| Peak(s): |
Granite Peak, MT - 12799 |
| Date Posted: | 08/24/2014 |
| Date Climbed: | 08/20/2014 |
| Author: | wineguy |
| Peak(s): |
Granite Peak, MT - 12799 |
| Date Posted: | 08/24/2014 |
| Date Climbed: | 08/20/2014 |
| Author: | wineguy |
| Granite Peak and Montana misadventure |
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I reached the summit of Granite Peak, MT at 8:30 a.m. on August 20, 2014, guided by Austin Hart of Beartooth Mountain Guides. Returning to the Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness, I couldn't help but spend some of the time thinking about my unfortunate trip to the area in 2011, when my friend Mark crushed his heel in a bad fall. Three years and three surgeries later, he is still not sure if he can save his foot. So rather than write a trip report, I'm going to tell our story from 2011: --------------------------------- 'John, let's go camping, I want to show you my favorite place.' It was Mark, a friend from college, currently a semi-retired geologist in Northern Michigan. Susan and I always dropped in on Mark when we made annual trips north. But the area has limited air service, and is a long day-and-a-half drive from Kansas City, so after the last of my Aunts passed away our trips became less frequent. I hadn't seen Mark for about 5 years. "Uhh, what did you have in mind?" "We'll go backpacking in the Montana wilderness, 8 days and 7 nights, it will be awesome." "Mark, I've never packed anywhere for more than 3 nights, and in the last two decades never more than 2, and only then when necessary to reach a remote summit." "But John, the fishing will be awesome and the mountains and lakes are beautiful. I've been out there six times, it's my favorite place." "I'm too old to pack in with 8 days of supplies. A rule-of-thumb for backcountry camping is 2 pounds of food per day minimum, and 16 pounds added to the weight of pack, sleeping bag, sleeping pad, tent, and other essentials is way too much for an old man." "No way you'll need that much food, we'll catch fish every day, the lakes are full of them, just carry enough for breakfast and snacks; and some rice, noodles, or dried potatoes to eat with the fish. And I've got great homemade venison jerky for snacking, I shot two bucks on the property last year." "I'm a climber, not a fisherman." "No problem, you can climb, I'll catch enough fish for both of us." I met Mark at Michigan Tech, near where I grew up in Northern Michigan. He loved the outdoors. It seems like he was always disappearing on weekends, to go camping, fishing, cross-country skiing, or rummaging around in some abandoned mine, working on what was to become an amazing collection of rocks, minerals, and geodes, many of them museum quality. Mark always had lots of energy, but it was seldom directed toward his studies. When I occasionally spotted him in the student library, he wouldn't be studying, but rather, poring over some old map or plot book, searching for another illicit entrance point to a mine where he could search for more underground treasures. Mining in Upper Michigan peaked in the early 1900s, with over a hundred copper and iron ore mines, all of them since abandoned. I'd venture to say that Mark has entered more of these mines illicitly than anyone. Mark moved back downstate after graduation to take a job, but his love for the outdoors soon brought him back to Northern Michigan to raise his family. "So you're certain we'll have fish to eat? I know if you lose 20 pounds you'll feel great (Mark is 6'6", and about 250 pounds), but if I lose 20 pounds I'll be dead." "We'll have fish to eat, I guarantee it." So I start calculating in my head, Snickers bars and dehydrated food have about 120-130 calories per oz, nuts a little more. With 1.5 pounds of food per day providing about 3000 calories, adding 500 calories of fish would raise it to 3500. If I keep the climbing light, I'll burn maybe 4000 calories per day, only 500 short of what I eat. And after 8 days I'd be 4000 calories short, losing only about 2 pounds of body weight, while carrying in about 10 pounds of food. And if there is no fish, we could always head out early. Maybe this can work. On August 31 Mark picked me up at the Billings, MT airport after driving from Upper Michigan. As I haul my gear to his VW Jetta, the first thing I notice is that the rear of his car seems to riding low, like he has a problem with his rear springs. When he opens the trunk I see the problem, a giant sledge hammer and a couple hundred pounds of rocks. He notices my puzzled look and says: "A geologist never goes anywhere