Still on the Quest

By the time everyone, including Dr. Whittaker, Dr. Elliott, and the snowplow driver, who was waiting for his cast to set sufficiently hard for traveling, had gotten some breakfast, the sky had brightened as much as it was going to. But the snow was still coming down, even though cars inched their way along the main street and the muted roar of plows could be heard from the nearby highway. Mollie turned up in mukluks and an ancient parka, and she and Terry and Ernie started setting the place to rights and sterilizing the used equipment. Trapper checked over Gonzo and Stanley a little more carefully after he'd had his morning coffee, and got Dr. Elliott to take a look at the frostbite and Carson to look at Stanley's head. ( Then they sat down to debate whether or not to try to get Stanley and Gonzo down to San Francisco Memorial. )

Coffee is a good thing, Ernie thought as she looked out at the snow tumbling lazily down past the streetlights. The sky was only just starting to lighten behind the overcast. She'd caught a nap for a couple of hours while Carson watched over the three men, but the arrival of Dr. Elliott and a snowplow driver with a sprained ankle had wakened her. She took another sip and composed herself for the morning. Regardless of the weather, none of them were going to be able to get back to San Francisco in time for the morning shift. And with snow still falling, there wasn't going to be a helicopter coming to change that. ( She would have to call. )

Trapper had made the incision, and was fussing with a primitive drill when Ernie got into the room that they were using as an operating theater. She paused a moment to settle her stomach. They had propped Stanley on his stomach, with his torso supported by a thick layer of blankets while his feet and hands trailed in pans of water. Trapper and Dr. Elliott were working at Stanley's head, while Terry passed instruments and Gary carefully worked on the frost-damaged extremities and renewed the hot water bottles that were bringing Stanley's core temperature back up to something reasonable, and Steve sat working the anesthesia.

Ernie made her way to Terry. "Where do you want me?"

"Here," Terry gave her the tray. "You pass the silverware while I work with Gary. It'll help if we can get his temperature stabilized."

"Right." Ernie took up her position. It was her first chance to get a good look at the damage, and she was appalled. Stanley's face was puffy with fluid and he had the ‘raccoon mask' of bruising that indicated serious cerebral hemorrhaging. Most of the back of his head was purple with subcutaneous bleeding as well, and past Trapper's shoulder she could see the jagged edges of a hole right through the bone. The x-rays on the light box weren't reassuring, except in that there was no sign of whatever had pierced the skull. The blood coming out was dark and viscous. Ernie guessed that Stanley could have been bleeding into the brain since last night and her heart sank. ( This was not good. )

"Avalanche rods, snowshoes, emergency medical kit, sleeping bags, 2 Stokes stretchers, rope and climbing gear, headlamps, helmets, ice picks, crampons, primus stove, water, food, and you've got on your long underwear and heavy boots, right?" Houlihan looked up from the pile of gear he had assembled on the living room floor, strapped neatly into the Stokes stretchers -- light aluminum stretchers designed for mountain rescue. "We may be up there into the night."

"I'm ready," Trapper said grimly.

"Ray's going to take the chopper to check the other roads into the park, but the pass road is ours. It'll take an hour for district to get anyone else up here, so we'll do the initial survey. Here, attach this to your coat, and when we get up to the avalanche area, all you'll have to do is string it out behind you."

Trapper looked at the long orange nylon ribbon with mixed emotions. If only Stanley and Gonzo had avalanche cords, the odds of finding them before the spring thaw would be.... He killed the thought. Time enough to give up when they had made the effort first.

Houlihan took the front end of the stacked stretchers and Trapper caught a hold of the back. "Are we taking the snowmobiles?"

"Yes, the Jimmy would never make it if we have to go up where the avalanche has crossed the road." Houlihan answered. He set a course straight for the shed, but Trapper, following behind, looked over his shoulder at the mountain. ( And stopped. )

"Well, I can smell something burning, anyway," Gonzo said, patting Stan on the back. "You're making progress."

