How To Fall Off A Mountain

Rich Benbrook

Using the Maps

Mount Whitney

Monarch Lake

Vidette Meadow

Cottonwood Lakes

Onion Valley to
Whitney Portal

Symmes Creek to
Mineral King

Mount Tyndall

Whitney Group

Mount Shasta

Mount Williamson

Palisades

Middle Palisade
Revisited

Thunder Mountain

Middle Palisade
Try Again

Middle Palisade
Take Three

Mount Sill

Thunderbolt Peak
Climbing Up

Thunderbolt Peak
Climbing Down

Thunderbolt Peak
Rescue

Aerial Photos

National Park Service Search and Rescue

Links

Thunderbolt Peak - Rescue

maps:

I lay on my back, and stayed awake all night. I worried about whether Tim had made it out. I still thought he could have fallen off that difficult cliff half way down the chute, and landed in a spot where we didn't see him on our way down.

The three of us discussed what we might expect from a rescue. On a previous climb, Tim and I had just reached the car when we passed a ranger hiking in. Somebody had reported a missing climber, and he was on his way in to help. It was already getting dark, so I knew that it was possible somebody might start hiking in that night. We were far back into the wilderness, well off any trail, so I knew nobody could find us in the dark. I hoped they would get to me fairly early the next day, but I figured most likely it would be mid afternoon before a rescue team arrived. Usually, a ranger is sent in on foot to assess the situation, then either a helicopter or a mule is dispatched to complete the rescue. I realized it was quite possible that I would have to spend the next day and night in the wilderness as well, and that was assuming Tim made it out safely. We decided that if nobody got to us by noon, Brick would hike out himself and leave Bridger with me.

I finished off the last of my Advil, and Brick gave me some of his. Just over the ridge, less than a mile away but agonizingly out of reach, was my campsite which had all my good pain medication and sleeping pills from the night before. Oh, well. That was useless to me now.

Tim: I scrambled and surfed down the chute as fast as I safely could. It was a long way to the Bishop Pass trailhead, and every second was precious. When I reached the chockstone, I traversed left and descended the steep rock on that side of the chute. Considering the difficulty of this stretch on the way up, I expected it to be fairly challenging going down; but what I found completely exceeded my expectations. I must have descended too far on the face. I was about to climb back up when I spied a crack system crossing the cliffs below me. It looked like it would provide some protection from a fall, so I scrunched my body in and followed it down. It was fairly smooth inside, but the walls were close enough together to use counterpressure. It would have been a fine climb if there had been less air under my feet.

I emerged onto a ledge system that allowed me to traverse back into the chute. I stood for a moment looking back at the face, wondering how Brick and Bridger would ever get Rich down it. Maybe they couldn't.

I eventually reached the bottom of the chute and scrambled over Thunderbolt Pass. From here it was a long talus slog back to our camp in Dusy Basin. Although the camp was out of my way, I needed more food and water to make it out without bonking. I left almost everything else in camp, sadly convinced that I would never see it again. I was utterly amazed when a week later a Kings Canyon ranger hiked into Dusy and retrieved our gear. My regard for forest rangers, always high, reached Olympian proportions with this trip.

After climbing a fourteen thousand foot peak and descending with an injured climber, motoring across pathless Dusy Basin was extremely tiring and my mental acuity dropped to the level of a lizard. About half way I made a route finding error and ended up in a box canyon. I was quite relieved when I reached Bishop Pass, mostly because I could now mindlessly follow the trail.

Although I faintly hoped that I would find someone at the pass with a cell phone (and even more faintly hoped that the phone would work), the pass was deserted, so I pushed on to Bishop Lake. A man camping there offered to go for help, but I didn't think he could get out faster than I could, and I would be needed in any case to assist the rescuers. Strangely enough, I did not see anyone else on this normally popular trail until a few miles from the trail head.

In the early morning, just as it was getting light, we heard footsteps outside our tent. A woman asked for me by name. She was hiking in last night, and met Tim on his way out. She assured us that everything would be alright, as she had passed Tim only two miles from the trailhead. I was considerably relieved, and quite astonished at what this woman had just done. She had hiked all night, in the dark, to find our camp We never saw her. She simply introduced herself as "an old woman from the mountains," and went on her way. Fortunately, Tim was able to provide reasonably accurate directions, as he knew our only campsite options would be just above the area from where we had staged our previous climb of North Palisade. That intimate local knowledge proved priceless later as well, when Tim was able to direct the rescuers to our precise location, even though he was not with us when we selected a campsite.

