Father's Day Hill

After I had been involved with the fire department for a number of years, several of the younger firefighters sat down with me one training night and asked, “Blaze, what is the worst accident you have ever had to work on?" I have participated in over two hundred vehicle extrications plus twice that many “fender benders” (minor wrecks) during my career in the fire service, but it only took me a few minutes to recall the worst one.

One warm Sunday evening, Father's Day, I was sitting at home when the call came down, “Stations 1 and 3, respond to a M.V.A. (Motor Vehicle Accident)” located at such and such address on Highway 199." Piling into the extrication truck, we were lucky that night to be responding from our station (#1) with a full contingent of volunteers because we would be using all of them.

As you may recall, when I first arrive on any scene, it takes me several seconds to actually wrap my mind around what I am witnessing in front of me. In this case, it was two very badly damaged vehicles blocking both lanes of traffic on a main highway. One car was on fire and, through the flames; I could see the silhouettes of people trapped inside. The other car was a 1950ish, restored, antique car with heavy front-end damage— they built those cars much better in those days and when they show heavy damage, it indicates a very hard hit. The fireman’s motto has always been “protect life over limb” which, bluntly put, means we attempt to save someone’s life over trying to save someone’s arm or leg.

With one of the cars beginning to show heavy fire, and a fire engine not being on scene yet, I sprinted to the car on fire to see what I could do. Prying open the damaged driver’s car door with my Garco bar, I was met with an extreme amount of heat and acrid smoke. As I have mentioned before, when I find myself in these life-or-death situations, time seems to slow down for me. As the incident evolves, I see things I would normally miss— I seem to think more clearly. I found a big man behind the wheel, injured, his cloths were not on fire, but they were smoking. Looking across to the passenger seat, I was jolted back with amazement— why does this guy have a manikin setting in the front seat with him? I didn’t have time to worry about this aberration because the fire was intensifying and I needed to get him out—and in a hurry. He was far too big for me to move gently. Grabbing him by the nape of his neck and his clothing, I put both my feet on the lower car door frame and pulled with all my might. He tumbled out of the car landing on top of me on the hard pavement as I struggled back to my feet so I could pull him farther away from the ensuing inferno— adrenaline is a wonderful ally.

When you have a multiple causality incident like this one, firemen are trained to do triage, which means, when there are limited resources, you first rescue the people you believe have a chance of being saved, knowing in your mind that probably some of them will succumb also. It was numbing for me to leave that man to die along the shoulder of a dark highway, but my vehicle-extrication skills were needed at the second car involved in the wreck.

Dad had been driving, mom was in the passenger seat, the two teenage kids were riding in the back seat—this was before seat belts were required to be worn. This lovely family was on its way back home from a pleasant day at the beach celebrating Father's Day with dad. On their way home, a drunken man decided to pass a vehicle traveling in front of him, at a high rate of speed, on a small rise in the highway. The homeward bound family of four never knew what had hit them until they met the maniac head on at the top of the rise in the road.

My fire comrades had gotten the kids out of the wreckage and were taking care of their wounds. The extrication tools were hooked up and running as the “Jaws” were handed to me to start the battle against time. EMS personnel are taught that a severely injured person has what is called a “Golden Hour” —the targeted amount of time by which the patient should be receiving care in a hospital. It is believed that if you can get a seriously injured person to a hospital within one hour after a catastrophic injury, his chances of surviving are significantly better. By the time we received this call, had responded to the scene, had sized up the accident and had begun extricating the victims, we were already a half hour into our Golden Hour and, once extricated, victims would have at least another half hour of traveling time to the hospital. There was no time to spare if we were going to make our Golden Hour.

The mom had been extricated pretty easily by simply “popping” the door which means ripping the door off its hinges and throwing it to the side of the road to gain access to the patient. The medics had stepped in to stabilize and load her into the waiting ambulance. Dad was different. He had the steering wheel to contend with and the foot pedals in which he was entangled. He was in considerable pain. The driver’s door was also torn from its strong hinges by the powerful Jaws and thrown out of the way. More lights were brought over so we could better see exactly how he was trapped in all this carnage. The rubber pad on the brake pedal had come off and the metal pedal arm was skewered deep into his foot, trapping his foot against the firewall between the engine compartment and the passenger compartment. He screamed with excruciating pain every time we attempt to manipulate his foot to get him free. My mind was racing looking for ideas—any possible solution to free this poor man. “MacGyver” was not coming to my aid with any fresh ideas either—stepping back, I stood up to take another look at the problem when the teenage son leaned in between the rescuers and asked me in a quivery voice, “Is my dad going to live?” He was led gently over to the side of the road, but with that question, I refocused with all my will. And slowly, methodically, we freed the trapped man, secured him to a backboard, loaded him into the ambulance, and I banged on the back double-doors with my fist, signaling the ambulance to speed away. I had not met my goal—my Golden Hour had passed a half hour ago. Later I was informed that dad’s heart had stopped beating as the ambulance crossed the Applegate River Bridge, still eight miles from the nearest hospital. I had lost and I can tell you from experience firemen do not like to lose.

After the extrication, I stood there in the middle of the closed highway littered with broken auto parts and debris, exhausted, dripping with sweat, still not knowing at that time all the details of how the accident occurred, still wondering why the guy in the first car had a manikin in his car sitting beside him. Walking back over to the first car, which by then had its flames quenched, I noticed the white sheet covering the body of the man I had tried to pull to safety earlier. I leaned into his car and then realize that the manikin I thought I had seen earlier was actually another lady passenger whose cloths had burned off before I arrived on scene. By now my mind and body was numb—I had to force myself to think back to all the successful rescues I have participated in over many years. To this day, every time I travel down that short piece of highway leading to the coast, I still cringe remembering the dad I lost on what has become known to us firefighters as “Father's Day Hill”.