Investigators learned that the man was an Army private from Fort Benning in Georgia. A month earlier, on the same day his roommate’s wallet and silver Probe were stolen, the private went AWOL because he was “tired of being in the Army.” He had been in the service less than a year.
Later that day, Chris called the other ranger who had worked the suicide in Valle to tell him that history had repeated itself.
“No way,” Ranger Piastick said. “You’re making this up!”
Back home at his trailer in Pinyon Park, his girlfriend was very sympathetic—for the first few hours. After dinner she berated him for not doing the dishes correctly. Certain pots were to be washed with vinegar and steel wool, and Chris had forgotten. After it got dark, he went jogging. The critical incident counselors had told him exercise was a good way to burn off stress. His dog, a mutt named Beckett, went with him. By flashlight he jogged the dirt roads through the forest along the canyon rim. Along the way, a wild panic consumed him. He ran faster and faster until he arrived back at his trailer, where he put his hands on his knees and panted as though he had raced a four-minute mile. The next morning, Chris returned to work another shift.
Chris had been at the Grand Canyon nearly six years. Each summer it seemed the workdays got longer, the days off got fewer, the bad guys got meaner, and the ranger staffing levels were going down, not up. Chris was beginning to feel like a block of cheap cheddar. Weak supervisors grated on him. Petulant coworkers grated on him. High-maintenance girlfriends grated on him. Stupid tourist questions grated on him. Fakers threatening to jump off the canyon for attention grated on him. Obnoxious, disgusting drunks grated on him. Every time someone said, “You rangers are so lucky. You’re paid in sunsets!” it grated on him.
After the Friday the Thirteenth suicide, Chris believed his superiors were second-guessing him. In five years’ time he had participated in hundreds of arrests and two young men had killed themselves in his presence. Sure, on many shifts Chris was one of two rangers assigned to patrol the South Rim Village when three rangers hadn’t been enough to handle all the calls. Still, what were the odds? The ranger must be too gung-ho. He must be focusing too much on emergency services. He must be doing something wrong. How else can you explain why so many terrible things happened on his watch? What a shit magnet!
21
THE GUT OF DARKNESS
When you often work sixteen-hour shifts and your days off come infrequently, your laundry pile becomes a mountain. By late afternoon on the first day of what I hoped would be a long and partially intoxicated weekend, I was folding clothes when the park’s search and rescue (SAR) coordinator called me at home. A few days earlier, disaster had struck near Glen Canyon National Recreation Area, our sister park to the northeast. The rangers at Glen Canyon now needed our assistance with a search-and-recovery effort. Could I drive out with a small team of Grand Canyon rangers and assist our buddies at Lake Powell?
“Sure,” I told him, “of course.”
“This assignment,” he warned me, “is not going to be a fun one.”
After the dam was completed in 1966, Glen Canyon was drowned by Lake Powell, which we called Lake Foul due to all the houseboats and personal watercraft buzzing across its waters. In truth, the clear lake is not at all foul; and the remote, red-rock gorges that remain above water are spectacular.
Of the hundreds of isolated and beautiful tributary canyons leading to this reservoir, the most photogenic is the alluring Antelope Canyon. The upper portion of Antelope is typically a dry, narrow, and twisty crack carved out of the sandstone. A trek through this famous slot canyon is a superlative experience.
On August 11, 1997, eleven hikers and one tour guide were negotiating the famous slot when an isolated rainstorm sent a ten-foot-high wall of muddy water down the canyon. Only one person, the tour guide, made it out alive. One body was found right away. Two more turned up several days later. A team from the Grand Canyon was sent to help the Glen Canyon rangers find and recover the eight still lost.
When our four-person search team arrived at Lake Powell, we met a boatman at the NPS dock. He motored us across the dazzling blue lake rimmed by salmon-colored walls of sandstone. The family members of the people killed in the flash flood were never far from our thoughts, but the new scenery offered a respite from our own park. The day was fabulously hot and sunny. I peeled down to my shorts and a sports bra, and the men were shirtless. For a while we forgot the tragedy that had brought us here and enjoyed a pleasant boat ride to Antelope Canyon.
