that young people are so ingrained with the concept of “stranger danger” that they will actually refuse to answer the calls of rescuers who are searching for them. Over and over stories are told of rescue teams coming within yards of a lost child who was huddling in the bushes, too afraid to call out for help.
That’s where the SAR dogs come in.
I am not the only member of the Mountain Search and Rescue organization; just the closest to the actual wilderness where most of the need occurs, so I am usually the first one called. In the case of a missing child, especially with less than six hours left before dark, I knew that teams from neighboring counties had already been called. I only hoped we would find the boy before they got here.
I’m happy to say that most of these situations turn out for the good. Very often by the time we form the search party, the missing camper will stagger back, sweaty and scared but otherwise unharmed. Sometimes he’ll be lucky enough to catch a stray cell phone signal and call 911. Sometimes he’ll hear us calling. Sometimes the dog will gallop right to him—case closed and everyone is home before supper. Those are the stories that don’t make the paper. Those are the stories in which we professionals get to roll our eyes at each other in a silent commentary on “damn tourists,” then clap each other on the shoulder and head on back home. Those are the stories I like.
But when you start out, you never know what kind of story it’s going to end up being.
From the harried scoutmaster and his hoard of eager scout assistants, all of whom seemed to think this was the best part of the whole trip, we learned that Ryan Marcus, age ten, was a bright student, had multiple merit badges, and was fully aware of scout procedure when one became separated from the group. He was also, it turned out, an independent thinker who had taken off on his own to gather wild blueberries for breakfast. Cocky.
Proper procedure for SAR is to work in teams of two. In a case like this, though, with time of the essence and resources at a minimum, a dog and handler can count as a team of two. I liked it better that way. Cisco is young and, as much as I hate to admit it, still easily distracted. The less he has to contend with, the better chance of success we have.
We started down the leaf-strewn trail with Cisco on a fifteen-foot cotton lead, nose to the ground and tail wagging happily, occasionally bounding off the trail and back again, halting, doubling back, circling and charging forward; looking for all the world like he knew exactly what he was doing. Of course the secret to making yourself look like a genius dog trainer is to find out what your dog loves and keep reinforcing him for doing it. Cisco loves to track. Sometimes I am not sure that he knows the difference between a cotton glove, a human victim and a family of bunnies quivering under a rock; he only knows that when he finds it, there is a party. So with great joy and anticipation of the hunt, Cisco set out to find whatever there was to be found.
And, approximately forty-five minutes later, he did exactly that.
By this time we had long passed the point of the original Boy Scout sunrise hike and were approaching a steep, narrow section that was clearly marked ADVANCED HIKERS ONLY on the map. Below the trail, however, was a crisscross of overgrown logging roads that eventually gave way to a seldom-used dirt road that circled around, after fifteen or twenty miles, toward the lake. I held out a vague hope that a smart little Boy Scout might actually have tried to seek out civilization by following the road. I really, really hoped he had not stayed on the trail, which became more treacherous the higher it climbed.
I felt a shaft of relief and cautious encouragement when Cisco abruptly veered off the trail and through the woods toward the logging roads. I followed him at a clumsy jog, trying to keep his line from getting tangled in the undergrowth.
That’s where the SAR dogs come in.
I am not the only member of the Mountain Search and Rescue organization; just the closest to the actual wilderness where most of the need occurs, so I am usually the first one called. In the case of a missing child, especially with less than six hours left before dark, I knew that teams from neighboring counties had already been called. I only hoped we would find the boy before they got here.
I’m happy to say that most of these situations turn out for the good. Very often by the time we form the search party, the missing camper will stagger back, sweaty and scared but otherwise unharmed. Sometimes he’ll be lucky enough to catch a stray cell phone signal and call 911. Sometimes he’ll hear us calling. Sometimes the dog will gallop right to him—case closed and everyone is home before supper. Those are the stories that don’t make the paper. Those are the stories in which we professionals get to roll our eyes at each other in a silent commentary on “damn tourists,” then clap each other on the shoulder and head on back home. Those are the stories I like.
But when you start out, you never know what kind of story it’s going to end up being.
From the harried scoutmaster and his hoard of eager scout assistants, all of whom seemed to think this was the best part of the whole trip, we learned that Ryan Marcus, age ten, was a bright student, had multiple merit badges, and was fully aware of scout procedure when one became separated from the group. He was also, it turned out, an independent thinker who had taken off on his own to gather wild blueberries for breakfast. Cocky.
Proper procedure for SAR is to work in teams of two. In a case like this, though, with time of the essence and resources at a minimum, a dog and handler can count as a team of two. I liked it better that way. Cisco is young and, as much as I hate to admit it, still easily distracted. The less he has to contend with, the better chance of success we have.
We started down the leaf-strewn trail with Cisco on a fifteen-foot cotton lead, nose to the ground and tail wagging happily, occasionally bounding off the trail and back again, halting, doubling back, circling and charging forward; looking for all the world like he knew exactly what he was doing. Of course the secret to making yourself look like a genius dog trainer is to find out what your dog loves and keep reinforcing him for doing it. Cisco loves to track. Sometimes I am not sure that he knows the difference between a cotton glove, a human victim and a family of bunnies quivering under a rock; he only knows that when he finds it, there is a party. So with great joy and anticipation of the hunt, Cisco set out to find whatever there was to be found.
And, approximately forty-five minutes later, he did exactly that.
By this time we had long passed the point of the original Boy Scout sunrise hike and were approaching a steep, narrow section that was clearly marked ADVANCED HIKERS ONLY on the map. Below the trail, however, was a crisscross of overgrown logging roads that eventually gave way to a seldom-used dirt road that circled around, after fifteen or twenty miles, toward the lake. I held out a vague hope that a smart little Boy Scout might actually have tried to seek out civilization by following the road. I really, really hoped he had not stayed on the trail, which became more treacherous the higher it climbed.
I felt a shaft of relief and cautious encouragement when Cisco abruptly veered off the trail and through the woods toward the logging roads. I followed him at a clumsy jog, trying to keep his line from getting tangled in the undergrowth.
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