The Rescue That Taught Me How to Walk Through the Unknown

This week on North Country Community Radio, I sat down with Paul Cormier to talk about rescue work, fiddle making, and the winding path that brought him to both. What didn’t make it into the broadcast, but has been on my mind ever since, is the way we met—two years ago almost to the day—on a mission that would later be called the most difficult rescue of that year. It was only my second callout.

My first mission had been a perfect introduction: daylight, good weather, a wide trail, no technical demands. It felt manageable. Encouraging, even. I remember going home thinking, Okay. I can do this.

But this second call felt different before I even reached the trailhead.

As I was driving into Gorham, heading up the final hill on Route 2, I looked up and saw a Black Hawk helicopter flying away—north toward Milan. It was supposed to be en route to the summit to pick up our patient. Instead, it was leaving. I remember saying out loud, “No, where are you going?” and felt a drop in my gut. I saw a massive dark cloud over the mountain. This wasn’t going to be a clean mission. The storm had already begun to shape the night.

When I arrived at the trailhead, the reality of what lay ahead hit hard. I’d hiked it before and knew exactly what was coming: steep, technical, uneven terrain with long angled slabs, awkward boulders, and deep patches of mud that never seem to dry out. As we started the hike up, I remember turning to a teammate and asking how we were going to carry someone down it. I wasn’t exaggerating. I truly couldn’t picture how it would work, not with the skills and experience I had at the time.

Hours later, we were deep into the carry-out. It was dark, raining hard, the trail slick and unpredictable. Thunder and lightning magnified the sense of urgency. Moths were dive-bombing into our headlamps. Water poured over the trail. I stayed near the feet of the litter, where the weight was a little easier to carry, but even that required more than I felt like I had to give. The thought looped in my head—I feel like I’m going to die. And eventually, I said it out loud. One of my teammates heard me and quietly stepped off trail with me while the rest of the group kept moving. We stood in the rain. He gave me a protein bar. He asked how I was doing. He reminded me that I didn’t have to do anything I wasn’t ready for. I could walk behind. I could take a break. That moment didn’t change the conditions of the trail, but it gave me something to hold onto and it allowed me to reset. I found the sense of control that I had initially lost.

From then on, I began to notice the others holding calm. I didn’t have confidence in my own instincts that night, but I recognized it in those around me, Paul Cormier among them. People who didn’t need to say much, because their steadiness spoke for them. In the middle of a chaotic night, they modeled what it looked like to keep moving without panic.

Later, I went back to that trail in the daylight. Clear skies, no gear, no urgency. It was still steep. Still technical. But no longer scary. I walked it slowly, thinking about what we had done. What we had carried together. And I felt grateful. Not just for the outcome of the mission, but for what it taught me about what’s possible when people show up for each other in hard moments.

I also noticed something I couldn’t fully take in that night: the anchor points. At the top of the steepest sections, were the trees that we had secured ropes around so we could lower the litter down with control. These weren’t just safety measures, they were points of stability we had to create ourselves. And they mirrored the emotional anchors I’d leaned on throughout the night: the teammate who paused with me in the rain, the quiet confidence of those who had done this before, the unspoken understanding that we were all in it together.

That night reshaped something in me. It taught me that fear isn’t failure, but a part of the process. That it’s okay to stop and reassess when you feel overwhelmed. That you don’t have to prove anything to keep moving forward.

This lesson shows up again and again in my life.

Whenever I find myself in a moment where the terrain suddenly changes, when the plan falls apart, or the path gets harder than I expected, I think back to that night. I remember what it felt like to lose my footing and then find it again. I remember that steadiness doesn’t always come from within, and that’s okay. Sometimes it comes from other people. Sometimes it comes from taking a pause and remembering what I can control.

I’ve learned to pay attention to the small moments that help me keep going: an unexpected kindness, a clear voice, a quiet pause. They’re not always dramatic, but they act like anchor points: small, solid places to rope onto while I navigate the tricky sections of life.

The trail itself doesn’t get easier. But by leveraging anchor points, we learn how to manage it.

If you’re on unfamiliar ground right now, whether that's starting something new, letting go of something old, or simply trying to find your way, I hope you’ll look for your own anchor points. The people who steady you. The habits that ground you. The voices, internal or external, that remind you who you are.

You don’t need to have perfect skills or even a fully mapped out plan. You need places of trust to tie into. You need moments that help you breathe. And you need to know that even when you feel unsure, it’s okay to pause, reassess, and then continue—anchored and steady.

-Amanda