The Fury of the Bear
By
Greg Morton
Copyright 2012 Greg Morton
Smashwords Edition
Table of Contents
~
The Mystery of the Lancaster, 1947
Things Aren’t Where They Should Be
The Benefits and Risk of Distraction
The Final Entry of Frank Smythe, 1940
There Is Only One Thing Left To Do
For Sandra
…my greatest adventure
The sky was a menacing white and grey, and snow flurried and fell as if being shot from a cannon. The west side of the mountain ridgeline was all but hidden in the storm, the whiteout enveloping trees, rock and anything else it could. The wind howled, as if being tormented by the cold. Nothing could possibly survive in this weather, and certainly Bert and Dustin felt nobody could find their way to rescue them. They sat huddled at the base of a pine tree, backs against the bark, the tree offering little protection from the wind. Forgetting all sense of their young pride, they sat embracing to find warmth, side by side with arms around each other.
Their heavy coats and pants, suitable for keeping them warm while snowboarding, was doing little to keep them warm while sitting. And their clothes were creating a barrier between their bodies, preventing the natural heat from within to be shared. They sat, huddled, embracing, cold, and fearful. They had been in bad weather before, but this was different. They now knew they were lost, the whiteout had made sure of that. But they didn’t know when the storm would break or how low the temperatures would get before it did. Though their ski goggles, expensive designer models found in all of the ski shops, prevented snow from getting into their eyes, they did little to help them see beyond their own faces. But they tried. Pockets of snowless air would drift between them, providing a moment’s glance at the other, but as quickly as it came it was gone. They were left watching snow.
Bert spent most of his time quietly praying, his eyes closed tight. To him, the cold seemed to be getting worse and it was distracting him from making a complete prayer. He had buried his head down toward Dustin, unknowingly forcing himself into the pit of his friend’s arm. Dustin did not seem to mind, as he too was trying to bury his face.
Bert continued to pray. His whole body shivered. The snow falling from the tree above was starting to hit him in the back of the head, and was slowly making its way down his jacket. He had a hood, but unlike Dustin, had not taken the time to unravel it from the collar of his jacket and put it over his head.
Dustin managed to talk himself into a meditative state. He would breathe deep, hold his breath, and then slowly exhale. Each time, he tried to think of someplace tropical, not that he’d been anywhere tropical. But he had seen enough TV to know what tropics should look like, sandy beach, turquoise water, lush greenery in the background, a forbidden volcanic spire rising from the forest like a monument shrouded with mist. Breathe. Semi-circular shells, half buried in the sand, glistening with salty water and fresh, warm air. Breathe. Hawaiian girls in grass skirts, with golden bronze skin, and dark flowing hair, beautiful smiles, beautiful legs. Breathe. Snow and wind and cold and more wind. Dammit! Dustin had started to lose focus. It was getting worse by the second.
Bert was still trying to pray. He would begin his prayer, and then curse himself for being such a pessimist, such a pagan. College had colorfully expanded his vocabulary, but not necessarily his mind. Bert began talking to himself.
If I had gone to church more often would this be happening? Dear Lord, please forgive me. I’ve always believed in you. What was that prayer? The Lord’s Prayer? How does that go?
More snow would drop, melt, and trickle down his neck. His hair underneath his fleece skull cap was becoming soaked, his back becoming colder with each deposit.
Our Father, Who Art in Heaven…
Bert raised his head, looked around and shouted at Dustin. “Do you hear that?” he said.
Dustin paused, taking a moment to process what was said. He looked at Bert, moving his face closer to his friend’s, touching the tip of Bert’s nose with his own. Then he cocked his head to the side, his eyes straining to see anything in the blinding white canvass before him.
“Huh uh,” he muttered, realizing he could barely hear himself. “NO, I can’t hear anything!” he shouted. “Did you hear something?” he questioned. Repeating it to assure himself he had said it.
“What? Oh, I thought...” Bert’s voice tailed off. He questioned himself, trying to determine if he heard something. He quickly gave up the pursuit, burying his head again, desperately attempting to escape the cold.
Bert’s head dive made Dustin chuckle. It made him think of Christmas morning, and his younger brother, Donny. He remembered the year he was seven, his brother five. That was the year they made their grand discovery in the little house they lived in on Maple Street. The house was nothing fancy to be sure, but warm and cozy during the cold Colorado winters. He and Donny were up before the sun, quietly sitting on their beds and trying to work up the courage to make a break for the family room, and the gifts under the tree. After the sun broke through their window, they convinced themselves it was officially day time and could leave the confines of their room. The mad dash to the family room took a nanosecond, each boy pawing at the other to get an advantage. When they rounded the corner and into the front room, they stopped cold in their tracks. It wasn’t the tree or the gifts that had made them abort their mission of gift wrapping destruction, but rather the fireplace. There, hanging from the handle of the flue was a piece of red fleece, torn and blackened with soot.
Unmistakably, the cloth came from Santa’s outfit. The red was the same, the texture. The boys had stopped and stared silently, shaken by the story laid before them. Was it possible that Santa had torn his trousers going back up the chimney? Maybe his coat? The revelation was before them. There, in torn and dirtied glory, hung proof of Santa’s existence. Dustin and Donny glanced at each other, quietly sat before the hearth, and returned their gaze toward what could be considered the Holy Grail, for a child. It was an hour before the boys’ parents came down the hall, alarmed that the house was still silent at such an hour on Christmas day, to find them asleep on the floor, Donny’s head tucked warmly beneath Dustin’s arm.
Crunch. Crunch.
Dustin shook himself out of his daydream, confused and alarmed as to whether or not he was hearing things.
