“Boomer!” I say, pointing to where Will, Kevin, and Thomas huddle, the water ripping the siding from their perch. “The garage is coming apart!”
I recheck the situation at Cabins Ten and Eleven. The water is lower there, the structures more stable—for the moment, anyway. But the priority is absolutely these three men, followed by Jack.
“Let’s go!” I say.
“Checking power,” Boomer says. The wind wildly buffets the aircraft as Boomer checks the power required to hover.
We watch the gauges closely, and as suspected, the margins are slim.
“The winds aren’t gonna make our lives easy today,” Boomer says, accelerating forward. Our tail snaps left, right, left, right—“unsettling” would be an understatement—as we move toward the garage, reminding us that the only predictable thing about canyon winds is their unpredictability.
“Whiskey One, Rescue Seven, we’re getting you first, then we’ll get Jack.”
“Whiskey One copies.”
Boomer circles, and I look down and to my right, which allows me a direct view to Will. I wonder, briefly, why he doesn’t wear a dry suit, while Kevin, Thomas, and Jack do. With all the talk of “warm” fronts and “tropical” storms, it’s easy to forget that this flooded river is fueled primarily with snowmelt, resulting in icy, icy, frigid water. Add rain, with wind and temperatures that have now dropped into the mid-thirties, and without doubt these are winter conditions. Kevin, Thomas, and Jack are dressed for the possibility of immersion in this brutal cold, so I can only surmise that Will is not a regular member of the swiftwater rescue team, because if he was, he would have been outfitted similarly.
“The tree’s not gonna let us in for a one-skid,” I say to our crew, referring to the large cottonwood tree that butts up against the garage. “We’re gonna have to hoist.”
“Whiskey One, Rescue Seven, inbound,” Boomer says. “Prepare for hoist, over.”
“Whiskey One copies.”
“All set, Beanie?” I ask.
“All set, ma’am. Recommend lowering Hap. He can hook up two guys at once, send ’em up, then we’ll send the hoist back down for Hap and the remaining guy.”
Stinging arctic air invades the aircraft as Beanie slides the door open, rain shooting inside and battering the back of my neck.
“Ma’am, they’ve got their harnesses on,” Beanie says, leaning out. “This should go quick.”
Beanie calls Boomer into position over the detached garage, and the sides are shaking. My god …
“Easy left two, easy left one. Nice and steady there, sir. Lowering Hap on the hoist … he’s halfway … he’s on the roof.”
I sneak a peek at Boomer, so solid on the controls, even though the wind is trying its damnedest to jerk us around. My scan then moves to the gauges. The needles spike the moment Beanie begins to bring the two men up on the hoist.
“You’re at ninety-four percent,” I say.
“No, the winds are not helping,” Boomer says.
We’re at relatively low altitude, fifty-four hundred feet, and it’s cold, but the winds … The downdrafts are killing us.
“… halfway up,” Beanie says. “Steady, they’re at the door, bringing ’em in. Steady.”
As Beanie lowers the hoist to retrieve Hap and the final man on the roof—Will, it turns out—we do a slow swing to the right, the nose pivoting to face the west canyon wall, which brings the main lodge and Cabin One into view out my right window.
We hover about thirty yards from these buildings now, and ten yards beyond this, water rushes over the surface of Highway 395.
“We’re gonna be right at the limit on power when we bring these guys up,” I say.
“Hoist’s on the way down,” Beanie calls.
“Which means we can’t get Jack on this run,” Boomer says.
“Steady,” Beanie says. “Steady right there. First man is hooking up.…”
The nose swings left, seeking the wind, bringing Cabins Ten and Eleven into view again. My mom and Celia stand on the roof of Cabin Eleven, peering across the ten-yard gap to Cabin Ten, the churning water between the cabins making the space impassible. Like liquid fingers, the water reaches farther up the walls of Cabin Eleven, splashing, smacking, advancing. Without question, Cabin Eleven is in worse shape than Cabin Ten.
A giant Jeffrey pine and a similarly sized cottonwood tree stand adjacent Cabin Eleven, just upstream of it. At one point, the Jeffrey pine used to have the rope attached to it. My mom or Celia would have had to do the attaching, and now that I know my mom’s background in climbing and in search and rescue, I bet it was her.