As soon as we entered the canyon’s mouth, the water changed color, becoming at first a gorgeous emerald. As we ventured deeper into the canyon’s long and twisted throat, the water turned browner and browner until it was a strange and dusty chocolate. Up ahead we saw two NPS boats anchored in a sharp bend of the canyon. When our boatman motored past the larger boats, the canyon’s high walls blocked the sun, covering us with shade.
We were in the belly of the beast now, four miles downstream from where the flood victims were last seen. Here the canyon was about twenty-five yards wide. This pinch was choked by debris the flood had pushed down five days ago. Juniper branches, decaying vegetation, mud, and hundreds of bloating frogs and fish were now trapped between the sandstone walls, forming a mat up to six feet thick in places and floating in seven feet of stagnant, eighty-degree water. The boat operators would foul their propellers in the debris if they continued farther upstream. To extend the search deeper into the canyon, someone had created a tenuous walkway across this loathsome mat using seven plywood boards.
As the boatman motored us in, I recognized two of the Glen Canyon rangers standing on this makeshift plywood dock: Chris Pergiel, a supervisor from my years working Yosemite Valley’s night shift, and Mike Archer, the newbie backcountry ranger who had tried to shoo the bear away from the human bones found near the John Muir Trail. As we arrived, Mike crawled out of the water. (Those of us who entered this water were later immunized because we were at risk for contracting hepatitis A.) Mike wore a Farmer John wet suit, and the neoprene hugged his body in a flattering way. I was pleased to see him, but my smile of recognition did not soften the ranger’s stony face. Dark strands of detritus clung to Mike’s muscular arms, and he was wet up to his neck. I noticed that he no longer wore a beaded necklace.
Surveying the scene before me, I congratulated myself for remembering to bring cigars to cover the smell. Caught within this thick mat were two of the five bodies we found that day. Their angulated extremities and purple faces paid testimony to the flood’s cruelty. As I considered the empty body bags, the plywood dock, our wet suits, the life jackets, the mud on Mike Archer’s face, and the floating mat of death and decay that continued upcanyon as far as I could see, I began to comprehend what this recovery mission would require.
“Lankford,” ranger Chris Pergiel greeted me as our boatman cut off the engine and drifted us toward our Glen Canyon friends. “Welcome to hell.”
22
THUNDER AND LIGHTNING
A storm cell hovered over the North Rim, Bright Angel Creek had turned brown at Phantom Ranch, and Bryan Wisher was overreacting. In the ranger station on the South Rim, I was trying to discuss something administrative with my peer, Wilderness District Ranger Nick Herring, but Bryan’s radio transmissions distracted me. At Phantom the creek had risen five feet. This posed no danger to the campground, but Bryan was running all his bases anyway, nagging the North Rim rangers to update him on the weather and asking dispatch to ring the emergency phone at Cottonwood on the off chance a hiker would pick it up and advise us of the conditions upstream.
Bryan’s apprehension stemmed from a rainy night five years ago. He had been sleeping inside the Cottonwood Ranger Station when a flood roared through the entire campground, washing away several tents and forcing campers to the top of picnic tables. (Bryan’s actions tha
t night earned him a Department of the Interior (DOI) Medal of Valor for saving twenty-eight lives. Then in May 1995 he pulled a maintenance employee out of a swollen creek below Indian Garden.) Nick Herring and I knew Bryan’s history with flash floods. We sympathized with his compulsion to be overly cautious. But thunderstorms and flash floods were routine events during the summer monsoon season, and Bryan was now ordering the backcountry office to pull out all the permits for campers on the North Kaibab Trail.
Herring raised his eyebrows at me. He’s your employee.
I shrugged my shoulders. I kept Bryan on a long leash.
Right then our radios emitted a series of tones heralding the announcement of a serious emergency. “Report from West Rim Drive,” the dispatcher said. “At Mojave Point; two people struck by lightning.” Before Herring or I had time to exhale, the dispatcher was back on the air. “Three people have been swept away by a flash flood at the confluence of Bright Angel and Phantom Creeks.” I locked eyes with Herring. He looked as stunned as I felt. Two people struck by lightning and three people washed away in a flash flood! Five potential fatalities at two separate locations at the same exact time. You gotta be kidding me. For a split second, I believed the Grand Canyon had chosen this moment to unleash its judgment on us all. As soon as this preposterous idea passed, I got to work.
