8

Tim Cahill stands along the Yellowstone River near his home in Livingston. The well-known writer died and was brought back to life during a rafting trip in the Grand Canyon.

9M O N T A N A Q U A R T E R L Y

The DEATHof TIM CAHILL

ust yesterday, I was standing out in my backyard in Livingston, Montana, throwing a tennis ball on the roof of my house. My dog raced along the side of the house, listening to the thump and roll of the ball, then caught it on the fly as it dropped near the garbage cans. Dexter the Dog trotted back and dropped the ball at my feet. There was a brief

contemplative moment. It was unclear who enjoyed roof ball more: me or the dog. It was a very simple pleasure to be sure. But if it is possible to be happy mindlessly throw-ing a ball, I had to imagine that, yes, I was happy.

Now, frankly, Dex and I have been doing this for years. I had never thought of our game as one small component of a life well lived. I suppose that is because I had never died beforeand then been resuscitatedas I had been just a few weeks earlier. The experience might have made a philosopher of a finer man. Me? I just thought, I never realized how much I like roof ball.

My death experience happened in the Grand Canyon,

on the Colorado River, at Lava Falls, the nastiest rapid on the river. There were 16 people in my party and it was the 14th day of the trip. Wed navigated the other rough stretches with some ease. Crystal, Hermit and Granite rapids were all behind us. Lava Falls was the last big one, the most challenging.

Our party beached our five rafts and numerous kayaks just before the rapid, in the roar of surging water echoing off rock walls. We had to shout to be heard as we walked up the steep trail on the north side of the river to scout the rapid. And there we stood, all of us, staring down at an anthology of the dangers a river can muster. There was a pourover at the top and it dropped into a huge hole which had at its tail an enormous wave curling back upriver. This meant a raft or kayak or swimmer caught in the hole could end up endlessly circulating in a process some call being Maytagged.

There were great curling waves to the right and the current, in places, jumped 10 feet in the air. Toward the bottom of the right side, the flow broke around a mono-lithic rock maybe 40 feet high. You didnt want to hit that rock. The river would crush you and hold you there. Its called being postage stamped.

It felt like swimming through a shining monochromatic kaleidoscope and I found myself thinking, This is really kind of pretty.

BY TIM CAHILL

PORTRAIT BY THOMAS LEE

J

10

No, youd want to avoid the top pourover by entering right, then youd pull left because, near the bottom of the rapid, was another large hole, a last wily Maytag lying in wait. So it was abundantly clear that a river craft would have to pull very hard left to avoid the rock and then even harder left to skirt the hole near the bottom of Lava Falls.

We were done scouting but we all just stood there for another 20 minutes, staring and, in my case, feeling a little stunned. No one spoke much. I didnt know my team well, but I had noticed that while they sometimes cursed, they did so infrequently and appropriately. I liked that about them and, consequently, was making an effort to speak with a certain civility. So I looked down at the rapid that would kill me in about 15 minutes and whispered, Gol dang!

ack in OctOber Of last year, I was invited on a private rafting trip though the Grand Canyon. Id never been there but it was a place, I had been endlessly toldyoull excuse meof heart-stop-ping beauty. I did not know any of the other 15 river runners except for Harry

Butler, the younger brother of a guy I hung out with in high school in Waukesha, Wisconsin. All the other participants were also from Wisconsin; they either lived there, or had some cheese-encrusted association with the state.

Harry was a cross-country skier and avid kayaker. Wed talked about that a bit when I had returned to Wisconsin. So, presumably, he figured that, even though Id lived in Montana for 40 years, I might still understand Wisconsin folks (beer, cheese, Green Bay Packers). Moreover, he knew Id spent almost 40 years traveling overseas, often in rough conditions, and consequently might even know what I was doing on a river trip. So when someone dropped out of this trip at the last minute, I was an obvious person to call: a guy who might be able to carve out the time and get his poop in a pile in 10 days.

Most of the party had kayaks, and I quickly realized

that the five rafts were support for the kayaks. Wethe rafterswould carry food and tents and sleeping bags. I was paired off with Bill Hobbins, who welcomed me with the information that, at 71, I was the oldest guy on the trip, an honor that had previously been his.

