Sunday – September 8, 2020

• Start Point: Tungsten Lake (Mile 70.6)
• End Point:  Tungsten Lake (Mile 70.6)
• Distance Hiked: 0 miles

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When I left off last time, I was staring at my bright orange Garmin inReach Mini and contemplating whether to press the SOS button to trigger a rescue. Then my tent collapsed in the ferocious winds. Again.

The wind had shifted direction once again, and it was now catching the foot end of my single-walled tent. Powdery snow was blowing in through the thin band of mesh above the bathtub floor. So, instead of the mesh letting condensation and warm air vent out, I now had snow blowing in – and it was clinging to my down sleeping bag. 

My plight up here in these mountains was quickly turning from cold/uncomfortable to downright catastrophic. If I couldn’t keep my sleeping bag dry in this storm, I would risk frostbite, hypothermia, and possibly even something worse. 

The hesitation I’d felt about summoning a rescue, was quickly disappearing. This new turn of events was bringing the danger to a new level. So I had to be reasonable here instead of trying to be stoic.

After all, there aren’t any medals awarded for losing your fingers or toes while hiking. The only thing I needed to focus on was my survival, not how other hikers might judge me for having to press my SOS button.  

In this moment I decided to be brutally honest with myself. Despite my best efforts, this blizzard was something I wasn’t prepared to deal with. It was time for me to protect my life and my future welfare. 

NOW WHAT?

At 5:16 pm, I flipped the protective cover off my Garmin inReach and found the SOS button. It was now or never. The sun would set in another two hours. The temperature would continue to drop, and it would soon be even colder in the dark.

God knows I was barely holding it together right now. Who knows how much worse this situation could get overnight?

And so, I flipped off the hard rubber cover concealing the SOS button with my cold fingers, pressed the button concealed underneath.

I watched as the tiny screen on my inReach illuminated with the number 30. Then it began counting backwards. 29, 28, 27, 26… I needed to keep pressing down on the button until it reached “1.” 

This 30-second countdown was there by design. Forcing users to continually press the SOS button was a fail-safe for the SOS feature. It meant you weren’t likely to inadvertently trigger a SOS signal while hiking. It wasn’t going to accidentally go off if you dropped it on the ground. 

No, you had to deliberately press it and wait.

The process of holding the button down for 30 long seconds also serves a secondary purpose too. It confirms the absolute seriousness of what you were bringing about. Someone on that other end was going to get a SOS message telling them you need help. And then they’re going to do their darndest to make sure you get it. 

This was serious business!

As I waited for the long countdown to conclude, I knew my potential rescue wasn’t going to be easy. It wasn’t like calling 911 to summon an ambulance for a medical emergency. Rescuers weren’t going to just drive up here and pluck me out of peril. 

No, this storm was gong to make it just as hard for people to get into the backcountry as it was for me to get out. However, at least they would have the tools to facilitate my safe exit.

As it was right now, all I had was a backpack full of summer/fall hiking gear, a single-walled tent that wouldn’t stay upright in the blizzard, and a pair of frozen, iced over shoes.

INITIAL CONTACT

Once the countdown reached the end of the countdown, I had no idea what would happen next.

The screen on the Garmin inReach Mini is only about one inch across in either direction. So, it’s not big enough to read much. And there’s no keyboard on this particular model to type in messages or responses.

Luckily, I’d previously downloaded Garmin’s Earthmate app back home. And I’d paired my iPhone with my Garmin ahead of time. This app would allow me to send text messages through Garmin’s satellite system using my phone – just like I’d normally text.

In less than a minute, two standard messages popped up on my phone’s screen. They were automatically sent from my GPS device to Garmin’s satellite system orbiting above as I pressed my SOS button:

ME: SOS: inReach Mini, v2.70 (367638), Button Press

ME: I have an emergency, and need you to send help.

I waited and shallowly breathed while these messages were relayed from my current location in the Utah mountains to the GEOS International Emergency Rescue Coordination Center (IERCC) in Texas. Please, please, please let this work, I silently pleaded.

