Between a Rock and a Hard Place

by Aron Ralston

  Minutes after twelve o’clock, Elliott arrived at the Ute, leaning his silver road bike against the bike rack in front of the store. Elliott rarely drove around town, as he could usually bike to the Aspen core in less time than he could drive and find a parking spot. After Elliott jogged the stairs up to the office, Brion handed him the ’03 Denali folder and summarized his most recent activities. “Here’s the file of people he’s going to Denali with. I’ve been getting replies from a few of them, and I’ve talked with one of them, Jason Halladay. His number’s on a piece of paper in the folder. Aron’s mom’s number is there, too. Also, this is his e-mail address and password. His mom wants us to send an e-mail to everyone in his address book.” Brion was going full speed, and yet he was barely keeping his head together in the midst of the most hectic firestorm he’d ever experienced.

  “Who’s the contact at the police?” Elliott asked.

  “Oh yeah. I’ve talked to them a couple times. Here’s the number of the guy over there, uh, Adam.”

  “What have you told them?” Elliott was thorough and wanted to know everything that everyone involved knew.

  Brion gave him a pass-down of the information he’d told Adam up to that time. Elliott sat down at Brion’s cluttered desk and pondered what he was going to do next while Brion walked through the shop to check on the shorthanded staff.

  Amid the stack of e-mail printouts Brion had made that morning and handed to Elliott was the response from Jason Halladay. Jason had replied fifteen minutes after Brion’s initial e-mail, clarifying about our May 1–4 Denali training trip. At 11:03 A.M., he had written, “We have not heard from him since last week. The last e-mail I have from Aron here at work is from April 22 but he did not mention his upcoming plans.” Jason was going back to his town house for lunch and had typed out, “I may have a more recent correspondence from him at home and I will check on that as soon as I get home.” Just over a half hour later, Jason had sent in another message, with excerpts from the seminal e-mail I’d written to him in January, inviting him to join me for any of a slew of slot canyons, as well as the climbing expedition to Denali. Sitting at Brion’s desk, Elliott read this e-mail:

  From: Jason Halladay

  Sent: Wednesday, April 30, 2003 11:40 A.M.

  To: Brion After

  Subject: RE: Looking for Aron Ralston

  Brion,

  Hello again. I checked my home e-mail and last I heard from Aron was April 23rd reporting on his trip on Quandary. He didn’t mention plans for the upcoming weekends but earlier this year he mentioned the following canyons as trips he’d like to do in Utah:

  Canyons:

  Black Box of San Rafael;

  Virgin River in Zion;

  Cable/Seger canyons (San Rafael area);

  And any other technical slots listed as “best of” in Kelsey’s books (do you have the San Rafael Swell book?—it’s excellent).

  You’re right, he may just not have known about his work schedule and hopefully we see him tomorrow night in Georgetown but it would be out of character for him to forget his work schedule and not keep in touch with at least someone.

  Thank you, again, for contacting us,

  Jason

  Brion came back in the office and discussed with Elliott whom to call next. Brion offered, “From what I know, Brad Yule was the last person who saw Aron. But I don’t know how to get ahold of him.”

  Elliott exclaimed, “You gotta be kidding me. I’ve got his cell-phone number right here.” Whipping his cell phone out of his pocket, Elliott looked up Brad’s number and then called him on one of the office lines, catching him at the Denver airport, ready to board the connecting leg of his flight to Atlanta.

  “Hey, Brad. I’ve got a question for you. Aron didn’t show up for work yesterday or this morning, and we’re really starting to worry about him. We’re trying to get information to give the police so they can start a search. It seems like you were the last person to see him. Do you know where he went? What’s the best information you have from him when you talked?”

  Brad recalled the ski trip on Mount Sopris for Elliott, including the information that we’d gotten my truck stuck on the drive out, and that I’d departed for the desert but I hadn’t been specific about my destination.

