Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
“Yeah.” Jasper swallowed and nodded once. “Yeah, okay.”
We loaded into the bus for our drive to the trailhead, and while the SAR teams worked their case from the front seats and the swift-water specialists conferred about possible rescue scenarios and water conditions, I reviewed medical protocols with my team. The energy was infectious—everyone excited for their first real drill.
“This’ll be sick,” Cody said, grinning. “You think they’re doing tagline or tethered swimmer?”
Sierra shifted her backpack. “Don’t get my hopes up. For all we know, she’ll be unconscious on the bank after taking a pee break.”
My team continued chatting excitedly after arriving at the trailhead parking lot and watching the other teams hurry up the trail. After several minutes, the radio operator for one of the SAR teams alerted us on the radio to a victim spotted in the water just southwest of Blacktail Overlook.
“Alright,” Sierra said, grabbing her pack. “Let’s do this.”
We headed out after them, keeping a quick but steady pace over the rocky terrain. But just before we arrived at our rally point, Foster’s own voice rang out over the radio, giving us new information.
“Blake to all units. Drill is canceled. We’ve got a real emergency. Climber down on the south face of Devil’s Backbone. Serious fall, unknown condition. Students and non-lead staff are to remain ready to assist. I need medical here ASAP. Repeat: drill is canceled. We’re live. Over.”
Devil’s Backbone was one of the steeper ridges of Slingshot Mountain, a jagged spine of rock with loose scree at the base, sheer drops, and terrain that punished hesitation. As we hustled to the new coordinates, I took the radio from Sierra, my heart rate spiking as I switched from training mode to actual emergency response.
“Marian to Blake, we copy. Medical en route. We’re a minute out. Has someone contacted local dispatch?”
As my team and I entered the clearing at the base of the climb, Foster was instructing his crew: “Dr. Marian and I will make the climb for in-field triage and extraction.”
I raced forward while barking instructions to Sierra to hand over the supply backpack.
The climber had taken a popular but advanced climbing route called Spiny Tooth that led up the steepest part of Devil’s Backbone. Foster was already rigging anchor points, his movements efficient and confident. When he worked, there was no wasted motion, no hesitation. It was mesmerizing to watch—and I caught myself staring at the fluid way his muscles moved as he handled the ropes.
Focus, Tommy.
“What do we have?” I asked, giving Chickie a quick head scratch as I stepped up to the student offering to help me into a harness. “Any idea of the injuries involved?”
Foster quickly took over from the student, squatting at my feet and reaching for the webbing straps. “Possible head injury with loss of consciousness, multiple contusions. No report of compound fracture or bleeding,” he called without looking up at me. “Medical up first. I’ll belay you.”
He quickly began strapping the harness webbing around my waist and thighs, his muscles moving under the tanned skin of his forearms. Being this close to him, feeling his hands on me even through the clinical necessity of the harness, sent heat racing through my body.
Not the time. Not the place.
“You have climbing experience,” he said, remembering the stories we’d shared in Hawaii.
“Yes. I’ve climbed this route before.”
He must have caught the hesitation in my voice because he glanced up from where he was crouched at my feet, and his eyes met mine. “But?”
The harness felt strange after months in emergency rooms and hospital corridors. My hands shook slightly as I clipped in, muscle memory from my climbing days rusty from disuse.
“It’s been a while,” I admitted.
“Like riding a bike,” Foster said, his voice softer than it had been all morning. “You’ll be fine. I’ve got you.”
I met his eyes and saw kind reassurance instead of judgment, the first crack in his professional facade. “Okay.”
He nodded and began talking me through the route, his voice calm and reassuring. As I climbed, I could feel the tension in the rope, the steady presence of Foster belaying me from below. It was trust in its purest form—my life literally in his hands.
There wasn’t a single doubt among anyone present as to who was in charge of this rescue. Foster commanded the scene from his position on belay, never once taking his eyes off me.
As soon as I found the fallen climber on a rocky landing partway up Spiny Tooth, I dropped into assessment mode, running through ABCs while calling down vital signs to Foster and the rest of the team.
“Pulse is thready, possible internal bleeding,” I shouted. “I need him immobilized before we move him.”
“Copy that,” Foster called back. “Coming with the spine board. I need you to find an anchor up there and clip in.”