After just a few short minutes, a new message appeared, followed by a second text.

IERCC: Emergency Response acknowledged your emergency.

IERCC: This is the IERCC, we have received your SOS activation. What is the nature of your emergency?

Yesssss! I was in business!

I typed out a quick response with my location at Tungsten Lake (even though I suspected they had my exact grid coordinates) and a brief overview of the situation before requesting a rescue. 

For those new to using a satellite communicator, I should probably explain this wasn’t as quick process. It’s not like sending a normal text over your Verizon or AT&T network.

You don’t see the three dots showing someone is typing on the other end. You don’t have a “message delivered” note confirming someone received it.

And there is long lag between messages as they bounce up to the satellite and back down to Earth again (which only lengthens if there’s any obstacles blocking your clear signal up to the sky – like low clouds from a blizzard).

As I waited patiently for their next response, I used my time to try to text Keith. He was in Park City, Utah, this week while I was on the trail. 

In the past, I’d warned him not to text responses to my Garmin’s messages because I tend to use Garmin’s “safety” subscription plan. This is the most barebones of their three plans, and it charges for all incoming texts.

So, under ordinary circumstances, I didn’t want to pay precious money for Keith to text something banal like “ok” every time I sent him a message telling him I was fine.

But things were different now. I needed to let him know how much things had changed since early this morning.

The last text in my queue to Keith was at nine hours ago (at 8:05 am) and simply read:

ME: Made it over Kings Peak yesterday. Lots of snow blew in overnight. Still snowing. Going to stay put until it ends. May put me a day behind schedule. Will update u later.

He hadn’t responded since then. So, I sent him another quick message deliberately prompting him to write back.

ME: Are you able to get my messages? Please text back.

ME: I just pressed SOS for rescue.

I didn’t want to panic him, but he needed to know what was going on. Yet, who knows when he’d actually get or read this message. I married that person who isn’t really into tech. He keeps his phone on him less than 10% of any given day. And he doesn’t feel the need to immediately check his phone the instant he hears it chime.

I waited there, staring at my phone for several minutes, hoping he’d send some sort of text back. But I wasn’t surprised that there was still no response. Damn it!

I toggled back to my text conversation with the IERCC and waited. At least I knew they were active and online.

A few minutes later, I got a response asking me if I was alone, whether I was injured, and wanting to know which trail I’d taken into the backcountry.

I sent my reply back and then the IERCC did something unexpected. They asked me to text Duchesne County and provided me a number to send my future texts.

What the …?!?

In that moment, this seemed like the most absurd request. Wouldn’t it be easier if they (the IERCC) contacted Duchesne County by phone instead of me sending a text? Were they too busy to assist me? Plus, it was after 5pm. Was I sending something to an empty U.S. Forest Service office? What if I didn’t get a response?

I soon figured out the IERCC wasn’t brushing me off though. They were actually throwing me a lifeline with this request. They’d just given me a direct link for the people working on my rescue.

By forcing me to text the local Search and Rescue (SAR) team coordinator through my Garmin app, I was creating a direct satellite link that he could now text me back on.

From here on out, we could remain in constant communication — without the IERCC having to serve as 3rd-party relay and slowing everything down.

As I waited for a response from Duschene County, I received another update from the IERCC. As per their protocols, they’d called the person listed in my emergency contact profile to let him know I had triggered a SOS on my Garmin. Maybe now Keith would check his damn phone! The latest update read:

IERCC: Keith is receiving your texts but is unable to reply. SAR is working on a plan as far as if they will be able to send a helicopter. Will keep you updated.

Ok, things were moving. I just needed to sit tight and wait. At that moment a wave of relief rolled over me. A helicopter rescue was in the works! 

Then a new message came in.

IERCC: Due to weather SAR is unable to send a helicopter. They are sending a team on horseback with a 10-15 hour ETA depending on weather.

My stomach sank when I read this update. 10-15 hours?!? That meant they wouldn’t be here until some time between 3:30 am and 8:30 am. Could I survive in this blizzard until then?? I guess I’d have to find a way to hold on. I didn’t have any other choice. 

