EXTRICATION By
Wes Blalock “That’s
funny,”
she said out loud. Buoyed
atop the
snow by government issued snowshoes, Ranger Birdie McLaren emerged from
a wood
and stared out across a meadow. Or what had been a meadow a few short
months
ago. Human tracks led east through the knee deep snow, across the
clearing and
into the forest, following the Lacy Trail. Melting in the sun, the
tracks
looked unformed, with flat impressions at the bottom from someone
wearing
smooth-soled shoes, not even hiking boots. He was easily two hundred
pounds and
tall; his tracks pushed deep toward the ground, but he was still able
to step
out of the snow. Winter
made the
trail dangerous and Birdie had personally closed it weeks ago - it
wouldn’t
reopen until the June thaw, almost five months away. She scanned the
pines and
sequoias bowing and creaking under the weight of snow settled on their
limbs,
the only other sound the occasional crack of a branch giving way and
dropping
with a thud into the hard pack. Otherwise the forest was silent, sound
deadened
by the blanket of white. Birdie
adjusted
her sunglasses to prevent snow blindness from the glare and pulled her
sheepskin trapper hat lower on her head. Not the beautiful, iconic
Stetson
authorized by the National Park Service, nor her favorite
non-regulation boonie
hat which she often hid from her supervisors, but a warm, comfortable
cold
weather accessory. Hiking up her gun belt, Birdie shuffled forward,
protected
from the cold by the layer of polypropylene thermals beneath her black
snow
pants, and green, wool coat with NPS patches on the shoulders. Birdie’s
nose
and cheeks burned from the wind and she pressed her gloved hands
against them,
warming her skin before tugging her wool scarf up from around her neck
to cover
her face. She paused before grabbing the radio from her belt and
pressing the
button to transmit. “Cary
Valley
Base, 423.” She waited and then repeated the call. “423,
this is
Cary Valley.” A female voice answered. Birdie
gave the
dispatcher a quick summary of what she had found. “What’s
going on
out there?” her supervisor’s voice cut in. “Hey,
Boss.
Looks like a hiker walked through the meadow recently. No tracks coming
back
out.” Birdie scanned the trees as she spoke. “Will
do,” she
answered. Glancing
at her
watch, Birdie turned and snow-shoed into the woods. She was at least a
three
hour hike from the trailhead and moving further away. So (doing the
math), a
really, really, long trek back once she found him, and sundown was no
more than
two hours away. Without the sunlight, the temperature would drop
significantly
and Birdie had seen how quickly people die in the cold. After another
hour
shoeing up the mountain, Birdie grabbed her radio and tried for a
signal. “Cary
Valley
Base, 423,” she said into the radio. Nothing. She tried again three
more times
without luck. No signal. She sighed. Other rangers often bought their
own
equipment, including satellite phones and Birdie could understand why. Giving
up on the
radio, she followed the tracks along the tree line, passing a small
stand of Douglas
firs before the trail ended abruptly in a fracture, the snow dropping
down the
hillside, away from her. Avalanche. Birdie looked down the flow and saw
a dark
shape at the bottom, about two hundred feet away. “Oh,
shit.”
Birdie shuffled carefully down the hillside sideways, kicking her
snowshoes
into the ice as she descended, keeping her feet level. Nearing the
bottom, she
heard the man shouting for help, lying on his back, as though he was
making
snow angels. “Help
me!” he
shouted as she scrambled toward him. “I’m
here!” she
shouted back, shucking her backpack into the snow and kneeling down to
look at
his face. He was young and fresh-faced, built like a football player
and visibly
younger than her. “I’m
Ranger
Birdie McLaren. I’m from the government and I’m here to help.” She
smiled.
“What’s your name?” She assessed his clothing: blue jeans, a cable
sweater and
cowboy boots. Terrible cold weather gear.
“Drew
Swanson. I
think my back is broken,” he breathed heavily. Birdie’s
hands
vibrated with adrenaline as she took off her gloves and evaluated him.
