Mount Baker, North Ridge Attempt and Rescue (III, AI3)

June 26-27, 2004

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Elain and I had been wanting to climb the North Ridge of Mount Baker since last year. Together, we had made two attempts on the route, one in 2003 and one in 2004. The weather forecast for the weekend initially looked bleak, so our original plan had been to day-climb Colchuck Peak via the North Buttress route. But at 9:00 AM on Saturday, I idly reloaded the forecast on my web browser and saw that Sunday's forecast had substantially improved. Elain and I immediately decided to switch plans and drive to Mount Baker. I had no way of knowing that this would change the next year of my life.

We hastily repacked our equipment for the new objective, exchanging rock gear for ice climbing gear. With the Jeep loaded and with a big mug of coffee, we were on our way. Two hours later we reached the ranger station in the little town of Glacier. After some discussion, we decided it was worth the time to stop and sign in at the volunteer climbing register. After that short stop, we drove up to the trailhead and started hiking. The trail was completely melted out, and we made it to the Hogsback in about two hours. There, we walked up a snow slope and at a rock outcropping, we roped up for the glacier. The weather was not looking very promising at all, with the lower Coleman Glacier shrouded in clouds. We ascended up into the clouds, following the wands and the well-worn boot path of the Coleman Glacier route. We discussed our strategy and decided that pushing across the Coleman Glacier in poor visibility did not make much sense. Instead, we decided to make camp at 6300', at an icy spot some 50 yards to the climbers' left of the Coleman Glacier boot pack. We dug into the snow and chipped away some ice to make a little platform for the tent. After dinner we discussed our strategy for the following day, and decided that we would carry two sleeping bags and the tent without poles. We would leave the shovel blade, stove, and tent poles behind. Our rack consisted of two pickets and six screws, which we figured was pretty standard for this route. We set the alarm for 1 AM, and by 7 PM we were asleep.

We awoke at 1 AM to find the night sky filled with stars. The air was still and quite cold. Around our tent, the surface snow had frozen as hard as sheetrock. We knew conditions would be excellent for making fast time to approach the route, and were excited to start the climb. We packed hastily, and by 1:45 we were roped and traversing out across the Coleman Glacier. The pale blue glow from our headlamps barely illuminated the glacier more than 20' ahead of us, but there was enough starlight that we could find our way.

At the base of the snow field, we re-tied into the rope with 50 meters between us. Together we surveyed the "high start" variation of the route. The first 500' was heavily crevassed but moderate-angle; the upper 900' looked to be a bit steeper, but with no crevasses. The time was about 3:30 AM when we started up the snow field. We weaved around at least half a dozen large crevasses, but the climbing was moderate angle and on solidly frozen snow. From the snow field, I looked down and noticed that the headlamps of the other party had vanished. I guessed they perhaps had gone off in search of the lower start to the North Ridge route. I made a mental note that I would not want to be descending this route after the sun had warmed this snow field. In the upper part of the snow field, I got out my ice tool and used two tools in the high dagger position. In five years of climbing, I had never seen conditions so perfect: styrofoam neve, excellent visibility, and not a puff of wind. At about 4:45 we reached a rocky point on the North Ridge at about 8900', and took a break to assemble the climbing rack. Shivering in my thin synthetic parka, I was glad when we were ready to start climbing again.

We traversed across a crevassed slope of the glacier below a rock band at 9300', to reach the ice-draped flank of the ridge. There, we started simul-climbing up a slope of neve, using two tools in high dagger position. At about 6:00 we reached the base of the steep blue slope of ice that marks the lip of Mount Baker's ice cap. Looking down the ridge, I saw no sign of the second party, and I figured perhaps they had abandoned their climb.

