OSO, Wash. — When the emergency call came in the morning of March 22, 2014, rescue teams had no idea what they would soon be up against.
The Snohomish County search and rescue air unit was the first to get an aerial view of the destruction of the Oso landslide, which killed 43 people.
Ten years later, three of the team members recalled what it was like that day and some of the friendships forged during that harrowing time.
Helicopter pilot Steve Klett said it was about to be a typical training day with rehearsals in the hanger when the call came in.
Chief Pilot Bill Quistorf said his team knew that area well, even before the slide.
“We head up that valley pretty often, especially during rescue season,” he said.
But that morning, former Rescue Technician Randy Fay remembered everything looked out of place.
"Trying to get oriented when we flew over the ridge because we would cue off that community to make our turn, and that community's gone,” he said. “So, the momentary questions are: What's going on? Are we in the right place? None of this is making sense.”
On the first pass through the valley, Klett said they could see there was a landslide but state Route 530 wasn’t visible, and they didn’t see anybody.
“It was just rubble,” Quistorf said. “Gravel, mud, debris. Not even a chimney sticking up.”
After a dismal first pass, Klett’s day was about to get busy.
“We turned around and came back up, and that's when we spotted the two ladies on the rooftop,” he said.
One of those ladies was Robin Youngblood.
“I thought there has to be some way we can get their attention,” she remembered. “So, I picked up that t-shirt and started waving it.”
Just moments before, Youngblood and her friend Jette Dooper had been enjoying a serene moment. Dooper spent part of the morning down by the river, taking in nature during her visit with Youngblood. The two were sitting at the table talking about Dooper’s encounter with a family of deer when the landslide struck.
“We heard this huge boom,” Youngblood said. “We ran to the window, and I saw something going like this. And I thought, what the? And I turned this way and there was a wall of mud coming toward us. We didn’t have any time to do anything. I basically said, ‘OK, creator, if you want me, here I am.’”
Somehow, they had survived, trapped amid what was left of Youngblood’s home. The force of the mud tore the roof off Youngblood’s home, and she recalled standing atop the washer or dryer to get out of the mud. She saw help from above as the helicopter descended upon their location. Then, there was another sign that someone was looking out for her.
“The painting kind of floated up between us,” Youngblood said. “And I told her, ‘OK, look at his eyes. He's telling us that we're going to be saved. It'll be all right.’”
The painting, which is of a Cherokee night warrior, is significant to Youngblood, who is a Native American pastor. She’s part Cherokee on her mother’s side and part Colville on her father’s side. The painting was a gift from another Native American artist she’s cherished for years.
“What a night warrior is, is somebody who is the sentry at night,” Youngblood said. “The one who forewarns people if something is happening. Or the one who protects the people if danger comes.”
Moments later, Fay, the rescue technician, was on his way down the line and hooking up Dooper for extraction. Once she was safe in the helicopter, he came back for Youngblood.
“She had a painting of this Indian warrior,” he remembered. “It was clearly meaningful for her, and I told her, ‘You can't take that.’ And I remember that she didn't fight me on it, but she had a reaction to that. So, we got her up and when they came to extract me again, I just grabbed the painting and took it up with me.”
It was a moment of compassion amid the chaos. During a search and rescue, saving possessions is typically frowned upon, and Fay later faced discipline from his sergeant. But for a woman who now had nothing, it meant everything.
“It was very satisfying to have that one piece of her life there to give to her,” Fay said. “So, I felt good about that after it was done.”
Youngblood still has the painting hanging in her bedroom just outside of Ashville, North Carolina.
“Let’s put it this way; we’re soul bonded,” said Youngblood.
She only wiped away the mud a couple of years ago after settling in North Carolina. Her house sits atop a hill surrounded by trees with a view of the Blue Ridge Mountains from her sunroom. It’s peaceful there.
“Basically, I've spent the last 10 years trying to find safety again,” said Youngblood.
After two years of driving past the slide area frequently, she couldn’t take it anymore. Her first move was across the state, near Tonasket. But that summer, wildfire smoke was intolerable. She headed south, near Arizona, where toxic mine dust drove her out. Living near friends in North Carolina has mostly put her at ease. But it’s not home. And at 74, she has concluded that safety is an illusion.
“There’s always going to be something happening in our lives that we’re not going to like or be prepared for,” she said. “I want to go home. And home for me is Washington.”
Youngblood said she plans to fly to Washington for the 10th anniversary of the slide and reconnect with her former neighbors and some old friends, like Fay.
Fay and his team rescued eight people the day of the landslide. Shortly after rescuing Youngblood and Dooper, they brought 4-year-old Jacob Spillers aboard. His home was gone, along with his father and three siblings. His mother, Jonielle, was at work at the time of the slide and didn’t reunite with her little boy for several hours. Fortunately for Spillers, Youngblood was there.
“When we got him to the road to drop him off, Robin came out and grabbed him. It was beautiful,” Fay said, holding back tears.
For Fay and the team, Oso wasn’t just another mission; it was a life-changing event. Quistorf said there were lessons learned but also affirmation of the hard work they put in.
“I always think that we were ready for that as an agency, a rescue team, because (we) practiced and trained over and over again,” Quistorf said. “To me, that’s the big takeaway. And 10 years later, on all our joint exercises that goes through my mind.”
Fay said he spent the rest of his air operations career hoping he would never have to go through something of that scale again. His days of hanging off the side of helicopters are over, but the memories from Oso will always be with him.
“A lot of times we rescue folks on ‘onesie-twosie’ kind of missions,” Fay said. “We drop them off at the hospital and never see them again. We don’t always know what the end of the story is. Jacob came out of this, and Robin came out of it, and having seen them a couple times since, that’s very reassuring.”