In the Cities, Mark Haskins and DeeDee Grant, Mary McCormick, and Kathy Newman—all trained dog handlers with excellent cadaver dogs—are summoned. They start the journey north, expecting to be at the IC staging area by first light.
Everyone in the field makes it back after dark. They are covered with rime ice. They hike to their ATVs, and then ride out of the dark like frozen zombies. They struggle to thaw themselves beside a fire. For Jeff Hasse, cold and numb to his inner core, it is the one last bit of physical evidence he needs to know for certain Jason is no longer alive. No one could survive a night like this one—particularly after six days without food or shelter.
Rebecca Francis has arranged for everyone to stay in the Isabella Community Center. A local bar and restaurant supplies pizza and drinks. The searchers and dog handlers change into dry clothes. Rebecca hands out garbage bags and instructs everyone to fill them with their soaking clothes. She’ll get them dry.
Steve Van Kekerix, Pete Smerud, Pete Walsh, BJ Kohlstedt, Jeff Hasse, and Ken Anderson contemplate tomorrow’s efforts. After some time they realize the recovery could involve water, rock climbing, cutting through thick brush, ATVs—the list of possible equipment needs is staggering. Pete Smerud heads off to begin sorting out equipment and placing it in color-coded, waterproof bags.
Finally, late that night, exhausted, the teams find open spaces on the community center floor to spread their mats and bags. Soon everyone is asleep.
Steve Van Kekerix makes a late night call to the Rasmussens. He informs them of their progress, and their plans for the morning. Lee listens to the undersheriff, thankful for the update. But he hears the tone in Steve’s voice.
Back at Rebecca Francis’s house the living room is closest to the laundry. She has a good night’s work in front of her. In order to get everyone’s clothes washed, dried, and sorted, she’s going to have to run several loads. She puts in the first batch and retires to her living room couch. At least from here, she thinks, she will be able to hear when the buzzer sounds the end of a wash or dry cycle. She lies down and closes her eyes, hoping for a little shuteye. Every twenty minutes, her sleep is interrupted by a buzzer.
22
Finding Jason Rasmussen
Northeast of the Pow Wow Trail, BWCAW, Wednesday, October 31, 2001
Before dawn the crowd at the Isabella Center has been fed, coffeed, and given fresh, clean clothes. They head back to the IC communications van, where everyone gathers before first light. Mary McCormick, Mark Haskins, DeeDee Grant, and Kathy Newman have arrived with their three cadaver dogs. The dogs are all handsome, large German shepherds, striking with their low-slung hips, big heads, and massive chests. Before entering the field, they are fitted with orange canine search-and-rescue vests.
Jeff Hasse will accompany the group with three ATVs and support from Finland Search and Rescue. Earlier in the morning he had had one of his migraines, and he didn’t relish the idea of returning for another nasty slog through those woods. But his migraine finally dissipated, and now he accepts the challenge.
IC is prepared. BJ is incident commander. Pete Smerud is in charge of operations. Steve Van Kekerix is the chief liaison and information officer, and he is also in charge of the purse—should they need another pizza lunch, dinner, or more gasoline. Rebecca Francis is in charge of planning. And Swede Larson manages logistics.
Larson is the Silver Bay commander. Unfortunately, he is preparing for a hip replacement, so he hasn’t been able to enter the field. But every time the propane is exhausted, the generators die, or the volunteers’ fire wants wood—Swede is on it. Whatever this day brings, IC is ready for it.
They plan to send one team with dogs in from the south, following yesterday’s slog to the tent site, and one up the northern stretch of trail, veering due north on the old portage trail to Lake Insula, turning due east somewhere around Ahmoo Creek, seeing if they can find an easier way in. Deputy Milkovich and Pilot Dean Lee will continue doing flyovers of the area.
The team on the trail needs to blaze an ATV trail to the tent. They will need to haul in recovery supplies and to haul out Jason’s tent and equipment, as well as to extract their own equipment from the field. And though no one says it, they expect that they will need an ATV with its accompanying pod to haul out his body.
