Now the way I know that rock was "head-sized" and not grapefruit-sized or basketball-sized was that it came sailing by about three inches from my head. Considering that it would have stripped away my helmet, my hair, my cranium, hell, everything right down to my medulla oblongata, my body would have been anchored there belaying away like an anatomy lesson, it was another of those long "moments" watching it float past. Ughhh.

Those thoughts passed with a shudder and then it was all business as the boys did the heavy lifting over the cracks and we got back down on the "mellow" glacier, about 50 yards from where the JetRanger had crashed somewhere back in what seemed like the Pleistocene Age. The last of the rangers scrambled down fast and we readied for the inbound Chinook as darkness started to take hold.

As before, the Chinook wasn't actually going to land. They would use the "Jungle Penetrator" which is a big heavy mechanical grappling hook on a cable lowered down through the belly of the ship on a winch that was probably brand new in 1968. But I wasn't going to think of that, or the probability that the winch manufacturer had put in the lowest bid to get the contract. Despite remembering exactly how my last helicopter ride had gone, I was very eager to begin this new one.

Chris and I set up next to one another, both crouched over our packs and then it was the hurricane and the mothership hovering over us for minute after minute. Time to check the perimeter for incoming mortars again. Mount Rainier seemed to be chasing us. I wouldn't have been at all surprised to see it erupt right then and hurl a little lava, fire and steam in our direction to go with the rocks and ice. I motioned Chris that I would watch the hill if he watched the ship since neither of us trusted the thing to stay up in the air in one piece.

The rescue litter went up with Jesse and then, one by one, the rest of the rescuers went up the line. Then it was my turn. I clipped in and sat where directed on the big claw and sure enough I was swept off the ground and dragged toward the "hell hole" as I'd heard soldiers refer to it. I wasn't going to think of that line breaking.

I had sunglasses on as protection against the wind, but as soon as my head was up inside the helicopter, it was too dark to see through them to know where to clip in for safety. I looked down what seemed like a long way to the glacier below and thought it would be sort of sad to die in the process of getting off the Penetrator. I yelled to some huge stranger in uniform and helmet and asked where to clip in. After a bit, he heard me, understood, and put the line in my hand. And then I was in the Chinook and crawling across its hard floor with my crampons on. I got out of the way and watched the Army boys from Fort Lewis doing their work flawlessly.

I swear I felt like hugging those guys when they got the last of the rangers in and we started pulling away from the mountain. But I'm pretty sure that hugging guys is frowned upon in military aircraft and I didn't want to get anybody fired, or dirty from the sweat and hydraulic fluid I was drenched in. Instead, I bent over to pull my crampons off and looked out the back ramp of the Chinook to see Mount Rainier, big and beautiful, a ghostly glow in the twilight. But not glowing with our ghosts, this time. We raced toward Madigan Army Hospital south of Tacoma.

The next day, a reporter asked me if that crash was the closest I'd ever come to dying and I laughed. I regret that I did, because it probably came off as cavalier and nonchalant, as if I didn't much care about death. But his question had me genuinely puzzled over how to rank close calls. I should have told him how good it felt, getting out of that Chinook down at sea level on a warm summer night in my filthy Gore-Tex and heavy climbing boots; my heartrate back to normal, my problems in perspective, smiling and tired. Humbled once again by mountains and machinery and by good men who go out to help people everyday. I should have told that reporter how close I came to living that day and how I'm not into killing anything.

Jesse ended up okay after a day or two. He walked out of the hospital as 19 year olds should. His rescue, with all of its odd twists and turns and difficulties was ably directed by Rick Kirschner, a veteran of about a million search and rescues in Mount Rainier National Park. The Operations Chief overseeing the field teams, plotting their strategies and representing them to Rick was Mike Gauthier, that's "Gator" to many of us who have watched him whip Mount Rainier's climbing ranger teams into a skilled and elite force. Steve Winslow was working to coordinate things between the air crews and the ground teams. Obviously, there were a whole lot more people who worked like crazy on June 25th to make it all come out just fine. My thanks and respect goes to them.

— Dave Hahn, MountainZone.com Columnist