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OUT OF BOUNDS AND OUT OF LUCK - Part Two By Lou Dawson We considered building a sled with our skis, and soon realized we didn't have the materials to do so. Someone had already gone down to the road to tell the ride we'd arranged to wait (as if the guys would just carry me down there in 10 minutes). So another headed down the hill to get the community together and bring back a toboggan. This would set several processes in motion. In the meantime it was important to stabilize me. I was in shock and my body wasn't producing heat. Hypothermia was the immediate danger, so my companions built a large fire as a heat source. I got positioned next to the fire. The pain came in waves -- there would be hardly any then suddenly it would be awful -- nearly unbearable. Soon after we got the fire started several people arrived at our bivvy after climbing up from the road. They were other O.B. skiers who had heard about our situation. It was good having the help gathering firewood, but these guys were not equipped for anything more than a short stay. More, their advice was limited to comments like, "you guys should be ashamed of yourselves." I was glad when dusk came and they left. We sat talking as night fell. After a while the friends started to arrive. The most competent mountaineers in the area were out to help a brother in need. I'd never experienced the emotions I felt when I saw the faces of people who's lives had been in each others hands so many times. They had all dropped what they were doing to help a friend. After exchanging greetings and socializing for a while (if you can call it that, as I lay there shivering in a haze of pain), we heard the sound of a snowmobile in the valley below. We assumed people had obtained a rescue sled and they were bringing it as far as they could get with a snowmachine. We were also surprised to hear yodels coming from the top of the gully. In forty-five minutes a group of people arrived with a rescue sled. The had driven the snowmobile part way up the exit trail, then muscled this huge sled up the gully to our location. The sled looked good, but I started to dread the trip down because of my terrible splint. We heard more yells coming from up the gully. It was certain someone was coming down from the ski area. At that point we'd realized that a totally improvised rescue was going to be an ordeal, so we hoped they people coming down might have a good splint and perhaps even a patrol toboggan, though we couldn't imagine how they'd get a sled down Keno gully. While we were speculating, a friend arrived with morphine. The doctor who worked with Mtn. Rescue had given him this manna, and his skills as a former 'Nam medic came in handy when he cut through my ski pants and jabbed the needle in. The relief was intense. The folks coming down arrived. It was Harvey Carter, ski patrolman, and climbing mentor throughout my days as a novice alpinist. I'd been feuding with Harvey of late because he'd gone off on me for doing the first free ascent of a rock climbing route he'd made claim to. He'd actually gotten violent, and I feared he was going to beat the tar out of me someday. I looked up in his face and said something like, "Wow, it's good to see you, are you still mad at me?" His answer was something along the lines of a gruff but obviously caring, "Nope, let's get you out of here Louie." Everyone was impressed with Harvey bringing the sled because we knew how steep the upper part of Keno gully was. "It got in front of me a few times," was all he said when asked what it was like bringing a rig down Keno. Harvey was known as one of the toughest patrollers and a local iron man alpinist, and his bringing that rig down Keno is now a local legend in certain circles, and something for which I'm forever grateful. It wasn't hard to decide which sled to use. After being properly splinted we began the trip down. The terrain was extremely difficult -- endless dense brush with intense drop offs that Harvey would launch like something out of a movie stunt sequence. I remember the constant sound of branches scraping the sled cover above my face. At least 50 people were scattered over the length of the trail, and it was all hands on task as the sled moved though the terrain. After two hours of grueling work the procession arrived at the snowmobile, and soon after I was shanked into the waiting ambulance and whisked away to the hospital, where the news was bad, but I was glad to hear it. Analysis (1977) What comes to mind most often is how responsible I am for what happened to me. I don't blame the bindings, or the snowpack, or the brush. If I'd been skiing like the competent mountaineer I supposedly am and less like a ya-hoo, I wouldn't have been hurt. And that's the basic rule of backcountry skiing that I broke; ski like you'll never get out alive if you get hurt. More, remember that being a good skier doesn't make you invulnerable. I frequently think of how close I came to really eating it. What if we hadn't had any matches? What if I'd done something like broken a femur, or my neck? What if it had been twenty-degrees colder and snowing? Or how about if I'd been O.B. skiing alone -- something I did on occasion? The answer to all those questions is that O.B. skiing with nothing but the clothes on your back is probably the most dangerous thing you'll ever do. Just think about it. I know that I'll always ski in the backcountry. And I feel everyone has the right to use ski lifts for access to the backcountry near our ski mountains. But the safety situation in Aspen is not as it should be. Some of the risk should be eliminated. We need a sign-out system, preferably through the ski patrol. This would serve to eliminate rescue time lag, as well as enhancement of communication with the ski patrol. The ski patrol wouldn't necessarily perform O.B rescues. Perhaps we could form a subsidiary mountain rescue group, specifically for O.B. skiers in need.
The thoughts above are nice, but reality is different. I've talked with people who work for the Ski Corporation, and it sounds like a clandestine relationship with a few patrolmen is the only thing possible at this time. I'm thinking now that an organization of backcountry skiers is the best alternative. We could operate our own sign-out system. And perhaps, some day, the Ski Corp will give more support to the mountaineering spirit of Aspen. Another thing and O.B. skiers' organization could do would be to put in a few strategically located rescue caches. The caches would primarily be first aid and survival gear. Their purpose being to help stabilize a victim until the rescue is complete. All these things involve some complex organization. But the most important thing is the easiest to handle and the lesson I learned in Keno Gully. That's simply that everyone who goes into the backcountry should be equipped to insure the survival of a hurt and immobilized skier. It just has to do with a little personal responsibility.
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