Enter at your own risk. Carry water. Avoid the noonday sun. Try to ignore the vultures. Pray frequently. - Edward Abbey
The huge green land yacht careened around hair pin turns above steep cliffs at breakneck speeds. As I followed - slowly and cautiously - I couldn't believe how fast the person driving the car in front of me was going. Such complete reckless abandon could only be due to some kind of mental impairment.
I knew it was a man because he had passed me several miles back. He didn't even turn his head to acknowledge my presence, just in time to gun it once past me in my SUV. He and his wife both looked to be about 50 and stylishly dressed - a little incongruous for the terrain. His powerful Buick responded to the gas as he punched it down the loose, sandy desert road. That was in a relatively straight and flat portion of the road.
Nothing like the stretch of road we are on now...
I had brought my family to this southern Utah desert paradise. Having grown up in Utah, I knew there are many areas of unbridled beauty of the kind that postcard and National Geographic magazine photographers dream. The cerulean sky arches above some of the most dramatic rock formations on earth, with their hues of orange and pink and white and purple. Dark green pinion pines and junipers pepper the valleys and mesa tops, while a blanket of the ubiquitous sagebrush and cheat grass covers the flat, sandy soils as far as the eye can see. How anything requiring water lives here I will never understand.
Yet here they were.
And here I was, with my two small children.
We had spent an amazing few days crawling around sandstone formations, pretending to be Anasazi or Fremont or Navajo. We were prepared. I had brought gallons of water, ample food, and shelter against the brutal desert sun. While we were here in mid-March, taking advantage of the kid's spring break from school, I knew that in the desert even when it's not blazing hot some shade is always welcome. Thus prepared, our visit to the forbidding country was relatively uneventful.
I watched carefully as the Buick navigated the dangerous cliff-bounded roads. As I crested a small rise, I saw with alarm the large, powerful vehicle caromed off a sandstone formation at the side of the road, lifted up into the air, and slammed back down to the ground. The driver over-corrected on the loosely compacted sandy roadbed and edged perilously close to the edge. For a second I thought he'd be able to pull out of it, but then my stomach gave a sickening lurch as I watched the vehicle tilt to the right and roll out of sight.
It took me about 60 seconds to arrive at the place on the road where the car had disappeared. As I reached for my door handle, I released my pent up breath I hadn't even known I'd been holding. I instructed my kids to sit tight - which, with their heads buried in their electronic devices, actually required them to NOT sit tight for the nano-second it took to acknowledge - and exited the SUV and walked to the last place I'd seen the car. There were no visible signs of the brakes having even been applied at all.
As I looked over the edge, the slope, while not exactly vertical, was enough to ensure that the rolling car executed several turns on its way to the desert floor two hundred feet below. Most of that trip was over sandstone. Sandstone, while softer than most other rock, can still do a significant amount of damage. Especially to a two-ton bit of rolling Detroit.
The car at the bottom of the cliff was just coming out of the dust settling around it. It resembled nothing so much as a forest green aluminum can which had been kicked around by God's own soccer team. While the glass had all been blown out, the passenger compartment looked relatively in tact. It was flattened, and the paint and steel had been scraped horribly, but I was hopeful that the folks inside were OK.
I knew that I could probably slip down the cliff, if I took it easy. Getting back up didn't pose a problem either. But since I didn't know how the people at the bottom would be, I decided caution was the better part of wisdom. I carefully guided my vehicle near the edge of the cliff, set the brake, and retrieved my sturdy rope. I tied off the rope to the trailer hitch, knowing that the weight of the vehicle would act as an anchor while I went down the slope.
Reminding the kids to stay in the SUV, I went over the edge.
One of the good things about sandstone is its ability to grip as you climb it. Thus, the descent to the wreck was quick and easy. There was enough texture to the rock surface to give breaks when needed, forming almost a natural ladder which made negotiating the slope easy for a person. But not so much for the car.
As I approached the wreck I was aware of the distinctive odor of leaking anti-freeze, oil cooking off, and leaking gas. While I was not worried about an explosion - such things are really the fabrication of movie makers who are looking for the dramatic conclusion to an already dramatic event - I was concerned about something catching fire and getting out of control. The car lay on its top, with its windows flattened to about six inch slits through which little could be seen.
"Hello? Can you hear me?" I called out.
"Oh, thank God!" came the fervent reply. "Please, please help us!"
"Are you hurt?" I asked.
"No, but my wife is unconscious. She was not wearing her seatbelt. I am still in mine, hanging from the ceiling. The seat has crushed the release button and I cannot get out. Can you reach my wife?"
"I don't know. Let me get around to the other side of the vehicle."
As I approached the passenger side of the vehicle, I saw a bit of clothing which had become wedged between the wrecked Buick and the sandstone below. It had a flower pattern on it. It was the woman's skirt. Her legs had become trapped under the wreck. While she was still alive, she would certainly not be for long.
