Page 2 of Found by the Mountain Man (Darkmore Mountain Search and Rescue #4)

two

Connor

The tourists are getting softer every year.

"My boots are rubbing," whines the investment banker from Calgary, stopping for the third time in twenty minutes to adjust his brand-new hiking gear. "And this pack weighs a ton."

I bite back my first response, which would involve telling him exactly what I think about someone who buys a thousand dollars worth of equipment but can't be bothered to break it in properly.

Instead, I turn to face the group of eight weekend warriors I'm supposedly teaching "basic winter mountain survival. "

The snow crunches under my boots as I demonstrate proper pack adjustment for the third time today. At least the fresh powder makes for good learning conditions—nothing teaches respect for the mountains like hiking through knee-deep snow in sub-freezing temperatures.

"Weight distribution," I say, my voice carrying the authority that comes from fifteen years of pulling people out of situations their overconfidence got them into. "Your pack should feel balanced, not like it's dragging you backward. Who remembers what I said about adjusting the hip belt?"

A few hands go up halfheartedly. Most of them are too busy taking selfies with Darkmore Peak's snow-covered slopes in the background to pay attention to anything that might actually keep them alive.

"The hip belt carries the weight," I continue, demonstrating on my own pack. "Your shoulders are just for stability. Get it wrong, and you'll be exhausted in an hour instead of able to hike all day."

The yoga instructor from Vancouver—who introduced herself as "Amber with an A"—raises her mittened hand. "But what if it makes us look bulky in photos?"

Jesus Christ.

"Ma'am, if you're more worried about how you look than how you survive, maybe you should stick to the resort spa," I say, earning a few snickers from the group and a wounded expression from Amber.

"Alright, let's wrap this up," I announce, shouldering my pack. "We'll head back via the south trail. Remember what we discussed about reading weather signs and always having an exit strategy."

We make good time on the descent, and I'm actually starting to think we'll get back to base without incident when my radio crackles again.

"Connor, priority call. You need to respond."

The urgency in Jake's voice stops me cold. Priority calls mean someone's in trouble. Real trouble.

"Copy, Jake. What's the situation?"

"Solo photographer, overdue check-in. The last known position was Black Creek, upstream from the lodge."

I check my watch. Two hours overdue isn't necessarily cause for panic, but Black Creek has been running high and fast under the ice with the early melt. Not a place you want to be alone if something goes wrong, especially in these temperatures.

"Description?"

"Female, mid-twenties, dark hair. Professional photographer, so she's carrying heavy gear. Name's Mavis Aldana."

Of course. Another city professional who thinks wilderness photography is the same as taking pictures in Central Park, even in winter conditions.

"I can be at Black Creek in twenty minutes," I tell Jake, already calculating the fastest route. "Send backup to the usual access points."

"Roger. Be careful, man. Weather's deteriorating faster than predicted. Temperature's dropping fast."

I turn to my group, who are watching this exchange with the fascination of people who've never seen an actual emergency unfold.

"Change of plans," I announce. "We're cutting the lesson short. I need to get you back to base immediately."

Twenty-five minutes later, the temperature has dropped another five degrees in the past hour, and the wind has that sharp edge that means serious snow. The clouds have thickened into a gray ceiling that seems to be pressing down on Darkmore Peak.

If this photographer is injured or lost, we don't have much time before weather becomes a factor for the rescuers too.

I jog toward the Black Creek trailhead, my boots finding good purchase in the packed snow, my mind already shifting into SAR mode.

Think like the victim. Professional photographer, probably focused on getting the perfect shot.

Willing to take risks for her art. Where would she go that seemed manageable but could turn dangerous quickly?

The ice formations. That's where every photographer goes this time of year, trying to capture the "pristine wilderness" shots that sell to magazines. The problem is, the formations are unstable right now, affected by the warming and cooling cycles we've been having.

I reach Black Creek and immediately see signs of her passage—disturbed snow along the bank, a clear boot print in the powder. She headed upstream, just like I thought.

Following her trail, I move quickly but carefully, reading the story written in snow and bent grass. She was methodical, stopping frequently, probably to evaluate shots. Good. Methodical people don't usually do anything catastrophically stupid.

