STRANDED!

David Heiller

Editor's note: This was originally published in Backpacker Magazine, and later included in a book called "The Whole Hiker's Handbook."

Only fifty yards to go; I was almost there.

I blinked as the wind swirled down the trail, powdering everything with snow. Looming above me was 10,485-foot Tuolumne Peak. It appeared ghostly; gray-white against white. So close. So deceptively close.

10,485-foot Tuolumne Peak.

“The most crucial 150 feet of my life,” I thought as I stood shivering in the snow. For the past six hours of that fateful November 10, 1973 day, I had waded through drifts up steep switchbacks below the peak. Now, standing on a small bare patch of soil protected by a dozen large pines, I scanned the outline of the snow-choked trail as it rose steeply over a crest.

Beyond the crest was Yosemite Valley, 20 downhill miles to the south. For seven days I had back-packed over mountainous trails, many like this one, always managing to stay one step ahead of the deep snow. But now?

This was the most crucial distance. The final 50 yards. The chilling wind, my snow-soaked clothes and numbed hands were forgotten. With all my remaining strength, I began wading up the drifted trail. Twenty steps brought knee-deep snow; each successive step was worse. Leaning forward, hands pawing uselessly, I crawled through the snow as it drifted around my waist. But it was no use. I could go no farther.

The long day’s bout with snow and wind had taken its toll. Defeated, I waded back to the shelter of the pine grove. With hands that had no sensation, I clumsily tied my nylon pup tent between two trees, staked down the sides, threw my sleeping bag, food bag, mess kit, matches and note-books into the tent, and myself with them. My body was deeply chilled; I shook uncontrollably from head to foot as I slowly stripped off wet jeans and long-johns. My mind was numb. There were no thoughts of the magnitude of my predicament, or of home or death; only of the freezing cold and my savior—my down sleeping bag. But as I reached in the stuff sack, my heart sank: the bag was soaked! The night before, a steady drizzle had infiltrated my tent and seeped into the bottom of the bag. My spare clothes also were soaked. I hadn’t taken the time to dry anything. Now, lying cold and nude in the half-wet bag, with darkness falling and the wind beginning to howl from the mountaintops I started to cry. My fight to survive the snow and cold and find civilization in the Sierra Nevada had begun.

FROM SATURDAY NIGHT to Monday’s dawn, as a blizzard raged, I reflected on the past month. I had taken a fall vacation from my University of Minnesota studies to try backpacking and see some of the country. The week I’d spent in Yosemite National Park had been my first extensive backpacking. Now, beginning my second week, totally unprepared for snow and freezing temperature, I chided myself for being such a greenhorn.

By Monday morning three feet of fresh snow, blown by roaring winds, had piled up against the tent, pressing in upon me like an icy iron maiden. Initially I had tapped the inside of the tent to knock off the snow, but my fist soon met with a heavy thud. Now the tent was almost buried.

I put on my wet clothes again, crawled out into the tempest and waded a trench around the tent. The dim morning light made the scene eerie and unreal. The blue tent sagged like a squeezed marshmallow under the snow’s weight. The bare ground of two days before was covered with swirling, flowing mounds of silvery snow. And there was no sound, save for the wind as it sifted over snow and through pine boughs.

A few hours later on that morning of November 12, I began writing a diary in one of my notebooks. “The wind howls and blows snow over my tent as I write this. I can only hope and pray (I’ve done a lot of both in the last 48 hours) that the storm will soon blow itself out, and I can make it back to civilization on my own two feet, not on a stretcher or over a horse. With the help of God, I’ll do all within my power to get out of this hellhole. I don’t want to die.”

When the wind quieted down an hour later, I put on my wet clothes and stepped out into the white stillness. Common sense told me to stay where I was: to wait for rescue, build a fire, get warm. Common sense warned of the futility and danger of retracing the 30 miles I had come, especially in three feet of fresh snow. But fear overpowered common sense. I stuffed everything into my pack and started wading.

It was nearly my last living mistake. I was much weaker than on Saturday. During the last two days I’d eaten only a raw trout left over from Friday and a bowl of granola. My stomach muscles ached.