  “We thought we were going to hear from him before the party Saturday, but he didn’t call, and then we didn’t really make it to the party, either.”

  “OK. Do you remember what he had in his truck?”

  “He had his mountain bike and his skis on his roof rack, and he had his climbing stuff with him and his skiing stuff and camping gear.”

  “Was he going out for more skiing?”

  “No, I’m pretty sure he was going to do some canyoneering.”

  “Oh, OK. The police want to know what his stuff looks like. Like his backpack and jacket.”

  “I don’t remember, exactly, but hey, Elliott, I’m on the plane, and I have to go. I’ll think about it and call you when I get to Charlotte.”

  On the plane, Brad got out his digital camera and reviewed the pictures from Mount Sopris, double-checking which backpack I’d had with me that day and which jacket I had been wearing, making some mental notes to share with Elliott when he landed in North Carolina.

  Just before talking with my sister, at 11:43 A.M., my mom sent a message to the Denali team members from her account. Using the addresses from an e-mail she and Michelle had found in my in box, she requested any info they had, as Brion had already done. Jason Halladay called her from the Los Alamos National Lab, where he had returned to his job as a computer technician, to give her the same information he had sent to Brion. My mom went down to the basement and retrieved a road atlas, marking down the locations of Zion National Park and the San Rafael Swell on the map. Jason tried to help her as best he could, but he didn’t know the exact locations of a few of the canyons. He needed his canyoneering guidebook, but that was back at home.

  Elliott relayed my last known point and subsequent direction to Adam at the APD, who asked if there was a more specific location other than simply the Utah desert. Elliott pulled out the list of possible Utah destinations provided by Jason and read that to Adam. Crider recognized Zion National Park from the list and located the San Rafael Swell on a map of Utah. Although the lead was from an uncorroborated three-month-old e-mail, it was the only specific information collected up to that point in the investigation, and Adam followed through as best he could. Just before one P.M., he issued a teletype message to the Washington, Grand, and Emery county sheriffs’ offices and followed up with phone calls to Grand County and Zion, to ensure that the national parks received the information.

  Grand County is home to Canyonlands and Arches, two of the most popular national parks in the western United States. Because of the concentration of agencies managing public lands in Grand County, it’s possible to cross three, four, or even a half-dozen boundaries on a single bike ride, four-wheel-drive outing, or day hike. To better coordinate incident response and provide a greater quality of service to the public, the Park Service, Forest Service, Utah State Parks, and Bureau of Land Management share a unified command and visitor information center in Moab. With Adam’s action, nearly every public resource agency in the southeastern quadrant of Utah had my vehicle information. While none of them was actively searching yet—it would be too costly to track down every vehicle that might or might not be in the state—they were on the lookout and would call the Aspen police if they happened upon my truck.

  Elliott began an intense process of notifying my friends across the U.S. that I was missing. From Brion’s desk, Elliott monitored my Hotmail account, Brion’s Ute account, Brion’s EarthLink account, and his own Yahoo! account, scrolling through message after message from my disconcerted friends. By trading e-mails through the afternoon, Elliott collected a few leads but mostly just waded through replies that said, “I have no idea where Aron is, but I’m worried for him.” Standing out from the other e-mails was one from my frien
d Dan Hadlich, which pointed Elliott to Mount Sopris and Mount of the Holy Cross in Colorado, but not to Utah.

  From: Daniel Hadlich

  Sent: Wednesday, April 30, 2003 12:27 P.M.

  To: Brion After, Jason Halladay

  Subject: RE: Looking for Aron Ralston

  Brion and Jason,

  I do not believe Aron was heading to Utah this past weekend. I’ve enclosed the following information I received from Aron on April 20th via e-mail:

  >I’m headed out to skin up to Conundrum Hot Springs and climb

  >Castleabra tomorrow. Maybe soak in the pools a little too! Then

  >climbing the Cristo Couloir on Friday with Janet, skiing Sunday to close

  >down Ajax for the season, and starting all over next Wednesday with a

  >trip to ski Mt. Sopris, climb the Holy Cross Couloir on Friday/Saturday,

  >and who knows what else from there! Spring may be here, but I’m a

  >long way from hiking anywhere when I can ski or climb snow!

