“Navy Rescue Two, Portland approach.”
“Go ahead for Rescue Two.”
“Yeah, Rescue Two, understand you want flight following?”
“That’s affirmative for Rescue Two.”
“We can provide that for the next one-five miles or so. Then we’re going to lose you.”
“Roger. We’ll take it as long as we can get it, Portland”“
“Rescue Two, understand you intend to fly inside the Mount St. Helens crater?”
“Portland Approach, Navy Rescue Two, that’s affirmative. We’ll call you when we are out”
In the wilderness, there’s a threshold where communications between home base and rescue crew fail—the signature falls off the radar, there’s silence on both ends of the radio, and the crew is reminded that the mission is theirs alone. Past that point, if mistakes are made and they need help, it could take hours for someone to notice. And so I was taught not to make mistakes, as were the members of my search and rescue (SAR) crew. Like so many others at the Naval Academy, I had yearned to be part of something great for a long time. I could not have known at the time that a flight into the crater of a volcano would play a pivotal role in defining my career for me.
I grew up an all-American boy who was powerfully drawn to the military. I thrived on discipline and learned at a young age that hard work wields the greatest and most enjoyable returns in life. I couldn’t picture myself sitting in an office all day. During my years at the Naval Academy, I drew strength from the litany of stories about the heroism and sacrifice of the grads who had come before me, and I made it through. The Academy was not a normal college, and I knew after five minutes of standing in long lines, all the while getting yelled at for no apparent reason, that it was not a stepping stone to a normal, average life.
I was getting ready for a career in aviation when the United States went to war in Afghanistan in 2001 and Iraq in 2003. I assumed my path to something great would include flying in combat. I finally got my wings in the spring of 2004 and headed to San Diego to be a helicopter pilot. I made two deployments to the Persian Gulf in three years, flying mostly logistics missions or search and rescue. Although I loved flying and was proud of my accomplishments, I was disappointed that I’d never flown a single combat mission. Hell, I’d never even been in the combat zone. Near, but never in; never close enough to feel any real danger. I knew that this was nothing to be ashamed of, but I still felt like I was getting off easy. I began to weigh the merits of my contribution against the other sacrifices I was making in my life.
I thought about how I had spent seventeen out of the first twenty-four months of my marriage at sea and forever lost that precious period with my bride, Amy. At the time, I could see only two options: Do something in this war to validate my name and my education or return home to be with my family. I made the decision to do something for my family and took orders to my home state of Washington to fly as a SAR helicopter pilot. Everyone warned that this would kill my career, but I was beyond caring. It sounded like a fulfilling job in an awesome place. If I was going to coast through my navy career, at least I could do so with family nearby.
Back in Washington, February 16, 2010, was like any other day to me. I was up before the sun cracked the timberline, readying for my day of SAR duty and savoring another breakfast in a string of great breakfasts with my wife and little girl. I was half listening to the TV in the background when a news story caught my attention. The day before, a hiker at the summit of Mount St. Helens had been standing on an ice cornice when it broke, sending him into a 1,500-foot free-fall into the snowy crater below. Rescue crews spent the afternoon attempting to get to him via helicopter, but poor weather and harsh conditions had hindered progress. The report said that rescue efforts were to continue at first light.
I listened to news radio as I dashed to work, hoping for updates and knowing where our entire outfit would be spending its resources that day. As soon as I stepped foot in my office, I got a call from my boss. He briefed me on the situation and the previous attempts our unit had made. The night SAR crew had flown down the previous evening but couldn’t get within three miles of the stranded man’s position because of the bad weather. All the news networks were reporting that the search had been suspended the previous afternoon, so I was encouraged to learn my unit had pushed forward, working through the night to continue the rescue effort. My boss asked me bluntly, “Do you think this is something you can do?” “Yes, Sir, absolutely,” I responded without even thinking. “I know exactly where it is. I’ve climbed that mountain twice before. My crew is briefed, and we’re ready to fly” “Ok,” he said, “I’ll get approval again from the Air Force Rescue Center, but we’ll get you guys a new mission number and get you headed down there.”
I hung up the phone and thought to myself, Holy shit, I’m about to fly inside Mount St. Helens. I immediately began to think about everything needed to make this a safe, successful day when my phone rang again and interrupted my thoughts.
“Hello”
“Is this Lieutenant Bruce?”
“It is.”
“Lieutenant, I’m Sheriff Brown with the Skamania County Sheriff’s office. I wanted to cover a couple things before you head down this way.”
“Good morning, Sheriff. No problem. What’s up?”
“Well, lieutenant, I’m sure you know what the situation is. If you get down there and find a dead body, I just want to have a plan in place. News reporters swarm around these stories, and I don’t want that information to get out through the wrong channels”
I casually sent the conversation back to him, thinking he was going to want to brief me on the working frequencies, location of the victim, and details about ground support as in a typical rescue call. This guy was all business. He continued, “I’ve got a lat/long where we’d like him dropped if he is deceased,” he pressed on. “You got a pen? You ready to write?”
