Snow Job: The Great Cow Rescue Mission of 1976

 Easy Does It in Tanzania - photo by JoAnn Sturman

By Steven R. Oberst

I have always considered “snow” a four letter word. Sure, it can be nice to look at, build snowmen, or ski on, but who wants to experience the inconveniences of a major snowstorm?  Not many of us. My personal measure of a major storm is a snowfall of more than 20 inches. Of the 13 places I’ve lived since childhood, I experienced at least one major snowstorm in 10 of them. I saw storms with huge amounts of snowfall in Colorado, South Dakota, New Mexico, St. Louis, Seattle, Washington D.C., Richmond, Philadelphia and even while stationed in Germany. Fortunately, most of these places were more prepared for snow than where I live now in the western part of Washington state. Usually it rains here in the wintertime, but sometimes Canadian air will sneak across the border, and we’ll get a few inches of snow every year or two. People here cannot drive in snow, so you can imagine the gridlock this causes. On a rare occasion, like a storm in January 2012, we’ll get a major snowstorm. These get nicknames from the local media like snowmaggeddon or snowpocalypse. I guess this is in order to help explain the sheer terror these storms strike in the hearts of people who live here.  

When it comes to big snowstorms,  none of them can top the April 1976 storm that hit South Dakota the week before Easter. What made this storm significant was not the 25 inches of snow, but the 50 mph winds that came with it, resulting in drifts up to 20 feet high. Every Interstate 90 cloverleaf-overpass in the area was completely filled with snow. It took one day for the crews to get to the overpasses and then two more days for crews to dig them out using big front end loaders (big wheeled tractors with large front buckets) and dump trucks. Because the wind kept blowing after the snow stopped falling, the drifts kept reforming as the snow was being removed. My favorite visual memory of this storm was seeing kids, who lived in base housing, sliding out of second story windows on giant snow drifts. Needless to say, nothing moved on the roads for several days.

The day after the storm, our helicopter unit received dozens of urgent flight requests. There were five pilots who lived on base. A snowcat was dispatched to pick us up, because there were absolutely no wheeled vehicles moving anywhere. Enough maintenance people lived in the barracks to get five helicopters ready to fly. And, most importantly, our Operations Dispatcher, Sergeant Goodman also lived on base. The other nine pilots and the rest of maintenance would not be able to make it onto the base for over 48 hours. An army of snow equipment blasted out an area in front of our hangar, so we could get the helicopters out of the hangar and into the air. All five pilots logged over 10 hours of flying time that first day. Then, since the snowcat was not available to take us home, we slept on cots in the operations dispatch area. We had plenty of hot cocoa, sodas, and peanut butter sandwiches, but not much else to eat that evening. The next morning, the snowcat brought hot food and coffee from the dining hall, and we were soon back in the air for another 12 hour shift. Sgt. Goodman played a critical role, since he was the only person in the operations dispatch area while we were flying. Somehow he managed to keep track of all the missions, assign new ones, man the phones and the radio, and keep his sanity.

Most of the first day missions were in support of the people located in the missile support sites. There were 15 of these sites located in a 240 degree arc between 70 and 150 miles from the base. We carried fresh food and some replacement crews, but most of the needed replacements were stuck at home. With just one pilot per chopper, we had one of our maintenance personnel fly with us,so they could help with loading and unloading. A typical flight was about 2.5 hours with stops at three sites, and then back to the base for fuel and a new load of food and people.

There were helipads at each of the 15 support sites that had to be cleared by the site personnel. Each site had a front end loader, but it was still quite a chore to clear the helipads so we could land at the site. The helipads were 50 foot concrete squares and the snow had to be removed to create a 100 foot square of cleared area. This meant that a great deal of snow had to be piled around the helipad. Knowing that we were bringing food and replacements, the people at the sites were highly motivated to clear the pads.