My first irrational thought was, Who wears a skirt into the desert?!?
But then I thought about the poor man hanging from his seatbelt in a wrecked vehicle next to his mortally wounded and unconscious wife. How am I going to break this to him?
I approached the driver side. Ever the optimist, I tried to open the door. No luck. All of the doors were crushed and virtually sealed closed. It would take the jaws of life - those hydraulic cutters emergency personnel wield - to help this man out.
"Your wife was partially ejected from the vehicle," I explained. "Her legs are pinned under the car. It would appear that her pelvis is crushed. I am not a trained medical professional, but her injuries look very serious, if not life-threatening. I am very, very sorry."
The man showed little feeling. "Is there any way you can get me out of this seatbelt? Do you have a knife or something? I think I can cut the webbing..."
I didn't note the coldness in his voice until much later. By then it would be too late.
"Sure," I said, taking out my pocketknife and passing it up to him through the space where the windshield had been.
I saw his position as the wreck had left him - at least the upper portion of his body. He was indeed suspended from the seat by his seatbelt. His head and shoulders were bent close to his knees and he could not freely move his head. That's why he couldn't see his wife, I thought. His arms were in odd positions, but he was able to move them. He didn't look hurt - just shaken.
He cut himself free and wriggled himself into a semi-upright position. "I can feel a pulse on her neck, but it's very faint. Is she losing blood?" he asked.
"Not that I could see. But she's most likely bleeding internally."
He then said something to her in a language I did not understand. It sounded European, but not Latin or Germanic based. Something that was rough and very foreign.
It occurred to me that I didn't know his name.
"What is your name?" I asked.
"Please call me Rick," came the response. Now he sounded supremely tired.
"Rick, I need to tell you. This situation is extremely tough. Your wife is very seriously hurt, and we are about an hour and a half from the nearest cell phone reception. The nearest hospital capable of dealing with such injuries is in Salt Lake City, which is five hours by ambulance. I do not want to leave you here like this, but in order to get help I am going to have to get to a place where my phone will work. In the mean time, I will set you up with water and some shelter - it's going to get hot in there soon - and make sure you're as comfortable as possible until I can return with someone to get you out of there."
"No - wait. Please go to the trunk." He slid some keys out. "In there you will find a bright yellow duffel bag. Please bring that over here first."
The mechanism on the trunk latch responded to the key. It never ceased to amaze me how even in a complete wreck of a vehicle, some things continued to perform their assigned jobs. I reached in and grabbed the bag. I noted that there were other aluminum cases in the trunk, but just thought they were expensive luggage or camera cases. I left the trunk open in case I needed anything further.
"Open up the bag," he said, as I brought it around the front of the vehicle. "In it you will find a small electronic device about the size of a deck of cards. It is a simple device - a tracking beacon - but it is only activated when you press the button. Please press the button now. Help will arrive shortly."
I was shocked. This was WAY too cloak and dagger for me... But at his behest, and not a little curious, I located the device and pressed the button. It bore an embossed description in a language that I did not know - a strange combination of Cyrillic, Sanskrit, and Chinese. And those were the characters I recognized... there were more that I did not know at all.
"Ok. I pressed it," I said. "I'm going to go back up for that shelter and some water. How long do you think it will take for your friends to arrive?"
"I'm not sure, but I would imagine a couple of hours. They are in Panguitch."
I was surprised he knew how to pronounce the word "Panguitch." He sounded like a native...
I ascended the slope. Climbing up sandstone is always easier than descending. With the rope I had tied off, the ascent was very easy.
My children were still glued to their electronic games as I unpacked the shelter. It was little more than a tarp with some poles and guy ropes and stakes, creating just a shade structure, but I figured it would help keep the area cool for the man trapped in the car below. I explained to the kids that there had been an accident and that I was going back down to help out. My son, fourteen and an avid Boy Scout, immediately wanted to go and help. I smiled at his enthusiasm but reminded him that he needed to stay and take care of the SUV and his eight year old sister. He nodded, still curious, but was soon back into his game.
My daughter had barely marked the conversation. She was in the zone...
I smiled as I grabbed some water and some snacks, put the shelter in a pack and headed back down the slope.
Erecting the shelter was old hat - I had devised the thing myself - and quickly accomplished. The only trouble I had was with the sandy soil. It would not hold the stakes for the guy lines. So instead I tied them off to some sagebrush and to a handy juniper. The good thing about the soil, though, is that it absorbed the fluids from the vehicle well: there was no real danger anymore.
I had passed through a couple of water bottles to Rick. He was grateful, but I could tell he was distracted. Shock, I thought. And I don't blame him. Heck of a way to start the day - taking a tumble off a cliff like that...
But my day was just beginning.
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