On the same night on the same mountain, two hunters face a deadly storm. Only one would survive.

The worst type of danger is the danger that’s brought on by one’s own ignorance. Overconfidence and familiarity can blind a man to the peril that lies ahead, and he doesn’t even realize it when his own life is hanging by a thread.

It was down to the last half-day of the archery elk season. Chris bounced his pickup down the dusty path and parked in his usual spot at the head of a valley. Grabbing his pack and bow, he headed for the ridgetop straight ahead. It was his routine, the same as every other evening for the past three weeks, only this night would be different. He didn’t know it, but this climb, this hunt, would be his last.

Chris lived nearby, but we had never met.  It just so happened that we shared the mountain that evening, and if he was like me, Chris was feeling the pressure to succeed as the hunt neared an end. Pressure coupled with an over-confidence in your abilities can make for a bad combination. It can make you take chances you might not normally take—chances you shouldn’t take. I doubt that Chris’ state of mind was any different than mine that night as we both climbed the mountain. What happened to him could have and maybe even should have happened to me.

It was a cloudy afternoon in mid-autumn, common in the Southwest during the short monsoon season. Scattered afternoon showers were usually brief and expected this time of year, but the threatening sky never gave Chris a moment’s pause. He kept a rain poncho tucked in the bottom of his pack just in case. It’d been a couple of years since he last carried any antlers off the mountain and he went out with a determination to give it his best effort, the weather be damned.

Chris made the steep climb to the top of the first ridge in just 20 minutes. Down across the next valley floor and up the next ridge only took him 40 minutes more. From there he planned to follow the ridgeline west to where it flattened out onto a broad mesa dotted in ponderosa pines. He’d been on a big herd bull there the last two nights and was expecting him to still be in the area. When he leveled off at the top of the second ridge he was sweating and breathing hard, but he would catch his breath on the flatter ground and pushed on.

He sweated through his shirt on the climb up, but now Chris slowed his pace as the hunt was getting serious. Up on the mountain the air temperature was dropping fast as a cold front neared. He was moving slowly and in his sweaty clothes he felt a chill, but never thought about the significance of it. His mind was focused on elk and right on cue, he heard a distant answer to his bugle from the opposite ridge.

Chris went after the bull at a jog, down into the valley and then to the ridge. He wanted to catch up to the herd quickly before they moved on. When he reached the ridge, he was out of breath and his side ached every time he inhaled. The top was flat and open at first with a few spotty pines and some oak brush growing through the rocks. Fifty yards ahead, three cow elk grazed unconcerned while the bull bugled from the trees just beyond them. As he waited impatiently for the cows to move out of the way, Chris could hear the bull raking a tree with his antlers. By the time the cows finally made it to the trees and out of sight, the bull’s bugles were becoming faint again.

Chris followed the herd, jogging down into the valley, up a ridge, then across another flat and small valley to the next ridge.  Until now Chris hadn’t noticed the mountainous dark clouds rolling in from the north. While waiting to catch his breath, he heard it thunder, but it sounded far off. The blackening sky would soon steal away his shooting light. If it wasn’t the last night of the elk season, he probably would have given up. If there was a voice inside somewhere telling him that he was heading into danger, he ignored it. He had traveled six hard miles, but he knew the mountain well and was confident he could find his way back in the dark.

As Chris rested at the top of the ridge to listen for the next bugle, he heard the ominous sound of rolling thunder getting louder and closer. Chris wasn’t about to give up now, not while there was still a small chance of success.

When the bull answered his bugle, it didn’t sound that far away. Chris went after the herd at a tired jog just as the first big raindrops smacked on the vegetation. He didn’t have time to stop and dig out his rain poncho, not if he was going to catch up to the bull before dark.

A short time later the hard rain hit with a rush. Chris was exposed on an open ridge when it came with a burst of wind that almost knocked him off his feet. There was no doubt now, it was time to turn back. Lightning flashed and lit up the world around him while thunder rocked the air. In just minutes he was soaked to the skin while the last of the daylight disappeared in the downpour. Chris never bothered to put on his poncho, he just turned and headed back at a quick pace through the driving rain.

Complete darkness pressed in on him and his cold fingers were clumsy and stiff as he pulled the small flashlight from the holster on his belt. The darkness and rain were so heavy they seemed to swallow the feeble beam from his tiny light. At best he could only see about 15 feet in front of him, and there was no way to be sure if he was continuing in the right direction.

Did the little voice come back now? Did it tell Chris to seek shelter, put on his poncho and wait out the storm? He needed to go southeast, but his direction of travel was gradually swinging to the west. Chris had a compass in his pack and if he thought about using it, nobody knows. He never stopped. Chris was confident in his knowledge of the mountain and he pushed on into the blackness—in the wrong direction.

He’d been traveling in the dark for a while and the initial heavy rain was slowing to a drizzle. The woods became quiet and Chris felt alone as his flashlight pushed against the immense blackness surrounding him. There was no other sound except the rain dripping off the vegetation and his heavy breathing. He should have started down into the first deep valley by now and the longer he went without hitting it, the more panicked he became. Chris was almost at a run when he erupted out of the trees and onto the ATV trail near the top of the mountain. He knew where he was now and stopped to catch his breath. He had used up much of his body’s available energy and was quickly depleting his reserves just to keep warm.

As soon as he stopped moving, he began to shiver uncontrollably—the first stages of hypothermia were setting in and he was no closer to his truck. The temperature up on the mountain continued to fall, dropping more than 30 degrees since Chris first left his vehicle and now the occasional snowflake appeared in the beam of his flashlight.

