Chapter 7 - The Wilderness Search
The rescue operation command post was established at a snow-cleared staging area just off Guardsman Pass road near Park City. The wind howled through the towering pines, whipping powdery snow across the hoods of search-and-rescue snowmobiles and K-9 unit transport vans.
I stood beside the command trailer, bundled in a heavy waterproof parka, my breath pluming in the freezing air. Beside me, Russell paced back and forth, stamping his boots against the packed ice to keep warm.
The lead search coordinator, a weathered state trooper named Miller, unrolled a topographic map across the folding table inside the heated tent, pinning down the corners against the draft.
"Here is where her vehicle was abandoned," Miller said, pointing a gloved finger at a red marker on the map. "Route 224 overlook, roughly two miles south of the resort perimeter. Based on the temperature drop overnight and wind drift patterns, if she attempted to hike down toward the drainage creek, she could be anywhere in this two-square-mile timber sector."
"What are our chances of finding her alive?" I asked quietly.
Miller hesitated, exchanging a brief, somber glance with his K-9 handler. "It’s been over eighteen hours since her car was logged abandoned, Ms. Vance. Temperatures up here dropped to twelve below zero overnight. Hypothermia sets in rapidly, especially without proper winter gear." He paused, softening his tone. "We’re throwing everything we have at this sector before the next storm front moves in at sundown. But I want you to be prepared for the worst."
Russell let out a choked sob, turning away to stare out at the blinding white expanse of the mountain slope.
"Let’s move," I said, zipping my parka up to my chin. "I’m coming with the ground team."
"Ms. Vance, negative," Miller protested. "The terrain is treacherous, and—"
"I know these woods," I interrupted, my voice cutting through his objections with absolute authority. "I hiked these trails with my father every autumn since I was ten years old. Give me a radio, a thermal tracker, and a snowshoe kit. I’m going."
Ten minutes later, paired with an experienced K-9 handler named Marcus and a massive German Shepherd named Rex, I was slogging through waist-deep snow up the steep incline of the drainage ravine.
The forest was eerily silent, save for the rhythmic crunch of snowshoes and the heavy, rhythmic breathing of the dog as he caught scent trails in the freezing air. The wind groaned through the pines overhead, shaking loose heavy blankets of snow that tumbled down like miniature avalanches.
For two hours, we scoured the ravine, pushing deeper into the backcountry away from the highway overlook. My thighs burned with lactic acid, and my fingers grew numb inside my insulated gloves.
Then, Rex stopped dead in his tracks.
The dog let out a sharp, low bark, his ears pinned forward, nose buried deep in a snowdrift near the base of a massive fallen Douglas fir.
"Over here!" Marcus shouted into his shoulder radio, rushing forward with his shovel and probe pole. "Rex has a signal!"
I scrambled through the snow, my heart hammering against my ribs, and dropped to my knees beside the drift. Marcus began digging furiously with his collapsible shovel, clearing away the packed, wind-blown snow.
A flash of dark fabric appeared beneath the white crust.
We cleared the remaining snow away with our bare hands. Darlene Vance lay curled against the massive trunk of the fallen tree, her coat frozen stiff, her face pale as marble, lips tinged with blue.
I reached out, pressing my fingers frantically against the side of her neck.
For three terrifying seconds, there was nothing. Just cold, unyielding skin.
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Then—a faint, thrumming pulse.
"She’s alive!" I screamed into my radio, my voice cracking with overwhelming relief. "Get the medical sled and thermal blankets up here right now! She’s alive!"