A ranger-medic arrived at Mojave Point to see a bystander performing CPR on a German national hit by a bolt of lightning. The medic found a pulse, but the man was not breathing. The second victim, a young woman, was alive but had burns over 10 percent of her body. Rangers initiated lifesaving measures, and the man started breathing again. One helicopter transported the victims to the hospital in Flagstaff. Both were released the next day.
A second helicopter flew me and another ranger prepared for a swiftwater rescue to Phantom Ranch. On the flight in, I took an imaginary black marker to the whiteboard in my brain and in big, bold letters wrote, Note to self: Never doubt the premonitions of Bryan Wisher! This time the canyon had staked its claim just as Bryan saw it coming. Three people were hiking down Phantom Creek when a flash flood washed them down the canyon to Bright Angel Creek. One of the victims crawled out of the creek, ran down to Phantom Ranch, and called for help. The other two hikers remained missing.
After the helicopter dropped me off at Phantom Ranch, I briefly met the survivor inside the ranger station. I saw a beaten man. He was scratched, bleeding, and covered with pinkish mud. The mud was plastered to his face and caked in his hair. I could tell he knew his companions were dead. His expression was so pitiful. If I thought about it for one more second, I wouldn’t be able to do my job. I had to pull myself together. I had to coordinate search efforts for the other two victims. I had to get all the other campers to high ground because the water level was rising.
Four days after the flood, we had not found the bodies. A relative of the victims called for an update on the search efforts. I was articulate when explaining how the search was going and when it might be discontinued. I was honest and professional when revealing that sometimes in these situations, the bodies were found weeks later, if at all. But when it came to what this family member really needed from me, an ability to provide some small measure of comfort, I was woefully inept.
The woman’s body turned up the next day, five days after the flood and forty-seven miles downriver from the point she was last seen. Bryan Wisher participated in the recovery mission, which involved a short-haul extraction by helicopter. For some inexplicable reason, for some bizarre disaster-induced insanity, I had to be there when the helicopter set down its netted load at the helibase. I had to see for myself. I had to compare. I asked Bryan to unzip the body bag. He must have thought I was morbid or nuts or both, but I was his boss so he complied with my request. It made no sense, but what I saw helped me cope. In contrast to what I had seen in the tepid tributary below Antelope Canyon, the Colorado River had been kind. Over the last five days the frigid waters below Glen Canyon dam had firmed the woman’s flesh and polished it smooth, lending her skin the appearance of white marble.
Two weeks later the second body was found.
Not long after, in October, Bryan Wisher and I reported to the helibase late in the afternoon. A hiker had fallen while trekking from one gorgeous waterfall to another in Havasu Canyon. The accident occurred inside the Havasupai Indian Reservation. The reservation was outside the park boundaries, but we handled emergencies there whenever requested. Usually when we responded to Havasu, it was because the case was clearly a dire situation. In this instance the hiker had a fractured pelvis, a bleeding head injury, and an altered mental status.
I have jumped into a helicopter bound for the inner canyon so many times I’ve lost count. Yet each rescue flight was a singular thrill. The eagle’s perspective. The artist’s palette of colors outside my window. The roller-coaster descent into the dark heart of the inner gorge. The urgent nature of my work. The suspense. What waits for me at my destination? How will I handle it? Can I turn this cliffhanger into a happy ending? Or will this be another damn fatality? And why in God’s name did I drink that coffee? Will I be able to hold it until the pilot lands?
Bryan and I pondered such thoughts during our long flight across the Coconino Plateau. Once we reached Havasu, the pilot dropped us below the rim and flew up the canyon. The scenery passing under us would satisfy anyone’s Disneyland-esque fantasy—a turquoise river interrupted by misty waterfalls cascading over hidden caves and crashing into luxurious pools of blue-green water. But we had no time to slow down for the view. Our NPS pilot, Jerry Bonner, was in a race against the sunset. Pumpkin Time would ground him if he didn’t lift off as soon as we stepped out of his aircraft.
