Chapter 4
Noah
The storm has been on our radar for several days, and when Friday arrives, most of us are on high alert.
Thick clouds twist above Yosemite’s towering cliffs, unleashing the full force of rain.
It comes down in torrents, turning the hiking trails into slick, treacherous paths.
I squint through the downpour as I patrol the trailheads in my truck.
Max whines while pacing in the back seat, annoyed he’s been cooped up most of the day. The boy gets antsy when he can’t run.
The wet squelch of my rain boots rubs against the floormat below my feet as I adjust, leaning forward to get a better view between my flying windshield wipers.
Most locals and avid hikers monitor the weather throughout the week, then plan accordingly.
The tourists, novice hikers, or people who just plain want to risk it—they’re the ones we’ll end up getting calls about.
As if on cue, there’s a crackle, and my radio squawks. “We’ve got a report of a hiker down on the Four Mile Trail. Unconscious, possible head injury. Anyone close?”
I slow, having just passed the trailhead during my patrol. I grip the steering wheel tighter, my pulse picking up speed. Did I miss something? I was right there seconds ago.
The Four Mile Trail—the name is deceptive because it’s not actually four miles. With many switchbacks and narrow pathways, it makes the trail slippery with mud. Add in the pouring rain and limited visibility … damn.
Thunder rolls overhead as I pull a three-point turn and pick up my radio. “Dispatch, this is Ranger Sullivan. I’m 10-76 to Four Mile Trail.”
When I reach the parking area, Max paws at the window as I grab my rain jacket from the passenger seat and step out of the truck. With the sun all but disappearing, it’s chilly, and I tug the weatherproof shell around me while sideways rain stings the side of my face.
I open the back door for my emergency pack.
“Sitz. Bleib,” I command Max. In these conditions, Max can’t be out with me. I have no scent for him to help track, and if I need to administer any lifesaving care, I need to be able to focus.
Slinging my pack over my shoulder, I glance around for any other emergency units responding, but I’m the first on the scene. The other cars besides mine are a Jeep Wrangler and an old Ford wagon—
Wait. There’s something about this car …
a flicker of recognition tugs at my memory.
This car looks familiar. The dent in the back bumper.
The way the wooden paneling along the passenger side door is scratched, like the driver has been on the road, or off-road regularly.
I have seen it before. My pulse roars as something deep and instinctual flares to life.
Move. Now.
I shake my head and push harder, slipping on the mud-slicked trail but catch myself before I trip. The climb’s a struggle, with portions of the trail steep and unforgiving, but I don’t slow down. I can’t. Every second I lag could be one second too long.
I used to run ridgelines for fun—miles of sky, lungs on fire, the thrill of it all.
Now? It’s instinct, not enjoyment. Replaced by intense conditioning, drills, and training to be first on the scene, first to serve, or first to bear the weight of what’s coming.
I never leave my job at the station. I live in it, breathe it, cohabitate with it.
Every report, every ticket, every rescue—it piles on like endless weight. I have no choice but to get stronger.
My body falls into a rhythm, muscles remembering even if my mind is racing ahead.
What if it’s bad? What if they’re unconscious—or worse?
I’ve seen broken bones, busted skulls, bodies that didn’t make it down the trails or cliffs.
I’ve seen what panic looks like in a little boy’s eyes when he thinks he’s dying, or the relief in a scared woman’s tears when she realizes I’m there to help her.
Every time, the fear crawls up my spine like it’s new.
That car in the parking lot …
My heart races as the trail elevates and becomes shrouded in mist and swirling rain. The storm’s frenzy obscures the normal magnetic views. Up ahead, a small figure bobs up and down, and as I approach, they’re jumping, waving their hands back and forth.
Closer, a woman I don’t recognize runs toward me, hands braced over the cap on her head as she tries to shield her face from the pelting rain. She’s wrapped from head to toe in expensive hiking gear. “Oh, thank God. She’s up here!”
“Are you the one who called it in?” I ask, jogging alongside her. The rain tears apart my words, but the woman nods in understanding before shouting over the hiss of the storm.
“My husband and I found her. Must’ve slipped or something. She has a pretty big gash on her head, but we can’t get her to respond. My husband’s with her. They’re about a half mile up.”