It was of fun landing at a site helipad surrounded by a ten foot high wall of snow. But flying into these snowy sites could be tricky. Helicopters can create their own white out conditions when flying in close proximity to the snow covered ground. Normal helicopter takeoffs and landings start and end in a hover. In snowy conditions, hovering is not a good idea, because the snow will get caught up in the rotor wash and in a split second you are in a zero visibility cloud of swirling snow. Fortunately, our pilots all had lots of experience at making takeoffs and landings in these conditions. By planning and executing landing all the way to the ground, a skilled pilot would never lose visibility prior to touchdown. Once you landed, the snow would engulf your helicopter until you slowed the rotors by moving the throttle to idle.

Along with more missions to missile support sites, on the second day we started getting rescue calls. One for three people burned in a house fire, one for a pregnant woman going into premature labor, another for someone in urgent need of insulin, plus about a dozen or so requests to rescue people stranded on the interstate or a highway. Both days were a blur. I think I refueled four times on day one and five on day two, but at some point on day two, I realized that we could not keep this up for much longer. Fatigue was starting to catch up with us.

On day three just the five pilots and Sgt Goodman were plugging away. The mission requests kept coming, but some roads were starting to open, so the end was in sight. My last mission on day three involved a mission request from the Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA). They sent an unusual rescue request directly to Rescue headquarters (HQ) at Scott AFB, IL. Rescue HQ then directed our unit to complete the mission on a major Indian Reservation to the south. I had just returned from what I hoped was my last flight of the day, only to be turned around for this BIA rescue mission.

I left the base with less than two hours of daylight remaining. The last thing I wanted to do was search for the survivors in the dark. With me was Airman Gerry Lewis, a small guy, but tough as they come. Our first stop was a ranch south of the base where we picked up emergency food supplies for the survivors. We were able to find a place to land near a large barn, and we loaded the back of the helicopter.

We headed further south to an area of the Reservation adjacent to the South Dakota Badlands. I had nothing but map coordinates as a probable location for the victims. Once we arrived in the general area, I set up an expanding square search pattern using the largest rock formation in the vicinity as a visual starting point. We could only fly at an altitude of about 700 feet because of the cloud cover. Visibility was five miles, but everything was covered in white. The terrain was full of draws and small canyons. With daylight fading it was a tense job scanning the snowy landscape for signs of survivors. Finally, after 20 minutes of searching, Airman Lewis spotted the survivors, about 25 in all, up to their furry chests in snow.  Yes, the survivors were a herd of cows, but not just any cows. Since they were owned by the BIA, these were federal cows.

There was no place to land, so Airman Lewis pushed out bales of hay and feed as I hovered at about 20 feet, just high enough to avoid losing visibility in the swirling snow. We got the stuff as close to the main part of the herd as possible, but the snow was so deep we had to wonder if all of the cows would actually make their way to it. As we headed back to the base, it began to snow. Fortunately, it would only be a few more inches added to the blanket of existing snow. By the time we landed I had far exceeded my 12 hour crew day, but I doubted anyone was paying attention to this detail in all the havoc caused by the storm over the past few days. 

And so came an end to my first and only cow rescue mission as well as the other storm related missions. I went home and slept for about 14 hours straight. Flight operations the next few weeks seemed boring after what we had been through. The unit got a letter from the BIA thanking us for getting food to their cows, and it was weeks before the other guys stopped “mooing” when I walked into the office. One of our pilots, Chris Polley, was quite good at drawing cartoons. The next week at the Officer’s Club, the guys presented me with a framed cartoon drawing, showing a helicopter dropping bales of hays to a herd of cows and mounted on a large, frozen cow pie. What better way to memorialize the great cow rescue mission of ’76?

Medal or Court Martial

Annapurna South 2010

W.R. Priskna
fliesinyoureyes.com

When Bob and I reported for duty the Monday morning after the thrilling night rescue at Tanque Verde Falls, the unit was buzzing about the mission. Rescue flights boosted morale, and every pilot and crew chief wanted an opportunity to participate in the next one. Apparently, Otto had gotten the word out that Bob and I could be counted on to perform calmly in high pressure situations, and because of this the airmen in the aircraft hanger were slapping us on the back and volunteering to fly with us.