Crunch. Crunch.
He shook his head, trying to remove the sound of wind from his ears, the vision of white from his eyes and the feeling of cold from his cheeks.
Crunch. Crunch.
It sounded like a pattern, a rhythm. Not something the wind or trees would make, but something moving. An animal maybe. Dustin’s mind started to conjure up images of large snow cats roaming the mountainside, looking for weary snowboarders lost in a blizzard to eat. Or maybe it was a bear, indigenous to this landscape, crafty on the slopes of the Rocky Mountains, he thought (forgetting bears hibernate). The cold continued to cloud his mind, and sting his skin. The wind and whiteout worked together to create a grand masquerade, a theatrical show where the mind created the drama. He nudged Bert, but his friend only shrugged, still suffering from the cold and fearful another drop of snow would find his neck. Dustin squinted his eyes, trying desperately to push his vision beyond the barren emptiness he could see.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
From between the raging drifts and howling wind, a figure began to emerge in Dustin’s sight, just beyond their tree. It was darker than what he had resigned himself to seeing, and the mass seemed to move against the direction of the wind. He closed his eyes tight, the weather and emotion forcing water from underneath his eyelids and down his cheek. He opened them again. Now two figures were before him, dark masses of gray moving through the storm. They paused, and then disappeared. He was still confused if his mind was imagining what he saw. And then they appeared again.
Crunch. Crunch.
Dustin convinced himself the sound was footsteps in the snow, that the figures before him were people. He began to weep, soft at first and then uncontrollably. The shaking of his body wrestled Bert from his position.
Bert looked up at Dustin’s face, immediately noticing he could easily see the features of his friend’s face without having to move closer, and that his friend was crying.
“Hang in there, buddy!” Bert shouted. “We’ll be alright.” He didn’t believe it himself. He shouted again “Hang in there!”
“Are they real?”
Bert was puzzled. “What?”
“Are th-th-they real?” Dustin concentrated all of his energy in getting those words out, his body seemingly shutting down from the fatigue and the fear.
“Who?” Bert replied, looking to his left beyond the tree and into the worst this storm seemed to offer. He saw them! Two figures were erect and moving toward them like fuzzy gray blankets dancing in a fog, closer and closer. And soon, they could both distinguish that these apparitions were indeed men, men trudging their way through waist high snow.
The figures moved one in front of the other and slightly to the side. To Bert, each was a mythic creature in an orange colored down coat and matching pants. They were hooded and with black balaclavas covering their face, breaking through the perpetual white that surrounded them. Their eyes were shrouded in goggles, the reflective red lens like a cyclops piercing forward. The hands were covered in black mittens, and each figure held a metallic axe in one hand. A rope was strung from the lead figure to the follower, and both were adorned with seemingly monstrous packs on their backs. They moved methodically through the storm, each taking a few steps before pausing, and then continuing again. It seemed a lifetime to Bert, but the ghosts before him had materialized into real men, and were now standing before the tree.
The lead man knelt, swinging his bag from his back and setting it beside him in the snow. He fastened his axe to the bag, moving as methodically now as he had before. Once satisfied the tool was secure, he removed his right mitten and stuffed it into the pocket of his coat. He leaned toward the boys, and slowly raised his goggles from his eyes.
Bert stared in wonder as the stranger moved in closer, and was struck by the clear grey eyes gazing back at him. They appeared to be made of snow and ice themselves, so crystal clear in color, but warm and inviting against the cruel chill of the outside air. The man’s bare hand stretched out to Dustin, reaching between into the hood to check the carotid artery on his neck. Dustin, still sobbing, had barely moved or noticed the two visitors. The man’s hand reached over to Bert, again checking a pulse. Bert was visibly watching the actions of the stranger.
“We are here to help you,” the stranger said, his voice muffled by the mask covering his mouth. “Are you hurt?”
Bert shook his head no, still in awe and starting to feel relief, but unable to verbalize his response.
“Is your friend hurt?”
Bert again shook his head no. Besides the cold, the paranoia, and the fear, both boys were unhurt.
“Can you both walk?” The stranger had to shout this time, as the wind seemed to pick up in force. “We can’t stay here tonight. We have to move to a safer spot.”
Dustin finally looked toward the rescuer, his crying subsiding. “I can walk,” he said, “I can walk.”
“Me too.” Bert replied.
“Good,” the grey eyed rescuer replied. “We are going to fix a harness on each of you. Once you are hooked up I will lead the way, followed by you.” He pointed to Dustin. “Then by you. My partner will be behind both of you. Do you understand?”
Both boys shook their heads in agreement. The rescuer turned his head toward his partner and put his thumb in the air. Quickly, but with care, his partner knelt beside him and removed his pack, and followed the first man’s ritual of attaching his axe to his back, removing his mittens and stuffing them inside the pockets of his coat. Then each man removed harnesses from their packs and began to secure them to Dustin and Bert, going around the waist and each leg to ensure they were properly worn. Each rescuer then attached a carabiner to each boy’s harness, and fed the rope between each one. When it was done, the rope led from the grey eyed rescuer to Dustin, from him to Bert and from him to the second rescuer. Both rescuers closed their packs and removed their axes. They swung the bags back onto their backs and the lead man motioned for everyone to stand.
“I will lead,” He shouted to Dustin. “Follow me. Look at my tracks in the snow, look at my back. Stay directly behind me. Do you understand?”
Dustin shook his head in agreement. The grey eyed rescuer looked at his partner and gave the thumbs up signal, and then removed his mittens from his coat and put them on his hands. The second rescuer looked at Bert.
