Backcountry rescuers were ascending Camel’s Hump when word came that one of two stranded hikers could no longer walk.
It was nearly midnight. Snowdrifts had swallowed the trail, forcing the volunteers to trade their traction spikes for snowshoes and break a path through waist-high snow. Their headlamps cast narrow beams of light into the darkness as temperatures, already below zero, continued to fall. Another team of volunteers was hauling a specialized rescue stretcher uphill. Somewhere above the rescuers were two people who had been exposed to the bitter cold for more than 14 hours. Reaching them would be hard enough. Getting them down the mountain would be another ordeal entirely.
Nine months after that night, Mike Chiarella was still carefully considering every decision made.
Only now, the executive director of Richmond Rescue found himself in a warm room in front of more than 20 volunteers from neighboring search-and-rescue teams, retracing the February 2026 mission, step by painstaking step. On this early November evening, they had gathered for a training session and an examination of the decisions that can determine whether a rescue succeeds.
As another Vermont winter approaches, volunteers who search for the lost and rescue the injured are preparing for calls that will pull them from warm beds and family dinners and dispatch them into treacherous terrain. All year round, in varied conditions, they devote nights and weekends to training for emergency responses that can span days. A wrong turn or a sprained ankle miles from the nearest road can mobilize dozens of responders. The rescue on Camel’s Hump showed just how difficult those missions can become.
As another Vermont winter approaches, volunteers who search for the lost and rescue the injured are preparing for calls.
Vermont relies on a dozen or so local backcountry rescue teams, most staffed by volunteers. The Vermont State Police coordinate searches and call on those teams when people become stranded or go missing. Last year, state police recorded 120 search-and-rescue notifications or activations, the most since 2021 and well above the average of roughly 100 rescues annually during the previous decade. Fewer of those come from lost hikers, thanks to improved cellphone coverage and digital mapping apps, according to Lt. Thomas Howard. But growing interest in backcountry skiing and a better notification system between ski resorts and the state have contributed to an increase in skiing-related calls.
Drew Clymer, the Department of Public Safety’s civilian search-and-rescue coordinator and deputy chief of Stowe Mountain Rescue, believes social media is increasingly leading unprepared people to venture into unsafe conditions. He recalled a man who became lost in the backcountry last year as a result of following a route he learned about in a TikTok video. Clymer knows some local trails so well that he can often use GPS coordinates from cellphone signals to safely guide callers toward specific trail markers or creek crossings without dispatching a formal response. But if that doesn’t work, reaching someone can take hours, especially if volunteers from several towns are dispatched.
“We have nothing magical,” Chiarella said. “We have to hike just like they did, and often we’re carrying all this extra equipment.”
Teams train year-round in orienteering, wilderness medicine and the difficult business of keeping themselves safe while helping a patient. Chiarella, who has two decades of experience in outdoor recreation and rescues, knew those preparations were central to the February mission on Camel’s Hump.
The hikers involved, a man and woman in their early twenties from Québec, had started their trek that morning and expected to finish a loop over Vermont’s third-tallest mountain by midafternoon. They carried traction spikes but lacked snowshoes, spare headlamps, batteries and adequate extra layers. As the snow deepened and their food and water froze, daylight began slipping away, and their lone headlamp died almost immediately. They considered calling 911 but hesitated, fearing they would have to pay for a rescue. By the time they called for help around 6 p.m., darkness had fallen, and they were still high on the mountain.
Clymer faced a difficult choice: tell the hikers to retrace their steps downhill through steep, rocky terrain or have them continue climbing so they could descend on another trail which would be more manageable for the rescuers to ascend. He chose the second option.
Shortly after 8 p.m., Chiarella and five other volunteers set out at Clymer’s direction to meet the hikers, fighting to break a path through the snow while the cold threatened their safety and equipment.
They were expecting to escort the hikers downhill. Instead, several hours into the volunteers’ climb, at 11:11 p.m., the man reported his companion could go no farther. The rescuers had not yet reached them.
For the next 20 minutes, the volunteers pushed onward, periodically shouting into the darkness. Finally, someone shouted back.
Midnight was approaching as Chiarella’s group reached the pair. The man was shivering, and his feet were numb, but he was alert. His companion was conscious but could barely respond to questions. She showed signs of moderate hypothermia and frostbite on her face. The mission had become a medical evacuation.
Ben Roll, Huntington’s volunteer fire chief and one of the rescuers that night, said the February mission was unusual for the immediate threat to the hikers’ lives. More often, his team responds to lost hikers, people with leg injuries, or those caught without adequate clothing or supplies.
Getting lost in winter can trigger major, time-intensive rescue operations. In January 2024, volunteers spent hours searching for 23 skiers and snowboarders who ventured beyond Killington Resort’s marked boundary.
Josh Eckler, who leads Killington’s search-and-rescue volunteers, said improved boundary markings and closer coordination with the resort have since reduced calls from that area.
“It’s incredible that I have two dozen people that are so excited to run into the woods, for lack of a better term, when it’s 15 degrees out and snowing,” Eckler said.
It’s incredible that I have two dozen people that are so excited to run into the woods, for lack of a better term, when it’s 15 degrees out and snowing.
Josh eckler
The team remains busy year-round, responding to emergencies in varied terrain that can require hours of travel before rescuers even reach the person who needs help. Justin Laramie, a senior instructor at the U.S. Army Mountain Warfare School in Jericho who helps train Killington’s volunteers, puts them through overnight exercises involving more than 10 miles of travel and 2,000 feet of climbing. Carrying heavy packs, they navigate off-trail, locate mock patients and practice evacuations.