We referred to our helicopter as “the ship.” The phrase subconsciously symbolized how our helicopter could be a ranger’s lifeboat in the immense and rowdy sea that is the Grand Canyon. The NPS pilots brought us help and home, and we adored them. I’m not sure how they felt about us. Pilots are legendary for their consistent heart rates and unruffled voices. But I imagine our pilots hated every time they had to abandon their rangers in the wilderness, casting us adrift with a patient who might die before daybreak.
Fortunately, the Havasu mission allowed us to resort to Plan B. Unfortunately, our patient’s reported injuries were critical enough to justify the extreme risk. Plan B, when used, required a pilot to land a helicopter in a tight and treacherous canyon, in the dark, with the aid of night vision goggles.
Motivated by our patient’s critical condition, Bryan and I worked efficiently. I pushed ahead to the accident scene while my partner tossed his radio and flashlight to an intelligent-looking bystander and told him to direct the next helicopter to the same landing spot. “Shine the light at the ground, not the aircraft,” Bryan instructed, “or you will blind the pilot.” A quarter mile upstream we found the victim at the bottom of a thirty-foot escarpment. Bryan dug out supplies and started an IV. I assessed the patient, placed a collar on his neck to protect his cervical spine, and put him on oxygen. The young hiker mumbled the same questions over and over. His hair was sticky from blood, and I felt a crunchy sensation when I palpated his hip. We secured the hiker’s legs and pelvis in a vacuum splint, strapped him to a backboard, and commandeered our bystanders to help us carry him back to the helicopter landing zone.
The disappointment and frustration inherent when diverse personalities perform critical work under dynamic circumstances was absent from this rescue. The mission flowed smoothly and ended triumphantly, like a well-rehearsed dance performed by partners who are fond of each other. We were approaching the landing zone as the state helicopter arrived. The Arizona Department of Public Safety (DPS) medic was surprised to see that all his work had been done for him. We had his patient medically stabilized, packaged, and ready to be loaded into the helicopter. This one was going to be cake. They’d be out of this canyon within minutes. With a smile the DPS medic put his rad
io to his mouth. “Keep your rotors turning,” he told his pilot. “The National Park Service is here.”
Once the state helicopter was off to the Flagstaff hospital, Bryan and I searched for a nice spot to bivy for the night. A companion of the injured man approached us. The hiker was the friendly sort. He looked and spoke like a pot-smoking, surfer dude. “Hey, rangers,” he said. “I’m like totally starving.” He eyed our packs. “You guys wouldn’t have something to eat in there, would ya?” We tossed him most of the MREs (Meals Ready to Eat) and sports bars we had. The stoner was beside himself with gratitude. “You park rangers are awesome, man!” he exclaimed. And that night I believed it.
The best part of the day was when we laid our exhausted bodies down on the warm sand beside the warm water and inhaled the sweet desert air. I fell asleep in the middle of Bryan doing his best to educate me on the constellations. The next morning the NPS pilot, Tom Caldwell, picked us up for our long and scenic flight back to the South Rim.
Bryan Wisher agreed. The Havasu mission was the loveliest rescue of our entire careers. But saving lives at the Grand Canyon was like pushing a wheelbarrow filled with precious stones up a steep and bumpy trail. I had been home less than an hour and was drying off from my desperately needed shower when a man collapsed from a heart attack while hiking the North Kaibab Trail. This news infuriated me. A special agent phoned to tell me that another fatality had occurred in my district; I nearly hung up on him.
I’m not proud of how impatient and frustrated I became during my last years as a ranger. Sure, I did a few wonderful things. I protected woods and wildlife from poachers, destructive use, and fire. Brought some bad guys to justice. Saved a few lives. Carried live rattlesnakes away from campgrounds, transported sick pelicans to rehab centers, and coaxed bear cubs out of dumpsters. Changed a bunch of flat tires, resolved a few marital disputes, and helped scores of tourists who locked their keys in their cars. But you can’t derive much joy over your good deeds when brooding about all the times you felt incompetent or acted like a jerk.
Ranger Confidential Page 16