“You follow your friend,” he shouted. “Follow his tracks, look at his back. Stay directly behind him. Do you understand?”
Bert nodded his head. “How did you guys find us?” he asked the second rescuer.
“We could smell you!”
Bert could somehow tell that the man was grinning beneath the goggles and the balaclava. He could not help but to start smiling himself. He was relieved someone had found them, relieved they were being helped and guided to safety, and strangely relieved his rescuer had an odd sense of humor. As the grey eyed rescuer began trudging through the snow again, Dustin followed, the rope grew taut and Bert began walking too, the comedian rescuer closely behind. The movement in Bert’s arms and legs brought a renewed energy to his mind, his body and his spirit. He almost felt warm again.
The sun was still asleep in the early morning hours of Monday. Not that it mattered, as the clouds were still thick in the sky, preventing any light from blessing the ground. The winds had died somewhat and the snowfall had decreased in the past few hours, but the angered sky would not relent its hold on the landscape. The ski resort, nestled on the broad southern slopes of Grandfather Mountain, was quiet. Many of the visitors had left the previous day, either as weekend warriors being beckoned to their responsibilities of home or as weary travelers avoiding the storm. A few leftovers, though would no doubt rise to conquer the runs and frolick in the fresh powder that had been ferociously delivered during the past nineteen hours. Until then, the mountain and the city of Bern, Colorado remained quiet.
Situated on a 75 acre campus to the west of town sat a tiny, one runway airport and helipad. Both city ordinance and overall size prohibited the airport from being used commercially to herd the mass of tourists each year, instead owing its function to search and rescue operations for the Clock Valley and surrounding mountains.
Law enforcement utilizes one building for administration and holding, and one of the smaller hangars for garaging and maintaining department vehicles. A force of about 40 individuals, the Bern City Police Department is an active and integral part of the community’s success and cleanliness. The police department is also an essential component to the Advanced Alpine Search and Rescue team, located on the campus. Almost all of the 30 sworn officers are medically trained to the EMT-B level, as well as being avalanche and mountain rescue proficient. Off duty officers are on-call for emergency search and rescue operations. The fire department, located in the middle of town, is active with the AASAR as well, providing more of the advanced paramedic resources.
The Advanced Alpine Search and Rescue unit administration offices are housed in an adjacent building to the police department. Beyond the AASAR administration building stands Hangar Nine, referred to simply as “The Nine”. The Nine is the operations centerpiece for search and rescue missions, housing the dispatch operations on the ground floor, barrack style housing in the loft upstairs, with the majority of the hangar used for protecting the aircraft that bears the brunt of the work during complex rescue operations. At this early hour, the hangar was dark and quiet.
Up in the barracks it was dark and quiet as well. A crew of five men had situated themselves in their regular bunks, warm and asleep, but not too deep. The crew knows a call can be placed at any time. A crew of five is always mandatory on duty, a pilot, co-pilot, emergency medical technician or paramedic, a lift operator and a drop man. In the event the team needs to extract someone from the mountainside, the drop man is the one dangling from a wire.
Downstairs from the barracks, in the operation offices, a lone beam of light streaked its way from the communications control room out into the hallway. Following it like a morning fog the soft sound of music whispered through the speakers of the computer inside the room. The light was a reading light, small but bright, and it casted arms of shadow into the corners of the red walls in the communications room.
The room was ten feet by twelve feet, with a small walk-in closet to the left of the doorway as one entered the room. A picnic table sized wooden desk, hand-made of California oak, sat on the near side of the room and was littered with maps, weather reports and procedure manuals. A computer unit sat on a bracket attached to one side of desk, with the 17” flat screen monitor, in screen saver mode, sat next to the Motorola radio used for field communications. An antique Polynesian reading light sat on the corner of the desk, unlit. A large black and white picture from the sixties of a group of surfers standing on a California beach, surfboards displayed behind them, hung from the wall above the desk. The base station and repeater tower for the radio was housed in a rack next to the desk.
Against the wall across the room from the desk was a two person sofa, upholstered in well worn brown leather cowhide, with a multicolored blue and gray Mexican blanket tucked neatly across the seat cushions. On the wall above hung a large black and white picture of two men standing shoulder to shoulder on a snow capped peak, arms raised in celebration. Next to the sofa sat an oak bookcase about six feet tall, of which it was stuffed with more maps and various books on procedure or survival.
Atop the blanket on the sofa was a sleeping dog, on her back with legs splayed in sacrificial fashion. She was a mixed breed, half Akita and half Border Collie with a body of mostly white and two large brown patches coloring her back and side. Her face was marbled in different shades of brown and black, with a patch of white just above her nose. When sitting, her ears would curl on top of themselves, unless she was curious. When she was curious, the right ear would curl while the left ear would stand straight. But she was sleeping now, and snoring ever so quietly.
A young woman was sitting in a black leather chair with her feet crossed on the top of the sofa arm and her back to the desk. The book was in paperback edition, the front cover almost permanently rolled and the back cover bent and creased. She was in her mid-twenties with light brown hair that was mostly one length down to the middle of her shoulders, and would crown her face with a part down the middle. She had hazel green eyes, fair skin in the winter and a slender face. In the summertime, her skin would glow bronze after only a few hours in the sun, a reflection of the Italian blood she inherited from her mother. Her nose was small and slightly crooked to one side, but not that it was a distraction but rather a feature that made her incredibly beautiful. She had a wonderful mouth that hid her top lip when she smiled, which she did often. When she stood she was five feet, four inches tall, but her legs were long for her size and she looked taller than she was. She was dressed in black fleece pants and a heather gray zip up fleece hoodie. Her feet were covered in black wool socks. She was leaning back in the chair, with her chin resting on her chest and eyes almost peering over her reading glasses as she held the book across her belly.