without a good sledge hammer, and the petrified wood is from North Dakota. The first time we were driving out here I spotted a piece of petrified wood off the side of the road, so I stopped the car and looked around for more. After searching I found this amazing gully below, where the road construction crew had bulldozed a bunch of huge boulders, and many of them were petrified wood. Now I stop at the same gully every time I drive through, and scramble down and haul up a few pieces." "Uh huh, I get it, I think." We drive west from Billings toward Red Lodge, MT and then over the Beartooth Highway to Cooke City, MT. The highway is northeast of Yellowstone Park, and with its high elevation and northern latitude snowstorms are possible even in the summer. The highway climbs through a series of switchbacks to a high plateau. The upper part of the road is above tree-line, offering unobstructed views of mountain lakes and the rugged Beartooth Range, Charles Kuralt referred to it as: "the most beautiful drive in America." The next morning, Thursday Sept. 1, we started up the East Rosebud trail from a trailhead about 3 miles east of Cooke City, MT, 6 miles from the northeast entrance to Yellowstone Park. The trail began as an easy walking path, hard-packed dirt through an evergreen forest, passing a large lake every half mile or so. Mark explained that the lakes close to the trailhead were not very good for fishing because they were overfished by day-hikers. We continued up the trail with the easy conversation of old friends, about old times, life changes, and with an occasional geology lesson about the nearby terrain. Mark apologized for talking too much, but noted that the noise warned any nearby bears we were coming, and that surprising them is not a good idea. After a few miles we entered the Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness. Absaroka is the name for the Crow Indian tribe in their native language. It literally means: People of the Big Beaked Bird (the Crows had prominent noses). Mark explained how he first started hiking in the Absaroka. He and his family were on a driving vacation in the mid-90's, heading to Glacier Nat'l Park. While passing through the Beartooth Range and staring at the beautiful scenery they all decided, "let's stop here," so they put on their packs and headed out. Mark prefers the solitude of wilderness to the crowds of National Parks, this is his seventh trip to Montana and he still hasn't made it to Glacier Park.  As we continued rising up the trail, the trees got thinner, the trail got rockier, and the lakes became rimmed by boulder fields, snowfields, and cliffs rather than thick forests. Mark said his family liked to guess how many hikers they'd see returning out of the wilderness, and asks me for my estimate. Since we hadn't seen anyone since leaving the parking lot about 5 miles back, zero seems like a pretty good choice, but I say two. Mark guesses five. We eventually see three, but for the following four days we see no one else. We chat briefly with one of the returning fisherman and I immediately notice a big difference between climbers and fisherman. When you ask a climber where they've been they will regale you with every detail, places where the route is difficult to follow, the best views, the tough parts of the climb, where to beware of loose rock, etc. When you ask a fisherman about their day, you'll get blank stares and comments like, "we were somewhere out that way, I'm not sure if the lake had a name." They protect the location of their fishing holes like they were the Lost Ark of the Covenant. About 7 miles from the trailhead we left the trail to follow a stream up a steep gully, passed two remote lakes, and arrived at our first campsite on Fossil Lake. We set up camp and Mark fished while I collected firewood. He reeled in several cutthroat trout, tossed back the smallest ones, and returned with two about 9 inches each, "These are small, but I told you we'd eat fish. They'll be bigger up above."  