I thought I spied a feasible line for the first pitch, so we started simul-climbing up, staying close to the spine of the ridge. I placed a screw about every 40'. I found a screw lying in the ice, and added it to my rack, thinking it was a sign of good luck. After about a pitch and a half, the slope had steepened to about 70 degrees. Swinging my ice tools and using my front-points, I climbed up toward what appeared to be a vertical lip of ice, perhaps 7-8 feet high, blocking my way. I maneuvered in for a closer look, but quickly decided that climbing directly up it was not appealing. I placed a screw and started a slightly descending traverse to the left, where the wall narrowed somewhat. The traverse was delicate due to the steep ice, and I was conscious of the possibility of a pendulum fall, so I was careful with my footwork. Eventually I made my way 20' left to a seam that had looked like a possible breach in the lip. On closer inspection, it did not look that promising either. Another 20' further to the left there was a corner where I might be able to outflank the wall, but getting there would involve another lengthy traverse. I decided to get a little bit closer to the wall right above me, to see if I could reach the top of it with my ice tool. Perhaps due to nervousness about finding the right direction to go, I neglected to place a screw in the wall. I also lost sight of the fact that we were simul-climbing, and Elain had probably generated some slack while I was moving slowly. Standing on my front-points, I reached high and tried to plant a tool on the top of the lip. At that point, my luck had run out. I got slightly off balance, and a crampon skittered out of the ice. I felt myself falling backwards. I braced for the pendulum fall, but then the rope continued to play out. I accelerated down the steep ice face on my side, helpless to arrest the fall. I bounced off bulges in the face, grunting with each impact. I felt a tremendous heat in my lower right leg, and then suddenly came to a stop, the rope creaking under the strain.

Above me the rope extended, drum-taut, to an ice screw some 40' above me, and down through another two screws to Elain, who was out of view on the other side of an arete. I was hanging in my harness on the steep ice face. I looked myself over, amazed to see that I still had both my ice tools, and that I had not gored myself with my picks or crampons. I could not see Elain, but I could faintly hear her calling my name. My lower right leg ached terribly, but I thought optimistically, maybe it's a sprain or a hairline fracture; perhaps I could still climb on it. I set my left crampon's front-points solidly into the ice and stood up on them. I gingerly tried to put weight on my right front-points, but the response was swift and severe; the lower leg was unquestionably fractured. Elain called my name again, louder this time. I responded simply "My leg is broken." After a pause, "What do you want to do?" came the terse reply. Knowing that the ice screw from which I was hanging had already seen a substantial force and might soon lever out of the ice, I called out that I needed to find a ledge on which I could stand on one leg. Spotting one about 8' to the right of me, I began penduluming over toward it using my good leg. Clawing with my tools for traction, I reached the ledge and commenced building an anchor. I clove-hitched myself into the anchor and rigged an auto-locking belay for Elain. While Elain climbed up towards me, I struggled to remove the crampon from the boot of my bad leg. The wave of pain sent me reeling in my one-legged perch. I looked down at my gaiter and wondered if the fracture might be open; I decided not to look at it yet. When Elain reached the belay ledge, we briefly discussed our situation. We were on an ice cliff at just under 9700' elevation. Because of the ice cliff and the 800' of moderately steep climbing above it, continuing up and over the summit was impossible. We agreed that the only realistic option was retreat. My immediate goal was to get down the ice cliff and find a (relatively) safe spot to rest and plan our next move. Elain took two screws and rappelled down the doubled 50m rope. When she was off rappel, I considered building a double V-thread anchor, but my hands were shaking so much that I didn't think I could do it. So I removed one screw and moved the rope through a single oval carabiner on the other screw. My shaking hands made it difficult to retrieve a bit of duct tape to fashion a "lock" for the carabiner. I rigged a backup in case I let go of the braking strand, and started rappelling down the slope. It was awkward and stressful; every bump was fire in my leg. I experimented with a couple of methods, and eventually favored rappelling using my knees against the ice. When I reached Elain, I clipped into the double-ice-screw anchor she had made.

The next pitch was 55-degree ice and neve. Elain said she felt confident down-climbing the pitch, so we set up a lowering system. I stupidly neglected to rig a chest harness, which made the lowering process even more painful than it would have otherwise been. I kept tilting towards the left as she was lowering me down the slope. Heedless of my plaintive moans, Elain kept a good constant lowering pace. When Elain ran out of rope, I was hanging about 100' above a cliffy band of rocks. I equalized a picket and an ice tool, and clipped myself into the "anchor". Elain carefully climbed down to me, using her two tools and her front-points. The next pitch was 45-degree snow. A sharply traversing descent would be required, because a direct descent would lead to the rock cliff, and below it, a crevasse. After some discussion, we decided that belayed down-climbing was the only way to make the traverse. When Elain put me on belay, I began to slowly make my way across the slope using my two tools, my good leg, and the knee of my bad leg. My progress was frustratingly slow. At the end of the rope, I had just reached the corner of the crevasse below the rocks. I set up an anchor and Elain climbed down to me. I spotted an abandoned ice screw nearby above the rocks, and, thinking it might be useful, I asked Elain to climb up and retrieve it. About 15 feet away, we spotted a small ledge formed where avalanche debris that had piled up inside the crevasse. Elain cramponed over to survey the ledge, and called me over. I followed her by crawling along the narrow lip of the crevasse on my knees, and using my two ice tools for traction. Eventually I reached the ledge, panting from the effort. It was sobering to see the serac-studded ice cliff directly 300' above us; just above the crevasse was a band of crumbly rock. Ice avalanche swaths were clearly visible on the slope above us. I wondered how often the cliff calved ice.