From outside in the administration offices a door opened and then closed. The girl, Samantha, lifted her head slightly and turned to look at the computer monitor to read the time, placing her hand on the book to keep her place. It read 4:45 am. She returned to reading, as footsteps grew increasingly louder toward her until she could sense someone was standing in the doorway. She turned again, to see a man leaning against the door jam.
Matt Johnson stood just short of six feet, with neatly trimmed black hair under a Burton Snowboards baseball style hat. His eyes were light brown and close set, with bushy black eyebrows. His face was round, but not heavy, and clearly gave away his young age of twenty five, despite the early shadow of beard covering it. He was warmly dressed in a black printed t-shirt, a dark gray snowboarding jacket, with jeans and black low-cut canvas Converse All-Stars. He had a school backpack slung over one shoulder.
“Hey!”
“Hey yourself,” Samantha replied. “I thought you had classes this week?”
“Nope, thank goodness.” Matt answered. “I only had one class left where I needed to take the final exam, and the professor let me take it last week. I stayed with my parents over the weekend, though, since I knew you guys weren’t expecting me until later in the week.”
He set his backpack down in the hallway and crossed over toward the couch, sitting on the floor in front of it so as to not disturb the sleeping dog. He smiled at the sight of the dog.
“How long has she been like this?” he asked.
“About an hour.” she replied. “I’m actually surprised you didn’t wake her.” Samantha grabbed a bookmark from on top of the desk and placed in between the pages of her book, closed the book and returned it to the top of the desk where the bookmark had been sitting. She leaned over and adjusted the squelch on the radio, and raised the volume.
“What’s going on?” Matt asked, settling himself in a lounging position on the floor and bumping the couch in the process. The dog stirred, but didn’t move.
“Virgil and Charlie are out. Got a call yesterday morning from two knuckleheads in the backcountry doing some skiing. They must not have heard the weather updates before heading out or they went out before we posted the ‘No Backcountry’ warnings at the lodge. Either way, they got stranded as this storm moved in.” Her eyes seemed a little weary, and she rubbed them beneath her glasses.
“Nice,” Matt followed, disgusted at the thought of someone ignoring storm warnings. “What time did the guys go out?”
“Not long after we got the call, actually.” Samantha said, adjusting herself in the chair and taking off her glasses. “The storm hadn’t gotten too bad, and they were able to gear up and ride Chair 12 to the top before the whiteout set in. I got a call after they hit the ridge, but the repeaters don’t work so well on the dark side, so I haven’t heard from them since. But Virgil’s beacon hasn’t flared, so I’m not all that worried.”
Virgil’s beacon was a GPS capable avalanche and rescue beacon that was strapped securely to the outside of his coat. In the event of an emergency, he could push a button and it would signal via satellite that he was in trouble. The signal would record his location within twenty feet.
“So, just up at the dark of morning listening to the occasional static on the radio?” Matt said playfully.
He knew she was worried. The minute she started explaining the situation, he became worried too. Virgil is the best there is on the mountain, and Charlie is just as good. But anything can happen, and these guys were family. Matt could tell Samantha had been up since the rescue started. She smiled at his comment, a smile that revealed her concern and her sleeplessness.
“Have you had a break?” he added.
“Peter and Dave are both on duty, and took shifts at the Com yesterday.” she answered. “I wanted them to both be rested and ready during the night if Virgil needed them, so I took the night watch.”
Matt cocked his head to one side, sympathetically. “Can I relieve you? Or get you anything from the kitchen?”
Samantha brightened up. “Ooohh, tea would be nice!” she said.
“Tea it is. Be right back.”
As Matt stood, he bumped the couch again waking the dog. She rolled over to her stomach and gave a huge yawn. As he stood, the dog jumped to the floor and immediately lurched into a stretch, front legs straight out. She shook out the last of her sleepiness and followed him down the hall to the kitchen.
Samantha looked at the clock, and then needlessly adjusted the radio again. She had been nervously adjusting it all night. She was worried, but being the only full time girl in the operation had taught her to play tough, even when she didn’t feel it. She was worried because a member of her team was out there, but there was something else. She was in love with Virgil, and she always felt something extra when he was away. He was such a dynamic spirit, and it always made her wonder if his light burned brighter because it was to burn shorter. She wondered.
Samantha Patrick was born an only child to Mark, Bern’s fire captain, and Karen, an ER nurse at nearby Holy Cross Hospital. From early childhood she expressed a keen interest in the responsibilities of both parents, spending as much time at the station or hospital as her schoolwork allowed. What time she didn’t spend with her parents she spent on the ski slopes. As a pre-teen, she was discovered by an Olympic ski trainer and was asked to try out for the team. Samantha did, successfully earning a place at the Olympic training camp in Lake Placid. Shortly after starting, however, she decided she had no interest in skiing competitively and returned home. She became a Police Explorer at age fifteen, and began mountaineering the same year. She actively sought opportunities to learn climbing skills, often combining her skiing abilities with her climbing. It was around that time she met Virgil Ryan.
Virgil had come to Bern on a friend’s recommendation to work with the Advanced Alpine Search and Rescue team, even then the best rescue organization in the Rockies. His calm demeanor, rugged looks and immediate warmth instantly made him popular around town, and with Samantha. Her father, also a member of the AASAR team, invited him to live in the apartment above their garage and Virgil accepted. The relationship between the older man and teenaged girl was mutually respectful and appropriate, but a sincere bond was almost immediately formed. Virgil mentored the young girl, often spending long hours teaching her skills in para-medicine, law enforcement and rescue tactics. And, much to Mark Patrick’s dismay, Virgil often let her tag along when he and some of the other boys ventured out for a dose of adrenaline like sky-diving. By eighteen she was one of the boys, but not a tomboy. She was short, gorgeous and with a little attitude but with enough moxie to make her dangerous.
