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The Rescue of Maggie Smith |
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Just as the hiking traffic began to intensify in the spring of 1997 the ranger in charge of the Phantom and River Ranger Stations transferred to the L.B.J. National Historic Site in Texas. This was a real blow as more diverse responsibilities are involved at Phantom Ranch than any other inner canyon station. Backpackers, day hikers, river parties, mule riders, medical emergencies and maintenance problems all demand an experienced cool and compatible head in charge. Spring is no time to go off looking for such a person, either; talent of that sort would already be snapped up at other large parks.
The inner Canyon Supervisor Glenn Fuller, did what was certainly a crazy but desperate thing. He had me go down. Crazy was right. I'd just been named a seasonal ranger, after having been a volunteer in the Backcountry Office for three years. The only training I'd had was Advanced First Aid and a week of canyon-oriented Law Enforcement. "No way, Jose," I said. "You can do it, and it's only 'till I can get a qualified permanent replacement, you know," he answered. "Qualified" was not in the picture, but down I went.
I was scared stiff, but had a good maintenance man, Dave Tobin, to show me the ropes, and two SCA's (Student Conservation Association girls) plus my own past canyon knowledge and experience to guide my faltering steps . . . in charge of Phantom! Thanks to their patience, Glenn's encouragement, and, thankfully, no big emergencies that first month, I finally felt in control. Glenn found a qualified ranger by early August and had me stay on to train him, in turn. Talk about the blind leading the blind! Doyle Nelson was a tall athletic young man who fitted right in, but he hadn't done service in canyon terrain nor in our kind of summer heat.
One of the SCA's was a sturdy little gal named Maggie Smith, with a perpetual big smile. And she was a hiker. On her days off she was gone. Usually she'd take a trail to another side canyon, or go up to one of the rims for a backpacking trip. Doyle hadn't been long at the station when she took off on what was expected to be a day hike up Bright Angel Canyon several miles to an old Indian trail she'd heard of. It would bring her up to a wide bench on the west side of B.A. Canyon, then back towards the Colorado River to Phantom Canyon. The only potential for water before arriving at upper Phantom Creek was at a patch of cottonwood trees and seep grass part way along the bench, which indicated water at or near the surface. She counted on that being available to replenish her canteen before getting to the sure flow of Phantom Creek.
The first indication Doyle and I had of anything going astray was her plaintive voice on our radios at about 6:00 PM saying that she was stuck in upper Phantom Canyon and didn't know what to do. "My food's all gone, and it's going to be dark soon, and cold too, and I don't have any overnight gear or clothes . . . and I'm hungry and scared, and can you come and get me?" Well, we'd try.
By then we were making the campground evening check, though the other SCA's could handle the rest. And we'd better hurry and make the best time we could before dark. Doyle, of course, had no idea where she was nor of how best to get to her. I knew about it, all right, but it wasn't that simple a deal. To go up Phantom Canyon to her from B. A. Creek that late wasn't feasible as there's a 20 foot waterfall just below where she was stranded. By the time we could get to that fall it'd be pitch dark in the narrow cliff-walled canyon. Our only good choice was to "go over land". We were able to climb up through the talus and tumbled boulders above Phantom Ranch to what's called the "Utah Flats" of slick, red, eroded sandstone and start across the rolling plateau before the last of the afterglow of sunset. Then a waning moon gave us dubious hours of help before we resorted to flashlights. I'd been over the route enough times before to feel confident of the route, at least.
Part way along, picking our way between prickly pear patches, agave stalks and spears, not to mention rock outcroppings, Doyle suddenly burst out laughing. "My Gawd," he said, "if my friends could see me now." "Why, what d'you mean?" I asked. "Well, they'd never believe that I'm wandering around, suspended in space in the Grand Canyon and being guided by a grandmother by the light of the silvery moon." "No big deal, for gosh sake", I answered. "At least I know where we are and where we're going. Actually it's sorta fun rescuing one of our own staff and having an excuse to be out here, don't you think?"
Maggie had a flashlight too as it turned out, and once she saw our beam descending among the scree boulders toward Phantom Creek below us, she shone it back up to us, and got on the radio again. "Boy, am I glad to see you guys. It's getting cold down here." You must realize that all our ranger radios were on the same frequency, except the river patrols who need stronger ones. So any ranger still on duty on both the north and south rim were enjoying the "soap opera" performance we were providing that evening.
There we were, the three of us, standing by the noisy little creek with Maggie safe and sound and shivering. The moon had dipped below the rim and the night chill was rising around us. Maggie was still hungry, if not scared, and we suddenly realized that we'd missed supper too. In our rush to get going we hadn't even thought to bring food or a blanket along. Doyle had a 60 foot climbing rope over his shoulder which didn't help at all right then, but he was all set for us to go down over the waterfall and hightail it right that moment down the four or five miles back to Phantom. I was not about to follow him. It was pitch black out; we'd have to wade and re-wade the creek, often hip-deep, not to mention crossing B.A. Creek to get onto the North Kaibab Trail with another long mile down to the ranger station, Not me!
I dug around in my day pack's emergency supplies for solutions, "Hey, here's a foil blanket! And here's a bag with . . . one, three . . . six hard fruit drops, That settles it. I'm staying here tonight. How 'bout you, Maggie?" "I'm with you, Gale. I don't feel like going a step farther, especially being soaking wet for all those miles in the dark." Doyle had no choice but to capitulate. "O.K., but I'm going to go down that waterfall and back to Phantom that way in the morning for sure." So we each sucked as slowly as possible on a candy fruit drop, saving one apiece for breakfast, and prepared for a long night.
We lay together in a large pocket of sand in the bedrock by the creek; Maggie on one side, Doyle on the other, and me in the middle. In the middle I had the best chance of keeping warmer, you see, not to mention preventing any hanky-panky ideas on how to keep warm by the other two. Let them hang on to the edges of the foil sheet covering us and flapping noisily in the night breezes.
With a heaven brilliant with stars over our heads and gentle sounds of a tree toad chorus orchestrated by creek "woodwinds", a pervasive sense of well-being served to let me, at least, drift off with no effort. (I must admit that Maggie wiggled an awful lot, however, and Doyle snored).
At dawn we unanimously called a draw on the noisy foil, sucked our fruit drops, and further discussed our route of retreat. Doyle was still all for going over the waterfall. He obviously wanted to get some rappelling that way, though how we gals would make it down too, wasn't clear to me. I very firmly told him that I for one, intended to retrace my steps to the Flats and back down the talus route to Phantom. Maggie agreed with me. So we ALL went back up, over, across and down, and Doyle still shook his head when he saw what we'd done by moonlight. "I just can't believe we found the route through this rough stuff." (WE hadn't!)
Maggie, a chastened and subdued little gal, still wore her big smile when we arrived at the kitchen door with the rest of the crew waiting to greet us. There were just three things on her mind, she said: food, shower, and sleep, in that order. Me too.
Used by permission of the Grand Canyon Pioneers Society.
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