To reassure my fear of starvation he caught cutthroats for breakfast again the next morning. After breakfast we packed up and headed for our ultimate destination, Cairn Lake. On an earlier trip to the Absaroka, Mark and his son Carson tried to fish as many different lakes as possible, 3-4 per day. Cairn Lake had the biggest brook trout. We scrambled for almost a mile along the edge of Fossil Lake, picked up the East Rosebud trail for two miles, and then left the trail north into a watershed. Our progress became more difficult after leaving the trail, scrambling up steep rock, walking carefully across snowfields, stepping carefully across boulder-fields with rocks the size of Volkswagons, and squeezing along the edge of lakes where rock cliffs slowed us down. Mark moved very fast across the flat areas, his large stride amazingly agile even across the boulder-fields, I had to stay focused to keep up with him, but he slowed down to about half my pace as soon as we started climbing. Unlike me, he hadn't spent half his summer at high altitudes getting acclimatized. But I was happy with the easy pace, lots of time to appreciate the scenery and the wildflowers in the high grassy areas.  About two hours before nightfall we arrived at a grassy area about a quarter mile south of Cairn Lake. Mark said he didn't have time to fish the big lake, but we set up camp and he quickly caught two brook trout in the pond near our campsite, below a waterfall in a stream that flowed out of Cairn Lake. Nightfall came, and I washed dishes under the light from my headlamp.  The next day Mark was excited to fish Cairn Lake. He wanted to catch a brook trout over 19 inches, trophy size, then keep it cool in the snowfield near our camp and pack it out in plastic bag and have it stuffed. I decided to climb Cairn Mountain, 12,222 ft., which sits about a mile south of Granite Peak, Montana's high point at 12,799 ft. The climb was mostly Class 3 with one difficult Class 4 section. Generally, a Class 3 climb is steep enough to require your hands and arms to support some of your weight while you move your feet, and steep enough to cause severe injury if you fall, but has many handholds and footholds so that a good climber can move as fast as their lungs and legs allow. Class 4 is steeper and more difficult, you have to look harder to find good handholds and footholds, and also think about how you are going to shift your weight to stay safely attached to the rock. A good climber can ascend Class 4 rock without rope, providing they don't get butterflies in their stomach, nervous legs, or loose bowels from staring into a 100 to 1000 ft. abyss. Class 4 is the upper edge of my comfort level, I've done several Class 4 summit ascents in Colorado plus Rainier in Washington, though Rainier was with rope.   I never reached the summit. I got to within about 100 vertical feet, but faced a long Class 3 traverse along a narrow ridge that required scrambling over several difficult rock outcroppings. I didn't have time to both reach the summit and make a safe return. I quickly understood why climbers usually approach this peak from the southwest rather than the southeast. I took a few pictures of Granite Peak, which was hidden from camp behind Cairn Mountain, and then I and headed back to camp. Mark had a successful day fishing, exploring the lake and catching about 20 brook trout between 10 and 16 inches. He tossed all of them back except for two 13 inchers, which he thought would be more than enough for supper. He insisted I eat the fattest one, still sensitive to my fear of starvation. After cutting each fish into two fillets he offered to put half the catch into our refrigerator, the nearby snow field, and save it for breakfast. Before the previous day I hadn't eaten brook trout since leaving home for college, so I insisted on pigging out. The next day we decided to explore together. The ridge on the west side of Cairn Lake was broken by a low saddle that led to another watershed. We decided to scout out an alternative route back to the trailhead. If we could find a safe route into the watershed to the west, we could check out many lakes that Mark hadn't yet fished. We had a fun day exploring, climbing, and taking pictures of Villard Mountain and Glacier Peak. But some of the route involved Class 3 scrambling that was too challenging to tackle with heavy packs, so we kept with our original plan to pack out of Cairn Lake the same way we came. During the day-hike, Mark and I occasionally took slightly different paths, he generally favored the shorter route while I generally favored the safer one. At one point following the edge of the lake became difficult, because a steep cliff rose along the lake's edge. Mark found a couple of cracks in the cliff that gave him handholds and footholds to proceed while keeping low. I took the safer route, climbing about 200 ft. up over the top of the cliff. Later, while I was taking a five minute detour around a snowfield that seemed uncomfortably steep, Mark was carefully kicking steps straight through the snow. I wasn't concerned, Mark is an excellent skier and ex-ski patroller, so I figured he was just more comfortable on steep snow than me.  