After high school she attended studied wildlife conservation at the University of Washington. She dated, was a sorority girl and excelled in everything she tried. After four years she graduated Summa Cum Laude, but not before summiting Mt. Rainier over twenty times. She returned to Bern, intent on becoming an active member of Colorado’s conservation community, however the lure and excitement of working with Virgil at his newly established mountaineering academy was too much. She quickly jumped on board. Her sharp attention to detail and no-nonsense upbringing helped her to excel as the Project Manager for the organization, and many credit her as much for its success as anyone else.
She continues to live at her parent’s house, though now she was the only one to live there full time. Her father had taken a job as a lead instructor at the fire academy in Denver, and he and Samantha’s mother moved into an apartment down there until Mark retires and they return to Bern for good. With Virgil still living above the garage part time, Samantha is as happy and comfortable as she can be. At least, she will be when Virgil returns from his current mission.
Matt returned with two steaming cups in his hands, one tea the other coffee, the dog trotting behind him. He entered the room, handed Samantha her cup, and settled onto the seat cushions of the couch. The dog stood at Samantha’s chair wagging its tail, seemingly waiting for some attention, of which Samantha dutifully obliged. After another shake, the dog hopped onto the couch and curled up like a fox next to Matt. She sighed deeply, and closed her eyes. Matt sipped his coffee.
“How’s the chief feel about Papa Bear going up in a whiteout?” Matt asked.
Samantha Patrick and Virgil’s mother were the only two people in the world who could call Virgil by his given name and not expect, at best, a stern and menacing glare. To everyone else, he was Bear. To Matt, he was Papa Bear.
“He’s never happy about it,” she replied. “You shoulda heard him, ranting and raving, saying ‘…breaks the first rule of rescue EV-ER-Y bleeping TIME!’” Samantha started to giggle and almost spilled her tea. Matt started to laugh, too.
“Chief should know better by now,” Matt said. “Papa Bear doesn’t care about going up, he only cares about coming down. How many times has he gone out and pulled some stranded hiker or skier back, looking like a drenched cat on Christmas?”
Samantha really started to laugh. She had started to sip her tea, and had a tiny bit in her mouth when Matt made his comment. She snorted at the thought of a wet cat, and the tea almost sprayed out of her mouth. It did manage to trickle down her chin, and once she swallowed the remaining tea in her mouth she was able to really let the laughs go. Both she and Matt looked at each other, laughing. Of course this disturbed the dog, who gave them each a sleepy eyed peek before deciding it wasn’t worth any trouble, and settled back into a nap.
“Oh, man.” Samantha said almost as a sigh “Yeah, he goes up when everyone else is running to get back down. I’ve only seen him stay put a couple of times because of the weather. Well, and he never asks the birds to fly in a storm,” she said, referring to the plane and helicopter. “I mean, honestly, he really is the only man for the job,” she added with a grin.
The radio crackled and came to life. The static increased, and a distorted voice could barely be heard. Samantha almost jumped in her chair, swinging around to face the radio on the desk. Matt stood behind her.
“Rescue one, rescue one, this is base camp, over.” Samantha said into the microphone. She repeated it almost immediately. “Rescue one, rescue one, this is base camp, over.”
Static.
Matt and Samantha were both tense, anxious. The dog had jumped down when Matt got up, and was patiently standing next to Samantha’s chair, wagging her tail. All three of them were eager to hear some good news.
Samantha repeated her call “Rescue one, rescue one, do you read me? This is base camp, over.”
“…base…camp…this…is…”
The radio room teemed with excitement and energy.
“Rescue one, say again. Virgil, is that you?”
Static.
“Rescue one, rescue one, this is base camp, over.”
Finally, after a brief pause, a tinny voice said “…we read you base camp. This is rescue one. We’ve got a couple of cold boys here, but they’re fine. We didn’t make it to the hut before the storm got bad, had to bivy up and wait it out. Skies look like they are going to give us a chance to finish the ridge once the sun comes up. Wake the team and have them meet us at twelve, over.”
It was Virgil’s voice, clear and calm, as if he was sitting on his porch. Samantha and Matt both raised their arms in the air and gave a collective cheer. The dog barked her approval.
“Rescue one, we read you. Rescue two will rendezvous at twelve, over!”
“Copy that, base camp.” Virgil confirmed. “Hey lady, get your butt in the kitchen and make us some breakfast, would ya?”
With that, Matt and Samantha started laughing again.
Virgil Ryan is a good deal shorter than people think he should be, standing a modest five feet, nine inches. His weight fluctuates depending on the season, but he tries to maintain it around one hundred and sixty pounds. His hair is reddish brown with a small but even mix of gray, making it look lighter versus older. His hair is often close cropped in the summer and a little more unkempt during winter, but always off the ears and high on the neck. His eyebrows are trimmed, but full, and neatly shade his piercing eyes, a grey like that of storm clouds ready to burst with a black circle highlighting the iris. His eyes can project both a steely calm and incredible warmth, though at first glance they appear cold and menacing. His face is lean with a strong jaw line that ends in a squared chin. He often has the beginnings of a beard on his face, a testament to his disdain for shaving when not on duty, but has been clean shaven during the recent winter months. His physique is athletic and toned but not too defined. He loathes being in a gym, preferring his exercise come surrounded by mountains or water.