Freed from the immediate threat of falling, we emptied our packs and took stock of our situation. We had just over a liter of water between the two of us. We did not have a cell phone (ours had broken the previous week) or the stove. On the plus side, we had a tent and two sleeping bags, and the midday sun would melt a bit of snow for drinking water. To the north and east were low-lying cumulus clouds, but the mountain itself had clear skies with no wind. Glancing at my watch, I noted with concern that it had taken us three hours to descend 300'; the time was now 9:30. Another 500' below us, I could see the flat shoulder in the ridge, with the rock outcropping where we had rested at sunrise. Unfortunately, to get there would require three 50-meter pitches of sharply traversing descent, above crevasses and cliffs, before we could begin lowering straight down. For the moment, the weather was good, with visibility all the way to the Hogsback. We did not know if the good weather would last. If we both stayed put, someone at the Glacier Ranger Station would eventually notice that we were overdue, but an actual search would likely not begin until Tuesday morning. The two of us together would run out of our water long before then. On the other hand, for the two of us to attempt to move me to the rock outcropping would take a lot of time, and it would be hazardous without a third climber to short-rope me. A slip could potentially cause us both to tumble a thousand feet down the Roosevelt Glacier. Moreover, even if we both reached the rock outcropping, we would still be at 8900'. Descending the next 2000' to the Coleman Glacier would be a grim affair-- at least 15 lowerings down an icefall-prone slope bisected by crevasses. We decided that traversing and lowering to the rock outcropping would only delay the inevitable--we needed to split up. I felt sick to my stomach asking Elain to descend the route by herself, particularly after the glacier was warmed by the sun. She would be descending a crevassed route without any partner, under threat of rockfall and icefall. Elain agreed that it was the best of our unappealing options.

The next half hour was spent preparing for Elain's departure. We needed to split up our equipment between the two of us. The first order of business was to empty my bowels, which required balancing precariously on one leg, on the edge of the crevasse. Thinking it might be useful to record our exact location, I marked a GPS waypoint and recorded our elevation (9300'), and then gave the GPS and altimeter watch to Elain. I handed all the hardware and the rope to Elain, and suggested that she should rappel any section that looked sketchy, leaving gear if need be. Elain gave me all the water and first aid supplies, and we split up the food. I removed the foam padding from our two packs and put the pads inside the tent, to lay on. We hung my backpack on the steep slope outside the crevasse using an ice tool, hoping the orange pack would be visible from a distance. Elain spread out two sleeping bags inside the tent, one inside the other. Looking at the tent, I realized that before I could get inside the sleeping bag, I would need to remove the bulky plastic boot shell. With two pitiful wails, I had the boot liner off. Dizzy and ashen-faced, I laid down on the ledge and was soon shivering uncontrollably. With Elain's help, I crawled into the sleeping bag. I took a three-year-old oxycodone pill in the hopes that it would quell the pain. We discussed how long it would probably take for Elain to descend and summon help. If she did not encounter a climbing party with a cellular phone, she would need to descend to the trailhead and drive into the town of Glacier. In total, that would take at least six hours. We figured I would likely need to spend at least one night on the mountain. Beyond that, it would depend on the weather. I told Elain where to find the pay phone in town, in case the ranger station was closed. We said our goodbyes. From inside the tent, I heard Elain's crampons crunching down the slope, followed by silence. I cried for a bit, feeling terribly guilty about putting Elain at risk.