But, then what?

I had to assume a lengthy horseback rescue meant I also would have a 10+ hour journey back out to the frontcountry on horseback too.

I sure hope they’re bringing extra blankets or gloves with them. Because I’m not sure I’ll be able to endure a 10-15 hour ride in this weather while wearing my wet, iced over shoes and gloves.

WHAT’S GOING ON?

While my mind turned this horseback rescue situation over and over, a text from Keith finally came in. I guess he must have figured out how to text me back. Or maybe our 13 year old son (and resident tech guru) showed him how…

KEITH: What’s up? I just got a call from the inReach people.

ME: I just pressed SOS button for rescue. I’m at Tungsten Lake. My tent is failing and I’m getting soaked in snow.

I love how casual he was being about all of this (not that it would do any good for either of us to panic right now). Still I needed him to know this was a real situation. This wasn’t a false alarm. I really did need to be rescued.

KEITH: Okay. We are waiting to hear where they are going to take you. 

ME: SOS just said they can’t send a helicopter and will have to do a horseback rescue that will take 10-15 hours.

In the middle of this exchange, a message came in from the SAR folks in Duschene County. I put a pin in my update to Keith and focused on texting with the SAR coordinator as he outlined their ongoing efforts to get me out.

SAR: I’m working on a helicopter so far no luck to fly due to weather. Sit tight I’m working for you.

ME: Thank you. I expected cold weather when I set out 4 days ago – but wasn’t prepared for a blizzard. My tent won’t stay up in the winds and that’s making it near impossible to stay dry.

I tried to sound calm and give an accurate picture of the situation.

As I typed, I couldn’t help but thinking back of the warnings I’d heard in New Hampshire while I was hiking the Appalachian Trail.

More than a few times, people set out on a summer hike of Mt. Washington in shorts and a t-shirt because of the sunny, warm weather down below. Yet, then the clouds would move in and they’d find themselves battling a winter-like snow storm high up on the mountain.

I hadn’t come out here to the High Uintas completely unprepared to that same extent. But I was definitely under-prepared for this intense early season storm.

I didn’t foresee a 24-hour blizzard dropping several feet of snow around Labor Day!! None of the last week’s weather reports had even come close to predicting that.

SAR: Do you have warm clothing? Still working on helicopter. I have deployed our horse team as a back up plan. I’ll be in touch with your husband.

ME: I have a 20 degree down sleeping bag but am constantly having to wipe the snow off it so it doesn’t wet out.

Then there was another long break while I waited for my message to go up to the satellite and SAR’s response to come back. Then the following guidance appeared:

SAR: Wrap your tent around and over your sleeping bag. Put on extra clothing. I am calling Keith to keep him the loop.

SAR: If possible keep device charged.

SAR: Don’t move. We’ll be coming to this GPS location.

I appreciated his advice on how to stay warm and dry even though I’d already taken those steps. At least they knew my status and how dire the situation was out here. 

It was a still only a mere 15 degrees (with a wind chill of 3°F) according to my weather app. So I was doing my absolute best to protect my down sleeping bag from the elements. 

I’d also taken the additional step of putting every available waterproof layer (my pack liner and rain jacket) around my sleeping bag to keep the down as dry as possible inside the tent.

And luckily, I’d also had the forethought to bring a 20-degree sleeping bag liner to boost the heat rating of the inside of my sleeping bag too. That liner was currently turning my 20°F sleeping bag into something closer to a 0°F bag. 

But most importantly, I was absolutely elated to hear that the 10-15 hours horse rescue was just the backup plan.

SAR hadn’t given up on sending a helicopter out to get me. I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but at least I knew a quicker option was still on the table. I might get out of here before sunrise after all.

My job now was just to focus on staying as dry as possible and surviving for as long as it took to come get me out of there.

HOW FAST IS A KNOT??

Around 6:45 pm I exchanged a new set of text messages with the SAR coordinator in Duchesne County.

Things were looking up! 

