And then we had arrived. But there wasn't a lot of time for handshaking and introductions; not a lot of time for trading stories about the crash they'd witnessed or the one we'd endured. Stefan and Nick had the thing dialed completely. They had the patient stabilized and ready for lowering. They had anchors all set to go. We supplied the rope and I got my new assignment. It would be my job, with Brian, to get the boy's Dad, Lonnie Whitcomb, and his partner, Tom Fitts, down the slope and to get in place for working the litter over the bergschrund when it came to that. And we needed to get moving.

The radio conversations were now focusing on just when would be the last moment that a helicopter could extract us before darkness, and that wasn't so far off. I was doing more dry swallowing. It wasn't that anybody else had been given a better, easier or safer assignment, I just hated the idea of mine — to go down that slope, the one I was watching rocks tumble down every few minutes now, roped to two more strangers, and these not even government men with their assumed high level of expertise. And to set anchors and fix ourselves to the absolute worst spot I could imagine being pinned in to await the litter. Uggghhh.

Sound alternatives didn't exist and the sun was swinging downward. We got on with the job. The descent went smoothly, with Stefan above yelling out at first signs of any rocks taking a bead on us. Just as we got down close to the 'schrund and the lowering team was catching up to us, I saw what I thought I was looking for. A rock that was jutting out perhaps four feet from the snow surface that we could anchor to and that I could use as a shield. We fixed our rope to the boulder and I directed Brian to get the other two across the 'schrund to relative safety while I prepared to belay the lowering team across the drop-offs. Brian cupped his hands and yelled something important up to me. I couldn't hear a word of what he was saying over the roar of the ice avalanche behind him.

I watched as a whole flock of Winnebago-sized ice blocks tumbled to within 200 hundred feet of our "safe" spot. It was a sign of how insane things had gotten that such an icefall no longer merited special attention. Back to the task at hand and thinking myself sly and clever, I rigged my seated belay so that I could be just downhill of the boulder, and therefore protected. There wasn't a moment to spare as the lowering team had already reached our level. I clipped into their line and began to take the weight of the litter as they reached the tricky 'schrund crossing. And that weight moved me out a little from my shelter which was good since then I could see up the hill a little better when everybody yelled "Rock!"

What I saw was a head-sized piece of Mount Rainier gathering speed and beginning to bounce and bound and hone in on me. I tried to back into my little shelter, but I'd miscalculated some and the weight of the litter pinned me where I was. I strained hard to crank my head and shoulders over a few inches, my hands were closed tightly on the rope.

— Dave Hahn, MountainZone.com Columnist