The Arizona Republic
Jun. 9, 2006 01:59 PM
Ten-year-old Samantha Detrick was the most enthusiastic among a group of visitors gearing up for a mule ride into the Grand Canyon. It was a mild June day, with bright sun but moderate temperatures. On the South Rim, visitors wore sweaters and long pants.
By midafternoon, the girl from Rancho Murieta, Calif., was weaving in her saddle, nearly passing out from dehydration.
"She dropped the whip and didn't even know she dropped it," says her mother, Cathy Detrick.
On a narrow switchback along an upper Canyon wall, Samantha had to be pulled off the mule. Her face pale and eyes dull, she was unable to walk and could barely speak.
Samantha was lucky: The day was a relatively uneventful one, and rangers were available to treat her.
Ranger Matt Vandzura hiked down from the rim, unrolled his trailside medical kit and checked Samantha's glucose level. He asked what she ate and drank during her ride. The answer: not much. Clearly not enough.
"I knew -- water -- but I really didn't think about food," Detrick said as she watched her daughter lying beside the trail, feet elevated, an oxygen tube to her nose.
"I could kick myself. I've run three marathons. I know about this. I know!"
Although Samantha's ordeal had a happy ending -- she recovered sufficiently to walk out of the Canyon -- many such stories don't end as well.
"There's a horror story every day in the summer," Ranger Ivan Kassovic says.
It falls to the rangers to clean up the messes. Flash floods, lightning strikes, heat exhaustion -- the rangers handle it all. And although the grandeur of their jurisdiction makes for an appealing gig, it's not for slackers. When duty calls, there is no ambulance to jump in, no lights or sirens to hit. Instead, rangers shoulder a pack, slather on extra sunscreen and hike -- or run -- to the scene, oftentimes several miles away and thousands of feet up in elevation.
Nature often plays a role in emergencies, but much of the rangers' work is predicated by foolish visitors.
"Somebody ought to sell tickets," Kassovic says.
Although some events merely amuse the rangers -- "We see people pulling their luggage with those rollers," Kassovic says -- other times hikers are seriously injured or killed.
Part of the problem is that people who don't intend to hike far sometimes are lured into the Canyon by the scenery.
"The views just suck you in," says Sandra Perl, a management assistant at the park. "It's easy to go downhill, and you're fresh. Then it's time to go back up."
Rangers stress that visitors to Arizona's biggest attraction need to be reasonable in their self-expectations and take responsibility for their own safety, rather than expecting others to take care of them.
"A lot of hikers think that all it takes to hike the Grand Canyon is to be physically fit and have water," says VIP Sjors, who goes by one name plus the title for Volunteer in the Park. Ranger Marty McCaslin, who has worked the Canyon for 10 years, says, "Sometimes, you want to say, 'This is the Grand Canyon. You know, the Wimpy Canyon is at the Safeway parking lot.'"
What the rangers have trouble understanding is why people travel so far to become miserable.
"If you're going to be masochistic, why not slam your fingers in the car door on the rim and get it over with?" McCaslin asks.
"Our PR campaign is "Why Suffer?' " Kassovic points out. "You're on vacation -- why are you throwing up on your shoes?"
Because trails to the bottom of the Grand Canyon take hikers through seven climatic zones, the rim temperature can be mild while the temperature in the inner gorge can hit 120 degrees. Many trails offer no water and little shade. Make no mistake: Venturers into the Canyon enter a wilderness of incomparable beauty but unforgivingly harsh environment.
Three summers ago, the Park Service began using Preventive Search and Rescue rangers during the summer months. They greet people on the trail, ask how far they plan to hike, how much water they have, what they've eaten. In addition, Babbitt's General Store opened kiosks at two South Rim trailheads, offering bottled water, hats, sunscreen, snacks and advice.
Patti Marrable works a kiosk during the summer and talks with would-be hikers.
"So many people who come here have no concept of how big the Canyon is. Of course, there are the young bucks who say, "I'm going to the river and back.'"
In such cases, Marrable says she takes them aside and says, "Just jot down your mother's name and number, will you?' They say, "What for?' I say, "I want her to know your last thoughts were of her.' "
Even the mule wranglers do their part to keep people out of trouble.
"I have five people in there with radios," says head wrangler Ron Clayton, noting that they are often first on the scene of trouble.
Sometimes, ill-prepared hikers are dissuaded from continuing on a trail to possible disaster. The reputation of those who refuse to listen precedes them as rangers forewarn their compatriots down the trail.