We got back to Cairn Lake around 5:00 pm, found the fishing pole where we'd stashed it, and Mark started casting for dinner. On the 4th cast he reeled in a 14 inch brook trout. Then he handed the pole to me, "its time you caught your own dinner." I wasn't as successful as Mark, the first two fish that hit my line escaped, but by the 10th cast I had my own 14 inch brookie for dinner. Mark asked if I wanted to toss it back and get a bigger one, I said, "no way."  As darkness approached after dinner, we had three visitors in our camp, two adult mountain goats and a baby. They seemed totally unafraid of us and very curious, coming as near as 10 ft. Mark said that goats often came to his camp at Cairn. I was worried that they might be aggressive, but he assured me there was nothing to worry about. He said that the only time they bothered him was one time camping with Carson, when a goat outside the tent laid down against Carson who was sleeping inside. This did not reassure me. I like getting close to wildlife as much as anyone, but that doesn't mean I want to spoon with some smelly horny goat. They wandered in and out of camp several times during the night, and whenever one got within a few feet of my tent while I was awake, I'd blow a whistle to make sure it understood that I wasn't 'in the mood.' Mark was unconcerned and slept with his tent open. He woke up once to see the baby goat at his door, inspecting the inside of his tent.  On Monday, our 5th day in the backcountry, our trip went far off course. We'd both enjoyed the previous day exploring, so we decided to explore another valley. Over a ridge to our east was the Granite Creek watershed, which drains off of Granite Lake on the southeast side of Granite Peak. We packed a fishing pole for the lakes, and hoped to get some great views and photos of Granite Peak. The valley to the east was even more rugged than the valley to the west, more cliffs, steeper snowfields, and fewer safe routes. The climb up the ridge was easy but the descent into the next valley was a challenge. The descent had a few Class 4 sections. Mark navigated them quickly with his long legs, and then helped me by pointing out the best footholds. About 3 hours after leaving camp we were scrambling down a rock rib that ended in a steep snowfall when the excitement began. I noticed that the rib ended with a steep 10 ft. drop onto the snow, so I started detouring to a different rib that avoided the steep drop. Mark decided to stay on the direct route, climbing down the steep drop to the snow. I lost sight of him, but then heard a yell and saw him lying in a pile of rocks. I asked if he was OK, and he said he wasn't sure and to give him a few minutes to find out. While down-climbing he ran out of footholds about 2 feet above the snowfield, then decided to leap the last section, hoping to stick the landing. But the landing didn't stick, and he quickly accelerated 50 ft. down the steep snowfield until stopped by a pile of rocks. The terrain was hazardous, but I found a safe route to reach him, climbing down rocks and crossing the snowfield where it wasn't so steep. As soon as he tried to put weight on his foot he realized he wasn't going very far. There was no way he could return the way we came. He suggested finding a tree branch for a crutch, so he could limp down into the valley and I could look for a trail that might be accessible by horseback. I told him that this was not a situation for amateurs, and that we needed to get Search and Rescue involved ASAP. I didn't see any way of getting him out of here other than on a helicopter. The time was 2:30 pm. The temperatures had been dropping below freezing at night, so I needed to get him a tent and sleeping bag before nightfall. I told him that if I left by 3:00 pm I could be in our camp at Cairn Lake by 5:00 pm, and get back by 7:00 pm to set up his tent. I was worried about navigating the steep sections with a heavy pack and without Mark's help. I spent about 15 minutes looking for an alternate exit, an easy route into the Granite Creek valley to the east, but it was as rugged as what we'd just crossed. I collected a few dead tree branches that might be useful to fashion a crutch, but told him they weren't very promising. I said that needed to get going if I were to get back before nightfall. He was lying in a boulder strewn gulley, high above the valley floor. About 150 yards down the gulley was a flat area with grass, rocks, and a shallow stream running down the center. I pointed downward, "that area below is the only place flat enough