He’d located an state agency with pilots who were willing to make a rescue attempt in the abysmal weather conditions and at high altitude. This was critically important because I was currently near 12,000 feet elevation – and most helicopters are designed to fly at elevations below 10,000 feet.

Then he asked me about the current wind speed at my location and how high the clouds were. He wanted to pass this information on to the pilot. 

Unfortunately, I didn’t have a great response.

The wind speed wasn’t constant. Sometimes it would be blowing around 20 miles-per-hour, but then I’d endure gusts that had to be in excess of 30-40 mph. Moreover, the wind seemed to be constantly changing directions and swirling around me.

How could I give him an accurate answer??

I checked my weather app again hoping it might have something more definitive. Yet, all the Dark Sky forecast told me was the wind was expected to be blowing NNE at 15 knots with gusts to 28 knots. 

This weather information was virtually useless to me.

How fast was a knot? I had zero clue. Were knots were faster or slower than miles per hour? It’s not like I could just head over to Google and type in “convert knots to mph” and get a quick answer. (FYI – thanks to this harrowing experience I now know that 1 knot equals 1.15 mph).

And trying to estimate the current visibility outside my tent was equally problematic. Every minute or two, the wind gusts would throw snow in the air and that constantly changed the visibility.

Plus, I didn’t really have anything to use as a frame of reference for the cloud height. Nothing around me was was more than 15 feet tall. And everything above me was white. 

So, I just gave him my best estimate possible on the wind speed and visibility. But, this only served to reinforce my pessimism about a rescue. Did I really think a pilot was really going to land in this?!?

RESCUED??

The SAR coordinator took the limited information in stride and told me the helicopter was now en route. The pilot would evaluate whether he could make it to me during his journey. All I could do was thank him and keep my fingers crossed. 

Our next exchange came around 7:55 pm informing me of the status of the rescue helicopter. The last bits of daylight were quickly disappearing and I knew the temperature was probably going to be falling again soon too. But, I might not have to endure the night if this rescue attempt actually worked.

SAR: Helicopter will be there in 35 minutes. Be packed and ready to go when they land. Can not spend time on the ground.

SAR: Have a light ready to pinpoint your location. Let me know you got this message.

ME:  Got it. I am on the NE side of the lake about 50 meters from the shoreline.

Ok, this was really happening. Time to get focused.

I had most of my gear packed up already. The only items still out were my inflatable mattress, sleeping bag, and waterproof layers. I planned to stay inside my tent as long as possible, and while it wasn’t great shelter, it was blocking at least some of the wind and keeping the majority of the snow off me.

Fifteen minutes later, another text popped up.

SAR: 25 minutes out.

SAR: Look for a flat area or meadow close to your location. When you hear the helicopter shine your light toward them. Do you have any animals with you?

ME: No animals.

SAR: Thanks pilot needed to know.

Ok – the rescue was still on. I would wait another 5-10 minutes before deflating my air mattress then pack the rest of my gear up and get ready to brave the elements.

And at 8:15 pm, I emerged from my partially erect tent and pulled the remaining stakes from the ground. Several of them refused to budge from the frozen landscape, and so I decided to leave them.

In the grand scheme of things, they didn’t matter. I needed to be ready for my rescue. 

The helicopter might only have a minute or two on the ground to extract me. Finding all my tiny aluminum tent stakes in the dwindling light and snow was irrelevant at this point.

As I looked around in the waning light outside, I couldn’t decide where to go. The SAR coordinator told me to find a flat area or meadow that the pilot could use as a landing zone.

The area around me seemed relatively flat. But there was also a big hill on one side and a lake on the other. That made for a fairly narrow place to strip of ground. Would this be enough room for the pilot to land?

I had no idea how big the helicopter would be. But most of our landing zones in Afghanistan weren’t much different than this in size. Plus, civilian helicopters landed on helipads on the top of skyscrapers and hospitals all the time, right?

This general area seemed like is should work – even if it wasn’t perfect.

