Lightning was striking everywhere, and each time it did, a blindingly bright flash was followed by a deafening crack of thunder. When the weather chaos first started, I’d figured it might be wise to do something about it, but I didn’t. But once the lightning bolts started lighting up individual trees, I sprang into action.
Earlier that day, the weather was clear and calm as the OWA “Solo” got underway. The Solo was an important part of many Outpost Wilderness Adventure camp programs and was meant to be a peaceful time of self-reflection, as the teenage “team members” spent a night alone outdoors near the OWA Base Camp facility. Over the years, I’d learned to keep everyone relatively close to one another while giving them their own space. The event included a night spent isolated in the woods, with each person choosing 10 items from an “approved“ list of potentially helpful things to have on hand. While the participants were preparing for the event in the relative comfort of Base Camp, confidence was mostly high, and what was about to take place had a romantic air. But time and again, I’d witnessed how terrifying and complicated the experience became for many participants once they were out in the wilds alone and the sun began setting. I ultimately realized that, among other things, many people are simply scared of the dark.
Over the years, parameters and methods for the activity were developed to mitigate potential problems. These included placing each person within eyesight or shouting distance of at least one other person, locating individuals near a road or trail, and keeping at least one leader in the general area at all times. I was convinced that spending a night alone in the wilds was a solid confidence booster, but I’d determined that it had to be done in the right way in order to provide the desired results
The plan for this Solo directed that the group be spread out along a faint two-track road and trail that parallels Second Creek as it led from the OWA Base Camp main lodge into the wilds of the Puma Hills. Each of the soloists was assigned a Solo spot and instructed to stay within 100′ of that location until the formal Solo ended, which would be announced and verified by a staff member the following day.
For the event in question, the entire supervisory staff of 6 (including me) accompanied the group as they were walked to their assigned spots and noted each person’s placement. This meant (theoretically at least) that once the twelve team members were in place, the leaders knew where the participants were, or where they were supposed to be
So, late that afternoon, we scattered 12 teenage team members up and along the creek as planned. The creek and associated small valley cut almost right through the middle of the Colorado Base Camp property before it entered the Pike National Forest. The location is in the heart of the Rocky Mountains, some 25 miles from the nearest town, and is surrounded by several hundred thousand acres of mountainous, heavily forested, and wild, uninhabited land. And so, there was already a feeling of remoteness, even before any kind of Solo elements were added in.
The first team member was assigned a spot about 200 yards up and beyond the main lodge. And by the time the last one was placed, teenagers were strewn for more than a mile up the ever-narrowing valley. Ultimately, the teens were alone, surrounded by big trees and strangely shaped rocks. But before leaving, the staff encouraged them one final time to remain in their areas as bears, mountain lions, and packs of coyotes could be wandering around in the dark of night, and their best defense, other than a campfire, would be to remain stationary where the leaders could find them. As mentioned, as part of the Solo methodology, at least one of the leaders (guides, as they were known) was always stationed among the group, operating a field camp, supplied with extra food and water, various emergency supplies, and walkie-talkies, and with the all-important campfire ablaze. This was done both for safety reasons and to reassure the soloists that there would always be an adult leader, a big campfire, and a reliable, safe haven nearby they could count on in an emergency. The field camp was a confidence booster for the soloists and provided a direct connection between team members and staff. The result was that the participants were able to experience a night out alone in the woods, but with a significant level of supervision.
After placing the soloists, four of the five staff returned with me to the lodge for a late-afternoon, teenager-less supper. The other staff member stayed back to man the field camp. Because it was the July monsoon season, we were cognizant of the reality that thunderstorms were a distinct possibility. But since the forecast indicated a one-day break in the pattern and because we’d already made it through the afternoon cloudlessly, we sat down to supper, satisfied that we’d made the right decision in ignoring any rain possibilities. As we feasted on smoked sausage and chicken fajitas, we were confident that all the bases were well covered and that the Solo was well planned and being conducted responsibly.
We finished our meal just before dusk and headed outside to head up the valley to “check on things.” As we went out the door, we expected to see a few plumes of campfire smoke and perhaps hear a few panic sounds from soloists realizing it was actually becoming nighttime. Instead, what we saw was a huge thunderhead in the sky, looming above the Puma Hills and lurking just to the west of the Second Creek valley.
“That’ll give ’em a reason to set up a shelter. Good thing they each have a tarp,” I said to the supper group.
I assumed it to be a best-case scenario- a rain cloud appearing in the sky, causing the soloists to think through the very real realities of how to deal with it. But in this case, it would also never make its storm presence felt. Actual rain was not something I wanted to see in our area for the next twelve hours. As I stood there, gazing up at the valley and thinking through the details of the night ahead, I remained confident that all was going according to plan and that everything was under control.
The nearby storm did quicken our pace a bit as we went about managing the Solo. Once we reached the most distant soloist and determined that all was well, two of the leaders returned to the lodge with me, while the other two went to the field camp. Earlier that afternoon, the first field camp Solo leader had built a tidy, smallish campfire, but as night fell, the two new field camp guides turned it into a huge bonfire.