For the rest of the day, I remained in the crevasse. Despite frequently shifting and making slight adjustments, I could not find a comfortable position. The ledge was at a slight angle, and I kept sliding down further into the crevasse. I passed the time by gathering snow for meltwater, and keeping the sun off my head. By mid-day, the sun had turned the tent into an oven. I managed to wriggle out of the sleeping bag, but kept the tent over my head to prevent a blistering sunburn. Concerned that the inevitable swelling might compromise the circulation to the leg, I elevated it with a rolled-up sleeping bag. I kept my helmet on, in the absurd hope it might protect me from icefall and rockfall. The snow ledge on which I was laying would periodically make popping and creaking noises, which I did my best to ignore. I watched the sun in order to gauge the passage of time. A few times, I clawed my way over to the lip of the crevasse to get a peek down the Coleman Glacier. I squinted my eyes and hoped to make out a lone climber making her way across the glacier, but I never saw anyone except rope teams trudging up the Coleman-Deming trade route. By noon, thick clouds began to envelop the lower Coleman Glacier, but conditions were clear above 7000'. Sleep was not really possible because of the pain in my leg, but I managed to rest and hydrate. Despite not feeling hungry, I forced myself to eat a handful of trail mix. As midday gave way to late afternoon, worries about Elain's safety began to consume me. I desperately hoped that she had not fallen through a snow bridge into a hidden crevasse.

At 4:30 PM, I heard the thwack-thwack-thwack of a helicopter. I popped my head out of the tent, and saw a black silhouette of a helicopter approaching from the northwest. The arrival of a helicopter this early could only be possible if Elain had successfully reached other climbers on the trade route. Knowing that Elain had safely descended the route, I had tears of happiness. As the helicopter approached, I waved a small brightly-colored sheet of plastic that I had found in the first aid kit. The helicopter made several search passes, then flew away. Figuring that it would be back shortly for another search pass, I packed up the two sleeping bags and the tent. I splinted my leg by rolling it up in the foam padding from the backpack, and tying it tightly with some perlon cord. By the time I was finishing, the helicopter came back for another search attempt. I waved the sheet of plastic again. After a few passes, the helicopter passed close by the crevasse, and I exchanged waves with a person standing in the open doorway of the helicopter. The aircraft was white and orange, with NAVY emblazoned in large letters. The helicopter then flew off into the clouds. Some time later, the helicopter returned. It made several passes on the lower part of the Roosevelt Glacier, then hovered at around 8300' for a minute or so, and finally flew away. I thought I could faintly hear voices from that direction. I guessed that a ground team was planning to climb up to me. This led me to the conclusion that my current position was likely too hazardous for a helicopter pick-up. I would likely be descending to a more suitable pick-up point, on foot.

About 45 minutes later, two climbers crested onto a low-angle part of the ridge at 8900', just across from the rock outcropping where Elain and I had taken our break early in the morning. I took my second (and last) pain pill in anticipation of the unpleasantness to come. I watched the climbers zigzag up the crevassed slope towards me. They were wearing heavy Nomex flight suits. When they reached the crevasse, we made introductions. They were Forest Chiavario and Jim Hall from Bellingham Mountain Rescue. I worriedly asked them about Elain's situation, and whether she was safely off the mountain. They replied that they didn't know any details about her situation, but they reassured me that she must be someplace safe. They explained that we would need to descend approximately 1000' to reach the helicopter pick-up point. I asked them about the weather forecast, and was relieved to hear that it looked good for the next 24 hours. The time was already about 6:30 PM; we had a great deal of work to do, with only a few hours of daylight left. If we did not make the pick-up point before nightfall, the back-up plan was to have two climbers from Skagit Mountain Rescue (one of them a doctor) lowered from the helicopter, to join us for the night. As an added incentive to move quickly, we all felt that the slopes we would be traversing were threatened by icefall. Jim and Forest efficiently prepared me for the descent. Jim quickly assessed my medical condition and peeked inside the boot liner, revealing that it was a closed fracture. He SAM-splinted my lower leg, and then reapplied my foam-pad splint on top of theirs. They gave me an energy gel pack, an ibuprofen pill and some water. While Forest prepared an anchor, I asked Jim to rig me a chest harness. After Jim radioed in our status, we were ready to start the descent. I hid my nervousness by joking that I would try not to "wail too much" during the descent.