Other backcountry rescue teams enlist young volunteers to make drills more realistic. During a recent exercise by Rescue Inc., a southern Vermont ambulance service with volunteer backcountry rescue teams, a 10-year-old boy played an injured patient stranded in a gorge. His 13-year-old brother, a high school drama student, served as the 911 caller. Rescuers located the younger boy and hauled him out in a basket using ropes, according to Drew Hazelton, who heads the organization.
Rescuers are also trained to manage their own exposure to the elements. A hard climb can leave a rescuer soaked with sweat just as they must stop beside an injured hiker in falling temperatures. Staying warm requires constant attention, even when the immediate concern is someone else’s survival.
Adam Mattessich, a lieutenant with Waterbury Backcountry Rescue who helped command the February mission, said it was the only rescue in his career when he felt the volunteers themselves were in danger.
“We were sending them out with a very, very slim margin for error,” he said.
As conditions worsened, commanders repeatedly weighed whether they could safely continue the evacuation or would need to shelter the hikers and withdraw their crews.
Ultimately, the rescuers kept the hikers warm without becoming dangerously cold themselves. The young man was able to walk downhill with support, gripping a rescuer’s pack. The woman could not. She waited for the specialized stretcher that a second crew hauled up the mountain.
To keep warm, Chiarella and the other rescuers in the first group walked laps along the trail, packing down a wider path. When the crew with the backcountry stretcher finally arrived, they secured the woman inside an insulated enclosure. By then, she had begun moving her limbs and answering questions. She asked for water, and rescuers gave her a few sips and a little maple syrup. But fastening the equipment was difficult. Bulky mittens made precise movements awkward, while removing them exposed bare fingers to the dangerously bitter cold.
The right clothing and supplies can help keep a routine hike from turning into a rescue mission. Even experienced hikers can be caught off guard by fading daylight, a wrong turn or an unexpected injury. Rescuers urge people to carry extra layers, food, a charged phone and backups of essential gear, following the rule, “One is none; two is one.” They also advise sharing plans, knowing when to turn back and calling for help before conditions worsen.
“We’d much rather get there and give you a high five and walk you out than opposed to get there and have to carry you out because things have gotten too far,” Laramie said.
Fear of the consequences can also delay that call, as for the Québec hikers, who worried they’d be charged for the response. But Vermont does not bill for backcountry rescues, and rescuers say they show up without judging the actions that got the people into trouble. Their priority is getting people home safely.
Sometimes, that isn’t possible. On October 28, volunteers from three backcountry teams helped recover the body of a 50-year-old Denver man from a trail on Camel’s Hump. Three volunteers from Mattessich’s team in Waterbury joined six others from neighboring groups to complete the midday mission. State police said the death did not appear suspicious. The man’s sister later said on social media that he had struggled to obtain insurance coverage for an illness and had traveled to the mountain to “go in his own way.”
“There is a certain amount of closure we can bring to families by finding their loved one, even if the outcome was not what we were necessarily hoping for,” said Hazelton of Rescue Inc.
Rescues and retrievals are costly for the teams. Rescue Inc. spends about $30,000 annually on equipment and outside instruction, according to Hazelton. Big-ticket items include ropes, communication equipment and dry suits for water rescues. At Killington, outfitting a new volunteer costs the team about $1,000, and members often supply thousands of dollars in additional personal gear. Teams depend on municipal support, donations and fundraising.
“Every hour a volunteer spends fundraising in order to do the job they’re volunteering to do is an hour they can’t spend training or preparing,” Hazelton said.
On Camel’s Hump, the need for equipment and preparation was clear. The volunteers had secured the woman in the rescue stretcher. Now they had to move her off the mountain, through the same deep snow that made reaching her so difficult.
The stretcher plunged into drifts, its nose burying itself as rescuers maneuvered it along the narrow trail. Only after clearing the worst of the higher terrain could they take advantage of gravity, allowing the sled to slide over the snowpack.
Around 4 a.m., roughly 18 hours after the hikers set out and nearly 10 hours after they called 911, the final group reached the trailhead. The woman was transferred to an ambulance for hospital care. Both hikers survived, though the woman, Sherene, suffered severe frostbite on her feet. Every volunteer made it off the mountain without injury.
Sherene has only dreamlike memories of being strapped into the rescue sled before waking in the ambulance. She said the experience left her with little emotional trauma, partly because she can’t recall much of it. But the physical toll was severe: Doctors told her she was lucky not to lose her toes to frostbite. She remains grateful to the volunteers who hauled lifesaving equipment up the mountain.
This fall, Sherene returned to Camel’s Hump to finish the hike. She reached the summit and found a measure of closure, along with a new appreciation for the rescuers’ efforts. Even without the deep snow, parts of the trail were challenging. Sherene acknowledged that she and her hiking partner had underestimated the mountain.
But while Sherene was thankful for how the rescue unfolded, the volunteers themselves were still debating what they might have done differently.
At the Richmond training, Chiarella asked the group whether directing the hikers uphill toward a more direct rescue route, rather than sending them back down through the snow, had been the right approach.
There were arguments for both options. Continuing uphill brought the hikers closer to rescuers who could assess their condition and help them descend. But following their own tracks downhill might have allowed them to generate more body heat and move faster than the four feet per minute that they averaged between calling for help and being found. The terrain below them, however, was steep and difficult.
There was no right answer, the group concluded.
The rescuers disappeared into the unseasonably warm November night. Soon, they would be back in the mountains. ➆
The original print version of this article was headlined “Calls From the Wild | Vermont’s backcountry rescuers brave dangerous terrain and bitter cold to bring wayward adventurers home”
This article appears in Winter Preview • 2026.
Got something to say?
Send a letter to the editor and we'll publish your feedback in print!