Hasse, McCormick, Haskins, Grant, and Newman will work in to the site from the north. They get ATV assistance from Finland Search and Rescue support people. These guys are young and expert at clearing trail. They live in this country, and know how to wheel through rough terrain. By the time both teams get started, it is 8:40 in the morning.
The dogs and people take turns on the ATV and the trailers. The column makes slow progress up the trail. After a two-mile slog to the circular Pow Wow Trail juncture, both teams turn northeast, following the Pow Wow counterclockwise for another couple of miles. At the point where the trail turns ninety degrees due northwest, the southern team continues another mile onto the old Pow Wow Trail, where they are finally forced to park their vehicles and head into the swamps on foot.
From this location the distance to the tent is about a mile, but the difficult path crosses three swamps, several beaver dams, and some nasty marsh and bog. Those who went yesterday remember the search, and they know it will take at least a couple of hours to find the simplest route through the muck.
Hasse and the northbound crew turn northwest on the trail, moving ahead with ATVs almost another two miles to the Lake Insula portage juncture. Here the Pow Wow Trail turns due west, but it is not the clear choice. The eight members of the northbound team reflect on how easily the Lake Insula portage could sucker people off the Pow Wow. By comparison, the western Pow Wow Trail looks like a narrow game path. The Lake Insula portage is wide and clear. The rock cairn someone set up to mark the spot is covered over by brush and snow. There is no way for the group to know they are traversing Jason’s exact path.
They turn north, making slow headway up the portage.
About two miles to the east, Jason Rasmussen has managed one more climb out of his hollowed-out home. The temperature is moderating. He cannot feel his feet, and his lower legs are numb to mid-calf, but he doesn’t have the energy to move around and re-establish circulation and warmth. Instead his body continues its periodic bouts of shivering.
Jason is no longer hungry. He is thirsty, and he manages to trickle down the cup of melted snow from his water bottle. More than satisfying, the brief hydration raises his spirits. But his normal buoyancy is so far diminished now he can only sit and watch the cold forest around him. With his morning draught, something else has entered him. Calm. He sits near his log and feels an unusual stillness. Almost an egoless letting go.
Yesterday he was sure he heard wolves. They were south of him. But he’s been hearing plenty, these last few days. He feels as though the woods are playing tricks. More than they’ve already played on him. Now he is beginning to hallucinate. Not full-fledged hallucinations, but minor alterations in perception. People talking over the hill. The Mexican music. The wolves. He wonders about it all. This much isolation under these kinds of circumstances, where his death seems inevitable, can have a noticeable effect on a mind and the body’s ability to perceive.
The air is heavy with moisture. It is cold, but already over forty degrees. The day feels as if it is going to warm, but the wet will keep Jason cold. He continues to shiver.
He is tired now. He thinks he will sit outside awhile. He feels relatively certain the next time he settles into his shelter he won’t be getting up. It is a nice pine log, he thinks. It’s a fine coffin, if it comes to that. He feels pretty certain that sometime within the next two or three days—certainly no more—his body will succumb to its regimen of no calories, little water, unremitting cold, and sleeplessness. But for now he feels good about being outside. He likes being in the overcast, misty mid-morning, listening to the trees and brush.
He watches them out of eyes sharpened by a sense of impending death. He has stopped thinking, and he lets the world flow in. It is almost as though he is seeing it for the first time. He is haunted by the rhythm of trees. He is mesmerized by the perfect illumination of the muted morning light.
And then as if he hasn’t been taunted enough, the plane comes over. In the past it has come close enough for Jason to see the face of the pilot. But it’s as though he is invisible. This time, he barely rises, stammers to his feet, manages to wave and then raise the whistle to his lips. He blows, but it is an anemic whistle. Still, it is much louder than he could project with his own voice. But he knows he only acts from habit. Something about blowing the whistle after the flyovers is comforting. He doesn’t want to give up. Not just yet. Not while he still has the energy to raise the whistle to his lips.
He sits down and awaits another flyover, though for what he cannot say.
