All through the night, the Osts, the Fredericks, and the others trapped
above the slide shuddered with each new quake, and then listened for the
repeated thunderous crashings of the avalanches which echoed loudly
against the canyon walls. Every 15 to 20 minutes all that morning there
would be another shock.
[Illustration: Flooded stream.]
They were thankful that their families were complete. Fredericks, nearly
exhausted from his work in helping rescue those trapped by the rapidly
advancing water above the slide, tried to sleep, but the excitement and
uncertainty kept the whole group awake. At dawn, which came at about
five, the first of the many small planes flew over the canyon. The light
gave the group a clear view of the opposite side of the canyon, and they
could see how the mountain had turned loose, crashing down onto the
canyon floor, surging up the other side of the canyon to a height
two-thirds of the height of its original location, and then shooting
both up and down the canyon. They could now see the mud, debris and the
accumulating water which had covered their cars and camp.
In the early light they used merthiolate and dressings from a first-aid
kit to treat the worst of the previous night's injuries. The two dozen
eggs, somehow rescued intact in their flight up the canyon side, fried
with canned potatoes and served on bread, plus coffee made a heartening
breakfast. The Smiths, who'd fled the Beaver Creek Campground at the
time of the quake, joined them, making a total of 21 in the group.
A small, orange and silver plane swooped low, circled, and waving its
wings, flew east toward the dam. They took heart in the fact that they'd
been discovered.
[Illustration: Parachute drops from air rescue.]
Half an hour later, the plane flew over again, very low, dropping an
orange streamer fastened to an envelope. The envelope was torn open by a
branch, and the message floated down by itself. With fresh horror they
read it. It said, "Fire down by river bridge on ridge top. Get going."