The Craziest Labor Day in Yosemite

Yosemite, in dramatic fashion, changed my life.

by Rory Farrell

Labor Day Weekend 2017. 50,000 people in the valley. No wilderness pass. No reservations.

Naively, being my first trip, I had no idea how busy the park would be and assumed I could find a place to sleep. After two loops around the valley, I gave up and decided to leave the park, taking Big Oak Flat Road toward San Francisco.

Driving past Camp White Wolf, I stopped to see if there were any open campsites for the night. As expected, there were none. This is where it gets crazy—I reached the intersection of Big Oak Flat Road. I could go left, continuing in the direction I was headed, or I could go right, back toward the valley. Something compelled me to turn right, despite knowing full well there was nothing waiting for me there.

About 20 minutes from the valley, a severe storm rolled in—high winds, heavy rain. Just as I rounded a corner, I saw a 110-foot pine tree collapse and crush a car right in front of me. The tree fell along the car’s long axis, completely obliterating the passenger compartment.

The circumstances that brought me to Yosemite were significant—almost as dramatic as what happened that day.

I am a Special Operations Independent Duty Corpsman—to a layperson, a “Special Forces Medic.” The three months before my trip to Yosemite were spent in a shooting package with Force Recon, preparing for an upcoming deployment.

During training, an explosive sympathetically detonated in my hand, causing significant damage. I’ll spare the details, but it was a freak accident—one planned detonation produced enough heat and overpressure to set off the explosive I was holding. Pretty not fun.

[Editor’s Note: Sympathetic detonation occurs when one explosive triggers another without direct initiation.]

Despite the injury, I returned to training immediately before and after surgery—a decision I regret. By the time the training package concluded, I needed a break. I needed to heal, mentally and physically. I cannot overstate the state of disrepair I was in.

The Friday before I left, I was cleaning gear out of my Jeep when I grabbed my med bag to return it to my locker. I paused and thought out loud: I’m going to Yosemite this weekend. I should probably keep this with me.

With my hand still unhealed and the universe guiding me, I watched the tree fall.

As I got out of my Jeep and slowly approached the wreck, my first thought was that the damage to the Prius was overwhelming. There’s no way anyone was inside.

Then, my heart sank.

A man and his daughter were outside the car, screaming frantically. Someone was still trapped inside.

I looked through the driver’s side window. The man’s wife was unconscious, slumped into the center console. Then my eyes shifted to the backseat. My vision narrowed.

A small boy—later determined to be four years old—was crushed into his booster seat. His body was bent forward at the waist, his right temple pressed against the outside of his left knee.

I climbed through the rear driver’s side window.

I assessed the mother first—manually adjusted her airway and gave her a rescue breath. She started breathing. I directed bystanders to stabilize her head and neck and get her out of the car.

Then, I focused on the boy.

I had to squat the roof off his back to move him safely, careful not to cause further damage. His lifeless body melted into my arms. (I have since had a baby boy. This part of the story hits differently now.)

I checked for a pulse—radial and carotid, both strong. This boy was fighting for his life.

But he wasn’t breathing.

I tried to open his airway and give a rescue breath. No response. His jaw was locked.

Meanwhile, the weight of the tree was slowly crushing the roof further.

I handed the boy out the window, climbed out, and immediately took him back.

I was 100% focused on getting his airway open. Gradually, I increased the pressure to pry his jaw apart, terrified I was about to break it. Finally, it gave way—completely occluded with blood and vomit.

I cleared the obstruction and gave another breath.

He arched his back and let out a wailing scream—like a newborn baby.

Relief washed over me. I teared up then. I tear up now.

I overheard a bystander on the phone with dispatch. “I think the little boy is dead.”

I grabbed the phone. “Give me that.”

I relayed patient conditions and stated, “I do not recommend ground transport. They need to be flown out of here.”

The only question they asked was: “Who are you?”

While assessing the mother—breathing but still unresponsive—I thought, Man, I’d kill for a BVM and a cervical collar.

Then I remembered—I had my freakin’ med bag.

I continued managing care, using a Spanish-speaking bystander to translate for the father and daughter. Heartbreakingly, they were visiting from Mexico—on vacation.

Twelve to fifteen minutes later, paramedics arrived. I left in the ambulance with the little boy, continuing to assist with treatment.

Minutes after reaching the helo landing zone, a Life Flight helicopter arrived from Modesto Children’s Hospital. Dispatch had listened. They had called for the chopper immediately.

Much happened after that day.

I ended up getting a campsite in Upper Pines. I spent that night—and the next five—in the wilderness, reflecting on everything that had transpired.

My hand still had stitches in it.

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Rory Farrell is a recently retired U.S. Navy Reconnaissance Corpsman and Special Operations Independent Duty Corpsman–a graduate of the Special Operations Combat Medic & Special Forces Medical Sergeant Courses.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.