Lying
with his head lower than his feet probably helped, but his fingertips
were
already bluish-white, and felt hard and waxy to the touch. Frostbite
was
already setting in and he needed to be removed from the elements. “How
long have
you been here?” She checked his neck and head. Birdie
refused
to let the shock show on her face; surviving four days lying in the
snow was a
miracle. She leaned forward, running her hands over his limbs and body,
checking for injuries, asking what hurt and what didn’t. She found a
break in
his right leg below the knee and in his right arm above the elbow. He
could
move his hands, but not his feet. No bleeding, no tender areas
indicative of
internal injuries. “I
was sure I
was dead,” Drew whimpered. Birdie couldn’t tell, however, if the tone
of his
voice was relief or dread. “How
long have
you been without food?” she asked him. Birdie
paused
and looked up at the sky, the sun edging its way below the tops of the
trees.
“I have food, but we are still a long way from ‘rescued.’ Are you
thirsty? When
did you last drink something?” She asked in paramedic speak, digging
through
her backpack. “I’ve
been
putting ice in my mouth and letting it melt.” He smiled, grimly. Alarmed,
Birdie
pulled out her radio and tried calling dispatch, twice. No luck. She
knew that
his body temperature was lowering considerably each time he melted the
ice in
his mouth. How
much does a
satellite phone cost, anyway? she thought, exasperated. “Are
they
coming?” Drew asked, his face suddenly slack with fear. “Not
right
away.” Birdie took an emergency blanket from her backpack and wrapped
it around
Drew as best she could without jostling him. Folding up a second
blanket,
Birdie tucked it under his head to insulate him from the cold snow
beneath. She
pulled off her own hat, trying and failing to fit it over Drew’s much
larger
head, before resigning herself to pulling the blanket up and wrapping
it around
him. Sitting back, she looked down at him and scrunched up her face. “Well,
we won’t
put that photo on Facebook, will we. You look like a crazy man.” She
made a
face at him. “I’m going to have to go get help.” She pulled her trapper
hat
back on. “Don’t
leave me
alone!” Drew shouted, struggling up from his supine position. “Whoa!”
Birdie
pushed down on his shoulders, holding him in place. “I’ll only be gone
a little
while. I don’t have a radio signal here. I have to radio for help.” “No!
Don’t leave
me alone! I can’t…I can’t be alone anymore.” Birdie saw Drew’s eyes
flash wild
as flop sweat broke out on his face. “Where
are you
going?” Drew asked, panic edging into his voice. “You
need to be
stabilized before we do anything else. I just need to find a couple of
good
branches.” Pulling a roll of duct tape from the backpack, she set it on
top of
the emergency blanket, then grabbed a mean looking hunting knife from a
side
pocket and walked to a nearby tree. “Where
are you
from?” She inspected the low branches within her reach before moving to
the
next tree. “I’m
from
Sacramento. I go to University of Northern California at Rocklin,” he
told her. “UNC
Rocklin,
that’s a good school. What’s your major?” Birdie continued to inspect
the
branches nearby. “Pre-med.
I
wanted to help people,” he said. She paused. “That’s
why I
became a park ranger. People think parks are completely safe and then
they
drown in rivers, fall off mountains, and,” she looked back at him.
“Freeze in
snow.” “Yeah.
I was
taking a picture when the snow gave way under me. I got bounced around
pretty
good so I thought I’d better just stay still,” he said. “Good
call,” she
told him. Choosing some suitable branches, she hacked them away from
the trees.
“I’m going to get you out of here as quickly as I can.” “Okay.”
Drew
took a few very deep breaths. “So
what
happened to your camera?” Birdie went back to the tree branch, but
glanced over
her shoulder. The shock of broken bones alone could kill him, but add
the cold
and she had serious concerns that she wasn’t working fast enough. “Oh.”
He seemed
confused for a moment. “I must have lost it in the snow when I fell.” “What
brought
you out here anyway? These trails closed weeks ago.” Once she removed
the
branches, she cut away all the limbs and sliced off the bark until she
had
several straight sticks. “I
know, but it
was so beautiful and I thought it would be nice to be the only one out
here.”
