Shelter from the Storm

a search & rescue saga with a moral

Last Friday, my daughter Veronica drove down to visit, deliberating about coming between torrential cloudbursts after two days of solid rain. When she arrived, she said she was worried she hadn’t heard from her husband James. He’d gone backpacking in Big Sur and should have contacted her that day when he got back in service range.

James is a mountain guy and resilient but known to put himself in risky situations. Veronica hadn’t wanted him to go alone and made sure he knew how important it was to call. She’s a bereavement counselor and only hears the stories where the worst has come to worst. It’s a bad combination.

She called his dad’s house to see if he’d arrived, not wanting to worry him, especially since James’ mom had died a year ago, two weeks after their wedding. His dad and she each promised to keep the other posted. We went through the possible scenarios, focusing on the non-fatal ones, and tried to sleep.

Early in the morning, she crawled into my bed, not wanting to be alone with her worry. We listened to the rain and were heartened when it cleared for a bit. When they opened, she called all the Park Service numbers but only got automated messages. She found the Sheriff’s dispatch number and talked to a young woman who seemed annoyed to have her nail-filing interrupted, asking everything twice and saying she’d get a call back.

I thought she should wait but, based on the woman’s blase response, Veronica decided to call 911. She connected to someone who gave her the direct number for State Park emergencies. And that woman was very competent! As they were on the phone, a bulletin came in that there had been a mudslide on the trail he’d been on, with no reported injuries or death. A search and rescue was in process, no names available. Hallelujah!

The dad was called with the update. Still no guarantees but a plausible explanation. His brothers headed down with dry clothes and blankets. Waiting ensued. After an hour, Veronica called the competent woman again to clarify some details. She said there was a party of five on the other side of the slide but didn’t know if that included James. But then she said they had new information and transferred Veronica to a number that turned out to be the nail filer again, even more annoyed. She told Veronica she’d get a call when they got to it and ended with “Have a nice day!”

Eventually the sheriff deputy called and was surprised James was a solo hiker and might not be in that party. We kept our fingers crossed they were bonded for life by now. For my fellow conspiracy buffs, remember the likable face the WEF put on “You will own nothing and be happy”? James looks just like him. Someone you want to bring home with you and make tea in your tiny temporary space. And be happy.

Finally, word came that he was in the group and his brothers sent a photo of a sheepish James in the Search & Rescue shuttle. He was given dry clothes, fed, showered, and was back to himself with two very sore feet.

Later, after they’d talked, I found out his side of the story. The party of four were young Christians from San Diego. They were the first to discover the 20’ mudslide across the trail when they tried to leave Friday morning.

The two girls had never hiked before. One of them had a paranoid dad who’d tried to talk her out of it. She also had—blessings be!—a satellite phone, even though it only worked when the satellite was directly overhead and was down to 4% battery when they finally got a 911 call through. By this time James had struck out on his own, true to form, believing he knew a shortcut.

He got to the river where a rope was tied across. He put on quick-drying board shorts and flip flops, storing his clothes in his backpack. He waded into the fast-moving current, the rope stretching and stretching. When he got to where his pack was soaked and dragging him under, he turned back. And straggled back to the others, with no dry clothes, a sodden sleeping bag and a tent that was little more than dead weight mosquito netting.

A rescue attempt was in process, trying to throw a rope across the slide. After several attempts, it was just too far to throw. It was getting dark and the rescuers said they would have to come back in the morning. In the middle of a fresh deluge, the Christians set up their tent that was wet inside and out, and invited him into their tiny slick temporary space. And tried to be happy.

They huddled together for warmth because laying flat was in the water. There was one dryish sleeping bag between them. The one studying to be a nurse wouldn’t let anyone sleep for fear of hypothermia. They sang gospel songs and prayed. They talked about Jesus. One girl talked about how her dad was going to kill her if she survived. The other girl never wanted to see a mountain or river again. Amen.

Mid-morning, a crew of ten arrived. I saw a video but I still don’t know how it was accomplished. One hero-woman, as they called her, ferried each one across on her back—10 trips each way, not including hauling their packs. James, still true to form, was picking up other people’s garbage and making sure he left the forest clean, even if it killed him. This, from Amy of What’s In a Name?, seems only slightly more miraculous. Imagine those leaves as a steep slip-slide of mud careening into a rollicking river.

That evening, after everything had settled down, James came in right as Veronica had picked a card from my Crow Tarot deck. When we read it, it was clearly for him:

The Five of Pentacles shows two groups of crows. One is warm and comfortable roosting in a tree. The second group struggles against a headwind on the frozen ground, unable to see that relief is almost in sight.

The ones on the ground may have lost everything but take comfort that they still have each other. Even when all appears lost, there are still opportunities. Feed your spirit by focusing less on materialism and more on relationships.

On his own, James had lost civilization, communication, security, and shelter. He had no shoes, no shirt, no service. He had nowhere to sit except in a puddle, no way to be warm and dry. He had, more literally than I could have imagined, lost everything.

And the Christian crows flocked around him and welcomed him into their huddled midst. They shared their body warmth and the one dryish sleeping bag. They kept prodding him awake and kept his spirit fed with gospel songs and faith, that manifested as a hero-woman and a relentless dad and a methodical wife who wouldn’t take ‘have a nice day’ as an answer.

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This post from Mary, responding to mine on Jasun Horsley and Big Mother, seemed perfect for the occasion and so worth reading. It brought tears to my eyes:

Returning to Mother

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In the week of my daughter's wedding, I re-read The Four Agreements as if my life depended on it. I look at A Course in Miracles having the same content in different language—and 1000+ more pages. I tell the story of conflict and crisis, and finally realizing I was the problem. I end with John O' Donahue's poem 'For Marriage'.

John Carter of Postcards from Barsoom on Substack has written Tonic Masculinity. In response, I ask four questions: 1) Is the soul of a woman different than the soul of a man? 2) Is sexuality polarized? 3) When men bond in a common project, what should be their goal, and 4) Can't we just like each other? I explore schismogenesis and the right-left hemispheres of the brain as the feminine-masculine.

My daughter Cassandra has a new question, "what's the best that can happen?" I apply this to global events and the coup to take over our bodies, minds and world. I share some of the things that give me joy: Rob Brezsny's Love Bombs, Wendall Berry's The Power of Place, David Graeber and David Wengrow's The Dawn of Everything, and Caitlin Johnstone's ‘Confused Species in an Awkward Transition Phase.’