Zumwalt Meadow along the South Fork Kings River / NPS

About 20 years ago, a man would have died in my backcountry campsite if not for a National Park Service ranger.

I was maybe six miles deep into California's Sequoia & Kings Canyon National Parks along the Bubbs Creek Trail, one end of the popular and demanding Rae Lakes Loop. This was the first night of an eight-week job as part of an archaeology crew surveying the Kings Canyon zone. The park’s head archaeologist and a ranger hiked up to spend the night with us and see us off. The ranger, thankfully, had a two-way radio. When the first night at camp a woman ran into our camp near Sphinx Creek shouting that her partner was sick and having seizures, that radio helped save the man’s life.

I woke up that night to yelling, crying, and flashlight beams erratically painting the trees with light. I expected to see bears ransacking camp when I zipped open my tent, not rangers toting a stretcher equipped with mountain bike tires struggling to haul a debilitated man to medical care. They wheeled him back down the trail, a trip that takes hours even while hiking normally. He continued to seize the entire way I learned later. The man was airlifted to Fresno and recovered a few days later.

I didn't learn the full story until word trickled back up the mountain a couple weeks later.

Three days before the commotion at our camp, the man set out with a girl he’d recently met to hike the Rae Lakes Loop. They’d driven up from sea level early in the morning, and hit the trail midday. At some point during the second day of hiking, near 10,000 feet, the man started exhibiting symptoms of altitude sickness. Then he began vomiting profusely. For reasons only they’d know, the couple continued deeper and higher along the route, eventually crossing Glen Pass at well over 11,000 feet, rather than turning back and losing elevation.

The woman he was with resorted to dragging the man down the trail toward a lower elevation. She'd nearly given up when she saw our tents, just visible in the moonlight. She left the stricken man a few hundred yards away and dashed into our camp. Fortunately, our ranger companion was there — it was the only night he was with us — and knew the protocal for establishing a rescue. If he wasn't there, we later learned, the man would almost certainly have died either that night, or the next morning. 

The availability of the ranger saved his life. 

A few years ago a good friend nearly suffered the same fate. We were heading to one of the 10th Mountain Division huts near Vail, Colorado, a five-mile snowshoe trip that begins at 9,000 feet, eventually crossing Resolution Saddle at near 12,000 feet. My friend, let’s call him Neil, had flown into Denver from the Bay Area the night before.

Halfway to the hut, Neil started tiring significantly, unusual for him. Not suspecting he was feeling ill, we urged him to keep his pace up as it was snowing hard, and we were well behind schedule.

A bit further, Neil stopped and revealed that he felt nauseous and weak. At this point, we should have turned around. Still several miles from the hut, and with nearly another thousand feet of elevation gain, Neil’s deteriorating condition should have set off “turn back” alarm bells.

Instead, we kept pushing. We’d come so far, we reasoned. Pushed forward by the fact that we’d committed so we were going to finish the hike, as much as the urge for bourbon and soup enjoyed in specatcular scenery at the hut.

The author, far from anything, especially help, in Stanislaus National Forest / Justin Housman file

Neil made it to the hut, but spent the night sick and wheezing, with wet, erratic breathing. We hoped the next day would be an improvement, but as evening set in, his breathing was worse, and his vision had clouded. He wasn’t eating. The next morning, he was having powerful headaches.

Miraculously, a group of US Forest Service rangers had skied in the previous night. One of them was an EMT and the next morning he told us he suspected Neil might have HAPE — High Altitude Pulmonary Edema. He urged us to leave, immediately, seeking lower elevation. They'd follow and call for SAR if necessary. We hastily assembled our gear and set off on a nearby snowmobile road, where if Neil collapsed, we’d be able to flag down a passing rider. Neil made it down the mountain and spent the night receiving medical attention in Vail.

That's twice now I've seen the availability and skill of rangers potentially save lives. This is only part of what makes the thinning of NPS and USFS ranks a real problem for backcountry explorers and day hikers. As the ranks of rangers thins, there will be fewer to tag along with work crews like the archaeology team I was part of. There will be fewer rangers skiing hut-to-hut on Forest Service land patrolling and watching out for wayward skiers. There will be fewer rangers to ensure bridges are passable, to report on river crossings, to check on backcountry campsites to ensure fires are put out. To be a guardian angel, strolling along a remote path, there to aid stricken travelers if necessary. 

It's not just the availability of trails and campgrounds to be open that's in danger by the Department of Interior's budget cuts. It's our lives as well.