Drew laughed a small laugh. “But I didn’t know it would be so hard.” Carrying
the
bundle of sticks, she dropped them in the snow beside him. “Well, the
cold is
pretty tough on people trying to hike, that’s why the trail is closed,”
she
offered diplomatically, but felt he was talking about something other
than the
weather. Without
waiting
for a response, she cut strips of duct tape, and spent a few minutes
splinting
Drew’s broken arm and leg. “Do you have a hotel room in town? Or are
you
staying at the Lodge?” “Um.”
Drew
hesitated. “I just came up for a day trip. I thought I would be quick.” Birdie’s
forehead crinkled. “So you just drove in from Sac to hike for a couple
hours
and then drive back home?” Sacramento was easily a three hour drive
away. “Yeah.
Just a
day trip,” Drew sighed. “Okay,
so how is
school going this quarter?” Birdie asked, working diligently beside
him. She
taped his broken arm to his body and his legs to each other as he
grimaced and
whimpered and winced. Drew
took a
breath and started to speak, but then stopped. He took another breath,
“It’s
going okay. It’s not what I thought it would be.” Birdie
looked at
his face as he stared up into the sky. “Really? What’s wrong?” “Nothing,
really. It’s just kinda lonely,” he said. “Oh,
did you try
joining any clubs or groups? You’re a big guy, are you an athlete?” she
asked. Drew’s
breath
caught in his throat. “I’m on the Lacrosse Team, but I’m a sophomore,
so I
don’t…play much.” Birdie
saw his
lip quiver and a few tears had run down over his temples and were icing
up
faintly. Well, that’s not good, she thought. The temperature was
dropping fast
as the sun swung lower in the sky.
“How
about a
girlfriend?” she asked, but he jammed his eyes shut and turned his face
away.
Birdie had struck a nerve. She set that aside, for the moment. “Okay,
I have to
start building a fire,” she announced, before stepping away. Burned out
stumps
stuck out of the snow like rocks in a river of white. Birdie cut pieces
from
them and the stump of an old growth live oak, out of place at this
altitude,
donated a large flat piece of bark to Birdie’s task, becoming a
platform for
her future fire. It was a wonder Drew had survived this long; he
wouldn’t make it
another night without fire, even with the blanket. Birdie was getting
cold as
well. Pulling the wood beside him, Birdie burrowed into her backpack,
digging
out her fire kit and opening it. If
only that guy
in the Jack London story had dryer lint and paraffin wax, she thought.
Within
minutes, the fire smoldered and caught, flames flickering. “That’s
a pretty
neat trick,” Drew said, watching her from the corner of his eye. “Is
that a
Native American thing?” With
her
cinnamon skin and straight black hair, Birdie was frequently mistaken
for
Mexican, so wearing her hair in twin braids usually guaranteed her
heritage
would be recognizable. “I
think it’s a
Boy Scout thing, the fire starters. But who knows where it began. The
only
Native American trick I really know is,” she leaned in close, sharing a
secret.
“There are no Native American tricks.” Birdie smiled. “Neolithic
cultures tend
to develop similar methods to achieve the same goals.” “Now,
that’s a
better question,” she said. “My real name is ‘Huittsuu.’ It means
‘little bird’
in Paiute.” She drew some more items from the backpack. Pulling a
headlamp over
her hat, she turned it on, the LED light illuminating her work. In a
metal cup,
she heated some snow over the fire, and when steam wafted off the top,
she
dropped in a tea bag. “I’m going to give you some tea to drink, try to
warm you
up.” “Oh,
what kind?”
he asked. “Orange
zest and
rose hip,” Birdie said, reading the package. “I also have some
sandwiches.
Veggie bacon, lettuce, tomato and avocado or egg salad with soy
mayonnaise.” “Veggie
bacon?
Soy mayonnaise?” He knitted his brow. “I guess the veggie bacon.” She
placed a
bendy straw in the cup and the end in Drew’s mouth. He sucked down the
warm tea
until it was nearly gone, then felt a sandwich appear in his good hand.