  >

  >Cheers,

  >Aron

  That would mean that Aron would have been on Mt. Sopris on Wed–Thurs (4/23–4/24) and the Holy Cross Couloir on Fri–Sat (4/25–4/26). Has anyone searched those areas for his vehicle? Please contact me ASAP if you hear from him. Also, let Julia and I know if additional folks are needed to drive around and look for him or his truck this weekend.

  —Dan.

  Although it counterindicated what I’d said to Brad, Dan had provided the only itinerary I’d left in writing, and Elliott knew he needed to follow through on the Holy Cross lead with the Aspen police. When they talked just after one P.M., Adam said he would call the police department in Minturn, the town nearest the access for Mount of the Holy Cross, to have them check the Tigiwon Road for my vehicle.

  “However,” Adam informed Elliott, “the license information you gave me is invalid. We searched the computer records, and that New Mexico plate number 888-MMY doesn’t exist. I put Eagle County on the lookout for a maroon 1998 Toyota Tacoma, but we need to get the correct plate.”

  Elliott said he’d call my mom and double-check the number.

  Unable to eat lunch, my mom returned to her upstairs office, where she sat at her desk, organizing some papers while terrifying thoughts of my undoubtedly dire situation maddened her to the edge of a break-down. Then she fought back. Nipping off another upwelling of helplessness, my mom threw down her papers and said aloud, “I have to do something to help Aron.” For my mom, it was as though my life now depended on her actions. She was not going to sit tight and wait to hear back about how things were progressing. That just wasn’t her style.

  My mom twice tried calling my dad in New York to let him know what was happening and ask for his ideas on what to do, but he didn’t have his cell phone turned on, and he was out of his hotel room, so my mom left messages for him to call her as soon as he got back that evening. On her own, with the info she’d received from Jason, my mom brainstormed a short list of groups to contact: the Aspen police, Brad Yule, the Utah Highway Patrol, and Zion National Park.

  Before my mom could contact the first name on her list, her cell phone rang. It was Elliott, calling to notify her that my license information was incorrect. She pulled out the note she’d referenced previously and read the number to Elliott one digit at a time.

  After the third digit, he interrupted her. “Wait, eight-eight-six, you said? OK, Brion had written down eight-eight-eight. The rest is ‘M-M-Y’? I’ll get this to the police.”

  Just over a half hour later, Elliott called my mom back. The Aspen police had told him that wasn’t my license number, either—it belonged to a Chevy Blazer registered to an Albuquerque woman. Taking the initiative, Elliott had called the New Mexico Department of Motor Vehicles and tried to get them to search for my proper license number using the truck description and my name, but they weren’t able to help him. Unfortunately, my mom didn’t have any better information, so they hung up without any further plans for how to get my correct license information.

  Minutes later, at three-forty-five P.M., the home line rang again. It was my dad calling from New York. My mom was now in the same position of delivering the terrible news as Brion had been that morning.

  “I got a call from Aron’s manager this morning. He missed work yesterday and today, and no one’s seen him since last Friday. No one knows where he went.”

  Shocked for a moment, my dad instantly began pondering what might have happened to me. He was disturbed that I hadn’t left word with anyone. Alarmed as he was, though, he knew they needed to address the immediate problem. There would be ample time later for emotions to play themselves out.

  My mom told my dad what was going on. For each thing she told him she’d done, he asked a few questions to clarify whether there were any unchecked leads, but each time, they determined that she had done everything they could think of. Still, my dad wanted to come home immediately. “Do you think I should make arrangements?”

