Heartbroken, stunned, devastated, furious with myself. Those are the feelings pouring over me and running through me as I write this. You know that feeling when you wish you could go back, just this one time, and redo just one thing? I feel that wholeheartedly. I know the signs of altitude sickness. I know what to do for someone who is suffering from it. I know what I should have done, but didn’t.
A fellow thru-hiker - 23 year old Maddie “Riddles” Magee - died on the Pacific Crest Trail on May 28th, the day after we encountered her on Mount Whitney when she first began to experience the symptoms of acute mountain sickness, or altitude sickness. A mile and a half or so from the summit we came upon a small frame nestled in some large rocks alongside one of the switchbacks. As we approached, Maddie lifted her head from her lap to acknowledge us and encourage us to scooch past her. We stopped to check on her, of course. It was far too brutal up there to be resting on that windy, frigid, exposed part of trail, so we knew something was up. She was “feeling a little nauseous” but “doing okay”. It was still fairly dark and we were all dressed in our cold weather gear, so I couldn’t make out whether she was pale or cyanotic, but her posture gave away her fatigue. Maddie chalked it up to the 30 miles she had hiked the day prior and the short three hours of sleep she’d gotten that night, but having just brushed up on the signs and symptoms of altitude sickness, it was fairly obvious that’s what was going on. We talked to her a bit, encouraging her to descend as soon as she felt comfortable. And then we kept climbing. A decision we’d come to painfully regret. At this point, I was feeling pretty crappy too - terribly short of breath, unsteady on my feet, and just a little loopy. Pretty typical hypoxia symptoms, but I felt well enough to finish the climb. When we finally reached the summit we were greeted by Maddie’s three hiking partners, a few fellow trailmates we’ve been hiking on and off with for the past few hundred miles. They asked if we had seen Maddie on our ascent, obviously concerned about her. We told them she wasn’t feeling too well and that we were sure she was headed back down the mountain. They were relieved for her well-being to hear she’d turned around. We hung out with the three of them for a bit, shooting the shit and admiring the magnificent views from 14,505 feet. About fifteen minutes after we reached the summit, Maddie appeared. We were all in awe. Her unrelenting spirit pushed her to finish the climb. It takes a really special person to continue something so difficult when they feel so awful. She seemed much more chipper now, but it was still obvious she wasn’t feeling great. Freezing cold and feeling the effects of the altitude ourselves, we bid the four of them farewell, wished them safety, and began our descent. Little did we know, this was the last time we’d see Maddie. Although it was only a short time, we feel honored to have spent part of her last full day on Earth with her.
Chris and I got back down to Crabtree Meadows where we’d camped the night before. We were feeling pretty crappy, and we were exhausted from a long hike the day prior, only getting a few hours of sleep, and an early morning climb up to the summit of the tallest peak of the contiguous U.S. We climbed back into our tent for a nap, resting up a bit before our hike to the base of Forester Pass. An hour or so later we emerged from our tent, forcing ourselves to pack up our camp and get back on the trail. A couple of the guys hiking with Maddie were back at camp now as well. We chatted again for a few minutes and then said “See you up the trail!” like we always said to these guys. But we wouldn’t see them up the trail this time. They’d shortly experience the terribly traumatic loss of their beloved friend, and they’d leave the PCT to surround themselves with their loved ones back home before we even knew what happened.
The next morning we hiked over Forester Pass. Looking down into the canyon below from the peak of the pass was the most magnificent view I’ve ever seen and one of the most magnificent feelings I’ve ever felt. It’s places like this that make you ponder a higher power. It’s places like this that make you feel there must be something more. It’s far too spectacular to have randomly occurred.
We were slowly working our way down the steep snowy pass when the clouds darkened, the wind picked up, and the sleet began to fall. Still magnificent, but ominous now. A couple miles later we heard a helicopter flying toward us. We both knew there was only one reason to risk flying in this weather. We felt a sense of doom that only grew as the helicopter flew right overhead and then began to descend toward the other side of Forester Pass. Later that day when we arrived to Independence, CA I immediately checked the PCT Facebook page to make sure nobody we knew from the trail had been hurt. To my relief, there was nothing. I checked again before we headed back to the trail the next day - still nothing. We began to question where Maddie and the other three were, but didn’t think too much of it. Throughout the next week while off the grid in the Sierras, we commented every single day on how we thought for sure the group would have caught us by now and how it was weird we hadn’t seen them. But we knew how they were always down for a good time, so we figured they must have been spending Memorial Day weekend in Bishop where there were all sorts of festivities happening. God, I wish we were right.
It wasn’t until late last night that we saw the news. Maddie never made it over Forester Pass. The helicopter we saw that day was there for her, to retrieve her lifeless body. Her fast ascent into the Sierras and up Mount Whitney caused her to quickly spiral down the altitude sickness spectrum. When we encountered her along the Mount Whitney Trail she was only in the beginning stages of the illness, but I know how it progresses. I know what happens if you don’t descend. We encouraged her to go back down, but part of altitude sickness is losing the ability to think clearly. I should have taken more time press the importance of her descent. I should have hiked down with her and ensured she wouldn’t hike any further until she felt better. I should have explained altitude sickness and it’s progression to HAPE and HACE to her hiking partners so they knew how to monitor her condition. I could have saved Maddie. But I didn’t. If only I could go back just this one time and redo just one thing…
We didn’t know Maddie well, but you didn’t have to to notice her zest for life and her unstoppable spirit. Our hearts are broken for her and all of those who love her. The guilt is heavy.
The one thing I find solace in is knowing Maddie left Earth boldly chasing her dreams, and in the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. And she wasn’t alone when she died. The people around her knew the incredible person she was, and they loved her dearly, despite only knowing her a short time.
The trail feels dark now. I thought about going home. But we’ll carry on for Maddie.
Rest In Peace and Paradise, Maddie “Riddles” Magee.
Update: June 23rd
Maddie‘s trail family is back on the trail, hiking in her honor. We hung out with them for a short bit the other day. Maddie’s death will always strike me as a complete tragedy, but it was a healing relief to see her people laughing and smiling and enjoying all the beauties of the PCT. They said they intend to hike the remainder of the trail together with her spirit in tow. We’ll be cheering for them each step of the way!
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