“I don’t understand; don’t they have beacons?” I ask, knowing that wearing an avalanche beacon is required when you check out.
“I’m sure they do, but do you know how many people simply turn them on and think they’re good to go? You have to make sure your signal is transmitting. Half the time, people leave them onreceiveinstead oftransmitby accident. Or they forget to check the batteries. Or they leave them behind because there are no advisories for where they’re going. There’s a whole slew of reasons the beacons don’t help as much as they should.”
After a grueling flyover and two hours of carefully sludging through the snow, we manage to find remnants of ski tracks that weren’t covered by this morning’s snow and followthem into a thicket of trees where we see two skiers sitting with their backs against the trunk.
The temperature last night dropped to negative twelve, so these guys are in peril.
I watch, awestruck, as Stone radios in our coordinates to get the other teams here as fast as possible. Then he gets to work assessing the skiers.
Having to gently tap one on the shoulder, he yells, “Sir!SIR! Can you hear me?”
The man’s lips are cracked and bleeding, and his movements are slow. I resonate with that feeling and hate it. It’s like you have no control over your own body. Youwantto move, but you justcan’t.
“My knee,” he manages to say. “I twisted it on some rocks. I can’t put weight on it.” His voice is raspy from the dry air and lack of water.
“We’ll get it taken care of,” Stone says. “Hanlon, I need you to check that man’s vitals,” he says, nodding toward the other slumped-over figure.
Medicine isn’t my strong suit. I have a weak stomach, and I’m honestly not great under pressure. That’s why I want to be an avalancheforecasterand not part of the ski patrol. But I’m smart and remember most of what Stone has taught me, so I do as he asks.
Checking for a pulse, I place my small mirror under the man’s nose. When it fogs with his breath, relief floods my veins.
“We have a strong pulse and respirations.” I remove his glove to check his fingers and pinch the skin on the back of his hand. “Probable dehydration and possible early onset of frostbite in the middle, ring, and small fingers.”
“Very good,” Stone praises. “Call it in. Just like that.”
Because we aren’t physicians, we technically can’t diagnose, so we have to be careful how we phrase things.
Again, I follow Stone’s commands and look over to see him applying a splint to the other man’s knee, wrapping it with an Ace wrap to keep it secure.
“Help me get him on the sled.”
By the time Stone and I get the first man situated, the other crews have arrived on the scene and are tending to the second man with the frostbitten fingers.
Stone has thrown his thick fleece-lined beanie in the snow; exertion has made sweat drip down his temples, and the way he’s in command of the situation while also speaking gently to the injured man, offering reassurances, is hot as fuck.
Competence is sexy.
Especially when it’s coming from a six-foot-tall, chiseled god who looks like he was born from the mountain itself. His trimmed beard gives him a look of sophisticated ruggedness, and Ireallyneed to get a grip on myself.
Search and Rescue take off toward the hospital with the skiers while the rest of us offer each other fist bumps and congratulations on a successful rescue mission.
As Stone and I climb back into the black-and-blue Ricochet Ridge helicopter, Logan shakes his head and signals something to Stone that makes Stone grab my hand instead of my knee.
My heart rate spikes as I study him with furrowed brows.
“You’re not going to like this takeoff,” he says in a serious tone.
“What? Why?” I ask, panic lacing every syllable.
“Just keep your eyes closed and squeeze my hand.”
The helicopter tips downward and begins sliding.
“Ohmyfuckinggod, what is happening?”
“Relax, Han. I’ve got you,” Stone says.
Shortly after our helicopter takes a nice little ski, we start lifting, but we also drift to the right, which isn’t good because there’s a mountain there.