"It just won't burn," Stanley fretted. "I've tried and tried, and all I get is a few sparks."

"Maybe the kindling isn't small enough," Gonzo said. "You've got to start with the littlest stuff first."

"I'm just useless. I don't know anything practical. I don't know anything but doctor stuff," ( Stanley started to turn away, and Gonzo had to keep a hold of him. )

"John? The phone is Ernie. Do you want to take it?"

John pulled himself up to a sitting position and blinked uncertainly. "Ernie?"

"Yes. She says it's important."

"I'm coming."

It took him a couple of minutes, though, to sort out which parts of the nightmare had been in his dreaming and which parts had been from the morning. ( He pulled on his pants and went out to the phone. )

"Frosty the snowman was a jolly happy soul," Gonzo sang hoarsely, "With a corncob hat and button pipe and two eyes made out of coal."

"I don't think that's the right words," Stanley interrupted crankily. "It's a button nose. And corncobs are too little for hats."

"So let's sing something different, then," Gonzo agreed, amiably. He was pleased that Stan had noticed the mix-up. It's not easy to test someone's coherence when they're walking behind you.

"I'm tired of singing," Stanley said. "And your voice is going."

"Well, I'm thirsty," ( Gonzo admitted. )

The phone rang again, and Trapper gave up and brought the whole coffeepot out from the kitchen. "Mendocino South Ranger Station," he said, tucking the receiver between his ear and his shoulder so he would have both hands free to pour the coffee.

"I'm trying to reach John McIntyre?"

"Speaking."

"My name is Pat Flaherty; I'm with the San Francisco office of the Federal Bureau of Investigations. I've been talking to Lt. Bristow in Sacramento, and I just wanted to confirm some points with you. Is the Stanley Riverside you're looking for any relation to Stanley Riverside the businessman?"

"His son," Trapper said, grateful that the agent seemed to know that much at least.

"Ayuh, that's rich enough." ( The New England voice paused for a moment, and Trapper heard the scratching of a pen. )

Gonzo felt his feet going out from under him again and tried to let go of Stanley's coat in time to avoid pulling the other man down on top of him. He hadn't the last time, and the collision had knocked the breath out of both of them. He had limited success. As he hit the snow with knee and hip and elbow, he heard Stanley landing too, but at least this time they weren't one on top of the other. "Sorry," Gonzo said.

"‘S all right," Stanley sounded winded. "‘S a chance to sit down."

Content not to have to move right away, Gonzo hitched himself around until he was in a comfortable sitting position on the slanted snow bank. The road had been covered in more than one place by slides, and negotiating them was taking more energy than he had to spare. He held onto his knees to keep his hands away from his face and tried to reckon their odds. ( Less than ten miles, but in knee-deep snow, very little water, no food. )

Even after he knew that the light wasn't getting any brighter, Stanley kept his eyes closed and rested, waiting for Gonzo to stir, and hoping that the ache in his head would go away. He wasn't warm, but he had reached a sort of stasis, where the cold didn't seem to bother him as much, and he had slept, if lightly. If only the bump on his head would stop hurting, he would be able to face the day. He tried to imagine what it would be like, but it was too alien a prospect. When he was young, his father had never considered taking him along on winter outings, and by the time he was old enough to afford his own choices, he had chosen to spend his time on his studies, and his medical career. He still remembered the sixth grade career day where he had made up his mind. The principal had gotten up to make a speech, and had begun with "Every father wants his son to grow up to be a doctor." The man had meant it as a lead in to the realm of other possibilities, Stanley knew vaguely, but he had barely heard the rest of the lecture. At twelve, one of the few adults he had trusted to listen was Dr. Craymore, his pediatrician, who had never failed to ease the terror of an asthma attack, and whose crisp lab coat and confident authority had fascinated the boy. ( He had sent Stanley an otoscope when he graduated from med school. )