Notes from an Air Evac 4

Posted on June 2, 2004 in Hikes and Trails

This is the fourth in a series about an event that took place on Memorial Day, 2004. I am writing it as I finish the sections in my head. It begins here.

The water I’d drunk in the last half hour, the tylenol tablets, and the ground up bits of the energy bar I’d eaten just before I’d started down the hill lay on my pants and in the triangle of dirt formed by my folded legs. Up until this moment, I believed I could get to the parking lot in time to drink the home remedy I had waiting there. Now I knew that I was in trouble. My stomach was upset and we were out of water.

Befuddled, I tried to think what to do next. I knew I wasn’t getting off the mountain on my own power. Lynn’s shoes were falling apart. I couldn’t think past two issues: first, that my head felt like a goldfish bowl left out in the sun and, second, we needed help from the outside. Before my senses left me entirely, I fumbled for the first aid kit. As I pulled the instant cold compress from the box, I told Lynn to try the cell phone. “Try to see if you can get 911” I said as I tried to squeeze the compress into performing. I wasn’t thinking very well. I spent two minutes trying to get the pocket inside to break. Then I read the directions on the back. The procedure had changed since the last time I’d used one of these: I turned to a flat rock, placed the bag on it, and slapped it a couple of times with my hand. The chemicals did their trick. I shook the bag, took off my hat, placed the compress on the top of my head, and put my hat back on.

“Are you getting a signal?” I asked Lynn. All we could see of the bottom of Silverado Canyon were two cabins inside a dark green arrowhead. “Are you getting through?”

“It says that it is connecting.” Then silence. The forest across the canyon looked good. Why did they run this trail up this side of the ridge? I wanted to know. The word “fucking” preceded many of my thoughts. Why the fuck did they fucking run the fucking trail up the fucking naked side of the fucking mountain? Lynn was shouting into the phone, trying to explain the situation to the 911 operator. Panic caused her to look around wildly, fail to complete sentences. I tried to fill in, relay the details.

“No,” said Lynn. “We can’t get down to the trailhead and have you meet us.” She knew the situation but couldn’t put the details together to make a coherent explanation. “My husband is diabetic and he’s just thrown up and we think it’s heat exhaustion.” She tried to tell the operator just where we were without knowing for certain where we were.

“Wait,” she said. “Can you tell her? Are you able to explain?”

“I try,” I said. I took the phone from her. “Look. I’m way up the side of Silverado Canyon. The south — I mean — the north side. Maybe 1000 feet.”

The operator did her job, performed the triage, asked questions about the state of my skin, whether I had a headache, shortness of breath, etc. “I just threw up,” I said. “I’m diabetic. Got a cold compress on my head. Sweating and drying up. No more water.”

“You’re in Silverado Canyon?” she asked.

“I’m on this stupidly named trail called the Silverado Motorway. You can barely get a bike up it. It starts at Maple Springs. Lot of switchbacks. Switchbacks. Way up on the side. You can’t get a truck up here. I’m so sorry. You’ll need a chopper. No way you get a truck up here. I’m so sorry.” I paused a lot, struggling to remember what word needed to follow the next one. How could they find us? She needed some precision. We were somewhere in a field of olive gray, two mites on the back of a steel wool-covered dog. Then I remembered the space blanket.

“I’ve got a space blanket. Lynn, get it out. We’ll put the space blanket out for the chopper.” Lynn pulled the square out of my pack. When I’d bought it years and years ago, she wondered just why I insisted on plunking down the two and a half bucks for a piece of silver mylar. “Someday, we’ll get caught in a snowstorm or break a leg out in the middle of nowhere,” I said. “It will save us.” Today was that day. The operator took some final notes, told me to lay down and raise my feet. “I’m getting off the phone so that you won’t waste your battery. Keep it on in case we need to get back to you,” she said. I hung up. “Call Ended. Time elapsed. 11:03.”

The cold compress brought some sense back into my head. Lynn unfolded the space blanket. I looked down the canyon. We could see the old El Toro Marine Corps Air Station and, farther on, John Wayne Airport. I pointed down the canyon. They will come from there. It’s going to take them about fifteen minutes to power up and get here,” I said. Knowing that help was on the way undid a knot in my psyche. “Watch for them over there,” I said, pointing. “When they come, hold up the blanket.”

We heard the rotors before we saw it. It popped up over a ridge to the west of us, a green Bell helicopter — a Forest Service search and rescue. I’d seen them combing the canyons beyond our condo, sometimes at night — the black helicopters I sometimes joked about on my weblog. Lynn tried to wave the blanket. It got tangled in the wind. The chopper passed us. A second, red one appeared. I thought the letters on the bottom said ORC.

“Here,” I said. I took the corners of the blanket and unraveled it. The wind picked it up and flagged it. Again, the coldness descending through my skull saw me to see sense. We laid it on the ground, held down the corners with rocks. The red chopper disappeared behind us, to the right, then reappeared a minute later on the left. They’d seen us. I sweat so much it hid the tears welling up in my eyes.