Brick went outside, and took the tarp we had used as a splint to the top of a nearby ridge. He set it out shiny side up to reflect the morning sun, and hopefully attract the attention of rescuers.

A few minutes later I once again heard footsteps outside the tent. At first, I thought it was Brick returning, but it turned out to be another hiker. He also asked for me by name. He had met Tim at the trailhead, and also offered words of encouragement.

Soon, I heard the faint sound of helicopter blades beating the thin mountain air. At first, I could not allow myself to believe that this was my ride down. I was sure that just when I thought the helicopter was coming for me, I would hear it fly away again. I didn't know if I could face that disappointment.

But the helicopter kept getting louder. As it cleared the ridge above camp I could begin to hear the whine of the jet engine along with the rotor blades. I knew it was close so I sent Bridger out to wave his red jacket. I heard the helicopter hover right over our tent. There was no doubt now that these were my rescuers. I can't even begin to describe the feeling I was having. Even now, as I write this more than six months later, I get chills down my spine.

Tim: It was dusk when I reached the end of the trail. I cannot remember ever being so physically and mentally depleted. Except for Rich's car, the parking lot was deserted. I drove several miles to the nearest store and called the Inyo County Sheriff, the only rescue agency listed in the phone book. The dispatcher was courteous but a little too interested, I initially thought, in establishing that the injured climber was in Fresno County/Kings Canyon National Park. Although I freely admitted that Rich was not in Inyo County, the dispatcher and another person kept me on the phone for some time establishing Rich's whereabouts relative to the political boundaries.

I was starting to become annoyed by this juridical exercise when the dispatcher dropped his bombshell: if Kings Canyon handled the rescue, Rich would be extracted by helicopter; if he was rescued by the Inyo Sheriff, it would be by mule. Rescue by mule! Assuming mules could climb to the base of Thunderbolt, which is difficult to imagine, it would take at least a day for the rescuers to reach Rich, and another day to get him out – assuming Rich could ride. I suddenly realized that the dispatcher was trying to help me, and I eagerly deluged him with geographic details showing that Rich was west of the crest and therefore Kings Canyon's problem.

A couple of hours later the Inyo Sheriff put me in contact with Debbie Brenchley, the head of the Kings Canyon rescue team. Talking to Debbie was like driving off 20 miles of rocks and potholes onto fresh blacktop. She was extremely competent and had a reassuring manner which enabled me to relax a little for the first time since Rich fell. She was quite familiar with Palisade Basin and I had no trouble explaining Rich's probable location. I was enormously relieved when she told me that her team would extract Rich at dawn and take him to the hospital in Bishop.

I called for Debbie again a little before 6:00 a.m. to find out when the helicopter would leave. I was delighted to learn that Debbie and her team were already in the air.

The helicopter had to find a place to land. I knew the terrain was rough, and the only landing spot I knew of was quite a distance down the canyon. I didn't know how long it would take them to hike back up to me, or how they would get me down to the helicopter, but at least help was here.

The helicopter flew off a little, then started getting louder again. It sounded like it had returned almost directly over our campsite. I heard it hover a while, then I heard the sound of the rotor blades unloading as it touched down. I didn't know where it landed, but it had to be close. I heard the engine shut down. The last echoes of the beating blades reverberated off the canyon walls, and then there was silence once again.

Debbie Brenchley, a ranger from Sequoia / Kings Canyon National Park, stuck her head in the tent. I assured her she was in the right place, and she brought her rescue kit into the tent. She immediately put me on oxygen. I tried to explain that I was quite acclimated to the altitude. She was obviously out of breath, and I thought it would be better if she had the oxygen. But she wouldn't hear of it. The oxygen was for me, and that was final.

She tried to reach the Bishop hospital on her satellite telephone, but the high ridges around our camp were blocking the signal. She was finally able to reach another ranger on the radio. She called an emergency, and requested that everybody else stay off her frequency. She then arranged a telephone patch to a doctor at the hospital. She brought in her rescue kit and started examining me, relaying the information to the doctor. She confirmed that my injuries were limited to the ones I knew about, and determined that there were not any hidden spinal injuries. She asked if I had been wearing a helmet, and scolded me a little when I had to tell her we didn't have them. Wouldn't have made any difference this time, though.