The first three pitches required sharply traversing to the climbers' right, to avoid cliffs and crevasses. There was really no way to avoid partially ambulating on the injured leg. Jim short-roped me, while Forest belayed us from pickets. Initially, we clipped my pack so that it dangled next to me on a sling. While awkward, this system seemed to work OK. I traversed and downclimbed facing the slope. I would shaft my two ice tools off to my right, then put all my weight on the two ice tools as I shifted my legs over. I would hold my breath and jab the knee of my right leg into the slope, and kick with my left foot for a foothold. Then I would repeat the process. Every step was painful, and my leg would severely punish any slip or misstep. Jim and Forest had kicked good steps in the snow on their ascent, which were a great help through the traverse. A couple of times when I slipped, Jim quickly stopped me using the rope. Seeing the sun inch closer toward the horizon, I increased my pace a bit. After two pitches, Jim and I decided that I should try wearing my pack. I put it on, and was surprised that I could still downclimb, albeit shakily. A pitch later, our route turned and descended straight down a broad, moderate-angle snow slope. Jim and Forest lowered me, sitting on the snow, for two pitches. I concentrated on keeping my leg elevated so that it would not impact any bumps in the slope. At 8:45 PM, we were about twenty meters from the rock outcropping, with still 600' to descend to the pick-up point. Everyone's unspoken concern was whether we would make it to the pick-up point before dark. A radio call came in from Firewood Six, the Navy helicopter. The cooling air temperature would allow them to pick us up right where we were. I enthusiastically crab-crawled the last few meters to the flattest spot. The rope needed to be put away before the helicopter arrived, lest it get caught up in the rotor. I kicked a little platform to keep me from sliding down the slope, and was taken off belay. Forest and Jim gave me ear plugs and instructed me on what to do, which was basically to lay on my back and not touch the helicopter's hoist cable. My eyes widened when they told me that the hoist cable can carry a large static charge.

When the helicopter arrived, it hovered right above us. I instinctively shielded my face from the tempest of snow and ice. A rescuer in an orange and black jump-suit was lowered on a cable, straddling over me when he hit the snow. He disconnected from the cable and, noting my field-rigged chest harness, waved the helicopter off. He introduced himself as Keith, and told me that he is a Navy Hospital Corpsman in the Search and Rescue Unit. Keith explained that I needed a special body harness in order to be hoisted into the helicopter. Forest produced one, and it was put on me in short order. I was trussed up like a turkey, wearing two full-body harnesses and all my clothing underneath. Keith clipped me to him using a locking carabiner, and radioed Firewood Six that we were ready to go. We were cleared via radio to bring my pack along, so Jim clipped my pack to his harness. Shortly thereafter the helicopter was thundering above us, lowering the rescue cable. The cable swung right next to me, and remembering the static charge, I recoiled from it as if it were a poisonous snake. Keith attached himself to the cable, and someone started the winch. Keith and I were airborne, facing one another, my face in his stomach, and with me holding onto his legs. At the top of the winch, I was heaved inside the helicopter and onto the metal floor. There was a deafening roar, and the smell of engine exhaust. Never having been in a helicopter before, I was seized with a fear of falling out the door, so I frantically crawled toward a small space in the back. With my tinted glacier glasses on, everything was initially dark. I was able to make out a line of webbing stretched across the airframe, and clung to it tightly. Forest and Jim were hoisted inside the helicopter, and we flew away. Seeing how I was cowering in the aft of the helicopter, Keith asked if I was afraid of flying, to which I nodded vigorously. I started to feel very tired, and stared vacantly out a window toward the crimson sunset. It was near dusk when the helicopter landed at the Mount Baker Ski Area, where a Forward Staging Base had been established for the rescue. Jim and Forest jumped out with their gear, and moments later the helicopter was airborne again.

During the 20-minute flight, Keith did a patient assessment and filled out some paperwork. It was hard to communicate over the din of the engine; we had to shout back and forth and use gestures. Eventually it came time to inspect the injury, which I knew would require Keith to remove the boot liner. I clutched the webbing tightly while Keith prepared to pull off the boot. With each sustained pull, I caterwauled loudly. After a few unsuccessful attempts, Keith nodded and retrieved some trauma shears. He carefully cut and peeled away the boot liner and the sock. Although it was not as grotesque as I had expected, the ankle was swollen and misshapen. A black, crescent-shaped contusion encircled the medial malleolus (the inside bulge of my ankle joint). Keith splinted my two legs together using the foam pad and the cord, mermaid-like. When the helicopter landed, I inchwormed over to the open side door. Several pairs of hands lowered me out the door and onto a stretcher. I thanked the helicopter crew with a weak smile and a thumbs-up. One of the crew gave me a farewell salute. The stretcher was wheeled to a nearby ambulance. After a short ambulance ride, I was wheeled into an emergency room. Disoriented, I asked where I was. A nurse said that I was at St. Joseph's Hospital in Bellingham. Two nurses struggled to remove all my harnesses and clothing, as I had more layers than a matrioshka doll. When I was finally lying bare on the table, I felt self-conscious and apologized for not smelling too good, prompting a chuckle from the nurses. I was given an IV, pre-warmed saline, warm blankets, and a gown. A short while later I was wheeled off to Radiology. Seeing how desperate I was for an update, the technician confided "It looks like you have a comminuted fracture of the distal tibia. This sort of fracture usually requires surgery."

