I Hit SOS On My Garmin inReach

Before hiking the Colorado Trail, like every other hiker doing their due diligence, I acquired a Garmin inReach Mini Satellite Communicator. In fact, I’ve been gear testing it for The Trek (more to come on that later), taking notes on messaging features, send times, and weather forecasts. 

Never in my wildest dreams did I expect to need to hit the SOS button…until a few days ago. 

From Uneventful to Emergency 

Where I last left you, dear reader, was amidst a tough decision to bail off Collegiate West due to atrocious weather, the week’s drama.

Spoiler: I did, finishing out on easier terrain in the east, enjoying a plethora of trail magic every day, and a much-needed rest in the quirky town of Salida before the trail spit me back out in cow country (and deeply hated Segment 17.) 

To be quite frank, the days leading up to this update were incredibly uneventful. The landscapes consisted of beautiful undulating hills, but hours blurred together, only decipherable by the people I met each day. 

After a particularly sloggy day trudging over ankle-breaking rocks, past fresh cow patties, and through muggy heat and rolling storms, my hiking partner and I set up camp atop a ridge. 

We’d faced two less-than-good camp options: either slanty sites surrounded by standing widowmakers threatening to smush us at a slight breeze, or a protected flat site sitting high above 11,700 feet with prime views and expected cold temps. We opted for the latter. 

After watching a glowing sunset, chowing down dinner, and chatting for hours with a new friend passing by, we tucked in for the night, no one else around for miles.

I was out cold as soon as my head hit the pillow. It was only a few hours later that I awoke to an emergency. 

Sick and 13 Miles from Civilization

To spare you the grotesque details — we all know what happens when you catch a stomach bug — I awoke at 10 p.m. to my hiking partner suffering outside her tent. 

Groggily stumbling from my sleeping bag, I knelt next to her, wondering if it was simply something she ate. She’ll feel better after she gets this out of her system, I assured her — and myself. 

I soon realized this would not be the case. As she continued to lose a concerning amount of fluids hour after hour, the situation turned grim.

Temperatures had dropped rapidly; ice gleamed on our tents. My hiking partner shivered uncontrollably, from panic and from cold. 

Last year, I went through an intensive 80-hour Wilderness First Responder course to become certified. At the time, my guiding job required this medical training.

Now, I was immensely grateful for it as my brain snapped into responder mode. Hypovolemic shock, hypothermia, and even a panic attack were real threats to life and I knew this could become dire. 

For the next six hours, I stayed awake with my hiking partner, monitoring her fluid intake (and output), reminding her to make “snow angels” in her sleeping bag to generate warmth, and talking her through crippling level 10 pain. 

At the time, I felt completely helpless. I wished I could diagnosis, stop the pain, let her sleep. But all I could do was try to sound calm in the face of a terrifying unknown, letting her know she wasn’t alone out here. 

As adrenaline hit me in waves, I, too, reminded myself to stay warm as my teeth chattered, shivering in my sleeping bag. 

The number one rule repeated throughout my WFR: don’t become the victim yourself. When I talked my friend through wellness checks every 15 minutes, I was talking myself through them too. 

We didn’t sleep a wink. It was the longest night of my life.

Calling Search & Rescue 

When the sun finally rose, I mustered a brief sigh of relief, only to force my brain back into action. We were still 13 miles from a road, camped on a remote ridge, carrying heavy 30+ pound backpacks. 

The wrath of the stomach bug had slowed down slightly, but now we were left with the aftermath of my hiking partner feeling depleted and weak. 

I fed her salty snacks and water with electrolytes, but she could hardly sit up, let alone carry a pack. It was then that I made the executive decision to call Search and Rescue. 

What ensued next was hours of back-and-forth communication with Garmin and SAR dispatchers. They notified us that due to our remote location, the only way they could extract my friend was via a helicopter evacuation. 

Fortunately, my hiking partner’s state began to improve, enough so that she could slowly but surely hike herself out. 

Her heroic muster of strength and ability to cope with the bug that was ravishing her body was admirable. I’ve never met someone so strong or brave through such a terrifying experience, and she faced it all head-on. 

I took half her pack weight and we slowly backtracked to a nearby trailhead, then down 6.5 miles to where a family member could retrieve us and bring us to town.

Emergency dispatchers tracked my every move via Garmin until we were safe, checking in every hour to make sure my friend — and myself — were hanging in there. 

In town, my partner received medical care (see: positive for rotavirus) and we spent a few days physically and mentally recovering from a whirlwind 24 hours. 

Lessons Learned 

I don’t write about this incident to toot my own horn or dramatize the situation.

As a writer, formulating my experiences into stories is a way to cope, reflect, and educate. As a WFR, the last few days have given me ample opportunities to reflect on the situation, and encourage others to be as prepared as possible. 

In the grand scheme of this thru-hike, I’d never imagined I’d need to utilize my medical training and Garmin SOS on the trail — but I am eternally grateful that I had both. 

One of the biggest lessons I’ve reflected on since is this: sometimes, the best you can do is stay calm and that is enough.

At the time, I felt like I needed to do more. I felt helpless that I couldn’t administer a magical medication that would stop the stomach bug. 

In hindsight, I realize that keeping my hiking partner from spiraling into a panic attack, shock, or hypothermia could have potentially saved her life, or at least a major hospital visit. 

I am typically a very indecisive person. This night, I found strength in confidently making plans, searching for bail-out trails, and assuring my partner of any decisions.

Despite only a few hours of sleep, I’m grateful that my head could think clearly and analytically to make important decisions. 

As someone who deals with a generalized anxiety disorder every day, I’ve often read that many people with anxiety are frequently most level-headed in a real emergency. 

Each day, my brain’s normal frequency is on fight-or-flight mode — responding to a stressful email, making a simple decision, making a phone call. Everyday decisions are made with high-blast anxiety.

Yet when a true emergency hit, my body simply acted on auto pilot, reacting to an otherwise stressful incident with nothing but calm. Despite the intensity of the situation, my tolerance for distress poised me for action. 

Finally, I am eternally grateful for my Garmin and the good folks at SAR who were ready to mobilize at a moment’s notice. Although my partner ended up able to evacuate herself, I took comfort in not being entirely alone out there — even being connected virtually gave me the confidence in my decisions. 

For those embarking on a thru-hike, I can’t recommend enough acquiring basic medical training and a satellite communicator (again, you’ll be seeing my very in-depth gear review right here in a few weeks). 

While there were numerous — and likely better — ways to handle this situation, I hope that those reading at home recognize that this course of action was the best we could do at the time, given the tools and resources available. We made it to safety in whatever capacity we could. 

Now that my hiking partner is making a full recovery, we’re preparing to get back on trail (albeit a bit hesitantly).

Though an unexpected bump in the road, we look forward to what the trail holds for us ahead — the long-awaited San Juan’s.