  My mom replied, “No, it’s a short tour, you’ll be home in three days. By the time they get someone in there to take your place, it’ll be Saturday night, and you’re coming home Sunday. There’s nothing else you could do here, anyway.”

  Comforting my mom as best he could from across the country, my dad knew she needed someone to be there with her, especially as things slowed down. “If I’m not coming home, then you have to promise me that you’ll call the church and ask for someone to come and stay with you.”

  My mom resisted the idea of asking for help, saying, “I really don’t think that’s necessary.” But my dad finally convinced her to call Hope United Methodist Church, our family’s congregation in Greenwood Village, a southeast suburb of Denver. My mom agreed, then said she’d contact the sheriffs’ offices and the National Park Service.

  Lastly, my dad advised, “If you haven’t done it already, you need to write everything down so you can refer back to it when you make the follow-up calls.”

  “Yes, I’ve started making a phone log,” my mom told him. From their combined experience working with bureaucracies, they knew the importance of keeping track of who said what, when, so the next time, when my mom called and someone different answered, she could still be effective.

  By the end of the conversation, all the other possible explanations for my disappearance—that I might be out camping along a stream with some friends, or that I’d been irresponsible and not called to let anyone know I’d decided to extend my vacation—were exhausted. There was no Pollyanna rationalization, no easy dismissal that could explain my prolonged absence. With the alarm mounting to the level of a terrible ache in my dad’s stomach, by the time he said “I love you” to my mom and hung up, he felt like he’d been shot in the gut.

  Things weren’t any easier on my mom, since ringing up the church turned out to be the most emotionally challenging call she made all day. As strong-willed as she is, she wasn’t used to asking for help for herself. However, when a good friend, Ann Fort, called back a few minutes later, saying she would be over to the house by seven P.M., my mom was glad she’d made the request.

  At 5:23 P.M., starting with the Aspen police, my mom began calling the names on her yellow legal tablet. She told the same story a half-dozen times in a series of twenty-minute conversations. She talked with law-enforcement representatives across Utah for two hours, beginning at five-forty-five P.M., speaking first with two state patrol dispatchers within the Department of Public Safety (DPS) and then with another two dispatchers from the Zion National Park police, submitting request after request for urgency in their assistance on my case. Each time before she hung up, she finished with the question, “Who else should I call?”

  Via our network of climbing friends and search-and-rescue colleagues, Steve Patchett had received a forwarded copy of the e-mail I’d written to Jason designating the four Utah canyons I’d wanted to visit. As a rescue leader with the Albuquerque Mountain Rescue Council and one of my many mentors
, Steve was acutely aware that time was of the essence in the developing situation. The first twenty-four hours of a search are often the most critical. From his house in Albuquerque, Steve called Mark Van Eeckhout in Los Alamos, and they spoke about the canyon list at 3:38 P.M. on Wednesday, trying to figure out where some of the more obscure canyons were located. Mark typed “Seger Canyon” into a search engine that found “Tom’s Utah Canyoneering Guide.” Clicking on the link, Mark read through a full guidebook-style description, complete with driving directions and topographic maps for the canyon. On the other end of the phone, Steve marked an “X” in central Wayne County on his Utah road atlas, following the driving directions that Mark read to him off the Web page. They found Cable Canyon adjacent to Segers Hole, at the southern end of the San Rafael Swell.

  Steve then called the Ute Mountaineer, responding to Elliott’s e-mail and volunteering his time. Steve and Elliott talked for almost twenty-five minutes, and Steve said he would contact the various authorities in Colorado and Utah. Elliott had received an e-mail from my climbing friend Wolfgang Stiller, and confirmed in a short phone conversation that we had canceled the Mount of the Holy Cross trip due to avalanche conditions. However, Wolfgang had acknowledged that it was possible I’d gone ahead with the attempt by myself. Elliott passed this along to Steve, who said he would call the Eagle County sheriff to close out on the Mount of the Holy Cross lead. He told Elliott his next efforts would focus on the Utah locations.