On a spring visit at Phantom Ranch Ranger Station at the bottom of the inner gorge, McCaslin, Kassovic and Sjors regale a reporter with such tales. When the office radio crackles, the rangers suspend conversation to focus on the voice coming over the air.
A ranger at Indian Gardens warns that 21 people are attempting to hike to the Colorado River and back that day, something that every sign, pamphlet and ranger warns hikers not to do. Unable to dissuade the group, he is passing the baton.
The trio at the bottom shake their heads, knowing they'll likely have to help the group before day's end.
"The larger the group gets, the more problems," Kassovic says.
"We've had people with their head between their legs, we're starting the IV and they're whispering, "This is the stupidest thing I've ever done,' " McCaslin says.
The rangers stress that the main thing is for people to have reasonable expectations of themselves and their abilities. Often, a mild problem is exacerbated by poor judgment.
Kassovic and Sjors relate a story of an emergency call that came in about a group of hikers who'd run out of water nine miles out in the backcountry. But when the rangers found the group, the hikers' canteens were full of liquid.
"We get there and Sjors is saying, "I don't understand; you've got lots of water,' " Kassovic says.
The hikers, convinced they would die of thirst, had urinated in the containers, intending to drink it.
"They had all these containers of urine," Sjors says. "We said, "You can't be dehydrated; you've got too much urine."
Then Kassovic told them, "Listen: That's the sound of creek water."
The group was within a short walk of water but had panicked when their canteens ran dry.
Sometimes, even people who think they know better get themselves into trouble.
"Last year, we had two medevacs (in which) one was a marathon runner and one was a biathlete," Sjors says. "They just weren't doing it right."
"Doing it right" involves not just taking enough liquid but also food.
McCaslin says the Park Service has done a good job teaching people to carry water, but he says, "What we haven't gotten the word out about is eating and electrolytes."
Hikers who drink plenty of liquids but don't eat are at risk of hyponatremia, a serious heat illness. Hikers need to eat frequently throughout the hike and include salty foods such as crackers or pretzels in their fare.
In addition to exposure-related problems, inner Canyon visitors must be aware of the possibility of flash floods. In September 1997, a flood rumbled down Phantom Creek from the North Rim, into Bright Angel Creek on its way to the Colorado River. Sjors, working at Phantom Ranch, witnessed it.
"You could hear it coming," he says. "I ran out and there was this wall (of water)."
The flood took two lives.
"I'm not sure why these people were up there -- there were signs (warning of floods)," Sjors says.
Another flash flood occurred last August.
"We were in the campground warning people, saying, "We know it's coming,' and they were still in the creek," Kassovic says.
"We look upstream and there's this wall of lumber and debris. We look downstream and there's people in the creek."
Sjors picks up the tale: "We outran it, and got three people out."
No one was killed in that incident. Two tips the rangers offer on flash floods: When enjoying a creek in the Canyon, keep an eye on the rim; if there are rain clouds, you are at risk of flash floods. Also, face upstream so that, if a flood comes, you have a chance of seeing it before it hits.
The radio crackles again. The ranger at Indian Gardens says three hikers are there with an inflatable raft and want to know whether there's enough water in Bright Angel Creek to float it.
The rangers take a minute, asking each other why someone would want to backpack a boat 10 miles down and 10 miles out again to put it on a creek barely 3 feet deep.
"That's a three-person raft?" Kassovic asks.
"Negative," the voice responds, "That's a one-person raft, but they want to put three people on."
After the rangers stop laughing, Kassovic goes on the radio again: "The consensus here is no."
Sometimes, when the rangers try to stop hikers from putting themselves at peril, they are met with haughtiness or anger.
Kassovic likes to tell of the time Marrable was at a trailhead trying to explain to a group of men that the men needed food and water to hike. The men argued with her, telling her they knew what they were doing because they'd hiked the Alps.
"Listen," she informed them emphatically, "testosterone is not an electrolyte replacement!"
"I've actually had people say, "What are you going to do, arrest me?' " McCaslin says.
Although rangers have authority to arrest hikers, they are more inclined to cite them for violations.
"Sometimes, we write them citations for coming down and up in a single day," Kassovic says.
With all this, how can the job be worth it?
McCaslin says he enjoys the opportunity to make a positive impact on some people's lives. He tells about a hiker who knocked on his door early on an April morning a couple years ago.
"He had horrible chest pain, 33 years old. Sure enough, he's having a heart attack."
For the two hours it took to get a helicopter medevac down, McCaslin tended to the man, an accountant who'd worked long hours until April 15. This was a couple of days later.