While
he ate, Birdie made another cup of tea and when he had finished that as
well,
she began cleaning her utensils. “Wow,
you
certainly are prepared,” Drew said in awe. “Definitely
a
Boy Scout thing.” She began repacking her bag while another cup of tea
brewed,
then she placed it near his head so that he could put the straw back
into his
mouth himself. “Were
you a Boy
Scout?” he asked, uncertainly. “No,
but I dated
an Eagle Scout, does that count?” she asked with a laugh. She
noticed
immediately that Drew became quiet. “Okay, Drew. I have to go get help.
If we
wait, you might get worse and, this far from a hospital, that could be
really,
really bad.” Birdie put her backpack on and reset her feet into the
bindings of
the snowshoes. “I’ll come back as soon as I’ve radioed for help.” Knowing
that he
couldn’t move due to the way she had secured him with splints, Birdie
took off
in the dark without giving him an opportunity to protest. She had to
“step
kick” her way up the hillside, using the snowshoes to cut into the
frozen glaze
so that it was like climbing stairs. At the top of the hill, she tried
her
radio again. No luck. Shoeing through the woods, Birdie sang songs to
keep her
pace and to keep her mind working as she processed what Drew had, and
more
importantly, had not told her. She
stopped and huffed and puffed as she looked around at the snow, finding
her
location in the park in relation to the moon, the trail, and the
meadows
nearby. At the end of each song, she pulled up her radio and called the
ranger
station. “423,
Do you
need rescue?” The voice showed clear concern. “Base,
I have a
hiker down on Lacy Trail. Patient has a spine injury, broken arm, and
broken
leg and signs of frostbite. May be suffering from hypothermia, as well.
His
name is Drew Swanson, about twenty years old. Out of Sacramento.” “Copy,
423. Are
you okay?” Birdie
smiled a
big smile, feeling a little safer, just knowing a human being was at
the other
end of the radio signal. “I’m
good, just
cold and tired. I’m about two miles from the hiker, to get a signal.
Once you
have an ETA, I’ll go back to him and provide additional care until
rescue
arrives,” she said. “We
should have
snowmobiles to your location within two hours. Oh and your party is
listed as a
missing person, at-risk, out of UNC Rocklin Police,” the dispatcher
responded. “Well,
he’s
found, now.” Birdie put the radio back on her belt and took a good swig
of
water from her hydration pack. A little more than an hour to get back
to Drew
then an hour’s wait for rescue. Shuffling along above the snow, she
headed back
the way she had come. Birdie
sang
Simon and Garfunkel’s “Hazy Shade of Winter,” but heard the Bangles
cover in
her head, then worked through all the winter songs that she could
remember,
managing her pace. When she reached Drew, she slowed and paused, near
exhaustion. Side-stepping along the hillside to avoid falling, she made
her way
down to him, dumping her backpack into the snow and checking his
condition. “Are
they
coming?” he asked. “It seemed like you were only gone for a few
minutes.” Birdie
grabbed
the bark platform beneath the fire and moved the pile of embers a
little closer
to Drew. “Rescuers will be here with snowmobiles in a little bit.” “Oh,
okay.” he
said. “It
takes a
while to get here,” she explained. “So you said that your car was at
the
trailhead? We’ll need to take care of it while you’re in the hospital.” “Oh,
yeah,” he
corrected. “Actually, I hitched a ride into the park. I…I wasn’t sure
how long
I would be here.” “Yeah.
They
don’t know I’m here, though.” Drew turned his face toward the fire.
“Boy that
feels good.” Birdie
took a
pen and notepad from her pocket. “Why don’t you give me their names and
a phone
number and I’ll give them a call as soon as I get back to the station.” He
acquiesced
and she wrote down the information, noticing as they chatted that
Drew’s eyes
began to flutter and his voice was starting to fade. She moved the fire
around
him, warming him on all sides and saw that his face became blanched and
drawn.
In the distance, she heard the buzzing of the snowmobiles and packed
her gear,
keeping a close eye on the rising and falling of Drew’s chest. Then
she woke
him, calling his name until he responded, rather than risk more injury
by
shaking him. “They’ll be here soon.” “What’s
going to
happen to me?” Drew asked, apprehension in his voice. Birdie
sighed.