I went 50 yards before hitting a drift up to my waist. I tried pulling myself out, but the snow held me fast.

In the deathly silence a tiring but peaceful calm settled over me. “It would be so easy,” I thought, “just to lie here and sleep.”

Flashes of death crossed my mind, first with vivid scenes of my mother’s heartbroken sorrow; scenes of grief, tears, the funeral. Then with a face-to-f ace confrontation with death. I realized that the past 20 years were all in vain. Only the unknown lay ahead. It was the most frightening, awesome vision I have ever had, enough to give me the strength to roll out of the drift and wade back to my campsite among the pines. There I determinedly secured the tent to four trees and began another phase of my ordeal—waiting for rescue.

After the rescue.

I HAD NO REASON to be optimistic

I about search planes ever finding me. Because of my inexperience I had not checked in with Yosemite Park headquarters, had not obtained a wilderness permit and had not told any ranger about my trip. No one except my mother knew where I was.

Nevertheless, I hoped for rescue. “Let me say what I hope and pray happens, and what is really my only chance for rescue,” I wrote in my journal. “Mom gets worried after she doesn’t hear from me by Thanksgiving (two weeks away). She calls up park headquarters and asks whether they have any information. Perhaps they’ll have found the food and clothes that I left in storage locker 41, and she’ll verify that they’re mine, which will indicate that I’m still in Yosemite somewhere. Maybe they’ll check the past weather records and recall the big storm of November 10, and they’ll assume that I’m either dead or snowbound. Either way they’ll send out search parties, most likely by small plane, and scour the area. With a signal fire or an SOS in the snow, they should find me. So I’ve got to hang on for a long month.”

Underneath this, I added a post-script: “Of course, I doubt things will go exactly like that. The rangers might not discover the locker, in which case they won’t even be sure I’m in the park and might not search at all.”

I did my best during the next week to prepare for search planes. After a pair of denims and a shirt had dried on Tuesday, I broke off all the dry dead wood I could reach from the trees and put it in my backpack on a rise 20 yards away, along with some white gas fuel. Beside this I piled some large dead boughs wrapped in my tarp. If any search planes did come, I’d be ready with a quick signal fire. I also kept a small mirror handy to signal planes.

Monday and Tuesday were both sunny with a slight breeze. By Tuesday evening, after two days on a makeshift clothesline, all my clothes and, more importantly, the sleeping bag, had dried. And I made the crucially important discovery of a creek, about 75 yards away. I had crossed the foot-wide stream flowing off Tuolumne Peak on Saturday. On Tuesday I waded back through thigh-deep drifts to look for it. There was hardly a trace in the deep smooth snow, merely a single hole about three feet across, but I could hear the beautiful sound of gurgling water. After three days of eating snow, the sweet, icy liquid couldn^’t have tasted better. From then on I had a full canteen.

Knowing any rescue would probably be at least a month away, I began rationing my two-week food supply. The inventory, as I recorded it in my journal, consisted of: one-half bag (pint size) brown sugar, one-half bag Malt-O’Meal, one-half bag instant rice, one-half bag instant potatoes, one-third bag granola, 12 servings pancake mix, one serving instant eggs, one quart instant milk, two instant breakfasts, three one-cup cocoa mixes, three packets Lipton Instant Soup, four packets Lipton Cup-a-Soup, three packets chili seasoning mix, one-half packet Spanish rice seasoning mix, three ounces cooking oil, one packet freeze-dried chicken and rice, one-half Gerry tube of peanut butter and jelly and seven tea bags.

I began limiting myself to one two-course meal daily. For the main course, I had half a bowl of mixed granola, rice, instant cereal, instant potatoes pancake batter, cooking oil and dried soup mixed with water. Along with this paste I ate “snow salad”—brown sugar and snow. I was constantly, ravenously, hungry, but the prospect of running out of food before getting rescued reinforced my will power.