Oh, these familiar trees. We played around them as kids, but never climbed them, as the first branches were far too high. Jack said the Jeffrey pine is a hearty tree. I only hope it can outlast what’s been unleashed here today.
I can’t see Jack from this vantage point, but it’s probably a coin toss as to who’s in more imminent danger—my mom and Celia, or Jack. I shift my focus to the left, to Cabin Ten. A man and woman remain crowded under their tarp, the mother wrapping her arms around the bulge in her jacket. And while the water encroaches higher on the walls of Cabin Ten, it is relatively—emphasis on the word “relatively”—stable, for now.
“Both men are on the hoist,” Beanie says.
Dip. Droop.
“You’re at ninety-eight percent power,” I say. “Ninety-eight on rotor speed.” Of course, these are all rough averages, as the needles are bouncing all over the place. Up, then down, spike, then drop. Nightmare hovering conditions.
“Bringing ’em up … halfway up…,” Beanie calls.
“No way we can get Jack this trip,” I tell Boomer.
“Agreed.”
“Men are at the skids…,” Beanie says.
“Look to your twelve,” I say to Boomer. “See the cabin on the right?” I point to the roof where my mom and Celia stand. “They don’t have much time, but I don’t think Jack does either.”
“… bringing ’em in,” Beanie calls.
Boomer shifts his gaze out his left window. He would have a better view of Jack than I.
“Shit,” Boomer says. “The raft’s gone. He’s half in the water, half in that pile of crap.”
“Men are in! Clear to go!” Beanie says.
Boomer peels away to the left.
“Did you see that field at the entrance to the canyon?” I say. “It’s just behind the police cars.”
“Headed there now,” Boomer says. I guess he noticed the patch of high ground, too. It’s the closest place we have to land to drop off our passengers, or pax, for short.
A strong hand squeezes my shoulder. I turn as Will pokes his soggy head between the cockpit seats, and I allow myself a small moment to internalize and savor that yes, Will is safe. Thank god.
“Cabin Eleven isn’t gonna hold much longer,” Will says. “We could see it—hear it—just now.” He shouts to be heard, because he doesn’t wear a communications helmet.
“What about Jack?” I say.
Will leans farther into the cockpit, looking through the window. “Oh, boy. Not good.”
I turn to look at Cabin Eleven. Over to Jack. Back to Cabin Eleven.
I look, and I look, and the vision that pops into my head is an absurd one. That stupid cat poster. Cat poster? What the hell?
But that crazy cat … hanging from a rope. It was hanging.…
“Okay,” I say. “I think I know what we need to do.”
39
“I’d say we have to get Jack first. Agreed?” I say.
Boomer and Will nod.
“But Cabin Eleven might not hold. We need to give my mom and Celia more time—give ’em someplace to go.”
“What’s your plan?” Will asks.
“Can you repeat what you did before? Can you shoot over another rope to Cabin Eleven?”
“Yeah. If I can get to the main lodge, I can shoot a line from there.”
“We can get you there,” Boomer
says.
“I can aim for the roof, and they can wrap it around the same tree,” Will says. “I can anchor it on my end to the chimney of the main lodge.”
“If you could do that,” I say, “at least they’d have a rope, something to hang on to in the worst-case scenario.”
I picture the bare trunk of the Jeffrey pine, its first row of branches at least twenty feet above the roof level of Cabin Eleven. The trunk is so close, my mom could lean over and wrap a rope around it, just as she must have done before. Yeah, at least it would be something.…
Boomer executes a swift no-hover landing in the field, and Beanie directs Kevin and Thomas out of the helicopter.
“If you could drop me on the roof, the crossbow is still up there, and I have another rope in my pack,” Will says.
“Will do,” Boomer says.
Will puts his hand over his ear, then presses the push-to-talk switch on the radio attached to his chest harness. “Mono County Sheriff, Whiskey One, relay to the victims that we’re firing over another line. Like before, fishing line first, attached to a rope. I’ll pre-rig the rope with carabiners, so tell them to take the line around the tree and back-clip the carabiners to the rope, over.”