"I was able to relate to him, "You're not going to live until you're 40 if you don't take responsibility for your life.' "
The man's cousin later called to tell McCaslin that he'd changed the man's life.
"It's neat to touch people's lives in a positive way."
By midafternoon, the girl from Rancho Murieta, Calif., was weaving in her saddle, nearly passing out from dehydration.
"She dropped the whip and didn't even know she dropped it," says her mother, Cathy Detrick.
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On a narrow switchback along an upper Canyon wall, Samantha had to be pulled off the mule. Her face pale and eyes dull, she was unable to walk and could barely speak.
Samantha was lucky: The day was a relatively uneventful one, and rangers were available to treat her.
Ranger Matt Vandzura hiked down from the rim, unrolled his trailside medical kit and checked Samantha's glucose level. He asked what she ate and drank during her ride. The answer: not much. Clearly not enough.
"I knew -- water -- but I really didn't think about food," Detrick said as she watched her daughter lying beside the trail, feet elevated, an oxygen tube to her nose.
"I could kick myself. I've run three marathons. I know about this. I know!"
Although Samantha's ordeal had a happy ending -- she recovered sufficiently to walk out of the Canyon -- many such stories don't end as well.
"There's a horror story every day in the summer," Ranger Ivan Kassovic says.
It falls to the rangers to clean up the messes. Flash floods, lightning strikes, heat exhaustion -- the rangers handle it all. And although the grandeur of their jurisdiction makes for an appealing gig, it's not for slackers. When duty calls, there is no ambulance to jump in, no lights or sirens to hit. Instead, rangers shoulder a pack, slather on extra sunscreen and hike -- or run -- to the scene, oftentimes several miles away and thousands of feet up in elevation.
Nature often plays a role in emergencies, but much of the rangers' work is predicated by foolish visitors.
"Somebody ought to sell tickets," Kassovic says.
Although some events merely amuse the rangers -- "We see people pulling their luggage with those rollers," Kassovic says -- other times hikers are seriously injured or killed.
Part of the problem is that people who don't intend to hike far sometimes are lured into the Canyon by the scenery.
"The views just suck you in," says Sandra Perl, a management assistant at the park. "It's easy to go downhill, and you're fresh. Then it's time to go back up."
Rangers stress that visitors to Arizona's biggest attraction need to be reasonable in their self-expectations and take responsibility for their own safety, rather than expecting others to take care of them.
"A lot of hikers think that all it takes to hike the Grand Canyon is to be physically fit and have water," says VIP Sjors, who goes by one name plus the title for Volunteer in the Park. Ranger Marty McCaslin, who has worked the Canyon for 10 years, says, "Sometimes, you want to say, 'This is the Grand Canyon. You know, the Wimpy Canyon is at the Safeway parking lot.'"
What the rangers have trouble understanding is why people travel so far to become miserable.
"If you're going to be masochistic, why not slam your fingers in the car door on the rim and get it over with?" McCaslin asks.
"Our PR campaign is "Why Suffer?' " Kassovic points out. "You're on vacation -- why are you throwing up on your shoes?"
Because trails to the bottom of the Grand Canyon take hikers through seven climatic zones, the rim temperature can be mild while the temperature in the inner gorge can hit 120 degrees. Many trails offer no water and little shade. Make no mistake: Venturers into the Canyon enter a wilderness of incomparable beauty but unforgivingly harsh environment.
Three summers ago, the Park Service began using Preventive Search and Rescue rangers during the summer months. They greet people on the trail, ask how far they plan to hike, how much water they have, what they've eaten. In addition, Babbitt's General Store opened kiosks at two South Rim trailheads, offering bottled water, hats, sunscreen, snacks and advice.
Patti Marrable works a kiosk during the summer and talks with would-be hikers.
"So many people who come here have no concept of how big the Canyon is. Of course, there are the young bucks who say, "I'm going to the river and back.'"
In such cases, Marrable says she takes them aside and says, "Just jot down your mother's name and number, will you?' They say, "What for?' I say, "I want her to know your last thoughts were of her.' "
Even the mule wranglers do their part to keep people out of trouble.
"I have five people in there with radios," says head wrangler Ron Clayton, noting that they are often first on the scene of trouble.
Sometimes, ill-prepared hikers are dissuaded from continuing on a trail to possible disaster. The reputation of those who refuse to listen precedes them as rangers forewarn their compatriots down the trail.
On a spring visit at Phantom Ranch Ranger Station at the bottom of the inner gorge, McCaslin, Kassovic and Sjors regale a reporter with such tales. When the office radio crackles, the rangers suspend conversation to focus on the voice coming over the air.
