strapped to litter. Comfortable with this configuration to valley. Will need to put him in better C-spine position. ETA 10 minutes.”

  The “God ring” was the large metal O that clipped a rescuer or patient to the short-haul line. It was referred to by that name, depending on which ranger is answering the question, either because they put all of their trust in it or because if it breaks, you see God.

  Although Craig had never flown with a litter during a rescue before, he confidently swung one leg up and hooked it onto the bar of Rod’s litter just seconds after they
took off.

  In the end, Laurence lifted Rod and Craig off the mountain at 8:57 P.M., with darkness coming on fast. Given the time and Rod’s condition, Laurence was not going to mess around flying Rod to the Lower Saddle and then transferring him to the second helicopter for transport down to Lupine Meadows. This flight, Laurence’s last trip of the day, was going straight down the Grand to the rescue headquarters at Lupine Meadows.

  As a result of this strategy, which doubled the time Rod and Craig dangled 100 feet below the helicopter, the procedure was not technically a short-haul. The purpose of a short-haul is to move a patient the shortest possible distance, then put the patient inside a helicopter where his safety can be more easily controlled. This flight covered 6,300 vertical feet and lasted 12 minutes. Through it all, Craig monitored his patient’s airway, checked his carotid pulse, and hoped.

  FIFTEEN

  “I was just so proud to be a Jenny Lake ranger.”

  —

  Jack McConnell, Jenny Lake ranger

  From the rangers’ perspective, there was immense and utter relief at watching Rod fly. The intense focus and immense tension they had labored under for hours lifted up and away from them along with the helicopter’s twirling rotors. This completely chaotic thing had just unfolded before them, and they had seen it through together without the slightest hitch. They looked around at one another, shaking their heads, almost laughing, as if to say, “What just happened?”

  The rangers realized that Rod might not be alive by the time the helicopter landed in the valley, but regardless, they had completed the rescue. From that point on, whether or not their patient died was out of their control. They were secure in the knowledge that they did their job and as a result gave him the best possible opportunity for survival.

  Rather than celebrate immediately, the rangers spent the final few moments before darkness descended packing up Erica’s body. They had assumed that they wouldn’t be able to get her off the peak that night, and some of them would need to stay with her to protect her from animals in the night and shield other climbers from encountering her body early the next morning. None of the rangers wanted to spend the night with her on the mountain, and as they discussed who would remain at the scene to tend her body, several of them looked at their watches, seemingly in unison. If they operated as a team for just a little while longer, it was possible that there could be enough time to fly her off.

  The atmosphere remained calm and respectful, but there was a controlled sense of urgency. Packaging Erica for her flight off of Friction Pitch fit with the remainder of what the rangers had to do. At the very end of the day, the moment had finally become about her.

  As the rangers worked, hoping that Laurence would somehow have time to return to the scene, the second helicopter, with Rick Harmon piloting, suddenly appeared right over their heads. As it turned out, he was summoned by a brusque radio communication from Leo. In response to Rick stating, “Thought we were waiting on deceased until A.M.,” Leo responded, “Negative. Make it happen.”

  As the rangers loaded Erica into a body bag, Jack was especially conscious of the juxtaposition of the chaotic helicopter rotors and the peaceful woman lying prone on the mountain. The rangers expertly clipped the bag to the cargo net hanging beneath the helicopter, and with just minutes to spare before darkness descended completely, the final flight off the Grand that night was made at 9:09 P.M., to transport Erica home.

  Once she was in the air, the rangers at the top of Friction Pitch began gathering up their equipment. As the helicopter receded in the distance, the atmosphere on the pitch turned extraordinarily quiet and still. The rotor blades that had spun relentlessly above their heads for hours were no longer active, the action of the rangers’ repetitive hauling movements had ceased. The whole experience had shifted from a river of movement and flow to pure serenity. As Jack later described the moment, “It was just this calm thing. It connected me beyond words, beyond time and place, to these people forever.”

  It was too late for any of the rangers to be short-hauled off, so they all had to fend for themselves getting down the mountain. By this time, it was just about pitch black. Dan and Chris climbed up from the lower site to help break down anchor systems and coil ropes, while Jack and Jim headed off to set up a fixed rope in the V Pitch to rappel down. The rangers left hundreds of pounds of gear in a pile to be removed the following day and headed over to the escape route.

  In order to get down the mountain, the rangers first had to scramble up the V Pitch, the last technical exposed pitch on the climb. The ensuing rappel is about 140 feet, and climbers tend to drift off course as they descend it. Navigating it in the dark, even for climbers as experienced as these rangers, was not an insignificant task.

