Awards and Accomplishments

One person was dead, dozens of souls were scarred, and they had descended on our operation hut. Usually the hut was a place for us to plan out our missions with focus and attention to detail. What ropes will we need to bring? Which stretcher will travel best in the chopper? Do we have eyeglasses, ear plugs, helmet, head lamp, a body harness with two points to clip into and twenty other pieces of gear? It takes a lot of concentration to make sure all the contingencies are planned for. A chopper only has time to fly into the Sierra mountains a few times in a given afternoon, before the winds are too strong, or the sky is too dark. We can’t leave anything behind.

But instead of running the checklist I find myself watching the bride of the deceased. She looks so young, maybe early 30’s. She has a kind face and an unassuming style to her blond hair and comfortable clothing. And she is undone. Her eyes are red and swollen. Waves of weeping overtake her every few minutes. When she can talk, she mentions the planned trip to the Himalaya, and the ways they were using her husband’s photography and film work to help the poor in Nepal. Their lives were just hitting their stride, full of momentum and joy and purpose. And then a wrecking ball slammed into the house, destroying one room and toppling another.

I’m conflicted about the ten people around her. I’m grateful she has loved ones to support her, to hold her, to cry with her. But I’m feeling our space to run a successful mission is being seized both spatially and emotionally. The other rescuers choose to keep their distance. They focus on getting mission ready, and keeping their emotional engagement to a minimum. There is wisdom here. You can’t think clearly about your gear, flying safely in the back of a helicopter and making decisions how to get a body out of treacherous mountain terrain while crying for the deceased. Rescuers that knew the family well were encouraged to exclude themselves from the mission.

And yet, I’m a priest. It is a job that never turns off. Especially in tragedy. At life’s dark times, a priest is called to represent God’s presence to people that can’t see and feel Him. And this was certainly one of those times. If I disengage from the family and focus on the mission, I risk misrepresenting the God that comes close to the suffering and broken. If I engage the widow and allow myself to bear some of her burden, I may be ineffective, or even at risk, in trying to fulfill the recovery mission.

“God, please guide me, and allow me to be both a support to this woman, and a help to the rescue team.”

I decide to try to walk the line. I introduce myself to the wife and family, asking their connection to the deceased. I ask the wife if she would like me to offer prayers over her husband before we move him onto the helicopter and she nods to me through tears.

“Please let me know if there is anything else we can do for you.”

“Thank you,” with sincerity.

One of the deceased’s friends pulls me aside to explain the accident.

“Only experts paraglide during this season in the Sierra. The thermals are intense and can carry you for 100 miles, but they can also cause a rotor that can throw you right into the mountain.” His eyes carry great sadness with his eyebrows raised.

“My friend was carrying two backup chutes because of the extreme conditions. Normal paragliders never carry two backups.”

The friend continues to educate us on the paragliding experience, and on the possibilities of things that might have gone wrong. We thank him and then excuse ourselves.

I go back to finish packing for our flight. I’m a bit behind and feeling some additional anxiety in having to rush. I tuck away my prayer book in the hopes of being able to pray over the deceased before the chopper comes to take him away.

A loud pulsing thud begins to rise in the room. A few people walk over to the window. The chopper is approaching. I’ve got to run to grab a radio. I feel anxious about not having extra time to go over all my gear, but when it comes to helicopters their fuel is of paramount concern. We’ve got to be ready when they call us. My colleague and I head over to the chopper pad. The wind blasts around us like a typhoon. Our bags and clothes lift, free from gravity. We hold them tight to make sure they don’t get sucked upward.

We tuck ourselves and our bags into the small metal can. Seats have been stripped out of the chopper to save weight. We are sitting on the metal floor. We must be as light as possible to reach the highest sections of the Sierra. As we lift above the Owen’s Valley, the emotional weight of the family and the tragedy shrinks from view. Two years of helicopter training is now alive before me. My adrenaline rises like bubbles in water beginning to boil. The world has opened views I’ve never seen before, like a face that I’ve only ever seen from one side. The Owen’s River squirms back and forth more than a seven-year old boy at the dinner table. Its energies are spent across compressed miles, turning yellow and brown terrain green and fresh. We raise higher and I stretch my head up to see through the windows across the noisy fuselage. The view doesn’t disappoint. We are now face to face with the Palisades, one of the most dramatic sections of the Sierra. They’ve stored their snow long into the summer, like a woman keeps the clothes of her youth. They seem somehow taller as we hover at their chest. They are the royalty of the valley. They look down on the peasants, the farmers and the merchants. They belong to the inner circle, and their position is secure.