I need another cup of coffee, was the only thing going through my mind as I jotted down the coordinates. It wasn’t even eight o’clock in the morning. Before the conversation wrapped up, I asked, “Sheriff, what are the odds this guy is alive?” He answered, “This man fell 1,500 feet and spent the night in the freezing cold. Probably not good.”
There was a cold wind gusting in from Puget Sound that morning and a blanket of gray clouds as far as the eye could see. My copilot recommended we try to climb through the clouds to hopefully “pop out” on top. Our victim was at a relatively high altitude, and arriving at his position from above the clouds would likely be our only chance for a successful rescue. I took his advice and climbed, emerging into sunny skies over a broken layer of moisture-laden clouds. Scanning south, I saw the snow-covered tops of Mt. Hood in Oregon, Mt. Adams in Southwest Washington, and finally my bull’s-eye. The jagged, snow-covered top of Mount St. Helens barely emerged above the layer of winter weather. My copilot and I both knew immediately that the only way we were getting into the rescue zone was from the top down.
This massive volcano stands 8,365 feet with a horseshoe-shaped crater a mile wide in its center. The crater floor lies at about 7,100 feet, opening to the north a massive area of desolation that thirty years ago had been the blast path of the most memorable eruption to shake the Pacific Northwest. At almost the exact center of the crater floor lay a massive dome of igneous rock. The dome, at three hundred feet tall, is the telltale sign that this behemoth is still alive and churning with fire and magma far beneath the surface.
Arriving from the north, we found ourselves flying directly toward the mouth of the open crater, like fishermen drifting out to sea directly into the open jaws of a great white. The weather gods were cooperating, appearing to allow us a way in, but I wasn’t sure we would be allowed a way out by such kind fortune. The cloud tops led right into the crater, but another small patch of clouds and fog loomed just above the lava dome, which meant we’d be sandwiched inside the crater, unable to make a rapid ascent or descent. Although our search area would be small and well defined, I knew we would be extremely limited in our ability to safely maneuver. This mission would be the practical exam on everything I had learned in my career and how well I could fly this aircraft.
I read my instruments to check winds and saw 30-35 knots from the southwest. I remembered reading that a flight should not be conducted in mountainous terrain if winds of 30 knots or more exist because of possible severe instability, turbulence, and extreme down-flowing winds. I knew we’d be able to pull it off if we did everything perfectly, but we were flirting with danger. Prior to entering the crater, my copilot and I briefed our search patterns, checked our available power, and determined the exact routes we’d use if we had to execute a quick escape. Once my preliminary terrain readings were complete and assessed, I made orbital passes one hundred feet above the crater’s floor. With our cabin doors and windows open for visibility, the blowing snow and crystalline ice ripped its way into the helicopter, collecting in our noses, mouths, and every crevice in the plane. There was great temptation to turn on the heat for the cabin, but the risk of it robbing the engines of power could mean the difference between flying and crashing.
The sloping terrain below revealed hundreds of snow fractures, enormous slabs of snowpack that can break off and start an avalanche from essentially any direction inside the crater. The fractured land inside the volcano was the most desolate and unforgiving I’d ever seen and revealed nothing conducive to supporting current or future life. The helicopter bucked and strained against the high winds but was steady enough to keep going. Its jerky movements indicated that it wanted to go into the caldera even less than we did.
I was losing count of how many laps we had made when two dark objects caught my eye. One of the news reports had mentioned that the fallen climber’s partner had hurled his own pack into the crater, hoping that it would land near his friend and provide extra supplies. Knowing this, I identified the first object as the partner’s pack, which was mostly buried in a low drift. Fifty yards away, the second object was a set of unmoving arms sticking up out of the snow.
The chatter inside the aircraft intensified immediately. As we circled back, the fear expanded inside my chest at the thought of what our SAR medic would discover when he was lowered into the basin to investigate. We entered a hover over the second object, tucked up tightly against the inside wall of the crater. As expected, our rotor immediately went to work on all that beautiful, soft, fresh snow. Visibility went to zero in a matter of seconds. In overland SAR, the pilot nearest the terrain usually manipulates the controls since he or she has terrain to see and can keep a hover position alongside. On this day, my copilot was the man who had to make it happen. Once established in the hover, my copilot began asking to deploy smoke grenades, all three of which were thrown down immediately by the rescue crewmen.
“What the hell are you doing, man?” I shouted. Expending all of our smoke grenades at once was not normal practice. He answered, “I’ve got nothing to look at over here! I need some contrast on the snow!” Amidst the hurricane cloud of snow engulfing us, the low cloud layer directly above us, and the near vertical wall of white thirty feet beyond his window, my copilot was fighting with everything he had to maintain our position.