to pitch a tent that we've seen for over an hour, do you think you can crawl down there?" "Yes, it will take a while but I can make it." I took the water filter out of my pack, which we'd taken as a daypack because it was smaller. I went to the stream and filled our bottles with filtered water. I took out my GPS system, checked our coordinates, and wrote them down on the map. "Mark, I'll come back with your pack, it's bigger and should fit your tent, our sleeping bags, and sleeping pads." "Bring all my clothes." "OK." "I'm so bummed that I screwed up our vacation." "Don't worry, we've had a great time. Just worry about getting out of here." "I screwed up, I talked you out of bringing your Personal Locator Beacon " (the Beacon would have sent a distress signal to Search and Rescue via satellite, sending the GPS coordinates of our location) "That wasn't your fault, we agreed to leave it behind to save weight. I need to get going" "That rock ridge to the south looks easier than the one we came down." "Do you think I can climb it all the way out of this valley?" "I don't know." "I'll try, if it gets hairy I'll come back within a half-hour and go back the route we came. I need to get going, I'll be back by 7:00 pm. Be careful." "You be careful." My watch says 2:56 pm. As I start climbing up the ridge I notice two symptoms of the adrenaline that is surging through my body. First, my mind is totally focused. Second, my mouth feels completely dry, and I can't' get it moist no matter how much I drink. I climb as quickly and safely as my legs and lungs will allow. I am south of our original descent and the route seems a little easier than the one we came down. I cross two Class 4 sections of rock, but they aren't too difficult, at least while carrying a light daypack. I am making mental notes, hoping to find this precise path on my return. I finish the most difficult section of the climb in about 25 minutes, then stop to rest and look at the map to confirm my position. I breathe my first sigh of relief, the most difficult part of the route to Cairn is behind me. I wolf down a candy bar for energy and head west. The rest of the way is easier, a little scrambling, hiking across a few snowfields, and finding a dry route around two marshy lakes. I see a saddle that I'm sure will lead to the Cairn Lake drainage, and when I get to the saddle am relieved to see the snow formation along the stream above our kitchen. Within minutes I see our tents and scramble rapidly to the bottom of the valley. My watch says 4:05 pm. Another sigh of relief, I'm ahead of schedule. I immediately start tearing down Mark's tent. I made such good time I reconsider my plan to spend the night on the ridge with Mark. Maybe I'll have time to return to Cairn for the night to get a head start in the morning? But I don't want to leave Mark alone, and I'm not sure how long it will take me to return with a heavy pack. Stick with plan A. I stuff our sleeping bags into their sacks, take down Mark's tent, take our cooking and eating gear from the kitchen and put it in my tent. Fortunately Mark has a huge pack, with handy straps on the outside. I get almost everything inside; tent, sleeping bags, food, and clothes. I need to keep everything as tight as possible to my body, to keep the pack from throwing me off balance on steep sections of rock. Only the sleeping pads get strapped outside the pack. Organizing and packing up takes longer than expected. But I'm ready to return, its 4:35 pm and I'm still ahead of schedule. The trip back takes much longer. Mark's pack is too large for my frame, and the weight of gear slows me down. I climb slowly but make steady progress. It takes almost an hour to get to the high knob above the ridge I will descend to our new campsite. I yell to Mark, wanting to assure him I'm on my way. He shouts back, says he's OK. The climb down takes almost another hour, I've never had to negotiate Class 4 rock with such a heavy load. I study each difficult move carefully to make sure the pack doesn't disrupt my balance. I cross a final snowfield then scramble to the top of a rock rib, and see Mark watching patiently from a pile of rocks right next to the flat area. He's made it to the tent site. Just another 100 ft. to descend, one more Class 4 move, and I'm on flat terrain again. Its 6:30 pm. Mark apologizes for being a little irrational, "You were right, there is no way we can get me out of here without professional help. Do you think that flat area further along this ridge is big enough to land a helicopter?" "I don't know, I hope so. If not, maybe they can