Virgil was born in Peoria, Illinois, the second son to Tom, a mechanical engineer and Polly, a homemaker. His older brother Jake was born a year before. Tom Ryan had moved his wife and first born son from Chicago, settling the family in Peoria to work on a project designing construction and mining equipment. When the project was over, Tom received a job offer from a government contractor in Long Beach, California and once again uprooted his family, this time out west. The Ryan family settled in San the tiny coastal town of San Pedro, just north of Long Beach, when Virgil was six.
He was promptly introduced to the new neighborhood after he had crashed his bike into the curb of the house across the street, slamming his face down onto the handlebars and splitting his lip open. The little boy who lived in the house had gone inside, grabbed his mom by the hand and led her outside to where the new kid was bleeding. While the mom tended to Virgil’s wounds, the neighbor kid introduced himself as Eddie Peterson and segued straight into twenty questions about where Virgil was from, what kind of toys he liked, if he had any friends yet and more. He was the same age as Virgil. Eddie’s mom finally had to ask him to quiet down so she could ask a few questions of her own. The whole time, Virgil never made a sound. Even as a baby, Virgil was never one to cry. After the bleeding subsided and all necessary introductions between the Ryan family and the Peterson family had been made, Virgil and Eddie ran off down the street fast becoming best friends.
Virgil was an exceptional student in high school, and generally athletic but not motivated to compete on any of the organized teams. He spent most of his free time down at the beach either surfing or spear fishing. His friend Eddie was a gear head, and by the time he was sixteen was spending a lot of his free time under the hood of his 1965 Chevrolet Camaro, blue with white stripes down the middle.
During their junior year in high school, Virgil and Eddie had been cruising the Pacific Coast Highway in Long Beach after leaving a beach bonfire. At a stop light another teenaged kid, in a green 1968 Mercury Cougar, had pulled up beside them and began to rev his engine. Immediately Eddie had taken it as a challenge to a race, and when the light turned green he stomped on the gas.
Virgil had demanded his friend slow the car down, but his friend was too intent on the race. The car was squirrely from the beginning, but Eddie had managed to gain some semblance of control after the first hundred feet. As both cars roared down the street, the Camaro in the left lane, the Cougar to the right, Eddie had glanced over at the other car to see what the other kid was doing. He should have been looking forward. Had he been, he would have noticed they were rapidly charging the next intersection and a red light for their lanes. Though no cars had stopped in front of them, there was cross traffic. What Eddie had seen was the Cougar drop back out of the race and out of his view. By the time he had turned his head to look forward they were topping 85 miles per hour about thirty feet from the crosswalk.
Eddie panicked, and in doing so he had applied too much pressure to the brakes, forcing them to lock up. The air had become thick with the sound of the car wailing and screaming, every bolt strained and expecting the inevitable. Smoke had billowed from the tires and warm rubber streaked the asphalt. When he realized they weren’t going to avoid the intersection, Eddie had made his second mistake and jerked the wheel to the left. The sudden movement and inertia caused the front passenger wheel to fail, and it had burst with a hollow blast. The car lurched over the bare rim, the momentum carrying the rest of the car over itself like a macabre ballet. By some miracle, the Camaro hadn’t hit another car, but rather rolled through the intersection before coming to rest on its roof next to the curb on the other side. But Eddie had been pitched from the car, and was motionless in the middle of the street.
In a wave of adrenaline, Virgil had unbuckled his seatbelt and crawled out of the severely wrecked muscle car. He looked around before entering the intersection, and clearly noted amongst the chaos the green Cougar was nowhere to be found. Cars and bystanders had begun to stop and approach him, but Virgil had begun looking for Eddie. When he found him, he rushed to his friend’s side and saw that he was semi-conscious. A laceration to his face had cut Eddie’s cheekbone across his nose and up to his forehead. Virgil didn’t move him or even touch him.
Eddie had been unable to speak, though Virgil kept asking him if he was ok or if he could hear him. He had sat there quietly looking over his friend’s mangled body. The force of the car inverting itself had flung Eddie out of the open driver’s side window and slammed him down onto the asphalt below. Alone it probably would not have caused irreparable damage, however the car was still in the air at the time and was following the same path to the street. The blue and white mass had rolled onto Eddie’s lower extremities, shattering the right side pelvic and femur bones. Immediately he had begun bleeding into his hip and thigh.
Virgil had removed his jacket and placed it over Eddie to keep him warm, but didn’t know what else he could do. He remembered feeling helpless. Once paramedics arrived and Eddie had been loaded into the ambulance, Virgil held his hand all the way to the hospital.
At the hospital, Virgil had refused treatment. He had sat patiently in the waiting room for any word on his friend, the first response from a nurse had indicated Eddie was in rough shape and going into emergency surgery. Before long Virgil had ventured into the ambulance staging area and had found the paramedic team that had treated him and his friend. With them was their captain, Jim Sarjeant. Virgil had approached the men to thank them. He had relayed to them his feelings of being helpless.
He hadn’t been emotional, but rather had a determination about him that suggested he needed to prevent from being helpless ever again. It was the determination to have the knowledge his rescuers had. Captain Sarjeant had noticed his determination, and sensed the young boy had the courage and intelligence to become a rescuer.
The Captain inquired about Virgil’s interests in school, his age and his hobbies. Convinced Virgil might do well with emergency training, he had encouraged the boy to contact him when he turned eighteen years old and they would discuss the steps necessary to move forward.