Throughout the evening, she had watched the dread spread over him like
a
fungus. Setting aside her backpack, she moved closer. “That
depends on
what you did,” she told him, pointedly. “Well,
they’ll
have to evaluate you and treat your cold injuries.” Birdie reached into
her
shirt pocket, inside her wool jacket and pulled out a small black box.
She
slipped the box into an outer jacket pocket and pressed a button. “But
it will
also depend on what you tell the staff at Psychiatric Emergency
Services.” “Why
would I go
there?” he asked, defensively. “Unfortunately,
any time someone tries to kill themselves, that’s where they go.” She
turned
her face back to the forest, scanning for the snowmobiles that sounded
just
over the ridge. Drew
appeared
ready to contradict her and then his face went slack. “How did you
know?” “You
told me,”
she said. “It was pretty clear that you came up here to die. You
hitch-hiked in
on a weekend, hiked hours into the snow on a closed trail, no food,
inadequate
clothing…You had absolutely no plan to go home. So, what made you come
up here
to die?” She
watched him
cry silently as they both listened to the steady whine of snowmobiles
ebb and
flow in the dark woods. His secret seemed to push against his skin,
bloat him
and fight for release. He opened his mouth and a croak erupted like a
belch,
but Birdie recognized it as a sob, strangling in his breath. “I
killed her,”
he whispered through tears. Birdie
was taken
aback by his brutal revelation, it being much more than she had
anticipated.
She leaned forward. “Drew, remember that I’m a peace officer. You are
not in
custody and you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.” She
pressed
gently on his right shoulder to remind him that she was there. “I
have to tell
you.” His sentences were punctuated by sobs. “I took her there. I told
her we
were having dinner. She didn’t know it was supposed to be a prank. She
didn’t
know what they were gonna do to her. I knew. I didn’t know, but I knew.” She
watched the
tears flow freely now. He
continued.
“She saved up her pills in the hospital. Took them all at once when she
got
home.” Drew turned back and looked at her, stricken. “I killed her.” Two
snowmobiles
roared up to the top of the ridge like giant, single-eyed bugs,
sputtering and
spitting, and paused. Birdie signaled them with her flashlight and drew
them
into the ravine. As the snowmobiles crashed through the snow, Birdie
stood and
waved until they reached her, relieved to have help. With
the other
two rangers, Birdie placed Drew on a backboard and then loaded him
carefully
onto a sled towed behind one of the snowmobiles. As she strapped him
in, Birdie
asked, “So what was your plan?” “I
thought I
would just be able to lie down in the snow until I fell asleep. I
thought it
would be quiet and peaceful and easy.” “Pretty
miserable, though, wasn’t it?” she asked him. “Yeah.”
He
closed his eyes. “There’s
no
problem that suicide can’t make much, much worse.” She patted him on
the
shoulder one last time. The
ranger with
the sled turned the throttle and slowly crawled up the hillside. The
other
ranger turned to Birdie. “Can
I give you
a lift back to your truck?” He grinned, holding out a helmet. “Or would
you
rather shoe back out.” “Very
funny.”
She took the helmet and put it on, her trapper hat disappearing into
her
backpack. Hopping onto the snowmobile, she held on as the ranger sped
away and
watched the forest whip by. Several
hours
later, after Birdie found her way back to the warmth and safety of the
Ranger
Station, she traded her winter gear for sweats then dragged out her
duffel bag.
She sat at a desk in the operations unit, where she wrote her reports
and
picked up the receiver of an old pushbutton phone,
dialing a number. She
waited for
the phone to ring a few times and a voice answered. Birdie fiddled with
the
digital voice recorder she had placed on her desk. “Yes, UNC Rocklin
Police
Department? This is Ranger Birdie McLaren, National Park Service. I
need to
talk to an officer about a rape that may have occurred in your
jurisdiction.” Birdie
waited,
on hold again. One
of the
clerks stopped on the way out of the office. “Looks like you saved a
life,” he
said quietly and waved, smiling. Birdie
waved
back. “We’ll see,” she said. “We’ll see.”
Copyright
©
2019
Wes
Blalock.
All rights reserved. Reproduction
in whole or in part in any form or medium without express written
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My Dead
Body!
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