The only person in the detachment who did not extend a congratulations was our commander, Lt. Colonel Michaels. As customary he showed up for work at 0730 and promptly sequestered himself in his office, only to emerge at 1000 after dealing with the alcoholic demons from the previous night. He never mentioned anything about the rescue. He ignored the flight crew and acted as if nothing had happened. In fact when functioning at lower blood alcohol levels, it was Michaels' practice to deny many rescue requests from civilian agencies as “too dangerous.” He was a firm believer that the safest flight was the one that never took off. An unblemished safety record was essential to any commander craving promotion to full colonel.

Captain Roberts, the unit's training officer, should have been our commander. He was only three or four years older than Bob and I, but he was a terrific pilot, well respected, and a natural leader. But this was not the way our part of the Air Force worked. Peace time leadership positions were based frequently on longevity and connections – Lt. Colonel Michael's two strongest assets.

A few weeks after the rescue Captain Roberts took me aside. “W.R., you and the crew did a great job on the Tanque Verde rescue. No one in this unit ever gets a medal. I'd like you to write up a citation for you, Bob, and the two crew chiefs. I'll get Michaels to sign it after he has had a few scotches under his belt, and we'll send it up to headquarters for approval.”

When writing the narrative for the four decorations, it was evident the rescue encompassed all the elements germane to the Air Rescue Service – danger, airmanship, team work, and success. I showed the letters to a satisfied Captain Roberts who coerced Lt. Colonel Michaels to sign them and send them to headquarters in Illinois.

A month later no one in the detachment had heard from headquarters at the Air Rescue Service. Captain Roberts asked me to give them a call. After several attempts and telephone transfers, I reached my contact, the deputy commander of the Air Rescue Service. For some reason this routine medal application had found its way to the top of the command structure.
“Colonel, Wilcocks.”
“Colonel, this is Lt. Priskna calling from the Arizona detachment. Captain Roberts asked me to call to check on the status of the medals for the crew of the Tanque Verde Falls rescue.”
“Priskna! Were you the pilot of the mission?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If I were your commander, you'd be up for a court martial. I read the details of the flight. You were reckless and placed the lives of your crew and a million dollar helicopter in harm's way.”
“Sir, no one was injured, the helicopter was unscathed, and we saved someone's life. Isn't that our mission?”
“Don't be a smart ass, lieutenant. If I were you, I'd be grateful I wasn't going to prison.”

I must admit I did not always play by the rules, but this was different. We eventually were awarded lower level medals than Captain Robert recommended, but it was clear the Air Rescue Service was discouraging all but the most routine rescues. Maybe the Air Force was not the place for me.

Night Rescue

Mt. Tallac near Lake Tahoe - photo by JoAnn Sturman

W.R. Priskna
fliesinyoureyes.com

When Bob and I arrived in Arizona in 1973, it was our first assignment after graduating from helicopter flight training. Most of the sergeants in our new unit were Vietnam War veterans with years of helicopter experience, while none of us junior officers had been stationed outside the United States. A new lieutenant was wise to be humble, ask plenty of questions, and leave General Patton's leadership style to those who did not want to grow old to see their children.

Sergeant Otto was raised in the deep Mississippi back country. A large, powerfully built man with jet black hair combed straight back and loaded with Brill Cream, he was likely to be found with a Chesterfield hanging out the corner of his mouth. Otto was a staff sergeant but with his experience should have been two or three grades higher. Maybe he was involved in one too many fights at the NCO club or while enjoying a bottle of whiskey was insubordinate to an officer. We never knew. He called everybody but the senior officers “boy” and even then a begrudging “ sir” came out the side of his mouth. He was, however, a master crew chief who had served three tours in Vietnam as a Huey door gunner. If you were an inexperienced pilot or he considered you a weak dick, he would not fly with you on a dangerous mission. He had survived three years of intense combat with the enemy shooting at him daily and didn't want some rookie pilot to do something the Viet Cong couldn't.