My copilot and the crewmen at the back of the aircraft were extremely skilled and experienced, but we were struggling with every nugget of information we had, and I could hear panic rising in everyone’s voices; it was easy to see we were in a bad spot. To add insult to injury, a news helicopter now hovered in a patch of clear sky near the mouth of the crater, undoubtedly filming and photographing our every move. Great, I thought. Now if we crash, the entire world will get to watch it on the news tonight.
The smoke grenades weren’t enough to give my copilot the references he was scouting for. The oscillating grew worse, panic continued to escalate, and we were quickly edging toward a loss of all control. As much as I wanted to get this person on board and put this whole story to rest, my better judgment prevailed. We stayed in that hover until the absolute last second that it was safe to do so, although thinking back, it was probably ten seconds longer than we should have. “Stop right, Sir!” the crewmen shouted. “Stop right, stop right!”
I glanced out my window to the left, away from the terrain, and saw a small hole under the clouds that had since crept down and was basically sitting on top of us. It was time to get the hell out of there, and this might be our only opportunity. I didn’t think twice, grabbed the controls, and began to slide the aircraft directly toward the blue opening. “I have controls! We’re waving off!” I said. Out we flew, barely skirting the lava dome and sneaking out under the billowing clouds.
I was collected, but scared. My arms and hands had a violent tremor to them as I guided us away. That particular incident was one of only two times in my flying career that I truly thought I might crash in a matter of seconds. We exited the crater, reevaluated our situation, and talked about what had just happened. I was secretly relieved to find out that everyone in the crew agreed that my decision was the correct one. With fuel low, a shaky crew, and poor weather conditions, we decided to depart the scene for a refuel and hopefully give the clouds in the crater a chance to disperse.
After we landed in Portland, I called and briefed my boss on what we had seen and done. He now assumed what only my crew had observed: Our rescue mission had just become a recovery mission. Holding this information, we faced a tough decision. Do we tell the news stations what we saw and that we’d be sticking to our policy of not picking up dead bodies? Could we even say for sure that he was dead? Do we try to be heroes and get him on board? Was it worth the risk to my aircraft and crew? It wasn’t entirely my decision, but I told my boss, “Sir, I’m 99 percent sure this guy is dead. If we don’t get him today, though, he’ll never be found. As soon as it snows another six inches, he’s gone forever.”
I was sure he’d tell me to head home as body recoveries are not in our playbook, but he surprised me. “Do you think you can safely get him out of there?” he asked. “Only if the clouds clear, Sir,” I answered. “I need some visibility to make this work, which we didn’t have last time” He snorted, then said, “Recharge your batteries and head back up there if you’re comfortable. Don’t do anything stupid trying to get this mission done. And as far as you know, he’s still alive. Roger?” “Yes, Sir,” I replied, understanding that a gentlemen’s agreement had just been made.
My crew hid out and recouped in a back room at the airport, away from the throngs of reporters. I had briefed the crew upon landing that they were to talk to no one and assume nothing about the outcome. We debriefed on what we had experienced, focusing on how each crew member felt about continuing. The overwhelming response was to charge back into the fray and get the mission done. We constructed our approach, debated what needed to be done differently, and lastly, discussed our comfort limits.
When we returned to the crater, by the grace of God we found clear skies. We flew right to the victim’s position, and the hover was not a problem now that we had solid ground reference. We deployed our SAR medic to proceed to the victim and evaluate his condition. We orbited above for mere moments before the crackle on the radio confirmed what we had thought. “Rescue Two, Rescue Ground. We have an angel here. Ready for hoist pickup in ten,” came the medic’s report. There was silence in the aircraft. We had struggled as a crew for six hours to hopefully save this man’s life, and now we knew for sure we wouldn’t be doing that. We delivered the body to the local sheriff at the predetermined location, shielded from media coverage. The sheriff and his deputies expressed their profuse thanks for the assist and took custody of the body.
On every clear day of my childhood, I looked up at the south side of Mount St. Helens and thought what an amazing sight it was: snow-covered in the winter, bare in the summer, but jagged and broken all the time. At eleven years old, I watched as a large steam vent shot into the sky and created a flurry of rumor and mystery around town. During college, I climbed Mount St. Helens twice. Both times I stood on the summit staring down from exactly 1,500 feet above where I’d one day be hovering in a $20 million helicopter. What a view.
It will always be upsetting to our crew that the man we were sent to save was dead before we had a chance to save him. I didn’t walk away from this feeling like a hero, but I didn’t feel like a failure either. What I do know is that my decisions and the razor-sharp skills of my crew returned this man’s body to his family and answered questions that otherwise they might have wrestled with for the rest of their lives.
I’m not a war hero. I haven’t saved hundreds of lives in a massive, coordinated humanitarian effort, but I have been part of something powerful for a few and that justifies the investment I’ve made. Humanitarian service impacts people on a personal level. Although this was only one of hundreds of missions I will fly as a naval aviator, I know this man’s family will remember this single mission forever. I used my education, military training, and an expensive piece of hardware to get the job done on my home turf. Not many people ever get that opportunity, and I know I’ll cherish if forever.