I found a small boulder emerging from the snow and perched on it to wait for the helicopter to arrive. Then I wrapped my DCF tent around me like a cape to provide an additional layer for the wind.

There was nothing left to do but sit there and wait as the harsh storm pelted me with snow. 

At 8:20 pm, another text came in. It was now completely dark. The snow was still swirling around me and my teeth were starting to involuntarily chatter.

SAR: 10 minutes out

SAR: Hang in there. Things are looking good. 

Ok, I told myself. Just hold on for another few minutes. Soon you’ll be on the helicopter, where you’ll be dry and warm.

I pulled my tiny headlamp out of my pocket and pulled it onto my forehead before turning the light it on. It wasn’t a super bright light. And the snow was swirling around me again, which was further obscuring the light’s range.

Would the pilot be able to see me?

I had my phone tucked inside my puffy jacket near my chest. I could pull it out and turn on its flashlight too when the pilot got close. It was better to have two lights marking my location than just one, I reasoned.

Sitting on that cold boulder and waiting the next ten minutes was an excruciating test of my patience.

I thought I heard a helicopter in the distance more than once, but I wasn’t 100% sure. Was I really hearing one? Or was it just the wind howling?

I’ve spent the past two decades on military installations listening to helicopters on a nearly daily basis. I know exactly what they sound like. But, I also knew my ears might be playing tricks on me out of my desire to want to hear the helicopter.

I didn’t want to take a benign sound in the wind and try to wish it into that distinctive thwack-thwack sound of the rotors.

Then I was almost certain I heard something.

I squinted in that direction and I saw a faint white light in the distance. But it seemed to be backing away from me not coming closer. Was I imagining it? Or was that the light from something else, like a plane overhead?

As I waited, the noise got fainter and fainter. Then it disappeared completely. 

About a minute later another message popped up on my phone.

SAR: Helicopter was unable to fly due to strong winds and no visibility. They will try first thing in the morning if needed. 

SAR:  I have a horse team heading your way. They are several hours out.

Nooooooo!

I’d be lying if I pretended this news wasn’t a huge blow to my morale. But, I couldn’t express any negative sentiment to the people trying to save me. What good would that do ?

My glasses were fogging up and my fingers were almost too numb to type anything back. So I just sent a short text confirming I’d received the message.

All I could muster was a simple, “oh no.”

Inside I was wailing though. The helicopter was so close. I could hear it! And see it. I really just wanted to vent my frustration by screaming into the pitch-black darkness of the storm until I was hoarse. 

(I’d later learn the pilot was only 2/3 of a mile of my location when he decided to turn back because of the horrendous weather. I hadn’t been imagining the white light or rotor sounds.)

I didn’t have time for a pity party over the aborted rescue attempt though. The brutal winds and snow were whipping around me.

I’d been sitting out in the elements for close to 20 minutes and I needed to find somewhere to protect myself from the continued onslaught of snow as quick as possible.

I had to stay alive until the horse team could arrive.

FIND A SAFE SPOT

It was now completely dark out as I tried to locate shelter from the wind and the snow.

I’d broken down the semblance of a tent that I’d been using before the rescue. And then I’d moved out into a flat open landing zone for the helicopter. So now my former tent spot against the trees was no longer in anywhere in sight. 

Even if I could find that semi-sheltered spot again, there was no way I’d get my tent even partially erected in this wind. Nor could I hammer my tent stakes back into the frozen ground, even if I had enough of them – which I undoubtedly did not after my hurried packing job. 

Snow and ice was crusting over the Buff shielding the lower half of my face. And my hands were freezing to the point I was losing almost all feeling my fingers. None of this was good.

I desperately searched my surroundings for something that might block the wind and snow.

There were no tall trees nearby, so I tried to press myself down between the low boughs of some evergreen shrubs half-buried in the snow. It only took seconds to realize they provided no protection at all. I couldn’t get myself deep enough to block the wind.

Damn it. I needed to find somewhere else. I couldn’t stay out here exposed to the elements much longer. I forced myself to look around and find something. Anything!