hover above and pluck you from the air. How long did it take you to crawl here from where you were hurt?" "About an hour, and I totally tore up my pants while sliding on my butt." I put up the tent and fill our water bottles as darkness falls. We crawl into the tent, Mark rests his foot on his pack, trying to keep it elevated to minimize the swelling. He says, "I never thought that two people could actually fit in this 2-person tent, but it's not too bad." Neither of us expect to get much sleep. Mark is in too much pain, in addition to his foot problems, he has pain in his ribs and above his butt. Fortunately, in addition to Tylenol he has two more powerful pain pills that were left over from some dental surgeries. My mind is racing too much to sleep. I'm thinking about the trip out. I'm relieved that the most difficult part of the climbing is behind me. After coming down the ridge with a heavy pack, going up with a light fanny pack should not be a problem. I should have enough light to start climbing by 6:30 am, so I tell Mark to wake me if I'm still sleeping at 6:15. I want 15 minutes to get organized and fill our bottles with filtered water. Fortunately, I have iodine solution as a backup to treat water, so I can leave the filter with Mark. I expect to move quickly, I should be at Cairn by 7:30 am. A half-hour taking my tent down, packing, and organizing puts me at 8:00 am. The 4 miles down the watershed to the trail should take maybe 2 hours, so I'll be on the trail be by 10:00 am. Then, 12 miles along the trail to the trailhead. I need to take rest breaks and eat and drink enough, to make sure my muscles don't start cramping. I've seen too many climbers defeated by cramps. I hope to reach the car by 3:00 pm. No cell service out of Cooke City, but only a 5 minute drive, so I should be able to contact a sheriff or someone else to begin a rescue on Tuesday, maybe Mark will only need to spend one night on the ledge. Even without much sleep, I'm not too worried about getting out. On Rainier earlier this summer I was up at 12:15 am on summit day with only about 2 hours of sleep. We still climbed up from 1:30 am to 7:45 am, then back to the parking lot at 4:30 pm, 15 hours after first stepping onto the glacier. I just want to move as fast and safely as I can, to get Mark help as soon as possible. Mark coaches me a little about the route down from Cairn to the trail. It's impossible to get lost, just follow the stream and the lakes down the valley. I want to move efficiently, so Mark reminds me about the quickest way to get around each lake between Cairn and the trail, and the safest descent along each waterfall. As expected, neither of us sleep much. For the first time it is a pleasure to hear Mark snoring, knowing he has momentary relief from the pain he feels while conscious. At 6:15 am we are both awake; I get out of the tent, filter water, and start getting organized. Mark wishes me luck, but hedges his bets. He says that if no one shows up by late tomorrow, he'll presume I ran into problems on the way out and he's going to start crawling downhill. This sounds like a terrible idea, but I'm not going to argue. I know his wife Jan, and she'd tell me that telling Mark what to do is pointless. I tell him to take care of himself, "make sure you eat and drink something, I'll try to get help to you before nightfall." "Be careful on your climb out." "I will." I start up the ridge, my watch reads 6:28 am. The climb and hike out went largely on schedule, except for a stroke of luck on the trail at about 10:30 am. A man in shorts was approaching from the other direction, so I stopped him to explain our problem. He listened attentively, wondering if there was something he could do. He was a part-time ranger on the second last day of his summer job. I don't know what took him so long for his brainstorm, but after a while he said, "Maybe I should use my satellite phone?" So he called his boss, who called Search and Rescue, and the gears of rescue started turning. Ben's boss told him to find Mark and confirm my GPS coordinates of his location. I showed him my route and Mark's location on my map. He headed up into the wilderness to find Mark, and I headed to the trailhead to see if there was anything else I could do to assist in the rescue. Great luck, I recall Mark saying he'd never seen a ranger in this wilderness in any of his six previous visits. I felt some relief, but couldn't relax until Mark was off the mountain. I reached the trailhead at about 3:30 pm, with sore shoulders, stiff legs, and blistered feet. I raced into town and used