Bill did not inspire immediate confidence. Ah, I dont know what Im doing here, he said. Then he proceeded to load the raft, strapping down gear and rearranging things in such a way that wed lose nothing if the raft flipped. Over the next few days, Bill proved to be a master. The raft pack-ing was arduous and Bill wanted to do it himself. He was the captain of our raft and felt responsible for the gear. In the dry Arizona air, securing the gear with webbing straps and pulling them tight made his fingertips bleed. No matter. Thats what Super Glue is for.

And then we were out on the river. The kayakers, to my untrained eye, seemed insanely talented. They spoke of rivers theyd run in the Midwest and the South and the West. Many had kayaked in Central and South America. They talked kayaking at a length that I found required several strong shots of Scotch for me to tolerate. After a few days, I asked the group whether they might be considered elite. Hardly, Harry said and there were some muffled chuckles at the idea. The talk turned to truly great kayak-ers theyd either known or seen. But they werent fooling me: these guys were great in kayaks, but they werent going to say it because cheeseheads dont brag on themselves.

My raft mate Bill Hobbins, for instance, who originally presented himself as a sort of doofus, was, in fact, both tough and omni-competent. It took days to drag all this out of him, but the guy was a kayaker, an open boat captain, a record breaking ice-boater, a guy who was offered a full ride to play hockey at the University of Wisconsin (he turned it down), a boxer and a judo instructor. And, though he was dyslexic, he held a masters degree in science and could read the river like a book, a skill he tried his best to help me learn.

It was a winter tripfrom the end of November to mid-Decemberand the temperature at night sometimes

I guess I thought I was smart. The others were always pulling off the tops of their dry suits in the warmth of the sun or when they got overheated while paddling or rowing. I was perfectly comfortable, and in those times when I caught a chill, it was easy enough to row for an hour and work up a sweat.

B

11M O N T A N A Q U A R T E R L Y

dropped into the 20s. In the daytime, on the water, the temperatures might rise into the 50s or even hit the low 70s in the hour or so the sun peeked over the narrow rim of the canyon. Everyone wore dry suits, waterproof mate-rial secured by tight wrist and ankle bands and even tighter neck bands. I did not. I cant stand dry suits. The neck bands, called gaskets, choke me. I know they can be cut and adjusted, but they still choke me. I wore good waterproof gear over heavy fleece worn over expedition weight under-wear. My dry suit languished in the bottom of my dry bag.

I guess I thought I was smart. The others were always pulling off the tops of their dry suits in the warmth of the sun or when they got overheated while paddling or rowing. I was perfectly comfortable, and in those times when I

caught a chill, it was easy enough to row for an hour and work up a sweat.

But rowing was, in fact, more difficult than Id imagined, even in the slower water. While Im perfectly at ease rowing a fishing boat down the Yellowstone near Livingston, the Colorado was another matter altogether. The volume of water was astounding, as were the eddies. You could get trapped in an eddy and it might take 10 minutes of hard pulling to get back into the main current.

And that main current was something. Rivers are gener-ally rated on an ascending scale of difficulty from 1 to 6, but the Colorado has its own system, and its rapids are rated 1 to 10. I could take rough water labeled 3 or 4 easily enough, but the 5s made me a little queasy and the one 6 I navigated

Kayakers corral the Hobbins-Cahill raft downstream from Lava Falls after both men were ejected from it.

PHOTO COURTESY OF RALPH LEE

12

was scary enough that I turned the rest of them over to Bill.Then, on the 14th day, we found ourselves on a hillside,

scouting Lava Falls, the rapid rated the highest on the river, a 9, and I just stood there, dumbfounded, looking down at all that hyperbolic water. Holy cats, I muttered.

he kayaks went thrOugh first and tOOk up rescue positions near the tail of the rapid. John McConville took the right entrance and pulled left neatly. Steve Smits followed. Justin Kleberg hit it perfectly and so did Dan LaHam. Four rafts through the rapids, all waiting for

Bill and me.I had stripped off my fleece, reasoning that if I had to

swim, I didnt want a heavy jacket weighing me down. It may have been simultaneously the stupidest and smartest thing I did that day. Bill entered the rapid to the right and immediately pulled left. I was kneeling in the bow, hold-ing the perimeter line. A wave curled up under the boat on the right and I highsided by leaning into it. Later, I saw a video of that run, shot from the bank by a group that followed us down the river. In the video some nasty bit of rogue hydraulics came up from the left and tipped the raft to the right. And all of a sudden I was in the water. At the top of Lava Falls. There was a lot more mean water below. This, I thought, does not bode well.

