This was getting weird. By now, I think everyone in the team was silently preparing themselves for the worst. Adding to the tension, the Blackhawk circled overhead and the radio crackled with communications from the command post and various teams. It felt like getting dumped on prom night, with your parents, friends, teachers, then entire fucking universe, watching.  

And then we heard screaming. Bayard and I started to run.

As we had followed his trail that morning, I had absently thought about what I’d say to Brian if we found him and he was alive. It had to be something catchy, something historic like H.M. Stanley’s quip in the heart of Africa, “Dr. Livingstone, I presume”, or Conrad Kain’s crack to his clients on the summit of Mount Robson, “Gentleman, I can take you no further.” 

Bay and I trashed through a final stand of spruce, rounded a turn in the stream — And there was Brian.  He was siting in a sleeping bag in the middle of the frozen stream, looking expectantly at us.  

Knowing he was a good New England college guy, I cut right the chase.   “I got bad news, Brian,” I said gravely. “The Patriots lost yesterday.” 

The weekend gale had forced Brian to continue with the wind, dropping off the summit to the east.  After breaking through the stream several times as he thrashed down, his boots were soaked.  He took them off for the night, and they froze solid. With no way to dry them, he was immobile, and sat there for two days until we arrived. Nevertheless, he was in remarkably good shape, with only superficial frostbite and an empty stomach. 

An hour after we found him, Brian was dangling underneath the Blackhawk as he was winched to safety.  I lobbied on the radio for his rescuers to be airlifted out as well, but alas, no such luck.  Instead, we made the long and ignoble slog out to the Kancamagus Highway on foot, arriving a little after dark.  At least I succeeded in getting a few rounds of free beer at the brewpub in North Woodstock that evening — a tasty reward for a reluctant rescuer.