Notes from an Air Evac 5

Posted on June 3, 2004 in Hikes and Trails

This is the fifth 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 trouble facing the pilot was finding a place to put his craft down. I squatted on a flat stretch maybe wide enough for the chopper but that would have brought it too close. It zig-zagged over us a couple of times before coming down on the switchback above us. We could see the rotors churning the tops of the chamise.

The pidgin for helicopter is “Mixmaster-belong-Jesus-Christ”. How apt a description! The gusts from the chopper blades shook the chaparral like folds of cake batter. We couldn’t see anything beneath the roof of the machine, which roared like one of Ezekiel’s four beasts, due to the sharp rise of the road cut.

It jumped up and scooted down the canyon again. What was going on? Did they leave anything for us? Did they head out to rescue a more desperate case? I had Lynn walk back up to the hairpin turn with instructions to call 911 if she saw nothing. “I don’t see any — wait. There they are.” I didn’t look up. I felt ashamed. What if nothing was wrong with me? The ice pack had brought my consciousness back. Could I make it down the canyon anyways?

While we waited, I began planning for the next contingency. I gave Lynn my Camelback. I told her that she’d get my hats and my shoes. The shoes would be twice as large as her feet, but maybe we could stuff them with socks. I’d rather have her wearing my tugboats than going barefoot down the fanged switchbacks.

As I finished detailing the plan, I heard footsteps behind me. Two yellow suits appeared in front of me, carrying a medical kit and a portable EKG. They asked my name and if I knew where I was. I gave the correct responses. Then they had me describe my symptoms. I told them about the blanking out and the vomiting. They had me take off my sweat-soaked shirt, hooked me up to the EKG, and checked my vital signs, including the elasticity of my skin.

“You’re dehydrated,” said the younger partner. The older fellow stood nearby. He had a white moustache, connected to his receding hairline by a line of hair that reminded me of General Ambrose Burnsides, the origin of the word “sideburns”. The paramedic had me show me his veins. He chose the right wrist. “This is going to hurt.”

“I reserve the right to scream,” I said.

“That’s fine, just don’t struggle.”

Two inches of sterilized steel pierced my flesh about an inch and a half belong the thumb. A demon entered along with it, sending a pack of ravenous sprites up my arm and shoulder that came out through my mouth. I held still. He got it right the first time and taped it in place while my wife held the saline bag.

As the younger fellow worked on me, the white-haired paramedic talked to Lynn. How was she doing? What she was all right? I could see him looking over her face, seeking signs of heat exhaustion or panic or sun stroke. She answered in short stutters and nods. She was nervous, but apparently not in need of medical attention.

My blood pressure was fine, my heart rate elevated from the excitement, and my blood sugar higher than it should have been due to dehydration. The chopper was coming back, they said, with three more crew.

“I bet you’re feeling better,” said the Burnsides. I was. “That gets water into your system faster than you can drink it, ” he said. I nodded. My body temperature dropped and I felt the fresh solution salving my battered blood vessels. They took my medical history and kept chatting amicably with Lynn and with me. Their radio crackled with the news that the helicopter was on its way back. The pilot had spotted a better landing spot lower down the trail, the meadow next to the coffin-shaped rock. They’d drop the crew with the stretcher down there and let them walk up.

“Nice day,” said the Burnsides. “If it had been ten degrees cooler, the weather would have been perfect.” The younger man agreed that we’d picked a fabulous trail for our hike. They didn’t chide us for our mistakes, but kept us on happier subjects.

Three more yellow suits came up the trail bearing the cradle that I would ride for the lift into the chopper. “Did you bring a camera?” they asked my wife. The Burnsides said “You’re going to want to take pictures of this.” She fished the camera out of my backpack and stood ready. “Remember, we’re from Truck 6,” the new yellow suits said. “Be sure to send us the photos.”

The reinforcements put me on the stretcher and trussed me up so that I couldn’t move. They laid my hat over my face so that I wouldn’t be blinded by the sun as they worked. When they finished, they removed the hat and put a pair of goggles over my eyes. They took turns shadowing me so that the sun didn’t give me a case of heat stroke. Lynn took my broad-brimmed hat. I told her to wear it because it had a broader brim than her baseball cap.”

“Where will you be taking him,” she asked our rescuers. “I’m going to walk down to the truck –“

Burnsides interrupted her, cheerfully. “You’re hike is over,” he said. “We’re taking you off this mountain, too.” We could come back later to get the truck.

We wanted to go to Mission Hospital, which was closer to where we had friends who could pick us up after the doctors looked me over, but there was a problem: they had to arrange for a private ambulance which we’d have to pay for out of pocket. We decided to accept their offer to take us to Chapman Hospital instead. “Your taxes pay for it,” said the Burnsides. The plan was to take me to a land drop where a county ambulance would meet the chopper and take me to the ER.

As they policed the area, I felt the saline solution do its work. I oozed water from every pore. My eyes filled up with salty water which they wiped clean using my shirt.

The paramedics picked up their litter. “We don’t want the Forest Service giving us a hard time about the stuff we left up here,” explained the Burnsides. When they finished, they hustled Lynn to the meadow next to the coffin rock, leaving me with two young men who stood ready to attach the line when the helicopter returned.

That operation took a matter of seconds. They clipped it to the four supporting straps and then stood clear. I was off the ground before I knew it. I ascended into the sky, which was the deceptive azure of a cool alpine lake. A pair of black goggles sticking out of a white helmet steered me. For a moment, I twirled just beneath the runners. He turned me a couple of times. Just as he tried to heft me in, one of my size 13 shoes got caught under a runner. I moved it and he dragged me into the cabin with a groan.

“How much do you weight,” he gasped.

“Two hundred and forty pounds,” I said.

“You’re a big boy,” he said.

He slammed the cabin door. All I could see from my position on the floor was that cloudless sky. Our flight took less than five minutes. We landed on the ground gently. The door open and a crew of black-uniformed ambulance attendants took me out.

“We’re going back to pick up your wife,” said the airman. “Tell her I love her and I’ll see her in the hospital,” I said. I knew she had to be a nervous wreck.

To be continued.