In his waterproof pack was a dry wool sweater and material to start a fire, even in the wet conditions, but the drop in Chris’s body’s temperature was affecting his decision-making ability. Fluctuations in the hepatic system affected his blood glucose level, slowing his thoughts and blocking his ability to reason. The voice inside was growing quiet.

Other changes were happening to Chris’ body as well as it tried to conserve its precious warmth. Tiny valves found on the thousands of capillaries near the skin closed in an effort to keep the circulating blood in the core of his body where it was warmer. His movements were becoming erratic, but if he could have managed to start a fire at this point, there still was a chance.

The only thought left in Chris’ mind was getting back to his truck. When the searchers found his pack, the lighter and fire-starting material were still inside along with the wool sweater and his rain poncho.

The ATV trail would have eventually taken Chris back to the valley where his truck was parked. Not wanting to lose his way again, he headed down the familiar trail even though it was longer. Then it suddenly registered that he no longer had his bow in his hand. Panicked, he turned back into the trees away from the ATV trail to go look for it. Rational thought was becoming harder as his core temperature continued to drop. By the time he was 30 yards off the trail he had forgotten about his bow and even where he was.

Each time Chris stopped he would shiver so violently he could barely stand without hanging onto a tree for support. He continued on stumbling downhill, his mind no longer comprehending the seriousness of his situation. His energy reserves were quickly depleting, and time was running out. At some point his fatigued capillary valves no longer had the energy to stay closed and they opened, flushing his skin and extremities with blood even though this would cool his body even more. The sudden release of warm blood to his cold skin made Chris feel uncomfortably hot. He stopped shivering as his skin flushed red and the temperature receptors deep in his dermal layer registered the quick rise in temperature.

Next the unthinkable happened. Imagining he was overheating, Chris began to peel off his clothes. Now he was in a fast downward spiral. The voice inside had gone completely silent and Chris was past the point of being able to save himself. Nearing the end, his brain released endorphins to block any anxiety and pain. The effect was similar to an injection of morphine. Chris felt sleepy and at peace as his core temperature continued to drop. His desire to push on faded. Chris stopped and sat down to rest, drifting quietly into unconsciousness. His heart rate and breathing slowed and he slumped over a juniper bush and closed his eyes for the last time. Surrounded by blackness, he would never wake again.

Like Chris that night, I ignored the voice inside, at least at first. I chased a herd bull across one ridge to the next. I was exhausted and far from my truck when it was clear that the storm was about to hit. It was at that point that the voice inside first spoke to me. I should have listened and turned back, but it was the last night and I figured I had another half-hour of daylight left. But unlike Chris, I put on my rain jacket. When the hard rain hit, it turned the ground into slippery goo and trails into flowing streams. My leather boots resisted the water at first, but they soon soaked through as I sloshed along in ankle-deep water. Like Chris, every time I stopped moving, I would shake uncontrollably. Hypothermia was close and I didn’t even realize it.

Visibility was difficult in the dark with the heavy rain. I walked at a quick pace in my desire to get out of the elements and back to the truck. I was surprised when I stumbled onto the ATV trail just a little farther down the mountain from where Chris had found it.  I was sure that I was heading in the exact opposite direction. That trail should have been behind me. It was a shock to realize I was going in the wrong direction and didn’t realize it. My brain was still functioning well enough to know I couldn’t go off the trail again. I was starting to listen to the voice inside. It was a lot safer on the trail than having to find my way through the featureless black forest. Once I got to the bottom, I could follow the gravel road a half-mile to where I had parked.

I fell into a fast mindless pace that I use when I want to cover a lot of ground quickly. My thoughts drifted to my warm house and a hot meal when the voice inside called me to a stop. In the weak glow of my flashlight nothing looked right. I had somehow gotten off the trail. I shivered badly as I stood there trying to work out what happened. Backtracking slowly, I was able to find the trail again, but I was careful now.

The heavy rain slowed to a drizzle when I was halfway down the mountain. The brisk pace kept me warm, but I couldn’t maintain it. I was getting tired and my walk slowed. The drizzle evolved into heavy, wet snowflakes and the black world around me became eerily silent. I felt small and insignificant compared to the mountain and the endless blackness that pressed against me. The only sound was the rhythmic squish, squish of each footstep. The truck still seemed a long way off.

The trail got easier as I proceeded down the mountain and it finally spilled out onto the gravel road. I felt I was almost home now. There was a flood of relief when my flashlight finally stabbed the familiar form of my truck waiting patiently for me in the dark. I began to shake again when I stopped to dig the keys from my pocket. My jaw was chattering as the engine roared to life and I turned the heat up to the limit. I peeled off my wet clothes while the truck warmed up, replacing them with a dry set I kept in the vehicle. I was coming back, returning to normal. Dry for the first time in hours and with the truck heater blasting me, I finally stopped shaking.

On the drive out I roared passed an insignificant trail that forked off the main road. That trail wound its way into a valley and to a waiting pickup truck that stood silent and cold in the dark.

I didn’t think much about that night when I got home—just some bad weather ruining an otherwise promising evening. It wasn’t the first time I’d been caught in the rain while hunting and wouldn’t be my last. I was mostly disappointed that the season ended without filling my elk tag. If someone suggested to me then that I was in danger and maybe even close to dying that night, I would have laughed and shrugged it off. I was just a little cold and turned around for a minute, that’s all. I was never worried, never even concerned…but now there was Chris, and the voice inside told me I was lucky—damn lucky.