After stumbling around in the snow drifts and the dark for several minutes, I eventually found two boulders the size of car tires resting on a slope. These would have to work.

I wedged myself between the boulders and flipped my tent upside down (so the thicker bathtub floor of the tent was toward the sky to block the wind). Then I slid inside the tent like it was a bivy sack and used my backpack behind me as a backrest on the hill’s slope.

With this hasty shelter in place around me, I was able to wrestle my sleeping bag out of my backpack and wrap it around me like a cocoon inside this makeshift tent/bivy.

And I quickly pulled all the slack of the tent’s DCF fabric taut, and tucked under me it as tightly as possible to keep the strong wind from blowing me away.

I’ll admit, my new set up wasn’t pretty. But I was alive. And I was protected enough to pull my icy gloves off and let my hands thaw while I waited for new instructions.

I was exhausted and cold. Yet, the only one who was going to keep me alive in this moment was me. I just needed to hang on and stay awake.

MORE WAITING

Unbeknownst to me at the time, the horse rescue was being called off too.

The horses made it to the trailhead and started in my direction, but then they refused to continue. The heavy snowfall pummeling them was blocking their vision. The horses became skittish and stubbornly stalled on the trail. 

I can’t blame them though. It was truly miserable out there.

After the original set of pilots couldn’t get through to me, the SAR coordinator kept working to find someone else who might have better success.

Unfortunately, even the Utah National Guard refused to fly in the conditions. Given the sand storms and other grim situations those pilot flew in while deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan, that’s really saying something about the blizzard swirling around me.

It was simply too dangerous.

Around 9:40 pm, the SAR coordinator texted me again to inform me they were *hoping* to try another helicopter rescue during a break in the storm after midnight. I just needed to hang on. The Utah Highway Patrol might be able to try another rescue.

SAR checked back in with me again just before midnight and asked about my physical health.

I was tired, but doing my best to stay alert. My hands and feet were cold, but not frozen yet. I had taken my soaking wet gloves and shoes off to preserve my body heat inside my sleeping bag. And I was just focusing on getting through each half hour. And then the next hour. And so on.

RESCUE – PART II

Around midnight, the wind began to die down. Instead of a constant 20-30 mph winds, it seem to be only blowing 10 mph now.

When I peeked out of my cocoon, I could see the moon above me obscured by a thin layer of clouds. I could even make out the outline of the mountains across the lake instead of just a wall of white of snow blowing in front of me.

Please, oh please. Let them come back out here, I pleaded to myself.

Then at 11:55 pm, a new text came in. With this break in the weather, the helicopter was going to take off and try once again. 

SAR: You still with me?

ME: Yes.

SAR: Helicopter just took off from Summit County. Be in the area within 20 minutes weather permitting.

ME: Sounds good.

SAR: Visibility?

ME: Sky is clear – no stars, but the wind has died down for now.

SAR: Have a light ready to signal the helicopter.

ME: WILCO.

SAR: What is your weight?

ME: 158 lbs.

SAR: Weight of your gear?

ME: 20 lbs + some snow.

SAR: LOL. Wind conditions?

ME: Very light wind.

SAR: Perfect.

ME: I can see across the lake and over to the mountains in the moonlight. Easily 500 meters.

SAR: Relayed to pilot. Be ready with a light to mark yourself.

Although their initial ETA was only 20 minutes away, it took the pilots twice that time to get there.

Then – before I could even hear them – I saw the lights on the bottom of the helicopter approaching from the west. 

I had my headlamp on my forehead on to pinpoint my location, and I was using the flashlight from my iPhone to slowly wave back and forth so they could see me on the ground.

I’m fairly certain the pilot signaled me by blinking a blue light on and off, but maybe I was hallucinating.

The pilot made a giant circle around the area. He flew directly over me then turned to head back out toward the direction he’d come from. That’s the moment when my heart sank.

New fears raced through my mind. Were they abandoning the rescue yet again? Were they going to leave me here a second time?

Then he slowly circled the helicopter back around again and made a second loop over me.