“Mono County Sheriff copies. Tawny’s on the far side with the bullhorn and will relay.”
“Beanie, are we good?” Boomer asks.
“All set in back, sir.”
Boomer lifts, flying toward the main lodge in what is now a murky twilight, which means it won’t be much longer until we have to use our searchlight. And adding to our visibility woes, the rain is congealing now, a liquidy sleet that the wipers struggle to push away.
“I’m gonna do a one-skid, so you can step off, Will,” Boomer says.
Two trees border the main lodge, on the highway side, but the roof is so wide that we can hover on the river side and get low enough to do this.
“Got it,” Will says, retreating into the cabin.
Boomer executes his approach and hovers about one foot above the roof of the main lodge. It’s a quick transition as Will hops out. Boomer then lifts, and we fly toward Jack.
The raft is long gone and Jack looks as if he’s being gulped whole by a fantastic morass of twisted detritus, woven thick with branches and twigs and who knows what else. Thank god he’s wearing a dry suit, as his lower half looks to be completely underwater.
Boomer pulls into a hover and turns the aircraft to put the nose to the wind. From here, I can see Will, who at this very moment sets his stance, raises his crossbow, aims, and fires. I can’t see the fishing line pay out, but I do see my mom and Celia scrambling forward to retrieve it.
“Sending Hap down on the hoist,” Beanie says. “Hoist is on the way down … halfway down … he’s at the man … stand by.”
And while our helicopter works to rescue Jack, I look to the other side of the river, where my mom and Celia pull and pull, drawing the fishing line across, which draws the rope across in turn.
“Steady on the hover. Hap’s having trouble with his footing,” Beanie says.
My mom grabs the end of the rope, moves to the corner of Cabin Eleven, and begins to tie it off to the tree. At the same time, Celia begins jumping up and down, waving her hands above her. Oh, no—
Whipping my head back to Will, I see him secure the other end of the rope to the chimney of the main lodge.
“Will, the cabin!” Tawny shouts.
Crrrrrrack! I nearly shoot out of my seat as water crashes and snarls around the front of Cabin Eleven, pulling it under, dissolving it.
No! Mom!
“They’re on the rope! They’re on!” Will shouts. “Kelly, Tawny, I need you on the roof of the main lodge ASAP!”
“On our way!” Kelly says.
My mom and Celia cling to the rope, not hanging quite like the cat-poster cat, but more like upside-down opossums.
The radio keys, and I look over at Will, who stands atop the roof of the main lodge, hand pressed to his chest, to his radio.
“Rescue Seven, Whiskey One. How much longer?”
“Whiskey One, stand by,” I say. “Beanie, are we close?”
“Negative. Jack’s tangled in the debris, and shit’s movin’ all over the place. His harness and backpack are wrapped in practically everything. Hap’s tryin’ to cut him out.”
As Beanie reports, two tiny athletic forms leap from the highway to a cottonwood tree located at least six feet from the asphalt. Kelly and Tawny then use this tree as a springboard, jumping to a second tree, and finally to the window ledge on the first floor of the main lodge, the water lapping just below. They scramble up the side of the house, using moves reminiscent of Will’s when he did his Spiderman thing on Mount Morrison.
“Whiskey One, Rescue Seven, negative. Jack’s tangled in the debris. Hap’s cutting him out, over.”
I glance quickly at my mom and Celia, my heart in my throat. They hang without harnesses, beyond exposed, over water that speeds beneath them. Based on the movement of debris on the surface, I’d say the water runs at twenty-five miles per hour, easy.
Even more disconcerting, the cottonwood tree just behind the Jeffrey pine that anchors the rope they hang on has snapped in half.
I turn my head to find Will, spotting Kelly and Tawny as they join him on the roof.
“Rescue Seven, I don’t know how much longer we can rely on that tree anchor,” Will says.
I’m sure he sees we’re down to only one tree now, too.
“We’re gonna send Kelly over on the line,” Will continues. “She can at least get them hooked to the rope. We might even be able to bring them back across this way.”
