State Of Emergency

“This is the wound.” With a red marker pen, Emily Foster drew two parallel dots, representing the fang marks of a rattlesnake, on the arm of a seven-year-old Brownie. The other eight girls and the troop leader stood in a tight circle around the Formica-topped table in the Cascadia Search and Rescue headquarters. “Can anybody tell me what to do next?”

“I know,” said an angelic little redhead. “You gotta shoot the dang rattler.”

“The snake will be gone.” Emily preferred not to discuss snakebite treatment in her first aid lectures. Given her druthers, she’d never talk about reptiles at all—those slimy, sneaky, altogether terrifying creatures. But kids always asked about worst-case scenarios. Potential encounters with rattlesnakes, cougars and grizzly bears were a lot more dramatic than learning how to identify poison ivy. “Anybody know what we do next?”

“Suck out the poison,” said Libby Hanson, the daughter of the troop leader. “Then spit it out.”

The red-haired cherub gave a naughty smirk. “What if somebody gets bit on the butt?”

“Gross,” said a tall, feminine girl with a long braid that hung to her waist. “I wouldn’t ever suck anybody’s rear end.”

“Except for Johnny Jamison,” the naughty angel said.

“Settle down, girls.” Yvonne, the troop leader and mother of four, spoke with the voice of authority, but the Brownies weren’t listening. They’d caught an extreme case of the giggles.

“Settle down,” Yvonne repeated. She held up her hand in the sign for quiet.

Those who weren’t making sucking noises on their arms were wiggling their skinny little bottoms at each other.

“Quiet!” Yvonne threatened, “Or no snacks.”

Immediate silence descended, and Emily nodded an appreciative thank-you. She’d never been comfortable with children, especially not in a group. Controlling them was like juggling spaghetti. “Actually, we don’t recommend the suck-and-spit method, anymore. First, we clean and disinfect the wound.” She pantomimed that action. “Then wrap an Ace bandage above the wound. Not too tightly. Most of all, you want the victim to remain calm.”

The supposedly snakebit Brownie eased into a prone position on the tabletop, and Emily completed the treatment by taping a folded gauze pad over the bite. “This is to apply direct pressure to the wound. Now, what’s next?”

“Get help,” said Yvonne’s daughter.

“That’s right.” Emily gave a thumbs-up. “Any other questions?”

Tall and Feminine raised her hand. “Is that your real hair color?”

Emily touched her curly blond ponytail. “Yes.”

“I wondered ’cause your eyes are kind of a weird green and not blue like most blondes.”

“Let’s get back to first aid, shall we?” Emily loosened the Ace bandage on her volunteer victim’s arm.

The irrepressible angel asked, “Did you have anybody die from getting bit by a rattler?”

“Never.”

“But you’ve seen people die ’cause you’re a nurse.” Before she moved to Cascadia three years ago, Emily had experienced more than her share of senseless, violent death when she worked in a Denver hospital emergency room. God, yes, she’d seen people die. The helplessness and horror branded deep into her soul. Real-life death wasn’t an appropriate topic for seven-year-old Brownies. “The important thing,” she said, “is to avoid danger. Can you tell me the first rule of mountain safety?”

“Think ahead and be careful,” they recited back to her.

“Second rule?” Emily asked.

“Be prepared.”

“And if an accident happens?” she prompted.

“Keep calm. Call 9-1-1. Use first aid.”

“I don’t get it,” said Tall and Feminine. “9-1-1 is Sheriff Litvak’s phone number. Why is it the same for Search and Rescue?”

“The 9-1-1 dispatcher contacts S.A.R.,” Emily explained.

“Does he call you at home? Like, what if you’re busy?”

“Drop everything and come running,” Emily said.

“We usually meet right here, behind Dr. Spence’s office.”

The headquarters for the mostly volunteer S.A.R. unit based in Cascadia, Colorado, was the size of a two-car garage and almost as glamorous. The furnishings included secondhand tables, chairs, desks and an ancient refrigerator. Their rescue equipment, however, illustrated state-of-the-art preparedness with skis, snow shoes, carry litters, pitons and miles of nylon rope. Sophisticated aerial-photograph maps covered every wall. There were walkietalkies, a satellite phone and two computers—electronics that were beyond Emily’s comprehension.

Concluding her demonstration, she passed out miniature first aid kits with the address and phone number for Cascadia S.A.R. attached with a sticky label. From past experience, she knew that most of these kits would be used as toys, but at least the girls would be thinking about safety.

Dr. Spence Cannon, a young and much-loved general practitioner, poked his head through the door that connected with the offices for his regular practice. “I thought I heard some mice down here.”

Excited, the Brownies flocked around him. “We’re not mice!”

“Then how do you explain those big ears?” Spence tugged at a couple of their braids. “And these long tails?”

“I’m an eagle,” said the redhead. She spread her arms and began to soar.

“Yeah? Well, I’m a wolf.” Libby Hanson bared her fangs and snarled.

Tall and Feminine struck a pose. “I’m a supermodel.”

Emily stepped back beside Yvonne, and they watched as Spence and the Brownies settled around a table for Kool-Aid and snacks. “He’s great with kids,” Emily said.

“You bet,” Yvonne agreed. “We’re so lucky he settled here. With that streaked blond hair and those baby blue eyes, Spence could’ve made big bucks with a practice in Aspen.”

Though Cascadia lay only an hour’s drive from the fabled ski area, this small working-class community was a million miles distant in terms of economics. Cascadia couldn’t be described as a resort. It wasn’t a picturesque mountain town with châteaus, chalets and cutsey shops. Most of the people who lived here worked in Aspen. Their homes were humble cabins off the beaten path or trailers or rented rooms in the barracks-like motels.

“Spence fits in here,” Emily said. “He’s a nice guy.”

Coming from her, “nice” represented a genuine compliment when applied to an M.D. In her years as an emergency room nurse, she’d developed a potent hostility toward the usually egotistical doctors.

“Thanks for talking to the kids,” Yvonne said. “Those first aid kits are nifty. How did our underfinanced S.A.R. afford them?”

“We received a contribution that was specifically earmarked for mountain safety training and first aid. Ten thousand dollars.”

“Wow!” Yvonne’s eyes popped wide. In addition to motherhood duties, she raised and trained rescue dogs—an endeavor that could always use extra financial aid. “Who is this benefactor? Somebody from Aspen?”

“Somebody who’s dead. Lynette Afton-Shane.”

“Oh my! You know I hate to brag, but I’ve been to that house. The Afton Château. Big stone monstrosity. Gorgeous antiques.”