The eight members of the northern team keep following the trail north over Ahmoo Creek. After a short hike they come to a place where another trail section turns east. They hike onto it, still able to move through the trees with the ATVs, but not for long. After a half mile, the ATVs can go no farther. The group is heading into heavy terrain, and the trail—while still partially apparent—is impassable, except afoot.
Hasse radios their progress at 11:22. The three ATV operators are going to hang back and try to clear a wide enough path for the vehicles to reach Jason’s tent.
Hasse, Haskins, Grant, Newman, and McCormick continue east and then south toward the tent, the cadaver dogs accompanying them. They are to work their way down toward the tent and at some point intersect the crew that just now—if Hasse has heard it correctly via his radio—made it to Jason’s last camp.
Jim Couch and Carla Leehy are at the tent with their dogs Tanner and Bear. The two dogs begin milling around the tent, trying to pick up scent.
The northern group continues east. The trail becomes harder to find through the thick cover. They continue along it, then lose it, then recover it. Near noon they come to a blowdown area. Much of it appears fresh—perhaps from the same storm that dropped all this snow. Some of it is very old, probably from the July 1999 storm. But at 12:35 Jeff Hasse radios out to IC and the southern group that they have lost the trail.
“It’s just disappeared,” he declares.
Hasse knows that if they want to make a relatively straight path to the tent they will have to do some serious orienteering. His hands are full with the radio.
“Who wants to work the compass?” he asks, but there are no takers. The handlers are worried about their dogs. The blowdown area is like a sea of pongee sticks, and a careless step on one of the upturned sharpened points could skewer a paw. They need to keep an eye on their animals. So Hasse continues with the compass, moving very slowly through and over the trees.
Mary McCormick and her cadaver dog Elle move out ahead, then down a rise. Elle likes to be in front, and Mary has trouble putting brakes on her.
To the south, near Jason’s tent, Tanner and Bear have picked up a scent and are heading north along the long lakeshore, turning into the woods. Mary McCormick calls out to Elle and then hears something. She pauses, leaning into the sound, wanting to be sure she has heard it. Then she turns and looks back at the others, approaching from behind.
“I think I just heard a whistle,” she says.
The others stop and listen. No one hears anything.
Jeff Hasse radios in to IC. “We think we heard a whistle,” he repeats. He is on the air waves. It is 1:18. The drone of the plane approaching from the west, drowns out all other sounds. DeeDee Grant wonders if they are hearing some kind of harmonic resonance from the plane, or a whistle from the southern group moving north. Hasse asks the plane to circle out of the area. He radios to the southern crew and asks them if anyone whistled.
The northern group pauses while they wait for a response.
“Negative,” the answer comes back. “No one’s whistled out of our group.”
The southern group is still moving through the woods, but everyone is together, and they are over a mile from Hasse and the others.
DeeDee Grant gets on a log and blows hard on her whistle, but there is no response.
“I’m sure I heard a whistle,” Mary McCormick reaffirms.
Jeff Hasse radios back to IC and asks if everyone came in out of the rain yesterday. He wonders if they left someone stranded, and the searcher is in the area. Then Hasse hears the whistle.
“Did anyone hear that?” McCormick asks.
“That was a whistle,” Hasse confirms. Kathy Newman agrees.
DeeDee Grant whistles again, but there is no response. Now Hasse is certain they are dealing with a searcher left in the woods. But IC has double-checked its head count. They can account for everyone in the woods and back at Forest Center. From their estimation the only people in the woods are those on the teams that went in this morning.
The northern team is confident they have heard something. They decide to work with the dogs. They begin heading south, spreading out in a line through the fallen trees. The plane has been out of the area for over five minutes. The crew makes slow progress through the blowdown.
Jason thinks he hears a wolf bark to the south. He’s unsure, though. Then thinks he hears one from the north.
South of Jason, Tanner is angry with Jim Couch, his owner. He is on the trail of something. Over a thousand yards from Jason, Tanner smells him, and Bear does, too. The rescuers are having trouble keeping up. Tanner voices his impatience with a brief series of anxious barks.