When I returned from Radiology, a patient was coding in the emergency room, so my bed was placed at an overflow location in the hallway. I felt a tremendous sense of relief to know that Elain was somewhere safe, and to be off the mountain myself. My leg was hurting, but compared to the boot removal and down-climbing, it was quite tolerable. When Elain arrived, she looked sunburned and very tired. She filled me in on her day. She had carefully downclimbed the steep flank of the North Ridge, skirting around the bergschrund and crevasses in order to reach the Coleman Glacier. She hiked quickly across the Coleman Glacier, and all but ran down the final snow slopes to the Hogsback. Her descent took about 2.5 hours, and passed thankfully without incident. At the Hogsback, she luckily ran into two Mount Baker Climbing Rangers, Curt and Ant. The Climbing Rangers called in the accident report at 12:30 PM, using their satellite phones. They stayed with Elain at the Hogsback for the rest of the afternoon. At about 5:30 PM, the three of them descended to the trailhead together. Elain then drove to the forward staging base at the Mount Baker Ski Area. There, they awaited the outcome of the rescue. When word came over the radio that the helicopter had picked me up, Elain raced to meet me at the hospital in Bellingham.

A while later, Dr. Netboy, the ER doctor, came over to discuss my injury. He described my fracture as "nasty". I was diagnosed with a tibial pilon fracture, as well as a fractured fibula. The tibia appeared to be impacted into itself, about 1 cm. I didn't know what a "pilon fracture" was. Unable to make heads or tails of the grainy printout of my X-ray, I just nodded thoughtfully. The doctor said that I would need to be transferred to Harborview Medical Center in Seattle, for orthopedic surgery. He suggested that Elain could drive me, in order to save the cost of an ambulance ride. We were both too tired to question the idea, so we agreed. I spoke with George Ratayczak, the Whatcom County Sheriff's Deputy who had coordinated the entire search and rescue operation. I sincerely thanked him for all of his help, and apologized for all the trouble I had caused. I waited in the hallway for a long time, and eventually was wheeled into a room where my leg was to be splinted. The nurse pushed some dilaudid into my IV, remarking that the splinting could be a bit painful. The foot was repositioned, and a plaster splint was then put on the leg. We then waited for clearance to be discharged. Because I would be going into surgery in the morning, I was not allowed any food or drink. Hunger was not a problem because the dilaudid made me nauseous, but I was terribly thirsty.

By 2:00 AM, I was given a farewell bolus of dilaudid and cleared for transport to Harborview. I was only semi-conscious as Elain loaded me, with help from a nurse, into the passenger side of the Jeep. For her part, Elain was completely exhausted. She had been on the move for 25 hours straight, with almost nothing to eat. We needed to get gas, and some food for Elain. At the Jack-in-the-Box drive-through window, the cashier was wide-eyed at the sight of me sleeping in my hospital gown. I slept most of the way to Harborview, waking up and feeling quite nauseus when we pulled in front of the Emergency Department, at 4:00 AM. I waited, glassy-eyed, while Elain ran inside to fetch a wheelchair. After heaving myself onto the wheelchair, Elain wheeled me inside and past the metal detector. In the waiting room of the Emergency Department, we were briefly stumped by the various registration desks and the long queues of people. Finally, my hospital gown or splinted leg caught someone's attention. A nurse came out and beckoned us inside the emergency room, asking "what took you so long?"