  The V Pitch is an open book on the crest of the ridge, with the 100-foot rock pages forming a V that is a little less than 90 degrees. The rangers had to climb the left page of the book, often along the edge, with a drop straight down several hundred feet of vertical rock. As Dan Burgette says, “It’s a place to pay attention, and in the dark, it is more of a challenge.”

  The rangers constantly checked themselves—this way, no, wait, this way here—as they climbed. According to a plaque on the wall of the ranger station, more climbers die on the way down than on the way up. This was their mountain, and the terrain was achingly familiar when the sun was shining, but by this time the corners were pitch dark, the cracks and crevices were black, and they could barely make out the knobs for handholds and footholds. Adding to the adventure, the rock was still wet from the rain.

  Still, as Leo said, “We all knew we could get home.” As the conversation drifted and lulled, the rangers occasionally lapsing into silence, the scope of what they had accomplished in such a short amount of time, the fusion of precision and teamwork, began to sink in. A total of 13 people (six rangers and seven victims) had been flown on and off the upper reaches of the mountain in the span of just over three hours. By the time the rescuers waited their turn to rappel through the chilly mountain air, headlamps bobbing all over the pitch as they descended in darkness, there were whoops of triumph and constant chatter.

  Once down the rappel, the other rangers waited until Leo and George, bringing up the rear, pulled the rap rope, then they all downclimbed the Owen-Spalding route. At that point, the eight of them—Leo, Craig, Dan, Jim, Jack, Chris, George, and Marty—hiked down the mountain together under a starless sky, reliving the details of the rescue, talking it up, admitting out loud that no one upon arriving at the accident scene had truly thought that the mission could be completed by nightfall.

  Adrenaline was still surging when they reached the hut at the Lower Saddle at midnight. Two other rangers, Scott Guenther and Darin Jernigan, who had been helping with the rescue from the Saddle, made them a bunch of food, which essentially consisted of pasta and slugs of Jim Beam. They were drained but also wound up, so they kept the impromptu slumber party going until two in the morning, then slowly drifted off to sleep.

  Meanwhile, in the Lower Saddle, Jake Bancroft, goofy smile still on his face, had been transferred to the air ambulance and was awaiting his flight to the hospital. He was lying down on a gurney when paramedics set another patient next to him. Jake looked over at his friend Rod, drained of color, life seeping from his body, and thought, I’m glad I’m not that guy. Not only was Rod unrecognizable to his friend, but he was, as described by Lanny Johnson, a former Jenny Lake ranger helping out in Lupine Meadows as a medic, “the most dead person I have ever seen that was still alive.”

  The air ambulance took off from Lupine Meadows bound for Eastern Idaho Regional Medical Center in Idaho Falls at 9:21 P.M., two minutes before Pumpkin Hour. With better instrument flight capabilities and a landing scheduled at a well-lit hospital heliport, that aircraft was legally allowed to fly after dark.

  A nurse from Idaho Regional called Rod’s wife, Jody, catching her in her car in Salt Lake City, where she had been visiting a friend. She asked Jody, using the pa
st tense, “Was your husband’s name Rod?” Nothing the nurse could say to Jody from that point on could convince her that her husband was still alive. Near hysterics, Jody pulled the car to the side of the road to continue the conversation. The nurse told her repeatedly that Rod was there with her in the hospital, but Jody was beyond reason by that time. Jody finally demanded to speak to her husband on the phone, and the nurse obliged, although Rod made little sense and recalls nothing about the call.

  Jody was then told, or thought she heard, a slew of inconsistent information about Rod’s accident. She understood that he had been hit by lightning but thought that he had fallen a great distance (which was incorrect) and then was told that he was badly burned, with various percentages thrown around—18 percent of his body scalded, 47 percent, 57 percent. She didn’t expect to be able to identify him when she saw him.

  The nurse told Jody to stay where she was, that once Rod was stabilized, he would be flown to the burn ward at the University of Utah hospital in Salt Lake City. Jody finally saw Rod at the hospital at 1:00 in the morning; he was weak and burned and broken but still breathing. That night, a nurse told Jody that Rod was going to get a little worse before he got better. The truth was, he got a lot worse.

  As Jim Springer described Rod’s prospects, deliberately downplaying the agony to come, “After being in that position for that long, there’s got to be some damage.” Rod wore an oxygen mask at first, but when his breathing became worse, he was intubated and put on a ventilator, where he remained for several weeks. In addition, doctors placed him in a medically induced coma for three weeks, which spared him excruciating pain but caused him to experience terrible nightmares.

  One night while he was in the coma, Rod’s doctors called Jody in the middle of the night, telling her to get to the hospital right away because Rod had crashed and they didn’t expect him to make it through the night. His blood pressure was 20/12, and the doctors had a cart and paddles ready to shock him back to life. His survival was day-to-day far beyond the immediate time period after the accident; he essentially could have died at any time in the following six weeks.