The worst hardship I encountered the first week, though, was loneliness. I reread Thoreau’s Walden, then finished Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn in two days. Walden’s reverence for nature and simplicity seemed to befit my predicament. I wrote daily accounts of my thoughts and plight in my journal; I played my harmonica; I sang Christmas carols. But most of all, I reflected on my past. I began to realize the value of life and how much I had taken for granted. A Wednesday, November 15, entry in my journal reads: “All I really want is to get back home, back to school, to see my friends and loved ones again, to live out my life. If I could only see everyone again; I’d be more aware and loving, more appreciative.”

For the first time ever, I began believing in Christ. Maybe it was only “pocket Providence,” pulled out under the stress of silence and thoughts of death. But at the time it was sincere. It grew into a faith that kept me going when I thought I lacked the physical strength to continue.

As my mind cleared during the week, my hopes for rescue grew dimmer. By Thursday evening I was in a mental dilemma. I wouldn’t admit that my chance of rescue was almost nonexistent, for I needed that hope to keep my spirits up. It had spurred me through the first four days, sustaining my will to live. But on Thursday evening it received a deathblow. As I lay looking at a park brochure and map, I read, “This is Yosemite National Park, a 1189-square-mile scenic wonderland of sculptured peaks and domes...” With that much territory to cover and not knowing where to begin looking, the National Park Service would never find me, even with a signal fire.

I PINPOINTED MY location on the I sketchy map, just north of Tuolumne Peak, and then it occurred to me that I might be able to walk out on my own. To the east and stretching north–south was a large valley with a creek. Even though the creek flowed north into the Grand Canyon of the Tuolumne River, I figured it had to cut a natural pass through the mountains to the south and might even intercept May Lake and Tioga Road, which were seven miles due south of Tuolumne Peak and my campsite.

I had seen the valley every day, a wide one with a dense pine forest and small mountains sprinkled throughout. No longer content with waiting, and with the snow more compact, I planned my escape for the first weather-permitting day.

Friday and Saturday brought an-other storm, though nothing like the blizzard a week earlier. Sunday held hurricane-like winds. When Monday dawned clear, windless and warm, I packed my gear and started toward the valley. I was exchanging security for the unknown. Although frightened, I felt strength and pride for assuming the burden of my rescue. It was no longer up to my family or the rangers; it was up to me and the Grace of God to make it back alive.

During the week from Monday, November 19, to Sunday, November 25, I hiked south, using a compass and common sense as guides. My hypothesis that the valley creek world cut a natural pass through the mountains to the south proved to be correct. Except for two days when I rested, I followed the creek south, passing through dense conifer forest. The hiking was slow and treacherous. Not only did my progressing weakness force me to take four or five breaths with each step, but I had to avoid streams, rocks and trees obscured beneath the snow. At first the streams were nearly impossible to spot ahead of time; I’d suddenly sink up to my crotch and feel my boots fill with icy water. After this had happened twice, I began to recognize warning signs—a barely perceptible crease in the snow, a soft swish of flowing water. I also improved at detecting boulders and young pines by the slight mounds they made in the snow. Sometimes, however, they were unavoidable. I’d step gingerly on a half-inch mound only to go crashing down on a buried tree that had formed an air pocket under the snow.

I learned a few other important tactics by experience, such as erecting my tent in a position for the morning sun to warm it quickly and thaw out, my boots early enough for me to get in a full day’s hiking. I learned to wear wool socks on both hands and feet while hiking; only wool kept them warm, even when wet, and saved them from frostbite. I learned to wrap my two-quart aluminum canteen in spare clothes at night, preventing it from becoming a two-quart ice cube by morning. And I learned how to withstand intense pain. Both heels developed blisters the size of a quarter from the unnatural motion of walking in deep snow. At night when I was drying and thawing my cold, clammy feet, my heels would ache for 15 minutes, badly enough to bring tears. It became a ritual to sing Christmas carols or play my harmonica at this time to take my mind off the stabbing pain.

I HAD MY SHARE of frightening and frustrating experiences. On the first day, just 150 yards below my campsite, I came to a sheer 15-foot drop-off. The only way off the ridge was down the smooth, almost 90-degree face of a huge boulder. I sat down and gingerly pushed myself feet-first toward the snow below. Not reckoning the influence my pack would have, I belly-flopped, miring myself up to the waist. My glasses were gone, but no bones were broken. I quickly scanned the snow, sighing in relief when I spotted my wire-rimmed glasses lying a few feet away. With my 20-200 vision, lost glasses would have been disastrous.

