YOSEMITE NATIONAL PARK — The forecast warned of a storm, but that did not deter the two climbers aiming to test Yosemite's mightiest rock, El Capitan. Forecasts frequently err, they reasoned as they zipped on their Gore-Tex. Besides, the weather this May morning was enticingly mild.
They ascended a route called the Nose, climbing 2,000 feet before a cold rain drenched them and turned their down sleeping bags to mush. Clinging to the granite like spiders on a drain spout, the men became hypothermic, their limbs so chilled they could scarcely move. As dusk fell, their screams for help echoed down to the valley floor.
A helicopter landed a rescue team in the mist atop El Cap. Working in darkness, two rangers rappelled 800 feet down the sheer face and saved the pair, who later got a nasty surprise--a $500 ticket from the National Park Service.
These were seasoned mountaineers, rangers said with disgust. They should have known better than to tempt fate and put rescuers' lives at risk.
These are trying times in the rescue business. Hungry for thrills and fresh ways to test their mettle, Americans are flocking to high-risk sports as never before--parachuting off peaks, kayaking treacherous white water, diving solo into uncharted sea caves.
Most are cautious and do just fine. But others--hellbent on adventure and fortified by ego or the awesome feats they see in beer commercials--are ill-prepared or overambitious, or make bonehead moves that get them into jams. And some simply encounter bad luck.
Fortunately for those who get into trouble, today's rescuers can save almost everyone who lives long enough to be found. Innovations ranging from super-trained search dogs to sophisticated radio distress beacons and the fax machine have propelled the art of rescue to impressive heights.
But the soaring costs of such missions--plus the risks that rescuers increasingly must take--have sparked a delicate debate over society's implicit promise to rescue everyone who gets in a fix.
"A lot of people are attempting a lot of things for which they have no physical capability, and they expect Big Brother to pick them up when they fail," said Butch Farabee, a National Park Service superintendent who led a recent re-evaluation of his agency's rescue policy. "Historically, we've done that. But . . . we're nearing a point where we'll tell some people that Big Brother won't always come running when they call."
The Park Service has announced an experimental program to bill athletes rescued while engaging in certain "high-risk" sports. One day, some park officials say, there may be a list of activities deemed so perilous that those who pursue them will not be entitled to any rescue effort.
Fining some adventurers for "creating a hazardous condition"--the Yosemite climbers, for instance--has become more common. The courts are beginning to hold some athletes accountable for their own safety, rejecting lawsuits that say rescuers were too slow or ill-prepared.
In one landmark case stemming from the death of a climber in the Grand Tetons, a federal appeals court said the National Park Service need not protect people from every possible backcountry hazard or launch a rescue at the first sign of trouble.
Many wilderness lovers applaud such trends and believe that a new rescue philosophy is overdue. Society, some argue, should not have to pay for plucking extreme athletes from danger of their own making.
They also say that our nation's respond-no-matter-what rescue mentality gives people an improper sense of security in the wilderness and erodes the ethic of self-sufficiency that once marked the outdoor experience. A radical few are pushing for creation of "no-rescue zones," where people would be on their own in the natural world--come hell or high water.
"We live in a society where people want to experience the benefits of high adventure but then force somebody else to pay the costs when things go wrong," said Leo McAvoy, a University of Minnesota professor who favors no-rescue zones. "It's time for some self-responsibility."
This is not a concept those in the rescue business are comfortable discussing. Rescuers are a hardy, mostly humble lot. Saving lives is their mission, and talk of forcing victims to pay for help--or to save themselves--strikes some as cold-hearted, even barbaric.
Moreover, many in the rescue family are adventurers themselves and admire the skill of the free climber who scampers up rock walls without ropes, or the blind sailor who tries to cross the Atlantic in a tiny boat. Such endeavors are good for the human spirit, they argue, and should be cheered.
There are also those who are self-described rescue junkies, who live for the next alarm. "It's the adrenaline, the challenge and the feeling of doing something productive with my skills," said Keith Lober, a Yosemite ranger who gives his age as 38 going on 14. "If I got paged every day, it wouldn't bother me."
