Rescuers Race Darkness, Brave Elements in Bid to Save Tetons Climbers

Late-afternoon shadows were growing on the Tetons when Laurence Perry scanned the looming rock walls.

The helicopter pilot had already been up there, facing fickle winds while checking whether he could hover at 13,000 feet -- the altitude where the climbers had been hit by lightning a few hours earlier.

Next up was “short-hauling” -- rangers soaring through the skies, suspended by two finger-thin strands of 100-foot nylon rope attached beneath the helicopter. It’s the closest thing to flying, the rescuers say.

The chopper’s engine revved in a staging area called the Lower Saddle, elevation 11,600 feet, with Perry in the cockpit and ranger Renny Jackson in back, as his spotter. No one knows these mountains better then Jackson, co-author of a 416-page Teton climbing guide.

Leo Larson, a 27-year Teton ranger who cuts a distinctive figure at 6-foot-5 with a long blond ponytail, stood in front of the helicopter, the hauling rope laid out in an elongated “S” at his feet.

“Hook up,” Perry called over his microphone as the chopper hovered.

Larson secured the rope to a nylon harness he was wearing.

“Hooked and ready,” he replied.

Winds gusted at more than 25 miles an hour and, as Perry climbed, he felt as if he was on an invisible surfboard.

“It’s going to be a little bumpy,” he said.

The chilly mountain air stung Larson’s face. His clothes flapped as he whisked along at up to 50 mph.

Perry watched the granite walls getting nearer. But, as usual, the British-born pilot showed equal measures of confidence and cool.

His life has been the stuff of a Hemingway novel: diving for coral in the Mediterranean, piloting a helicopter to ferry oilmen through the deserts of Yemen and police into the jungles of New Guinea.

Perry has even pulled people out of jams as rescue pilot for Eco-Challenge, a race that attracts adventure athletes to remote regions of the world.

There’s a motto in his business: “It’s not our emergency.”

If it sounds callous, it’s not. It means: Don’t rush; take one step at a time.

The rangers share the philosophy. Too fast can spell disaster.

The chopper approached Friction Pitch, the steep incline where the climbers had been struck.

“Bloody hell,” Perry said to himself, peering out.

Clouds were forming fast below. Perry was worried that he’d lose sight of the ground, like a skier in a whiteout. He’d have no idea how close he was to the mountain.

A momentary break in the clouds gave him a glimpse of Rod Liberal, the lone dangling climber. Then he was obscured again.

Any risky move could get them all killed.

“Leo, we’re going to have to abort,” Jackson radioed to the ranger below. “This isn’t going to work.”

Perry lowered the lever that decreases the pitch on the blades and began a slow, spiraling descent.

He had lost sight of Rod.

“Poor guy,” he thought.

As soon as the helicopter settled back on the Lower Saddle at 5:21 p.m., Jackson hopped out. He knew that the clouds might not break for another flight.

“We’ve got to get people started up the hill,” he told the gathering rangers.

That meant on foot.

At 5:36 p.m., Jim Springer took off. Springer, 48, had been doing search-and-rescue work since he was a teenage Explorer Scout.

Fifteen minutes later, Jack McConnell got his orders.

“You’ve got to catch Springer,” Jackson told him.

“Cool,” McConnell replied.

McConnell is known as Jack Hammer or Hydraulic Jack, the guy with pistons for legs. His personal best for the 2,170-foot climb from the Lower Saddle to the summit is 55 minutes -- a trip that might take a novice eight hours or more.

This time, he had to go about 1,200 feet, but it’s a tough, steep climb hauling a 40-pound backpack past boulders and through gullies.

McConnell headed out running. He soon caught Springer.

*

At the same time, things were bustling at the Lower Saddle.

Friction Pitch was visible again. Perry could go back up.

At 6:04 p.m., Brandon Torres, the rescue coordinator, got a cell phone call from Sherika Thomas, Rob’s wife.

“We really need your help,” she said, sounding exhausted. “We’ve stopped CPR. Erica’s dead.”

Torres tried to reassure her, even as he absorbed the news that Erica Summers was gone.

“We’re going to get someone to you soon,” Torres said.

On top, the climbers started to build a rock enclosure to block the cold wind as the temperatures dropped to near freezing. They covered a shivering Clinton Summers, Erica’s husband, with extra clothes. His left leg was bloody and purple. Lightning had entered his thigh and exited behind his knee, shredding his running shorts.

Now Clinton just wanted to get down the mountain. He needed to be with his two children, ages 2 and 4.

How could they absorb the news? How could he?

And yet it had been Clinton who had told his friends to stop CPR.

“We need to get help to Rod,” he said. “We need to focus on the people down below.”

*

Torres was watching the clock.

The rescuers had slightly more than three hours before their deadline for flying -- 30 minutes past sunset.

Around 6 p.m., Perry’s helicopter was approaching Friction Pitch -- with Larson again at the end of the hauling rope. Perry scanned for a smooth place to lower his passenger.