the phone at the visitor center to call 911. I was connected to the Yellowstone Search and Rescue, who forwarded my call to Custer County Search and Rescue. Brad was in charge, he'd already started the rescue after getting a call from the Park Service and had found two volunteers who were on the trail toward Mark. He took some info from me, a description of Mark, detail about the route to his location, and confirmation of the GPS coordinates of his campsite. We spent a lot of time discussing the map, to make sure they could find our route. I asked if there was anything I could do, and he just said to stay near a phone in case he needed more info. Unfortunately, the only motel in town with phones, the Super 8, was full. The other lodging options were cabins or lodges without phones, and the visitor center closed at 5:00 pm. I called to explain my problem to Brad, but he said he probably had all the necessary information. Bonnie, who ran the visitor center, volunteered to help. She gave Brad her phone number and agreed to chase me down at my motel if they needed me. My last contact with Brad was just before 5:00 pm. He said that the ranger, Ben, was getting close to Mark but still hadn't make contact. I was feeling relief that the search was in progress, but still a little concerned that they make contact with Mark before he started crawling downhill. I slept a little better, but was worried that my directions to find Mark were clouded by my adrenaline fueled frenzy. I called Brad at 8:00 am the next morning, Wednesday. He said that Ben had reached Mark at 6:00 pm the previous night, but they hadn't yet rescued him. Mark had spent a second night on the mountain. Two Search and Rescue volunteers reached Mark the next morning to help. They confirmed what I suspected, the best way to get Mark out was by helicopter. Mark apologized for putting them to so much trouble. Reassuring him, one said: "Don't worry, it's not a problem. I hunt, I fish, I completely understand what you are doing up here. I volunteered because I love hiking in these mountains. This is my favorite place." Negotiations for a chopper continued Wednesday morning. Unfortunately, the 10,000 ft. elevation was too high for a Medevac chopper. They eventually arranged for an Air Force chopper from the Malmstrom Air Base near Great Falls, MT, about 200 air miles north. The military vehicle could climb to higher altitudes, land on a smaller footprint, and pull him up on a cable if they didn't have enough room to land. Mark got their best service, an elite team that was going to Colorado Springs the following week to compete against helicopter teams from other Air Bases. Mark was incredibly relieved and appreciative, watching the chopper descend into the small semi-flat area of rock and grass near the tent. The propulsion from the blades pushed out fountains of water in its wake. Spotters were hanging out each side of the doorless machine, watching the tail propeller and guiding the pilot to make sure that the propeller didn't hit any of the large rocks sticking up from the landing site. Mark was soon on the roof of a hospital in Billings and then in the emergency room.  Brad initially told me to meet Mark at the hospital in Red Lodge, but since the helicopter needed to be refueled in Billings, they took him to a hospital there. By the time I reached Mark in Billings, his body had been thoroughly X-rayed. He was smiling, relieved to be rescued and on pain killers. He had multiple fractures in his heel, but surgery would have to wait a couple of weeks until the swelling went down. He also had a cracked coccyx, or tailbone, which would be allowed to heal on its own. Although his ribs were painful, they weren't broken, presumably just bruised. He was going to spend one night in the hospital and hadn't had a decent meal for over two days, so we mostly talked food, working on a plan for me to get him something tasty outside the hospital. He was out of the hospital the next day, and spent two nights in a motel waiting for his wife to fly out and drive him back to Michigan. Every so often he would apologize to me for ruining my vacation. All I could say was "Mark don't worry about me, I'm fine. You're the one who is suffering. I spent five awesome days in the wilderness, I ate brook trout for the first time since I left home for college, and I faced a challenge like none before. We had great weather, great fishing, and great climbing, and I got to see your favorite place." Thumbnails for uploaded photos (click to open slideshow): 
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