Back at the lodge, I settled into reading a recent edition of the Denver Post. After poring through a couple of front-page stories, I got up and walked back outside to check on the progress of the Solo, expecting the storm to be long gone. All seemed calm and under control on the ground, but a flash in the sky grabbed my attention. I looked up in disbelief, just as a faint rumble of thunder reinforced what I was seeing. I accepted the fact that the thunderhead was very much alive and clearly moving toward us.
The setting sun backlit parts of the ominous clouds, and I noted that they appeared full of rain. While I was frightened by the lightning, I was mesmerized by the folds, creases, and various other intricacies of the humongous cloud. For that moment, our Solo world still seemed peaceful and calm. But my moment of personal reflection was soon shattered by another flash, which knifed its way across the cloud. The flash was quickly followed by an unsettling rumble of thunder that seemed to last longer than it should have. “Surely the staff is seeing what I am,” I hopefully wondered to myself. Assuming they did, I was confident they were working to ensure each soloist was prepared for a storm and the rain it would bring. All the while, I continued to remain confident that that wasn’t something that was actually going to happen. I’d seen dark clouds build and come my way before, only to disappear before they arrived, and I remained hopeful that this would once again be one of those times.
Nonetheless, my confidence had a small “crack” in it, and I was tempted to walk up the valley, call the whole thing off, round everyone up, and get them down to the lodge before the rain had a chance to start. But then I thought about the great opportunity it would be for the participants to emotionally experience a storm without it ever actually materializing. I speculated that if we were to opt for a bailout, the lesson learned would be that when danger appears, the best course is to retreat to safety. And so, I turned and walked back inside to read another story in the newspaper, still confident in my rain assumptions. Even so, I did relent enough in possibility of the storm arrive to send the 3 guides that were back at the lodge up to the field camp, “just in case.”
The rumbling continued as I sat on the couch, but I avoided the possibilities of what that might mean and busied my mind reading a story about pending changes to the Colorado drinking water regulations. After a while, I looked out of the window again and saw that it’d become unnaturally dark outside. Just as I decided to go outside and take a better look, a huge bolt of lightning lit up the inside of the lodge, and thunder cracked loudly. I sprang to the door in one motion, opened it, and looked out toward the west. Just at that moment, more lightning hit somewhere high up on the ridge and lit up a single distant Ponderosa Pine as if it’d been electrocuted.
For a moment, the area around us remained calm and dry. But I looked up at the ridge and saw storm chaos virtually exploding up there. And then, that same chaos rolled into my world, and it did so with the subtlety of a screeching freight train. Heavy rain and strong winds began inundating the entire Base Camp area. The storm roared as it pounded and tugged at the metal roof that was keeping me dry. And then, the last straw broke as lightning began striking at multiple locations in the valley, precisely in the area where the soloists were staged, and the explosions of less distant thunder became almost continuous.
I pictured the 12 soloists and the staff out there, amid electric, wet chaos, and while I wished it wasn’t so, I knew it was. Hopefully, I rationalized, the kids had already been rounded up and were inside the relative safety of the big tent at the field camp. And then, my walkie-talkie came to life, and the guide on the other end partially verified my hope.
“This is a big storm. I’ve got 8 of the soloists here in the tent with me. The other 4 guides are out getting the others,” he said.
In a matter of moments, I had my rain parka on and was headed out the door toward the parking lot where one of our 15-passenger vans was parked. I cranked it up and drove up the two-track road to the field camp. Once there, I stopped, left it idling with the headlights on, and almost jumped into the tent to get the current update. Dry and not-so-dry people were everywhere. I was glad to see three staff faces, which meant that something, more than likely positive, had happened in the intervening moments since the radio report.
“We got two more. Sherry and Abe ought to be here any minute with the others,” was the word. “They have a radio, but we haven’t been able to reach ’em.”
The radios were a good idea, but weren’t functioning the way we needed them to. “Good thing we aren’t counting on them,” I thought. I breathed a momentary sigh of relief as I noted that most of the group was there and accounted for. Thirteen excited and mostly smiling faces filled the tent with energy. The mud, wetness, disheveled hair, and universally soggy boots and shoes were only a temporary consequence. For the moment, age, position, and background were less important than the fact that each of the soloists and staff members was an active part of the same storm. And then, my moment of reflection was put to rest when another horrendously bright and loud flash and crash lit up and shook the tent, reminding me that all was not yet well. The reminder was simultaneously embellished by another roar of the pounding rain. The realization that only a thin sheet of waterproof tent fabric separated us from the storm raging just a few feet away gave me instant stomach pain. But there simply wasn’t time for such things, and I refocused on ensuring that everyone in the entire group was accounted for and safe.
I got the group’s attention and laid out a plan. We’d all go outside, two at a time, get into the van, and drive back to the lodge. I told them to leave their personal belongings behind and that they could retrieve them the following day.
Then, once they were all inside the lodge and safe, I would return with another staff member to help Sherry and Abe round up the other two soloists. Once we had the rest of the people in the van, we would return to the lodge, and everyone would be accounted for. It seemed straightforward and simple enough.