To the north, the team with cadaver dogs pauses. Elle gets into some kind of territorial dispute with one of the other dogs. She growls, then barks a warning.
Jason is certain it is a wolf. He stands up and listens. Then he calls out through the woods, in the direction of the northern rescue team.
“Hi, wolfies,” he calls. It is odd for them to be out in the early afternoon, but he feels good to know he is not alone. He would like to see the wolf pack. But he knows he is not safe in his weakened condition.
Then he hears a voice. It’s a question, and he wonders if it’s real.
“What’s your name?” comes drifting over the rise.
“Jason Rasmussen,” he yells.
But back at the northern group all they can hear is a voice. The words are too muffled to be understood.
Jeff Hasse still believes it is a lost searcher. No one—not the two groups in the field or the congregation back at IC—considers that it could be Jason. They gave up on finding Jason alive before last night’s deadly ice storm. Today, with their cadaver dogs, their search through the woods is all about recovery, locating and returning with Jason’s body.
And then they hear a plaintive voice, almost a wail. “I’m lost!” Somewhere over the hill.
“Hello,” three members of the group call out. “Whistle,” one of them instructs. “Keep whistling. Who are you?” they yell.
Jason pauses, manages the strength to climb up on his vertical stump, and hears the last question. He is struck by its strangeness. Who in the hell else is lost in these woods?
“Jason!” he screams back. “I’m Jason Rasmussen!”
All of the searchers hear it clearly.
The entire northern team races through the blowdown, trying to keep up with their dogs. Mark Haskins is the first to come over the rise, following the intermittent blasts of Jason’s whistle. He sees Jason on top of the stump and he is stunned.
Jeff Hasse is behind Mark, the others following closely. Hasse cannot believe it. None of them believes it. Hasse’s radio is working as he strides forward. They hear Jason’s voice at 1:24. It takes two minutes to cross through the woods to his location. At 1:26 Jeff Hasse radios back to IC, and to the southern group, and the overhead search plane, that
they have found Jason Rasmussen—alive.
Back at IC, Steve Van Kekerix, BJ, and Pete Smerud ask for clarification. They think they have heard it right, but they are incredulous.
“It’s Jason,” Hasse repeats. “And he’s standing.”
Jason Rasmussen, minutes after he was rescued (photo by Jeff Hasse, courtesy Ken Anderson)
On the scene of Jason’s rescue. From left to right: Kathy Newman, Mark Haskins, Jason Rasmussen, Pat Peterson, Mary McComick, Ed Judkins, and DeeDee Grant (photo by Jeff Hasse, courtesy Mary McCormick)
Inside Jason’s tree, reinforced and lined with pine boughs (courtesy Mary McCormick)
The Rasmussen household is all but in mourning. Heidi has returned on an early morning flight. Lee and Linda take her to Lee’s mother’s house, where they try to eat lunch.
For the Rasmussens, it is almost as though Jason’s body is in the next room. They believe he is up there somewhere, and he will be found. Lee has learned more about wilderness survival than he ever expected, certainly more than he ever wanted to know. He knows, for instance, that the likelihood of finding Jason alive is virtually nil. No one has ever existed that many days alone in those temperatures and lived to tell the story. No one. They all know.
What guides Lee now are the words that have guided him since Jason’s failure to return. “Pray for the best,” he thinks, “but prepare for the worst.” In the beginning, it was easier to lean toward the start of that sentence. Increasingly, he resigns himself to the unimaginable worst.
Later, in an aside to Jason’s grandmother, Lee talks to her about burying their son in the family plot.
The Rasmussens’ cupboards are as barren as a January field. The search for Jason has been going on for almost a week. During that time, their lives have been everything but routine. Now their refrigerator contains condiments and stale cheese. Heidi is home now, and they know they will have to stop and buy something to replenish their supplies. They have no appetites, but know they must continue, move forward. Maybe buying groceries will at least give them something else to think about.
Lost in the Wild Page 23