My mind continued to race. Were they circling because they were still looking for me and couldn’t see my lights? Or were they just looking for a decent spot to land? What was going on?!?! 

I was in a complete vacuum of knowledge here and hoping for the best.

Then the wind began to pick up again, and I worried they wouldn’t be land and rescue me if they didn’t hurry up already!!!

The SAR coordinator texted me through my Garmin telling me to stay put while the pilot landed. Do not approach the helicopter, he warned. They will come to get me. And so I sat there watching it all unfold around me like a fever dream.

The pilot began to hover, then he slowly lowered the helicopter onto a flat area at the far end of the lake and landed about 300 meters from me.

His co-pilot jumped out and started wading through the knee- and thigh-deep drifts of snow toward my position in the rocks. 

As he got close, he yelled for me to grab my stuff, and waved for me to follow him. 

I’d already shoved my feet back into my frozen shoes as they were circling overhead looking for their landing spot. So, I was ready. I snatched up my pack, my tent and my trekking poles – and I stumbled on frozen feet behind the co-pilot.

It only took us 5 minutes to traipse toward the helicopter, but I was was breathing like a racehorse the entire way. My body was running on pure adrenaline now as I trudged through the snow. Yet, I just focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

This was really happening! I was finally being rescued.

Eight hours after I pressed that SOS button, I was climbing into the helicopter and found myself being strapped in by one of the pilots.

And then the rotors were on again, and we were flying.

It was precarious at first. The wind kept changing direction and the pilots had to fight to get us up to a flying altitude. But, I didn’t care.

I was 100% better protected than I was 10 minutes ago. Or an hour ago. Or 10 hours ago. My ordeal was nearly over!

THE AFTERMATH

It only took us 15 minutes to fly to the small mountain town of Kamas, Utah, where we were met by the Summit County SAR team. They were assisting in the rescue because the folks in Duschense County had just spent the prior week fighting fires from the record heat.

The fact that so many people were involved in this rescue left me simply overwhelmed with gratitude and I wanted to thank them all individually!

But first, I needed to get my injuries looked at.

The co-pilot had to help me walk since my feet were so frozen that I was having difficulty balancing on them. Then I was placed inside the cab of a warm pickup truck with the heat blasting as we waited for the ambulance that would eventually take me the rest of the way to the hospital in Park City.

Before I knew it, I was lying in an ER bed and being treated for mild hypothermia and the cold injuries to my hands and feet. Even with the warmth of the helicopter, blankets, and heaters in the truck and ambulance, my body’s temperature was still only at 96.1°F. 

I also had frost nip on my extremities. The damaged skin on all ten of my fingertips would spend the next week peeling off in giant flakes as I slowly got the feeling of touch back again. Yet, somehow, all my physical injuries were temporary. 

Looking back, it all seems like a blur now.

I’d survived my ordeal in large part to the tenacity and dedication of multiple local SAR teams.

I was alive, and I would need to find some what to repay the tremendous job these folks did in saving my life.

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UHT DAY 4A SUMMARY

HIGHLIGHTS

• A successful rescue! I escaped with just some minor physical injuries from the exposure to the cold (and perhaps some more long-term emotional trauma), but I’m grateful that was the worst that happened.
• My gratitude goes out to the SAR coordinator who stayed in continuous contact with me through my Garmin inReach Mini during this lengthy rescue effort. And yes, you better believe I called him after this was all over to hear his actual voice and thank him for the wonderful and professional job did! A giant hug also goes out to the pilots, EMTs, and hospital personnel.

CHALLENGES

• Making the fateful decision whether to press my SOS button. In hindsight, I am 100% confident this was the correct choice, but in that fateful moment, it was a much harder decision to make than you’d think.
• The drop in my chest when I received the text telling me the helicopter had to wave off this approach only a fraction of a mile from my location. My disappointment was palpable. I know the pilots made every effort to get to me – and it just wasn’t possible at that point in the storm. Still, it didn’t make it any easier to stomach this disappointing news as I sat out in that blizzard. In the dark. And exposed to all the elements.