A ranger at Indian Gardens warns that 21 people are attempting to hike to the Colorado River and back that day, something that every sign, pamphlet and ranger warns hikers not to do. Unable to dissuade the group, he is passing the baton.
The trio at the bottom shake their heads, knowing they'll likely have to help the group before day's end.
"The larger the group gets, the more problems," Kassovic says.
"We've had people with their head between their legs, we're starting the IV and they're whispering, "This is the stupidest thing I've ever done,' " McCaslin says.
The rangers stress that the main thing is for people to have reasonable expectations of themselves and their abilities. Often, a mild problem is exacerbated by poor judgment.
Kassovic and Sjors relate a story of an emergency call that came in about a group of hikers who'd run out of water nine miles out in the backcountry. But when the rangers found the group, the hikers' canteens were full of liquid.
"We get there and Sjors is saying, "I don't understand; you've got lots of water,' " Kassovic says.
The hikers, convinced they would die of thirst, had urinated in the containers, intending to drink it.
"They had all these containers of urine," Sjors says. "We said, "You can't be dehydrated; you've got too much urine."
Then Kassovic told them, "Listen: That's the sound of creek water."
The group was within a short walk of water but had panicked when their canteens ran dry.
Sometimes, even people who think they know better get themselves into trouble.
"Last year, we had two medevacs (in which) one was a marathon runner and one was a biathlete," Sjors says. "They just weren't doing it right."
"Doing it right" involves not just taking enough liquid but also food.
McCaslin says the Park Service has done a good job teaching people to carry water, but he says, "What we haven't gotten the word out about is eating and electrolytes."
Hikers who drink plenty of liquids but don't eat are at risk of hyponatremia, a serious heat illness. Hikers need to eat frequently throughout the hike and include salty foods such as crackers or pretzels in their fare.
In addition to exposure-related problems, inner Canyon visitors must be aware of the possibility of flash floods. In September 1997, a flood rumbled down Phantom Creek from the North Rim, into Bright Angel Creek on its way to the Colorado River. Sjors, working at Phantom Ranch, witnessed it.
"You could hear it coming," he says. "I ran out and there was this wall (of water)."
The flood took two lives.
"I'm not sure why these people were up there -- there were signs (warning of floods)," Sjors says.
Another flash flood occurred last August.
"We were in the campground warning people, saying, "We know it's coming,' and they were still in the creek," Kassovic says.
"We look upstream and there's this wall of lumber and debris. We look downstream and there's people in the creek."
Sjors picks up the tale: "We outran it, and got three people out."
No one was killed in that incident. Two tips the rangers offer on flash floods: When enjoying a creek in the Canyon, keep an eye on the rim; if there are rain clouds, you are at risk of flash floods. Also, face upstream so that, if a flood comes, you have a chance of seeing it before it hits.
The radio crackles again. The ranger at Indian Gardens says three hikers are there with an inflatable raft and want to know whether there's enough water in Bright Angel Creek to float it.
The rangers take a minute, asking each other why someone would want to backpack a boat 10 miles down and 10 miles out again to put it on a creek barely 3 feet deep.
"That's a three-person raft?" Kassovic asks.
"Negative," the voice responds, "That's a one-person raft, but they want to put three people on."
After the rangers stop laughing, Kassovic goes on the radio again: "The consensus here is no."
Sometimes, when the rangers try to stop hikers from putting themselves at peril, they are met with haughtiness or anger.
Kassovic likes to tell of the time Marrable was at a trailhead trying to explain to a group of men that the men needed food and water to hike. The men argued with her, telling her they knew what they were doing because they'd hiked the Alps.
"Listen," she informed them emphatically, "testosterone is not an electrolyte replacement!"
"I've actually had people say, "What are you going to do, arrest me?' " McCaslin says.
Although rangers have authority to arrest hikers, they are more inclined to cite them for violations.
"Sometimes, we write them citations for coming down and up in a single day," Kassovic says.
With all this, how can the job be worth it?
McCaslin says he enjoys the opportunity to make a positive impact on some people's lives. He tells about a hiker who knocked on his door early on an April morning a couple years ago.
"He had horrible chest pain, 33 years old. Sure enough, he's having a heart attack."
For the two hours it took to get a helicopter medevac down, McCaslin tended to the man, an accountant who'd worked long hours until April 15. This was a couple of days later.
"I was able to relate to him, "You're not going to live until you're 40 if you don't take responsibility for your life.' "
The man's cousin later called to tell McCaslin that he'd changed the man's life.
"It's neat to touch people's lives in a positive way."
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