Virgil had done just that, contacting the Captain on his eighteenth birthday and missing the party his parents had planned for him so that he could visit the fire station that same day. He and Captain Sarjeant had spent hours talking about what it meant to work in emergency services, and how Virgil could be a part. After the conversation was over, the Captain had offered to pay for Virgil to go through basic emergency medical technician training during the summer, before Virgil was to start classes at the university in the fall. Once his training was complete, the Captain had told Virgil there was a part time job waiting for him with the ambulance division of the Long Beach Fire Department. Thrilled at the opportunity to learn the skills he desired and to work with such a great team, Virgil had immediately accepted.
Though he often could be mistaken for the outdoorsy, man’s man stereotype, Virgil pursued a lifelong passion by majoring in fine art in college. His classes had taught him that art and design were useful tools in challenging his problem solving skills as an EMT. It helped him to be creative and open minded, while at the same time providing a foundation based on sound theory and established rules. He enjoyed the stark contrast between his life on campus and his life in uniform. The fire department had proved to be a second home for him as he attended college in Westwood, a dose of real life situations to balance the academia of his studies. He had worked part time while school was in session and full time during the summer months. He graduated Magna Cum Laude, and though he had been recruited as a senior to work as a commercial artist upon graduation, he had his heart set on entering into the fire academy.
But tough economic times would have their say in Virgil’s future, and the city of Long Beach had established a hiring freeze. City officials were still at odds over a budget, with some arguing that services like fire and police should be cut. Regardless of the validity of the debate, the freeze had meant no new candidates could be processed, including current part time employees like Virgil.
He was discouraged, and the stalemate in the city council left little doubt that the freeze would last longer than he could hold out. Captain Sarjeant had been through this before with his own son Charlie, three years Virgil’s senior. When city politics put into question changes in the benefits for new hires, Charlie had opted to apply for a position as a deputy with the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s department. They were heavily recruiting at the time, and had shown an interest in Charlie’s abilities as an EMT.
Los Angeles is home to the largest sheriff’s department in the world, and has multiple divisions outside of pure patrolling. One division is the Search and Rescue unit, comprised of deputy paramedics and volunteers. Once he finished academy and spent some time patrolling the street, Charlie had been put through paramedic training and transferred to the SAR unit. Since the sheriff’s department had still been actively recruiting, Jim Sarjeant had recommended the same path for Virgil. Virgil had always respected the advice of his captain, and after wading through the candidate process, was accepted into the academy at age twenty one.
He had spent two years as a deputy before beginning paramedic training at Daniel Freeman Hospital in Los Angeles, working in the jail system and then out on the street patrolling. His paramedic training was a rigorous six month program, but Virgil had been a standout student and instructor favorite. His years of experience on an ambulance and under the guidance of Captain Sarjeant had benefited him during his continuous training. Upon graduation he had gone to work at Air Rescue Seven, the search and rescue unit located at the base of the San Gabriel Mountains on L.A. County’s eastern border. There he was reunited with Charlie, who had become his closest friend over the past five years. Charlie had initiated Virgil into the team, but soon realized his junior friend either matched or outclassed him in skills and abilities. Regardless, Virgil had continued to maintain the humble and quiet demeanor he’d had since childhood, and worked hard to ensure his unit worked as a team even when he began to set himself apart as a leader. This approach toward his teammates only made them grow fonder and have more respect for him.
Air Rescue Seven was primarily a search and rescue unit, with skills in both urban and mountain rescue, but the team was still comprised of law enforcement deputies and occasionally that training had to be called upon. It was during one of those rare cases when the unit had to act as cops that Virgil was tagged with the nickname of Bear.
The team had been assigned the weekend shift and was relaxing at the station late on a Friday night when they were called by a neighboring city for mutual aid. The city police department had responded to a party call at a house on the hill overlooking five acres. A number of residents on the street had called to complain about the noise and more importantly about the amount of cars parked along the road. When the first police units arrived, the party appeared to be smaller than it actually was. However, when the first officer attempted to make contact with the owner of the house, word got around at the party that the cops were there to bust it up and a sudden flood of people had filled the streets. Unfortunately for the responding officers, the party goers had not been intent on leaving the premises but rather continued their festivities up and down the block. In an effort to quickly control the situation and ensure their officer’s safety, police dispatch had immediately contacted Air Rescue Seven for mutual aid, knowing about eight deputy sheriffs would be on duty at any one time. It took Virgil’s team six minutes to arrive on scene. Once on scene, the deputies had reached out to their fellow law enforcement members to assess the situation and coordinate efforts.
Though the details of Virgil’s encounter have always been a little fuzzy, there is at least one generally accepted version. Virgil had been asked by his sergeant to begin crowd control, asking people to leave the premises. As the story goes, his first point of contact had been a twenty two year old, ex-high school football standout named Manny Jimenez. Manny had never made it to either the college or the pro level in football because he had never given up the party lifestyle, and was regarded around town as the kid who had wasted some of the best potential anyone had seen. He was well over six feet tall and weighed close to three hundred pounds. He had thick, wavy black hair and an unkempt beard that sprouted in all directions. His eyes were dark brown, and his skin was a deep golden brown common to his Yucatan heritage. He had been a fairly amicable guy when sober, but pretty stupid when drunk and prone to making really bad decisions almost always. Virgil had yelled toward him from a distance of about fifteen feet, in an attempt at getting the larger crowd to disperse and go home. Manny had had his back turned toward him. What happened next is where the truth becomes a question mark.