I nod, picking up my pace and radioing in again to update my location.
It takes another ten minutes to get up the trail. The wind whips and howls through the valley, and I can barely decipher the information relayed over the radio.
Then, I see her.
Instantly, the old wagon and snarky dark-haired woman from the other day pops into my head, and the spark of panic from earlier detonates inside me. I run.
She’s crumpled on the edge of the trail, teetering close to the dangerous ledge, but also half hidden among the wet rocks.
Her clothes are soaked, plastered to her small frame and doing nothing to help the cold from seeping in and turning her lips blue.
That unmistakable dark hair is fanned out around her pale, almost gray, face.
I slide down next to her, noting the smear of blood trickling from the side of her temple. A jagged rock rests nearby, its pointed edge stained red. She must’ve struck it.
Her windbreaker—unacceptable for this weather—is tossed into a sloppy, wrinkled heap beside her, like it’d been peeled off in a hurry. My gaze flicks to the man hovering near her. “Did you move her?” I shout.
Like his wife, he’s dressed appropriately for the conditions, unlike the girl unconscious in front of me. “I-I, uh, turned her over. Tried to give her mouth to mouth.” He glances the direction I’m looking and notices the jacket. “I took it off in case she needed chest compressions.”
“Why? Was she not breathing?”
His brows knit, and he shakes his head. “I-I don’t know. I just assumed …”
My stomach bottoms out. I place two fingers against her neck. A pulse.
She’s out cold, but her chest rises and falls.
The skin beneath the pads of my fingertips is icy cold, and my pulse kicks up.
My grip tightens, curling into fists around her.
She shouldn’t be this cold. I stare at her long lashes, that gaudy nose stud, the rainwater mixing with blood as it runs down her face, and I picture those haunting eyes behind her lids.
“Sir?” the man prompts me, and I startle into action.
“Hey … hey, can you hear me?” I say to her, but her eyes remain closed, body limp.
The desire to pull her into my arms and carry her out of this sopping mud pit overwhelms me.
I fumble for my radio. “Dispatch. I’ve made it to the hiker, she’s unconscious, head injury, and bleeding. I need a medevac, ASAP.”
I rip the flashlight off my belt and, with one hand, gently pry her eyelid open. The light catches the dull sheen of her reactive pupil, a good sign there isn’t any severe brain damage.
The roar of the wind and the deafening crash of thunder overhead swallows my muttering words as I check her. Rain pelts us both mercilessly, adding to the already soaked-through clothes she’s wearing. I rip off my raincoat and lay it over her, watching the droplets drip down her face.
I scramble again for my radio and repeat my call. “Dispatch. I’ve found the hiker. She’s not responding. Send a medevac, ASAP.”
Static.
My heart sinks. The storm must be interfering with the signal.
The husband, still standing beside me, curses under his breath.
Again, I repeat my words. I can’t help the hoarseness knotting my voice. Though urgent, the only response is the crackle of dead air.
I glance around. What the hell was she doing?
Images of her hovering near the drop-off when I first met her brew in my mind.
Similarly, this cliff edge looms close, and after a quick inspection of her head injury, I decide I need to move her.
Every inch of the trail is slick with mud, but I steady myself, wedging my footing against a giant boulder.
“Help me!” I raise my voice to get through the relentless eerie groan of the storm.
The man nods and bends down to help lift as I ease her into my arms, cradling her against my chest. She’s lighter than I’d anticipated.
I tuck her in close, and the smell of earthy rain mixed with an ever so faint sweetness wafts from her as her head lolls into me.
“Is this a good idea?”
Turning, I face the man but ignore his question.
It isn’t black and white. We’re trained to avoid moving unless absolutely necessary but are also supposed to assess in the field. I’m making a judgement call. She can’t stay here near a drop-off in these elements with zero indication of when EMT will get here, compounded by radio failure.
I adjust my grip, careful not to jostle something the wrong way. “We’ve got to get her out of here.”
“I’ve got her pack,” the woman says, as she hauls it up and over her own.
The couple takes the lead, navigating the trail down. There isn’t anyone else attempting the path in these conditions and we’re closer to the trailhead versus Glacier Point, so we pick up the pace.