Within moments, the plan was put in motion. In a miraculously orderly process, people organized themselves, ran out into the rain, and got into the van. The cramped space was humid, chaotic, and odiferous, but none of that mattered, and within a few minutes, we were back at the lodge, unloading in the parking lot.
I wasted no time heading back up and hoped to find the other four in the big tent when Reggie and I got there. I pulled up near the door and stayed in the driver’s seat while Reggie jumped out to look inside. I quickly saw from his reaction that they weren’t there.
He didn’t spend any unnecessary time dealing with what wasn’t there. Almost immediately, he turned, ran back, climbed into the passenger seat, and shook his head, saying, “No one.”
We determined which two soloists were still out and knew where they were supposed to be. I tried to radio back to the staff at the lodge with my walkie-talkie, but all I could hear was a strange whirring sound and static. So, I realized, we’d just have to do things the old-fashioned way—which meant without radios.
We knew that one of the two soloists should have been located only 200 yards further up the valley. And we also knew that the other had been placed lower down, almost midway between the lodge and the field camp and near a huge fallen Ponderosa. Where the latter one had gone was a complete mystery, since there’d been a lot of headlights and yelling within that person’s realm, and his spot was little more than 100 feet from the road. The idea that the two soloists were in opposite directions left me in a logical conundrum as I tried to figure out which way our two guides must’ve gone. Just as I turned the van around, but before having to choose which way to go, I saw 3 flashlights heading down the road. Sherry, Abe, and Justin (the soloist from up the valley) appeared at the edge of the field camp clearing. Just as they came into view, another strike hit the nearby hillside, close to where they were walking. The thunder and lightning made them lunge forward and break into a run toward the awaiting van. Within moments, they opened the van door and scrambled to make room for each other inside as the storm continued howling. “Thank goodness,” I thought. “That’s 3 more.”
“Justin was way up there and sitting under some brush, and he was hard to find,” Sherry said as rainwater dripped from her hood.
Then, the soloist chimed in, “I didn’t hear anything. But when I saw the cloud approaching, I found a fallen tree and climbed under it. I stayed pretty dry, but the lightning was kind of scary.”
“All of the others, except for Joe, are fine and back at the lodge. Let’s get you all back, and then Reggie and I will go find him,” I said.
We drove back down to the lodge slowly, and as we drove past where the last soloist was supposed to be, we honked in another attempt to alert him. “Maybe he’ll hear the horn during a lull in the noise or see the headlights and head our way,” I said. We came to a complete stop and scanned the hillside, but no Joe appeared.
So, we drove on down to the parking lot, and the three wet adventurers climbed out and ran up the hill to the lodge. After we saw them open the door and walk inside, we immediately turned the van around and headed up the valley once again.
Joe had been placed only a hundred feet or so above the road and maybe 300 yards from the lodge. We drove back to the spot where we’d stopped before and turned the vehicle uphill so that the headlights were shining in his assumed direction. We began intensely scanning our surroundings and honking the horn. Then, after trying this for a while without any satisfactory result, we went out and began yelling for him.
“Joe. We’re going back to the lodge. Joe, come on down. Joe, the van is waiting.” We yelled things as if he needed to be convinced to come in, even though we had no idea whether that was the case or whether he could even hear us. We looked for any sign of movement, but our hopes were continually dashed. “Where is he?” I kept wondering out loud.
The only thing the two of us hadn’t done up to that point was to walk and search up the hill in the direction where he might have gone, and so that’s what we did. We turned off the engine but left the headlights on. With the storm continuing and water filling every rivulet and soaking our feet as it ran downhill, we split up and began working our way upward. We shone our headlamps at every tree and rock, looking for any sort of clue. We kept yelling Joe’s name and listened intently to every non-response. After traveling only 20 yards from the van, I looked back and saw that the headlights had disappeared from view and realized the pounding rain and gusting wind were swallowing our yells, making it difficult even for Reggie and me to communicate, and we were only 10 yards apart.
I realized that he could be 25 yards from us and might not even know we were there. Even though there was a lodge full of teenagers only 300 yards away, and Reggie was less than 10, I suddenly felt very lonely. Then, just as I reached the height of my despondence, Joe stepped out from behind a big Spruce at the far end of my light beam and walked toward us.
“Joe. Thank Goodness. We’re calling the Solo off, and everyone else is back at the lodge. Where did you go? We drove, walked by, and yelled, but couldn’t find you,” I said.
“I heard all of that and thought it was a trick,“ he said. “So, I went up there and hid behind a big rock. It was a good spot because a big tree had fallen on top of it, and I got underneath it.”
I had plenty of questions and a few comments, but it was too loud, we were standing out in the storm, and still had to get back to the lodge, so I saved them for later. We walked back down to the van. We climbed inside, started it up, and within minutes, were inside the lodge, drinking hot chocolate with the rest of the group as the storm finally began to wind down. Eventually, the voices became louder than the thunder, and the Solo storm was a thing of the past. And most importantly, everyone was safe and sound and at least somewhat more aware of the power of Mother Nature.