Weighed down by the pack, I discovered I could not walk through the deep snow at the foot of the slope. So I slipped off the pack, unrolled my Ensolite sleeping pad, cut four holes in it and lashed my pack onto it. The makeshift sled pulled with ease, enabling me to wade through a half-mile of snow before the drifts lessened and I could resume hiking normally.

The most frustrating experience occurred late Friday afternoon. After spending all day hiking up a steep incline paralleling the creek, I was able to look to the south and east, in the direction of Yosemite Valley. The sight was discouraging—a solid wave of Sierra mountain range lay across the horizon as far as I could see. As I stood on the ridge, weary and depressed, a low droning sound gradually drifted nearer. I looked up eagerly and spotted a speck in the distance. A small plane was heading directly for me, flying low. I pulled out my mirror and frantically tried to flash to the plane in the dimming light. I waved my arms and yelled, “Hey I’m here, I’m here! Stop, please stop!” But the plane kept going.

By Sunday the creek had dwindled to almost nothing, an important sign that I was nearing the summit of the gradual rise I’d been climbing for three days. After one last knoll, I found myself on an expansive, open ridge which offered a good view to both the southeast and southwest. Jagged peaks were everywhere. To the southwest, however, a pine forest sliced between the mountains. If there was any way through the mountains to Tioga Road and May Lake, it was via that forest. But three days of steady drift-wading on my starvation diet had drained me physically. I pitched camp and rested the remainder of Sunday and all day Monday, trying to decide what to do.

“NOW IS THE BIG debate, and my life hinges on my decision,” I wrote in the journal. “Do I push south and hope I hit Tioga Road and not another mountain range; or do I pitch camp here, where it is open, and pray I’m rescued before I starve? I’m tempted to push on, but I’m getting weaker. I might last for two weeks if I stay put, keep warm and eat a bare essential every day. If I push on into the valley, I might become even more lost and exhausted, and they’d never spot me in that forest. I don’t know what’s beyond it. Maybe May Lake and Tioga Road. Maybe not.”

Tuesday, acting on the impulse of clear, snow-melting weather; I decided to push on. It was the toughest hiking I’d encountered in eight days. Dense pines dropped clumps of melting snow on me; dead logs, boulders and my arch-enemies, hidden streams, were constant obstacles. Yet despite them, I was in good spirits. I repeated the Lord’s Prayer, saying one word with each step. I’d had uncanny good fortune, both physically and with the weather. There had been no severe storms for 17 days, and now the temperature was above freezing. But I hardly expected the beautiful sight I beheld in a clearing that afternoon. Jutting from the snow were two rusty punch-letter trail signs. I knelt in silent thanks as I read, “May Lake—3.7 miles, Yosemite Valley—14.5 miles.” It seemed as if God had heard my prayers, and answered them.

I followed trail markers blazed on trees for two hours, then set up camp as dusk approached. It was the happiest night in 17 days. Before I had been only hopeful; now I began to gain a wary confidence. I had enough food for 10 more days; still, the 13 miles to Yosemite Valley would take a long time to walk with the progress I had been making. Yet I knew that once I found May Lake I would find Snow Creek, which would eventually take me to Yosemite Valley. “If this good weather holds out, I’ll be in the valley in three to four days,” I wrote in my journal Wednesday morning. “Thank God. I kept faith when there didn’t seem to be much hope. I’ve got a lot of promises to keep to the Lord now, and I plan on doing it.”

Some of my promises were concise, like not smoking, lying or eating meat. Others were closer to convictions than promises. I vowed never to take anyone or anything for granted again. During the previous two weeks I had thought much about people I knew and loved, almost to the point of being unrealistic, as we do when dear friends have died. We tend to over-praise their good traits, forget the bad and wish to God we had another chance to meet again, just to say, “I love you.” It seemed I would be getting that second chance.