Then I reach the bend where the creek cuts through the rocks, and I see the disaster site.

Ice chunks scattered in the water. A gaping hole where the creek's frozen surface has given way. Fresh scrape marks on the rocks. Disturbed snow where something, or someone, was dragged from the creek.

And there, caught on a branch jutting from the bank, a camera strap.

Professional grade, expensive equipment. The kind someone would risk their life to protect.

"Jake, I've got evidence of an incident at the ice formations," I radio. "Looks like she went through the ice, possibly swept downstream."

"Copy. You see any sign of her?"

I'm already moving downstream, following the creek's flow, looking for more evidence. Boot prints in the snow, disturbed vegetation, anything that might tell me which way she went.

"Not yet, but I'm tracking downstream. If she went in the water here, the current would have carried her—"

I stop mid-sentence.

There, about fifty yards downstream, something dark against the white snow of the bank. Too regularly shaped to be natural. Too still to be alive.

I break into a run, my SAR training warring with a growing dread. Fifty yards feels like fifty miles when you're racing to reach someone who might already be beyond help.

As I get closer, I can make out details. A woman, dark hair just like Jake described, lying motionless on the snowy bank. Her clothes are soaked and already starting to freeze, her skin pale with cold. A camera hangs around her neck.

I drop my pack and kneel beside her, immediately checking for vitals. Pulse: weak but present. Breathing: shallow and slow. Core temperature: dangerously low.

"Jake, I found her," I radio while simultaneously stripping off my jacket. "Alive but hypothermic. Black Creek, about half a klick downstream from the formations. I need that backup now."

"Copy. ETA fifteen minutes for the team. How bad?"

I wrap my jacket around her and start the process of getting her out of wet clothes—a delicate balance between preserving modesty and preventing death.

"Bad. She's been in the water, probably for at least an hour. I need to get her core temperature up immediately or we're going to lose her."

Her eyelids flutter as I work, a good sign. Consciousness means her body is still fighting.

"Ma'am? Can you hear me?" I ask, checking her pupils with my flashlight. "My name's Connor. I'm with Search and Rescue. You're going to be okay."

She mumbles something I can't make out, her voice slurred with cold.

"What's your name?" I ask, continuing to work. "Can you tell me your name?"

"Z-Mavis," she manages, the word barely recognizable through her chattering teeth. "C-cold."

"I know you're cold, Mavis. I'm going to warm you up, okay? But I need you to stay awake for me. Can you do that?"

She nods weakly, and I see her trying to focus on my face. Her eyes are dark brown, almost black, and despite her condition there's intelligence there. Fight.

I get my emergency bivy sack unrolled and start the process of transferring her into it—a temporary shelter that will help trap body heat and block the wind that's starting to pick up.

"The camera," she whispers, her hand moving weakly toward the equipment around her neck. "Did I get it?"

"Don't worry about the camera right now," I tell her, though I'm impressed that she's coherent enough to think about her gear. "Let's focus on getting you warm."

The housing looks intact, which means there's a good chance her photos survived. "It's okay," I tell her. "Camera looks fine."

Relief flickers across her features, and I realize this isn't just expensive equipment to her. This is her livelihood, her art, maybe her life's work.

My radio crackles. "Connor, backup is trapped in the storm. How's our victim?"

"Responsive but critical. I've got her stabilized, but she needs medical attention fast. And Jake? Be advised, the weather's deteriorating rapidly up here. We need to move quickly."

As if to emphasize my point, the snowfall intensifies. Big, fat flakes that stick to everything and reduce visibility to maybe thirty yards.

Mavis's eyes widen as she sees the snow. "Storm," she whispers.

"Yeah, there's a storm coming. But don't worry about that. My job is to get you somewhere safe and warm, and I'm very good at my job."

"Thank you," she says, her voice barely audible but unmistakably sincere.

"Don't thank me yet," I reply, checking her pulse again. Still weak, but steady. "Thank me when you're drinking hot coffee back at base."

The back-up team will take too long to get here. She’ll die before they cut through the snow. I need to get her somewhere warm and fast.