The next seven hours were a blur of X-rays, speaking with various doctors and nurses, and filling out forms. I was constantly thirsty. When the orthopedic surgeons arrived, they removed my splint in order to inspect my leg. The team explained that they needed to re-splint the leg with the ankle in the "neutral position." This meant that they would need to reposition my ankle joint. A resident braced my leg under his arm and set to work. I gripped the rails of my bed and gritted my teeth. The pain was white-hot and unrelenting. A nurse reminded me to breathe. When the splinting was at last finished, I glowered angrily at the resident who had done the deed. Some time later, I was told I would be going into surgery. In the pre-op area, I had a bout of vomiting, and was given some reglan. At 11:30 AM, I was wheeled into the operating room. I had never had surgery before, and I found the operating room intimidating. Without my eyeglasses, I squinted to try and make out my surroundings. A masked person asked me to scoot over onto the operating table and lay down. I was given a blanket. A mask was placed over my face. Then the smell of the gas changed. The next moment, I was in the recovery room, trying to peer through the veil of post-anesthesia grogginess.

Many hours later, Elain summarized what the surgeons had told her: my fibula had been reduced and internally fixed using a stainless steel plate and screws. The lower leg had been immobilized using a device called an external fixator, which is designed to stabilize the tibia and the foot in an anatomic alignment. I was told that after 10-14 days, the swelling in the lower leg would subside enough to allow surgical reduction of the tibia. The next morning, the orthopedic surgery residents visited during their daily rounds. Through a morphine haze I asked, "how bad is it?" The resident's reply was ambiguous: "I've seen worse." I later learned that a tibial pilon fracture is one of the more challenging orthopedic injuries to treat, with a comparatively high rate of complications. Nevertheless, the doctors reassured me that I would walk again. Seeing my leg after surgery was a shock. It was puffy and stained yellow-brown from the betadine. With the metal rods skewering my leg, it resembled curried chicken grilled satay-style. After three days at Harborview, I was discharged. A week later, I went back to Harborview for a 5-hour operation to repair the tibia and the ankle joint. As a result of the two surgeries, my fractures were internally fixed with three steel plates and about sixteen screws. After five more days in the hospital, I went home to continue my recovery.

The recovery and rehabilitation process has been a long and difficult road, far more difficult and exhausting than the day of the accident on Mount Baker. But with the support of family and friends, I'm making progress.

Update (2005/05/11)

On April 21st, I had a third surgery to correct a non-union of my tibia, using a bone graft from my proximal tibia (near my knee). My anterior and medial plates were removed, and a Zimmer "locking" anterior plate was installed. I spent five days at Harborview following my surgery. I am receiving a 12-week course of intravenous antibiotics because there is an indication of a bone infection in my leg. I hope to be walking (with a cane) by mid-summer 2005.

Analysis

Elain and I have reviewed the events of that morning numerous times and have identified several contributing factors to the accident. They are all indicative of an unusual departure from our typically conservative approach to climbing.

1. As soon as I made the traverse under the overhanging lip, I should have placed a screw.
2. As soon as the terrain changed from 70-degree ice to the vertical lip, we should have set up a belay and started pitching things out.
3. Communication was poor. Generally when the second is out of sight of the leader, we try to communicate as the terrain changes.
4. As we were simul-climbing, there was some slack in the line which extended the distance of the fall.

Thank you

Many organizations participated and/or assisted with my rescue from Mount Baker: Bellingham Mountain Rescue Council, the Search and Rescue Team of Naval Air Station Whidbey, Whatcom County Sheriff's Department, Whatcom County Search and Rescue 4x4 Unit, Radio Amateur Civil Emergency Service, Skagit Mountain Rescue, and Snoqualmie-Mount Baker National Forest (especially climbing rangers Curt Parker and Ant Chapin). I am so grateful to all of them.

I would like to express my sincere appreciation to Whatcom County Sheriff's Deputy George Ratayczak. Deputy Ratayczak did a fantastic job coordinating this complex rescue.

Jim Hall and Forest Chiavario are heroes. They put themselves at considerable risk, as volunteers, to help a stranger in need. They ascended a hazardous slope, late in the day, with heavy packs full of rescue equipment, to assist me. During every phase of the rescue, they were a study in professionalism and efficiency. Their skillful management of the descent averted having to spend the night on the mountain. I will be forever grateful to them, and to everyone in Bellingham Mountain Rescue.