“Rescue Seven copies. I don’t think we have another choice.”
“Helpless” doesn’t begin to cover it—watching my mom and Celia hanging in the breeze—and we can’t do a thing about it.
“Rescue Seven, Whiskey One, Kelly’s on.”
A tiny, rain-slicked figure in pink begins a quick shimmy across the rope—a classic Tyrolean traverse. She’s attached to the rope by a carabiner connected to her harness, and she carries slings and carabiners with her that can be used to secure my mom and Celia to the rope. She moves with urgency, legs hooked around the rope, moving hand over hand, fast like a cat, getting pounded with sleet.
Tawny’s voice—a memory—registers in my head. Girl power, yeah?
Yeah.
The family of three remains clustered on the roof of Cabin Ten, so isolated. It’s the only structure that remains in the middle of the canyon. God, please let it hold.
I do a quick scan of the engine gauges. Flickering low-fuel lights.
What else?
I fast-forward, adding up the time to finish hoisting Jack, move over and hoist Celia and my mom, drop the three of them off, then return for the family of three.
We should have time. Have just enough fuel.
But then I turn away from my mom, shifting to look behind me, to the space between the highway and the main lodge. The water is now above the window that Tawny and Kelly jumped to earlier, and the middle tree is … gone.
Wait. What? When did that happen? They just climbed that tree! And the second tree, the one closest to the highway, is bowed, almost lying flat against the surface of the water.
The exit path for Will, Kelly, and Tawny has vanished.
Which means … we’re going to have to pick them up, too.
Holy shit … We’re not going to have enough fuel.…
“Sir, easy left three,” Beanie calls. “Easy left two, left one, steady. Steady right there. Hap’s still tryin’ to cut Jack from the debris.”
“Mono County Sheriff, Rescue Seven, over.”
“Go ahead, Rescue Seven,” Walt answers.
“Any word on that fuel truck?”
“Stand by.”
No way we can fly to Carson City for fuel. No way we can leave our victims. The fuel’s going to have to come to us or it’s not coming.
“Hover’s lookin’ good, sir,”
Beanie says. “Hap’s almost got him free.”
“Rescue Seven, Whiskey—” Crrrrrrack!
Shit! The detached garage—the one that Will, Kevin, and Thomas stood atop just five minutes ago—finally loses its hold. The river picks it up and slams it into the side of the main lodge, knocking Will and Tawny flat on the roof.
The main lodge shudders.
The rope sags.
Kelly, midway on her traverse, dips, swaying perilously close to the water.
“Kelly, get back! Get back now!” Will shouts, finding his feet. “Mono County, Whiskey One, need to re-rig the anchor. This house isn’t gonna hold! Rescue Seven, we need you fast!”
We can’t move. Hap is untangling Jack. Shit. Shit. Shit!
Jack—my father—snarled in debris. My mother—dangling on a rope. My aunt—clinging next to her. Will—standing on a roof that’s going to collapse at any moment.…
My family. This is my family! And for one terrifying moment, I’m overwhelmed by the images of losing them—my entire family snatched by the river in one fell swoop.
I bring my ungloved hands over my mouth to stifle the panic … and that’s when I feel the rapid exhalations beating against my bare palms. This physical sensation—this here-and-now feedback—snaps me back to reality. What the hell are you doing, Ali?
I turn to look at Boomer, a model of concentration, focusing on keeping the aircraft still. Then Beanie’s voice registers. “No rise, no drift. Hover’s lookin’ good, sir,” Beanie says.
Clark also flashes through my vision—Clark, who kept it together when all was crumbling around him, when he knew all was lost.
My family still has a chance.…
Okay, Ali, head in the game. Head in the game!
Embarrassed that I let my attention slip, even for a few seconds, I adjust my scan to find Will. The main lodge shakes while he frantically pulls slings and a rope from his pack, looking wildly about as he does so, searching for another way to anchor the rope should the main lodge collapse. Tawny leans over the edge of the roof, shouting and encouraging Kelly, who scrambles, hand over hand, upward toward the roof. My mom and Celia continue to hang on for dear life at the other end of the rope.
Clear to Lift Page 26