On
a hot, sunny, beautiful day last week, the kids and I met friends in the early
morning at a trailhead. Sunscreen and bug dope applied and backpacks strapped
over shoulders, we headed into the woods, following a trail that meandered
upwards to the summit of one of New Hampshire’s 4,000-footers. It would have
been the 24th 4,000-footer – the halfway point – for three of the
five kids in our posse.
We
didn’t make it to the top.
A
bit more than three miles into the White Mountain National Forest, we ran into
an emergency on the trail. It wasn’t our emergency, and, so, much of the story
is not mine to tell. The day took a turn none of us anticipated, nor would have
chosen. As with many things, however, there was a positive take away – for me, it
was the coming together of both strangers and familiar faces in a tough moment,
and a reminder of the strength of community.
The
short story, the part that belongs at least partly to me, is that this was the
kind of emergency that included a call to 9-1-1, the administration of first
aid none of us had ever had to do before, and a long wait for the search and
rescue crew to arrive and take over. There was not a happy ending.
The
friends I was hiking with are good ones. We’ve seen each other cry through
terrible days, and we’ve laughed together countless times. We’ve vented about a
vast array of annoyances, shared parenting advice, and watched as our kids have
grown up together. But we’d never been thrown into a situation of literal life
and death before this. I’m thankful we were there together – and that if I have
to have this story as part of my history, it’s one I share with them.
There
were others there with us, too. A solo hiker just behind us jumped in to help. His
name is Ryan, and he spent a few harrowing hours with us, with no complaints
and with as much good humor as any of us could muster. Two other groups – a
trio of college students and a pair of young women – also stopped. Through it
all, the 9-1-1 dispatcher was calm and encouraging.
Because
we were hiking close to home, we know many of the members of the Pemi Valley
Search and Rescue Team who dropped whatever they were doing when the call for
help came and rushed toward the trail. We also knew it would take them close to
two hours to reach us, no matter how fast they hiked.
One
member of PVSART, who also happens to be our children’s elementary school
principal, called to talk with me twice en route to the scene, to get
information and give support. Another friend and PVSART member unable to
respond that day also checked in by phone. When, already exhausted and
emotionally drained, I said I wasn’t sure what we should do, she told me, “You
just have to do what you think is right.” Clear enough advice for pretty much
any situation, and exactly what I needed to hear at that moment.
Although
I was not the one who needed rescuing that day, I’ve never been so thankful for
the local search and rescue crew. These folks have a strong sense of doing what
is right. They do not stumble across emergency situations, as we had, and
react. Instead, they dedicate hours of training and effort to the volunteer
work of coming to the rescue.
After
the trained professionals – and the trained volunteers – arrived, the three of
us headed back down the trail. It was a slow descent. Sometimes we talked about
what we’d just seen and done, often we were quiet in our own processing of thoughts,
occasionally one of us would steer the conversation toward something unrelated,
something more cheerful, normal.
As
we hiked out, we saw more bright yellow-shirted PVSART members hiking in, some
familiar, others unknown. I’ve read a hundred stories about mountain rescue
operations, even written a few. But seeing them in real time, sweating through
a hot day and moving as quickly as they could to reach a stranger in need of
help, was a welcome comfort amid a difficult day.
And
then we were down, our statement written out for the Fish and Game officer at
the trailhead we’d left hours ago, free to go. We each climbed into our
individual cars and drove the short distance homeward solo. But we weren’t
quite ready to let each other go. So we gathered the kids and spent another
couple of hours together in my friends’ yard. The kids ate ice cream, then ran
around chasing chickens and swinging and being kids. The grownups sat with
adult beverages and rehashed the day again, from all perspectives, trying to
sort it all out.
The
principal came to sit with us awhile, to make sure we were ok, the kids were
ok. Our phones buzzed with others checking in. It is a small community, after
all, and word travels fast. A small community, but a strong one. A good one.
Original content published by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul. This essay
appears as Meghan's June 26, 2020 Close to Home column in the Littleton
Record.