“I’m heading for that yellow flat rock,” Perry radioed to Larson, moving toward a slab of granite the size of a single bed.

“That’ll work fine,” Larson replied.

The ranger prepared to step down.

“2-0,” Larson called -- his legs were 20 feet above the surface. The chopper eased lower.

“1-0,” Larson said.

Perry hovered in the gusty winds -- he compares it to balancing atop a beach ball -- and stuck his head out the window to make sure Larson was safe.

From the pilot’s perch, the long-legged ranger looked “like a wee man on a long string.”

At 6:09 p.m., Larson became the first ranger atop Friction Pitch.

This day, he was a rescuer, but once he’d been on the other side: Nearly 25 years ago, he was injured in a rock fall. It was in the era before this kind of rescue and it took 36 hours to get him off the Grand.

Larson checked Erica, confirming that she had no pulse. He took an inventory of the others’ injuries to determine who could climb down the mountain themselves. Six of the group of 13 eventually did.

Larson asked about Rod, who had been hanging for nearly 2 1/2 hours.

“Is he alive?” he said.

He groans, the other climbers replied.

Soon, five more rescuers delivered by Perry joined the group crowding the ledge. They decided that more help was needed for those injured below -- one was bleeding badly.

Dan Burgette, head of the Jenny Lake rangers, started to rappel down about 200 feet to reach them. As he descended, he passed within 15 feet of where Rod was suspended.

“Hang in there,” Burgette shouted. “People up above are setting up ropes.”

This time, there was no response.

*

In the gathering gloom below, three climbers waited.

Reagan Lembke wedged his radio between his shoulder and cheekbone but was too weak to hit the talk button. He could hear transmissions from above: Erica was gone. And Rod was hanging.

Quietly, Reagan said goodbye to his two friends.

Then he prayed.

Reagan pulled himself up and looked over a boulder to a ledge about 10 feet below. Justin Thomas and Jacob Bancroft were huddled shoulder to shoulder against a rock wall.

Jacob was dazed. He had a hard time remembering things. Justin was bloody from head to toe. Gashes made his shin bones visible.

Bob Thomas, Justin’s father, had joined them by now. He had rappelled down and was trying to keep the climbers alert while waiting for the rangers. Justin just wanted to sleep. He eyed a nearby ledge where he could take a nap.

No, Bob Thomas commanded. Justin might be hypothermic, maybe even in shock. To sleep might be to die.

At 6:46 p.m., rangers Jim Springer and Jack McConnell appeared -- from below. They had made it up from the Lower Saddle incredibly quickly, in less than an hour.

McConnell scrambled to set up anchors among the blood-stained rocks, while Springer checked Justin’s and Jacob’s pulses. He climbed up to Reagan, whose left arm and shoulder were numb.

As Springer checked Reagan’s neck and spine, two more rangers reached them from above: Burgette and Chris Harder.

The rescuers determined that all three climbers could be taken off the mountain in evacuation suits -- a nylon vest with a diaper-like bottom hooked to the helicopter’s 100-foot rope.

Perry’s chopper moved in, edging nearer to the rock wall. With the engine screaming three feet over his head, Jackson, the spotter, placed one foot on the step outside the open chopper and looked down between the skid and fuselage. The long rope had to be nudged toward the rescuers’ reach.

Perry, his head popped out of the right side of the chopper, rocked the machine slightly, swinging the rope. With an outstretched hand, McConnell snatched it.

At 7:24 p.m., Reagan was hooked in and ready for evacuation.

“Get ready for the best ride in the amusement park,” McConnell told him.

Reagan whooped as he rose.

Bob Thomas was next, followed by his son, Justin, who refused morphine, wanting to be clear-headed on the way down.

At 8:20 p.m., Jacob was ready.

Jacob’s bloody lip was swollen, but he still managed a smile as he soared into the cold air. He flashed a V for victory sign.

*

Night was closing in on Friction Pitch. The climbers at the top were descending -- Clinton Summers would be carried out by helicopter, and his wife’s body would be brought down later. Now, there was just one rescue left.

Other Teton rangers were focusing on Rod.

He was still dangling. And time was running out.

Next week: Rod Liberal’s struggle for survival.

*

(BEGIN TEXT OF INFOBOX)

Sources for This Story

From Associated Press

The story of the lightning strike and rescue efforts at Grand Teton National Park is based on interviews with park rangers, including Dan Burgette, Scott Guenther, Craig Holm, Renny Jackson, Leo Larson, Jack McConnell, George Montopoli, Jim Springer and Brandon Torres, who provided a time log he’d kept; helicopter pilot Laurence Perry, and the climbers.

Also interviewed were Ron Holle, a meteorologist who works with Vaisala Inc., a manufacturer of weather instruments; meteorologist Jim Woodmencey in Jackson Hole, Wyo., and Mary Ann Cooper, a professor of emergency medicine at the University of Illinois-Chicago.