Although I lost the trail 10 minutes after I started out Wednesday morning, I wasn’t worried or upset. The descending valley had to pass May Lake, and I’d be sure to see it. Skirting the forest’s edge, I happily discovered a hard crust on the snow along the perimeter of the valley. I stayed on it most of the day, making what I thought was good time and expecting to see May Lake around every corner. I even made up a song entitled “Just Around the Corner,” which I sang while I walked and marveled at the pristine, snow-covered valley and mountains.

But as the sun dipped behind the mountains, I still hadn’t come to May Lake. I was positive I couldn’t have missed it; it had to lie close ahead. I pitched camp, confident that I would find it early the next day.

Ominous gray clouds were filling the sky when I packed up and started hiking Thursday morning. A storm was heading my way. Half an hour later, my song came true. As I rounded one last corner, the most beautiful and anticipated object of 10 days of sweat, tumbles, blisters and tears—May Lake—stretched away to the south, a quarter-mile of ice and open water. From my high vantage point, I could see several drainage streams merging at the end of the lake into a wide pine forest that converged on Snow Creek. The creek wound southward to Yosemite Valley. There lay my final haul. Ten more miles.

Feeling more drained than usual, with stops every 10 steps, I found Snow Creek and alongside it a wide alpine meadow. Slowly, methodically, I trudged through the meadow’s knee-deep snow, eyes downcast. Gray clouds were moving swiftly toward me from the south. “They’re hurrying to make life a little harder,” I thought. “Ten miles, another blizzard and a week of food. Who’s going to win?”

A movement ahead snapped me out of my reflections. For one or two seconds, nothing registered. Then, for the first time in 26 days, I recognized a human being, gliding along a hundred yards ahead.

I didn’t scream crazily at the cross-country skier. I yelled loudly yet calmly, and at my same pace slowly made it to where the man stood watching me. A “Speed Limit, 40” sign just to his left told me I had finally found the closed Tioga Road.

“I’ve been stuck in the mountains for three weeks,” I said. “I need some help.”

“You’ve been out there, like that,” he asked, scrutinizing my snow-shoeless feet and sock-covered hands, “for three weeks?” He couldn’t believe his eyes. Nor could I. In an instant all had changed, and I was in touch with humanity and civilization again. Chuck Cochran handed me a fresh orange, and I realized my ordeal was ending.

A summer Search and Rescue employee of Yosemite, Chuck was skiing to Tuolumne Meadows to visit two young ranger friends. With the aid of Tom and Carolyn, two more friends who were skiing an hour behind him, we made it to a bathroom at the east end of Tanaya Lake by mid-afternoon. While Chuck and Tom went on to the ranger station to radio park headquarters in Yosemite Valley, Carolyn heated freeze-dried food and hot jello for me on their white-gas stove. Later that afternoon Tom and one ranger returned and checked my hands and feet for frostbite, thinking I might be an emergency case.

The ranger whistled when he saw the blisters on my heels. I couldn’t feel anything in my feet, but the blisters, black and the size of half-dollars, were ugly enough to make me wince. Yet no sign of frostbite showed on my toes, and there was only a touch of black on the tips of four fingers.

The next morning a helicopter flew in to pick me up, and I waved goodbye to my rescuers. Ten minutes later I stepped onto a grassy field in Yosemite Valley. What a contrast! Twenty days of deep snow, then 10 minutes later, bare ground all around!

A gruff, gray-haired ranger drove me to Lewis Memorial Hospital. Looking angry, he said nothing until we arrived there. Then, as nurses started fussing over my blisters and skinny body, he told me what I already knew, that I was a very lucky young man.

“Every spring we haul three or four people just like you out of the mountains.” He didn’t have to go much further. He could see I’d learned the lesson the hard way.

My body temperature had dropped two degrees; and at 145 pounds, my six-foot frame was 40 pounds lighter than a month before. Amazingly, there were no lasting injuries. I was all right except for the painful blisters.

Nearly everybody—nurses, family, reporters—marveled at my story and my strength. But I take credit for only part of the survival: keeping a clear, level head that enabled me to make the right decisions. For the rest, I credit some other Force, one which some call Fortune and others call God.