The Rescue

by Beverlea Hill

Saturday, August 14th, 6:14 a.m.

We awoke to the noises of breakfast and people preparing to break camp. It had been a beautiful week at Cliff Lake, high in the Sierras. Weather, wildflowers, evening fireside fellowship with songs. We had all worked well as a team.

It had been suggested that since Hope and I had had a difficult time with the walk in on Sunday (7 hours to do 5.5 miles) that we start out first. They would catch up with us after they finished packing up the campsite.

Full of optimism, Hope and I left the campsite at 9:48 a.m. Following directions, we found the trail head just behind a beautiful little Sculptural Garden near the edge of the lake. We navigated the switchbacks, confident we were doing well, waved to a beautiful lake, trying to remember if we had seen it the week before. As we entered a meadow area, we suddenly realized we couldn't spot any trail markers. Hope soon spotted some to our left and we began again. We soon realized it was much steeper than we remembered, but since they were the only markers we had spotted, it had to be correct. Plus the week before, we'd been so tired at 9,500 feet, it was hard to remember what we had done.

When we reached the stream at the bottom, we immediately knew we were in the wrong place. We decided to travel back up to where we had started and find the correct trail. It was then 1:00 p.m.

As we climbed, we began calling "Hello" all the way back up. It was then we realized that to reduce the weight of our backpacks, we had left several important items for the packers to carry for us: one of them being a whistle.

At the top, we crisscrossed the area, searching for signs of the other trail. It was 7:00 when we had reached the stream again. We had to crawl over a downed tree to cross the stream, trying to keep as dry as possible. At 7:30, while trying to pull myself up a bank, I felt something snap at the back of my left knee. I knew that wasn't good, but just kept on going. Shortly after that, we found the right trail.

With great relief and uplifted spirits, we began again, moving as fast as our weary bodies would go, trying to get as far as possible before dark. The trail at this point was narrow and deep, difficult to walk. It apparently was used for horseback riding. By 8:30, it was nearly dark, and Hope, exhausted, fell twice. She decided she was too tired to push on.

Thinking we were near a road (I could hear cars), I left Hope intending to get help return for her. After a quarter of a mile of near total darkness, I came to another creek to cross. Not knowing how deep it was, I decided to go back to Hope to wait for morning. It was the only thing to do, but I worried how we would endure a night in the cold. I was wearing shorts, a tee shirt, and a light windbreaker. Hope had on jeans (wet now from the stream), a long-sleeved shirt, and a windbreaker.

I moved Hope from the stream side to some trees for more protection. We cuddled together in a nest of fallen logs. I emptied my day pack and used it to cover our hands and arms. My left leg was getting increasingly more painful, and I couldn't get comfortable enough to sleep. I buried my head in my shirt and waited it out.

It was a long, cold nine hours. From time to time, I would look up through the neck of my shirt and see the beautiful starry sky and wonder about the wildlife and the possible outcome. Toward morning, I began listening intently for birds, knowing that daybreak would come soon. Somewhere after 5:30, while it was still quite dark, I heard what I thought was a whistle, followed by a voice calling our names.