The video shows Bill being tossed sideways and strug-gling to regain the oars, which he did fairly quickly. But he couldnt see me and chose not to row and risk hitting me, probably in the head. An unconscious swimmer is unlikely to survive. Deciding not to row meant Bill hit the hole at the bottom of Lava Falls and was flung some distance to the right and out of the hole. A kayak picked him up in less than a minute. The raft made it through upright.

Meanwhile, I was somewhere in the rapid, under the water. Ive studied the video frame by frame and have never seen even a hint of my blue rain gear. Anywhere. I know I must have been pretty deep despite my life jacket, because

I recall looking up at a 10-foot-wide round hole. The surface seemed about 15 feet above and the center of the hole was so calm that I could see through it to the blue Arizona sky.

I swam toward the surface, glad that I wasnt weighted down with fleece. The rapid didnt much scare me. I swam varsity at the University of Wisconsin for four years. Even set a pool record at Notre Dame. (They tell me it lasted about a week.) In any case, I was a few feet from the surface when the hole started to fall apart in various shining ovals that dropped off on the downstream side while the rest of the surface looked like large shards of glass exploding in slow motion. It felt like swimming through a shining mono-chromatic kaleidoscope and I found myself thinking, This is really kind of pretty.

And then the water dropped, as off a cliff, and I felt myself falling in air. That gave me a needed breath and I continued to fight my way through the shards of the kaleido-scope. I had no idea where I was in the rapid, but I wanted to thread the needle between the rock and the hole at the bottom. Perhaps I made it. In any case, I surfaced in the tail of the rapid where I managed to grab a rescue kayak. I dont know who was paddling, but I grabbed a back handle and kicked hard. The water was still rough and a dead weight on the back of a kayak will sink it.

The kayak pulled to an eddy where a raft was waiting. I grabbed the perimeter line, gasping for breath. When I looked downriver, another rescue raft, pushed by the eddy, was coming in fast. Too fast. These rafts are 18 feet long and weigh a couple thousand pounds. I didnt want to get crushed between them. So I ducked under and swam. But, moronically, I swam the wrong way.

Exhausted and disoriented, I swam against the strong current of the eddy. That meant I was all but trapped under the second boat. I recall taking a large involuntary breath of river water and thinking, Well, that wasnt so bad.

The second involuntary breath was less pleasant. There may have been a third. All I know is that I came out from under the raft and Justin Kleberg and Rachel Butler yanked me into the bow where I lay gasping like a freshly landed tuna.

The second involuntary breath was less pleasant. There may have been a third. All I know is that I came out from under the raft and Justin Kleberg and Rachel Butler yanked me into the bow where I lay gasping like a freshly landed tuna.

T

13M O N T A N A Q U A R T E R L Y

Grand Canyon floaters Jennifer Gordon and Steve Schmit swap a high five after teammates successfully resuscitated Tim Cahill, whose heart had stopped for several minutes. EMT Justin Kleberg holds Cahills head steady, fearing a neck injury.

PHOTO COURTESY OF RALPH LEE

14

Fortunately for Cahill, his float party and a second one on the river that day included medical professionals, such as nurse Steve Schmit, center. He monitors Cahills pulse as another nurse, Liz Arnold, and EMT Justin Kleberg, left, work to keep him warm and stable while they await a rescue helicopter.

PHOTO COURTESY OF RALPH LEE

M O N T A N A Q U A R T E R L Y 15

Justin rowed across the river to a large area called Tequila Beach, where groups that run Lava Falls typically stop to celebrate. I crawled off the raft and walked 15 or 20 steps over the sand. Roy Crimmins, a guy whod paddled the whole river in an abbreviated canoe, handed me a beer. I sat down, passed out and died.

hat cOmes next i Only knOw frOm what Ive been told. My boat mates said that I stopped breathing, turned blue, and then, they said, they lost my pulse altogether. The team sprang into action. They cut my life vest off with knives. Justin Kleberg, a wilder-

ness EMT, started CPR. After 30 chest compressions, Steve Smits, a registered nurse, drew two rescue breaths and Kleberg started compressions again. Dan LaHam, at my arm, shook his head. Still no pulse.

Sometime during the sixth round of CPR, Bill Hobbins saw my eyelids flutter. Cmon, Cmon, Cmon, he shouted. LaHam said he could feel a pulse. And then it was getting stronger.