The story is that Manny, having spent the better part of the night sliding beer down his throat, had become enraged at being yelled at and turned toward Virgil in a fit of rage. He had begun screaming, and had launched his heft into an all out charge in the direction of the smaller, uniformed man. Virgil, never one to back down from a fight regardless of his opponent’s size, had immediately charged toward Manny with is arms raised and screaming from the top of his lungs. He had been five feet in his own charge when Manny was struck with the most fearful expression anyone had ever seen and stopped cold in his tracks. Manny had then dropped to his knees, laid his forehead on the ground in front of him and put his hands on the back of his neck. Continuing the stranger than fiction story, Virgil then calmly walked up to the young man and without a beat had placed his handcuffs on him, leaving him prone on the street while he assertively began ordering other people from the party to head home.
Witnesses had said the scene was so surreal that within five minutes the street had cleared and become eerily quiet. They said Virgil had single handedly broken up the throng of partiers before any real serious trouble began. Even his fellow deputies and officers were speechless as to what had occurred, thus leading to the ultimate lack in detail. When his sergeant had asked him later why he didn’t pull his weapon, Virgil responded that he had never felt threatened and didn’t see the benefit with so many drunk and incoherent young adults around. He had added that he thought the sight of his gun might have escalated the situation. Days later the story had still been circulating throughout the station, with Virgil becoming a raging bear that swept through the mob. The details morphed into several iterations, but each time the characterization of Virgil as a bear with his arms raised and charging just stuck. Soon his teammates had quit calling him by his last name (he has never been comfortable with his first name) and started simply referring to him as Bear.
No one really knows if Virgil understands his true size, and he is never one to show it. His bear-like personality seems to present itself in many aspects of his life, whether it is his larger than life strength and will while affecting a rescue or his warm and approachable personality off the job (women call him a teddy bear), he is often the center of attention amongst his group of friends. Of those friends, Anna was his closest.
Virgil had begun moonlighting in Colorado with the AASAR team at the suggestion of Jim Sarjeant. Jim and Mark Patrick had met years prior at a firefighter’s conference in Las Vegas and struck up a friendship. They had maintained correspondence over the years, keeping in touch with each other and occasionally getting the families together during annual conferences. Since Mark had been a long time coordinator for the search and rescue team in Bern, Jim naturally had contacted him when Virgil expressed interest in visiting Colorado. The first visit had been mostly a vacation visit, with Virgil skiing and enjoying the hot tub at his hotel. Subsequent visits and more frequent conversations with Mark had led to him making arrangements with his department to spend a few weeks each year working in the high Rockies. The temptation of the scenery had been too much for him to pass up. The decision had been made easier when Mark offered him the one room apartment above his garage.
His first full working trip to Bern had been scheduled for six weeks. It was initially designed to be a training trip, lasting all of February and into March. His first week there they had received six callouts, the last three of which Virgil was the drop man. His personality took over and the Advanced Alpine Search and Rescue team knew they had something special on their hands. The team had taken him out for drinks one night after that first week, to celebrate his arrival, to celebrate his success on the missions and generally just to celebrate. The rowdy group of cops, firefighters and professional climbers filled up most of Sandy’s Pub, an old fashioned Irish bar in downtown Bern. By midnight the party was just hitting its peak, but Virgil had had enough. He had decided to walk the two and a half blocks back to his apartment, and exited the back door of the saloon. Sitting quietly just outside the back door was the Akita, Border Collie mix, then just a puppy of six months. When Virgil emerged from the doorway and saw her sitting there, he simply stopped and stared back. There they stood, both heads cocked to one side, staring at each other in the cold winter night. She was a little dirty that night, and seemed to be a bit cold as well. Virgil had quickly noticed she did not have a collar or tags. He had begun talking to the dog, asking her questions about who she was and where she came from. Naturally, the dog didn’t respond. She did start wagging her tail, however, and when Virgil had asked if she wanted to come home with him, she responded by following him all the way into his apartment.
Though still a little weary from the party and the alcohol, Virgil had filled his bathtub with warm water and shampoo and attempted to give the mutt a bath. She saw fit to jump out of the tub half a dozen times to shake herself, coating the bathroom walls in a frothy mix of shampoo, hair and water. He laughed every time she did. He had finally managed to corral her with a towel and get her dry before letting her loose again to sniff the entire apartment. He had gone to the kitchen, filled a mixing bowl with water and placed it on the floor before finally heading to bed. When he entered his room, the puppy was sound asleep on his bed. Virgil kicked off his shoes, nestled himself next to the stray and promptly fell asleep. In the morning, he woke to the energetic licking of his face from the dog. New town, new adventures, and the sweetest new friend he had ever encountered. California would always be where his heart was, but Colorado sure felt like home to him. He had taken the puppy for a short walk, using a daisy chain and carabiner for a leash, before settling her into the apartment and heading off to work. He had named her Saint Annapurna, Anna for short, in part after the mountain where he’d sworn he’d seen two miracles. The little surprise outside the back door of a pub was a third miracle.
The smell of bacon that had been fried up over two hours ago in the kitchen downstairs was still wafting its way up the stairwell to the bunkhouse upstairs in The Nine. But bellies were full and the smell was making everyone just a little sick. Samantha had made up the last of the bacon, a good deal of eggs, toast and even some potatoes to have ready for when Rescue Two came back to the hangar with Virgil and Charlie, and the two lost snowboarders. She wasn’t one to cook for everyone, but felt on this cold morning that the team needed a warm return. The bunkhouse was situated with a full kitchen, dining room, weight room, television room, men’s and women’s lockers with toilets and showers, and five individual bedrooms each sleeping up to three people. The television room had three sofa beds, in case the bunkhouse needed to sleep more people. The administration offices downstairs had a full kitchen as well, and that is where Samantha preferred to do her cooking.