We wrap around them to the canyon were the accident happened. We squint our eyes to try to find the spot of the man and the parachutes. It is a mere thimble among rocks, crags, scree and snow. The chopper touches down for short seconds while we gently step off and duck down. He flies off, telling us we have less than two hours before he returns for the body. We’ve got to work fast.

The wind dies down. We remove our ear plugs and the turbulence of the helicopter is washed white by the silence of the mountains. We don’t take time to appreciate it. We’ve got to get moving. We carefully make our way over to the crash site. The terrain is steep. There is no trail in sight. Part of the mountain is covered in snow and we take tentative summer steps and watch carefully what the snow is doing under foot. As we get to the parachute and body, packaging is underway. There are four of us there, collecting his items. He is placed into a yellow bag.

His body is cold. Cold in a way that bodies never should be, like opening a refrigerator full of food and realizing that it is warm, room temperature. The blood on the orange rocks around the body has had time to stain them black with scarlet streaks. Did you know enough scarlet can turn something black? We are working but we aren’t laughing.

There is a quiet around the deceased that feels correct. Like walking into a cathedral with soft steps and head bowed. Responders sometimes resist the weight of death by joking and denying the spirit of reverence, but it is there nevertheless, and today we are able to acknowledge it. I’m carrying the weight of needing to fulfill my responsibility to pray over the man. I made the commitment to his bride, to myself and to God. And yet this commitment clashes with the clock that is ticking downward toward zero, when the chopper will return and we must be ready to load the man. We still have maybe an hour of hauling him and his gear uphill around rocks, boulders, snow and steep terrain to get him close to the landing zone.

I’m deeply relieved that the packaging has moved quickly. I ask our mission leader for permission to take a few minutes to pray over the deceased. She gives me the go ahead. I position myself near his head and pull out my prayer book. Another spiritually sensitive colleague stands on a boulder twenty feet above the unrehearsed service of last rites. I close my eyes and search with faith for the presence of God in the face of the death. Despite my vocation, I feel a sense of surprise as my soul detects God’s pulse. He is here, and He is alive. My prayers are spoken, not in a vacuum, but into the ears of God.

…Into your hands, O merciful Savior, we commend your servant. Acknowledge, we humbly beseech you, a sheep of your own fold, a lamb of your own flock, a sinner of your own redeeming. Receive him into the arms of your mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light. Amen.

The whole service takes less than 5 minutes. But I am personally lifted, having made a unique, meaningful contribution to this man and his family. I was affected, but I wasn’t overcome with emotion in ways that would leave the rest of the mission damaged. I was able to walk the line. We had done the heavy lifting spiritually, and for the next six hours we would do the heavy lifting physically. The first hour, under maximum effort, we brought the body to what we thought was the landing zone. The chopper touched down 50 yards up the mountain, and we strained hands and legs under blasting noise and wind to get him there. Waves of relief and satisfaction washed us. It may seem out of place to have satisfaction during a recovery mission, but it is the customary emotion for a team that finishes their race, like the factory worker that reaches the end of their long day. The pilot gives us the sign that we will be hiking out on our own feet, and then lifts away.

All is quiet again. We take a few deep breathes grateful that we had done our part. And then we started the long 5 hours downhill. It is dark by the time we get back to the operation hut. Our brows are stained with dirt and sweat. Our legs tremble with tiredness. The hut is empty now. Everyone has returned home while we were in the mountains. I sit down for a moment and reflect on the day. A man is still dead, and a dozen souls are still scarred. But his body is returned. His soul has been prayed for. And maybe the first step of healing begun. His bride texts me the next day expressing gratitude for what we’ve done, and the prayers that were said. I assure her that it was an honor to support her, and to support the team.