And I woke to someone sitting on my stomach pushing my sternum three quarters of the way to my backbone. Was that the sound of my ribs crack-ing? What the hell?

Rachel Butler says, You roared. It must have been some kind of rage to live. It was loud. I recall trying to wrestle Justin off of me and throwing a few ineffectual punches. It took seven of us to hold you down, Bill Hobbins said.

And when I looked up at the people Id just punched, I saw men and women wiping away tears. This seemed an overreaction. At the time,

I thought Id simply passed out for a bit. But up top, theyd seen a man die and then be brought back to life. The group that followed us was there as well. Theyd run the rapid without incident. But this place had a special mean-ing for them: a friend of theirs had died kayaking Lava Falls and they were there to celebrate his life. Now, theyd seen another man go down. But suddenly that man was back, breathing and alive. Everyone was deeply moved. It didnt make any sense to me.

A National Park Service helicopter, contacted by satel-lite phone, was on the way. Since I didnt know my heart had stopped, it seemed like a waste of resources. The helicop-ter landed, a paramedic did a quick examination, turned to my team and said, You guys saved a life today. I thought, They did?

I have to say that a helicopter ride over the Grand Canyon

TuesdaysTacos and live jazz

102 N. Main Street, Livingston, MT (406) 222-1095www.mintbarandgrill.com Follow us on Facebook

WednesdaysLive bingo

ThursdaysTrivia at 7;

Live music by Strangeways at 9

Fridays and SaturdaysLive local music

Mint Bar & Grill

W

I have to say that a helicopter ride over the Grand Canyon isnt much of a treat if youre lying on your back in a neck brace, staring at the ceiling.

16

isnt much of a treat if youre lying on your back in a neck brace, staring at the ceiling. I was taken to the Heart and Vascular Center of Northern Arizona, in Flagstaff, where I was put into intensive care. I felt fine, except that Justin had done the CPR correctly and fractured a lot of ribs. I was coming to the real-ization that my heart had actually stopped for several minutes. Id died. Tests, however, showed that I hadnt had a heart attack. Perhaps Id simply drowned.

The care at the hospital was superb and I got to talk to a lot of doctors and

At top, members of the Colorado River Miracle Team wait anxiously while medical professionals administer CPR to Cahill after he was submersed in the Colorado Rivers Lava Falls. Above, rescuers load Cahill into a National Park Service helicopter for transfer to a hospital in Flagstaff, Arizona.

PHOTOS COURTESY OF RALPH LEE

Tracy raich Broker | Owner406.223.8418 | TRACYRAICH.COM | LIVINGSTON, MT

SHIELDS RIVER RESERVEA premiere lifestyle property with its harmonious blend of nature and exquisite amenities

n +320 Acres of Varied Terrain With Year-Round Access

n Approximately 1 Mile of Pristine Shields River Frontage

n Larry Pearson Designed Main Home, Guest Quarters and Studio

n Expansive Views, Protected Wildlife Habitat, Hiking and Riding Trails

n Convenient Distance to Downtown Bozeman and Livingston

LIST PRICE | $2.95 MILLION

17M O N T A N A Q U A R T E R L Y

nurses who simply wanted to hear my story. It seems that CPR isnt very effective in cases of cardiac arrest. There is something like a single digit percent of success. What the doctors said, what the nurses said, was that my recovery on Tequila Beach was a miracle.

I began thinking of my boat mates as the Colorado River Miracle Team. But miracle or not, I still didnt know what had happened. I have a theory though. The water was about 45 degrees. And I was swimming in it hard for 20 minutes, or so it seemed. In thin rain gear and without fleece. So there may have been a hypothermic reaction. I wasnt there for the exciting part (because I was uncon-scious), but I believe I may have gone into what is called the mammalian diving reflex, a condition in which the heart slows down in cold water. Blood, needed by internal organs,

is shunted away from the hands and feet. Breathing slows and sometimes stops.

That all made sense, but then how I was able to get out of the water and walk?

I guess Im just going to have to call it a miracle and live with that.

Still, I feel a little guilty about it all. I have little or no emotional investment in my death and resurrection. I wasnt there, after all. Intellectually, I wish I felt compelled to feed the homeless or cure cancer. To somehow devote my life to doing good works. But no, about the only thing I got out of the experience is a realization that I like to play roof ball with my dog.

What can I say? The river was deep, the guy in it was shallow.

I have little or no emotional investment in my death and resurrection. I wasnt there, after all.