The crew of Naval Air Station Whidbey's Firewood Six Search and Rescue helicopter were: HM3 Keith Griffin; AM2 Michael Cash; AD2 Dean Dickinson; Lt. Michael Hansen; Cmdr. Mark Nowicki. They are all heroes, for volunteering their considerable talents and skills to perform search and rescue missions in Whatcom County. I can only imagine how difficult it must be to execute a high-angle helicopter rescue, near the altitude ceiling of the aircraft. The crew of Firewood Six performed the extraction with a degree of perfection and professionalism that can only come from thousands of hours of preparation and training. I will be forever grateful for what they did on June 27th, 2004.

I'm sincerely grateful to the orthopedic surgeons and nurses at Harborview Medical Center, and in particular, Dr. Chad Coles, Dr. David Barei, and Dr. Daphne Beingessner. The orthopedic surgery team in charge of my case, the "Blue Team", did a great job with my three surgeries. I'm also very grateful to the physical therapists at the U.W. Sports Medicine Clinic (especially Lori Sabado), for supervising my rehabilitation. I'm also grateful to the Smith-Nephew Corporation for providing an Exogen fracture healing ultrasound machine to help stimulate bone regrowth. Finally, I'm thankful to the Infectious Disease Clinic at Harborview, and all the OptionCare home care nurses for their skilled treatment of my bone infection.

I would like to thank Robert Connor and Gary Yngve for bringing our gear back from our camp on Mount Baker. I sincerely appreciate all of the well wishes and notes of encouragement I have received from family and friends.

Most of all, I am grateful to Elain.

Photographs

The Ice Cliff on the North Ridge. The upper dot is the accident site, and the lower dot is the location of the crevasse where I waited for help. The photograph is taken from the perspective of someone standing at the helicopter pick-up point.

Sunrise from our rest spot at 8900'

Elain at our rest spot, at 8900'.

Steve leading up towards the ice cliff, about 15 minutes before the accident.

Steve in the crevasse, just before Elain leaves to go for help.

The Navy crew searches for Steve. HMC Keith Griffin is wearing orange and black. (Photo courtesy of Forest Chiavario)

View of the North Ridge from the helicopter. (Photo courtesy of Forest Chiavario)

Annotated view of the North Ridge from the helicopter. The red circle denotes the location of the accident. The green circle indicates the location of the crevasse where I waited while Elain went for help. The purple circle denotes the location where we were picked up by the helicopter. (Photo courtesy of Forest Chiavario)

Steve packing up for the descent. The lower Coleman Glacier is visible in the distance. (Photo courtesy of Forest Chiavario)

Jim, talking on the radio; and Steve, with splinted leg. We are preparing for the descent. (Photo courtesy of Forest Chiavario)

Forest and Jim at the forward staging base at the Mount Baker Ski Area, after the rescue. The rescue helicopter Firewood Six is in the background. It is a Sikorsky UH-3H "Sea King" helicopter, specifically outfitted for search and rescue. After this photo was taken, the helicopter flew to Bellingham to transport Steve to the hospital. (Photo courtesy of Forest Chiavario)

An x-ray of my lower leg and ankle, 22 hours after the accident. The distal end of the tibia is broken into several pieces, and it has been pushed up into the shaft of the tibia. The fibula is also fractured.

My leg, one week post-accident. The fibula has been reduced and internally fixed using a steel plate; the tibia still awaits an orthopedic reduction. The metal apparatus is called an "external fixator". The pins are screwed into the bone and are connected to the black rods by clamps. The ankle and foot are still quite swollen at this point.

A touching get-well card from my six-year-old niece, Ashley. She calls me "Ah-Teoh", which means "uncle".

On December 10, the Mount Baker Chapter of the Red Cross presented an award to Elain Fu and several groups that participated in the June 27th rescue on Mount Baker (Bellingham Mountain Rescue Council, NAS Whidbey Search and Rescue Unit, Whatcom County Sheriff's Department Search and Rescue, Snoqualmie-Mount Baker Climbing Rangers). The award was given at the Red Cross's annual "Real Heroes" ceremony. Shown here are award recipients Jim Hall, Forest Chiavario, Elain Fu, and Keith Griffin, standing alongside a very grateful Steve Ramsey.

Links

Bellingham Mountain Rescue Council
Naval Air Station Whidbey Island
Skagit Mountain Rescue
Whatcom County Search and Rescue

If you would like to support Bellingham Mountain Rescue Council, you can find out how to donate here.