The doctor agreed that my vital signs were acceptable, and authorized Debbie to begin administering morphine. "Better living through chemistry," I quoted. Debbie chuckled, but her partner Larissa Swepston was too young to get the reference. She explained about the old television commercial (Monsanto, I think?) and the two of them pulled me onto the stretcher.

They strapped me onto the stretcher tightly with several belts, and explained that the helicopter had landed about a hundred feet above us on a small patch of snow. It was a spot they knew well, having performed another rescue from there earlier in the season. They would have to carry me up to the helicopter, and warned that it might get a little uncomfortable. The problem was that Debbie and her partner were both quite small. Due to the extreme altitude (about 12,300 feet), the helicopter was operating near the limit of its capability, so they had to send the lightest rescue team members available. Bridger, at only 14, was also small. His dad was the strongest, but it would take all four to carry me up the sloping hill of snow to the helicopter.

Debbie gave me another shot of morphine for the road, and they each took a corner of the stretcher. On the count of three, they lifted me up and started climbing the hill. It took a while, as they had to set the stretcher down and rest often. A couple times, they even dropped the stretcher. Again I offered my oxygen, but again they refused. Thank goodness for the morphine.

We finally got to the top of the snow, and I met pilot Kent Pierce. He was standing by his helicopter breathing from his oxygen tank. Due to the altitude, he had to conserve his oxygen for the flight out and couldn't help with the rescue. The helicopter was perched precariously on the only relatively level spot within sight. Nestled between several large boulders, I was amazed that the rotor blades didn't strike the rock on the landing. He had dug the skids in to the snow, so it wouldn't slide down the hill. We were fortunate that the snow was still here. A little later in the season, the snow would be melted and the rocky ground would not offer a safe spot for landing a helicopter.

They figured a new weight and balance calculation, and determined that they were 30 pounds too heavy for takeoff at this altitude. They unloaded some gear from the baggage compartment, and left it on the snow, planning to return for it after dropping me at the hospital. Usually at this point, Debbie would start an I.V. line for more drugs. The clouds were starting to build and lower onto the mountains, and it looked like we should make our escape quickly, so we skipped that step. They loaded me into the helicopter, I said thanks and goodbye to Brick and Bridger, and off we went.

I held my breath during the takeoff. I knew this was probably the most dangerous part of the rescue. The helicopter barely got up, and stayed within a few feet of the ground as we climbed up to Thunderbolt Pass. I was able to see out a little, and it was spectacular. We were retracing the same route Tim and I used to hike in, and I recognized much of the terrain. We crossed Dusy Basin, and it started to rain. The clouds were almost down to Bishop Pass, and we were making it out at the last possible moment. Only when we crossed Bishop Pass and started our descent, was I able to relax a little.

Tim: It was an enormous relief to see Rich, doped and smiling, wheeled into the hospital emergency room. A doctor told me that Rich had broken two ribs and shattered his kneecap. The latter injury proved to be quite serious, and almost a year later, after a life-threatening infection and numerous operations, Rich is still having a very difficult time.

I plan to return to the mountains. It may be a while before I'm ready to face Thunderbolt Peak again, but I already have plans to repeat some of my favorite, and easier, climbs. However, recovery has been difficult. Seven months and six major operations later I still have very little range of motion in my right knee.

Of course, I don't ever want to fall again. I'm sure my judgment was impaired by a combination of the residual effects of the drugs from the previous night, the high altitude, and also the overconfidence brought about by the great experiences we had up to that point. I pushed myself a little too far, and I'll watch for these things much better next time.

Tim: Our trip italicized the old saying that experience is a good teacher but sends in huge bills. We did not rope up below the summit because holds were abundant and generally secure. We should have focused less on the technical difficulty and more on the exposure and the distance from help. Our only thought for those dangers was to trust to luck. Happily luck was our friend on this trip. There happened to be a ledge under Rich when he fell, sparing his life, and two other climbers happened to be with us when the accident occurred. In the absence of either of these happenstances the outcome would have been very different. It is hard to believe that such unearned fortune was not in some way the product of design. Over our heads beat the invisible wings.

Once again we've experienced an exceptionally wet winter. The high peaks will be covered deep with snow until late summer, and the streams and rivers will be running over capacity. But I hear the mountains calling, and when the snow melts and the runoff subsides, I'll be there.

Years ago, Mom gave me a rock with a little slogan painted on it. It expresses my philosophy perfectly, and I keep it in plain sight for a daily reminder. It says simply:

"To live without risk is not to live at all"