As our first year in the unit passed, we got to know Otto and the other enlisted men. We flew together on routine training and operations fights and on Friday afternoons played horseshoes and drank a lot of beer. Every so often I would run into Otto while I was jogging around the base.
“Hey, Priskna! Why do you run so much?”
“Trying to keep in shape, Otto.”
“You don't see me runnin'. I don't run from nobody.”
“You don't have to, Otto. For me running is not a bad option if matters get out of hand.”

During the second summer after being assigned to the unit, Bob and I were on standby for weekend rescues. It was a July evening, when we received an urgent call to evacuate a “hiker” who had fallen 75 feet off the top of Tanque Verde Falls, a mecca for the area's free spirits. Earlier that day the victim and her boyfriend were making love at the precipice of the waterfall and lost their balance. When impacting the rocks at the bottom of the falls, she fell on top of her friend. He was killed instantly, while she sustained critical injuries. Due to the remote area and the nature of her injuries, a helicopter recovery was the only practical option.

As Bob and I were driving to helicopter operations, we agreed this would be a difficult mission. We had flown several rescues in the previous year, but never under these conditions. As soon as we entered the hanger, we discovered Sgt. Otto and Sgt. Benjamin, the hoist operator, were assigned to rescue duty that night. Otto put his arms around our shoulders and drawled, “Boys, we're gunna get it done. Benjamin and me are glad you're the ones flyin' tonight.”

We departed the air base after sunset for the fifteen minute flight to the falls at the base of the Santa Catalina and Rincon Mountains. The temperature was still over 100 degrees, and there was a strong wind blowing through the canyon. We flew fifty to a hundred feet above the ground through the narrow, twisting canyon in total darkness. Once we reached the waterfall, our power reserve was limited due to the altitude, temperature, wind currents, and aircraft weight. The Pima County Search and Rescue Department, who arrived at the scene earlier that evening, marked the area with signal flares. Due to the confines of the canyon and the huge boulders strewn around the accident site, there was no place to land. The helicopter did not have enough power for a hoist rescue from an unaided hover.

When landing a Huey helicopter vertically from a hover, the pilot can see horizontally from the nine to three o'clock position and the ground in front of him through a small transparent plastic bubble between his feet. Yet despite the good forward visibility, the pilot is unable to see directly above or below the helicopter or from the three to nine o'clock positions. The primary concern is the pilot cannot see the tail rotor or most of the main rotor when attempting to land in perilous terrain. To achieve a better view the copilot must stick his head out of the window in the door by his side, and the crew chiefs in the rear passenger compartment must hang outside the side doors to make sure the rotors do not strike an object. If they do, a sudden crash is assured. Team work, good communications, and steady nerves are essential.

Using the helicopter search light we spotted a rock large and flat enough to support one of the helicopter skids. While descending a hundred feet vertically, Otto and Benjamin hung outside the rear doors and radioed instructions to the cockpit. We slowly brought the chopper down and balanced one skid on the boulder. This reduced the helicopter's power requirement and made a hoist attempt possible. Otto and Benjamin deployed the hoist and lifted the stretcher from the ground twenty feet to the level of the passenger door. They pulled the stretcher aboard and signaled all clear. It was impossible to turn around and fly back down the canyon, so we chose a full power vertical takeoff. The Huey shuttered and rose foot by foot until it hovered two hundred feet in the air. The altitude provided enough space to avoid the canyon walls and allowed us to spin the aircraft 180 degrees and face down the canyon. We pushed the cyclic forward and gained airspeed. Within a few minutes we delivered the hiker to the helipad at the local medical center.

It was an exhilarating feeling when the four of us landed at the base. When we stood together with our arms around each other's shoulders, we realized it was times like these that made up for all the rigmarole and foolish directives from personnel who flew desks rather than helicopters. Despite the danger we had saved a life. As a bonus Bob and I received an added compliment – from that time on there would be no question Otto would fly with us on any mission.

Next: Medal or Court Martial