Page 1 of Mile High Mystery

Chapter One

The storm-swelled creek roared like a jet engine readying for takeoff as it rushed through the narrow canyon. The normally shallow trickle of water was now a torrent, tearing great chunks of earth and rocks from its banks and carrying broken branches and whole trees along in its wake. On the other side of the cataract, a group of campers clustered around several vehicles, cut off from escape by the rushing water.

Zach Gregory stopped at the edge of the water, alongside his fellow Eagle Mountain Search and Rescue members, and studied the situation. They had to find a way to get the stranded campers to this side of the swollen creek, even as rain continued to pour. He counted at least six adults, several children and three dogs. All of them were drenched. Even in rain gear, Zach felt cold and damp, rain lashing his face and seeping past his collar and down the back of his neck. He moved up alongside fellow SAR volunteer Caleb Garrison. “How are we supposed to get over to the camp?” he shouted to be heard above the din of the water.

Caleb pointed downstream. Zach followed his gaze and leaned forward to get a better look. The creek channel widened into an open area, the water forming a wide pool, the current much less swift. Newly elected SAR captain Danny Irwin motioned for the group to move toward this pool, and they set out, splashing through puddles and slipping in mud and on slick rock as they shouldered the rescue gear they had carried from the nearest road. The main route to the campground was washed out, and the weather had been deemed too bad to risk bringing in a helicopter to airlift the stranded campers. With conditions only expected to worsen, the forest service, Rayford County Sheriff’s Department and Eagle Mountain Search and Rescue had decided to attempt a land evacuation.

Away from the swiftest water, the roar dulled enough to make conversation possible. “We’re going to shoot a line across to that group of trees over there.” Danny indicated the clump of piñons up the bank. “We’ll attach instructions for someone on the other side to secure the line. Then we’ll send a group over to assess everyone and send them back across, one at a time.”

Someone unpacked the chunky, red line-throwing gun, which used compressed air to propel a coil of strong cable across a chasm. Volunteer Ryan Welch handled firing the gun. A crowd had gathered on the opposite bank, and two men ran to retrieve the other end of the line as soon as it hit the trees. They unwrapped the note and sent a thumbs-up signal across, then began fastening their end to the trees, while Ryan and Eldon Ramsey secured the cable on this side.

“Think it will hold?” Ryan asked Danny when the line was secure.

“Only one way to find out.” Danny looked around. “Any volunteers to go first?”

Silence as they contemplated the turbulent gray water rushing beneath the thin line. Fall into that, and even with a life jacket, you could be in trouble.

“I’ll go.” Zach stepped forward.

Danny looked him up and down. “I guess if the line will hold you, it will hold anyone,” he said. “Get suited up, and we’ll give it a try.”

Five minutes later, fitted with a helmet and personal flotation device, Zach slipped a harness over his hips, clipped onto the line and grabbed hold of the strap attached to a pulley on the line. Tony Meisner clapped him on the back. “Ready?”

Zach barely had time to nod before Tony pushed him and he was sliding down the line across the water. The cable sagged beneath his weight, and he felt spray from the churning water splash onto his legs as he skimmed over the creek. But the cable held. If not for the driving rain and heavy pack on his back, it might have been a fun trip, like riding a zip line on vacation.

Two men rushed to greet him as he landed on the opposite shore and helped him off the line. The radio attached to his shoulder crackled. “I’m sending Hannah and Sheri over next, so get ready,” Danny said.

Paramedic Hannah Richards and former captain Sheri Stevens arrived in quick succession. They were greeted by a growing crowd as additional campers gathered beside the creek. Zach followed Sheri and Hannah into a chaos of wet and anxious campers. Dogs barked, children cried and everyone seemed to be talking at once. Everyone was muddy, wet and frightened. “We woke up, and there was water running through our tent,” one man told Zach. “My oldest boy left the tent to go pee, and he almost fell in the river.”

“There’s a tree down on an RV at the back of the campground,” another man said. “I think someone might be hurt.”

“My husband was hurt by a falling branch,” a woman said. She hefted a toddler on her hip. The child—a girl, judging by the pink barrettes in her hair—stared at Zach, her thumb in her mouth. “He’s over by our trailer, but someone needs to look at him.”

Hannah keyed her radio. “We’ve got some terrified kids over here,” she said. “And some of the adults aren’t in much better shape. Apparently, a tree came down on an RV, and there may be injuries or people trapped inside. We’ve got other injuries from falling trees. We need people over here to administer first aid. And a couple of people to ride with the kids back across wouldn’t hurt.”

“I’ll send people over, and we’ll start the process of getting people over to this side,” Danny said.

“Zach, start gathering people who are ready to get out of here,” Sheri said. “Make sure they know they’ve got to ride across that line, so only a small backpack or a bag they can carry in one hand can go with them. Everything else has to stay here.”

“I can’t leave my dogs,” one woman wailed.

“We’ll get the dogs out, too,” Sheri said.

Ten minutes later, Zach was sending the first of the campers back across the line. As the woman started across the water, Hannah approached Zach, carrying a blanket-wrapped small child. “This is Micah,” she said. “He’s three, and he’s suffering from hypothermia. I’ve tucked some hot packs in around him, but he needs to get to someplace warm and dry ASAP. I’m sending his mom right behind you.” She put the child into Zach’s arms.

Zach stared down into a pair of frightened brown eyes. Micah had his thumb stuffed into his mouth and said nothing, though tears—or maybe raindrops—slid down his flushed cheeks.

“It’s okay, baby.” A petite woman, dark hair plastered to her head, stood on tiptoe and stroked Micah’s face. Then she looked up at Zach. “Don’t drop him,” she said.

Zach tightened his grip on the child. “I won’t.”

Traveling back across the river was much slower than the original traverse, since it required being towed uphill by volunteers on the other side. Halfway across, Micah began to squirm and wail. Zach held tight and tried to talk soothingly, though he was terrified he would drop the squirming child, despite them being clipped into safety lines He sagged with relief when fellow team member Carrie Andrews stepped forward to take the boy from him, then he stepped to one side a few moments later to allow Micah’s mom to reunite with her son.

The next hour was a blur of traveling back and forth across the flooded creek. The rain stopped and the sun came out, and Zach began to sweat in the heavy rain gear, but it was too much trouble to divest himself of pack, life vest and harness, so he left everything on and focused on the work. He carried another child across, transported medical gear and escorted a frantic, snapping golden retriever who was determined not to be harnessed to anything. Zach was only able to get the dog to cooperate when someone produced a packet of beef jerky, which Zach fed, bit by bit, to the trembling dog all the way back across the water.

After the dog, there were only two more adults to get back across, and they didn’t need Zach’s help. He shed the harness and layers of gear and drank a bottle of water someone handed him. A tall blonde woman he hadn’t seen before, one of the campers, he supposed, moved through the volunteers. “Thank you so much,” she said to each one. When she got to Zach, she took his hand. “You were amazing.”

“I was happy to do it,” Zach said. It felt good to help other people, to make a difference.

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