Rescue from the Red (Angels on Assignment)

Introduction: My dad, Van Vander Ark, wrote a couple of rough drafts of this article in 2000, 2 years before he passed away. He had been an avid snowmobiler for a good portion of his life and covered (for the press) both the I-500 Winnipeg to St. Paul snowmobile race and the Midnight Sun 600 from Anchorage to Fairbanks, Alaska. He loved snowmobiling and told our family this story many years ago. I didn’t know until a couple of years ago that those rough drafts existed. To honor him I tried my best to piece this account together. So the following is the recounting of this amazing rescue…

******************************************************************************

The years have passed quickly since that January day in 1986, but I can still see the terrified look in the eyes of then 14 year old Stephanie of Fargo, ND. For some time her step-father Shawn had struggled to pull her out of the raging current in the open water below a spillway on the Red River of the North, but he was unable to. The “Red” forms the border between most of North Dakota and a large portion of Minnesota as it winds its way past Winnipeg, Manitoba and into Lake Winnipeg, the world's 12th largest inland lake.

The two had decided to take a snowmobile ride on the Red River, starting south of Fargo-Moorhead in a tree-lined sheltered area. The area was new to them and they were not aware of the unmarked spillway and the open water below it. In later years this spillway and one further north and closer to downtown Fargo-Moorhead became known as the “drowning machines”— anything that was caught in the deathly grip of the whirlpool rarely survived.

The two rode north with Shawn in the lead. Shawn noticed a trail on the Fargo side of the river and followed it to see where it went. When he saw the spillway he raced back to stop Stephanie, but arrived too late as she rode her machine down the center of the wide river and sailed off the edge of the spillway. Her snowmobile sunk below her and the strong current pushed her body into a V-shaped area of ice on the far side of the open water. Shawn abandoned his machine close to the edge of the spillway and ran around it and onto the ice to try to pull Stephanie out. But as strong as he was, he couldn't overcome the force of the water that held most of her body under the ice’s edge. In fact the current was so strong that it actually pulled off her snowmobile boots. The two struggled without success and the roar of the spillway drowned out their cries for help. The normally busy winter recreational area was void of anyone coming by, perhaps because of the somewhat adverse weather conditions and also the fact that it was time for an NFL football playoff game.

That morning something seemed to be nagging at me to take a ride on my old cross country racer. It was an older 1978 Polaris TXL 340 with a somewhat smaller engine that would top out at about 75 mph. And it was a rough riding snowmobile made before the much smoother independent suspension machines. The day was far from desirable for a ride as the preceding day had been very warm and melted the wind-swept drifts in the flat fields and ditches. The snow had frozen rock hard overnight and so I kept telling myself it would be foolish to ride on such a day. It was overcast, which meant the hardened drifts would be more difficult to see, a fairly strong wind was blowing. Plus the clutch on my machine had just been repaired by the dealer but still appeared to be misaligned.

Given all of that I still couldn't get over the feeling that I had to go to the Red. Finally, I suited up and told my wife Dorothy that I just wanted to check out the clutch and not to worry as I might ride all of the way to the river. We lived several miles east of Moorhead on the south side of Interstate 94. I was then a 56 year old salesman for KFGO radio station in Fargo where I had worked for the past 24 years. My wife asked me if I wouldn't rather stay home and sit by the fireplace and watch the football game. Normally I would have taken her up on it, but I mumbled some sort of excuse and fired up the old TX. When I got to the end of the driveway I then remembered that I had left a rope in the garage that I usually carried in my snowmobile. Just in case I needed it, I went back and tucked it into the storage compartment.

The ditch drifts were hard and jarring. About half way to the Red I stopped by a group of trees to warm my hands under the exhaust of the snowmobile. I debated about continuing on -- the lure to return to the fireside was strong, but I decided to keep going. I finally reached the Red at what was known as the Monastery Bridge where I would usually stop to rest my arms. But this time I decided not to stop and so I kept riding south just a short distance. As I continued on the twisting river the lack of the normal traffic became obvious. I was always careful to watch out for snowmobilers riding on the wrong side in the sharp corners, but seeing only one person in the highway-wide stretch of the river that went north toward the spillway, I began to push the old racer to see what it could still do. The machine went wide open into the corner, and then backed off for a moment, then full throttle again. The speed and the thrill of riding reminded me of the time I rode as a press entrant several years prior in the Winnipeg-St. Paul I-500 snowmobile race.

The last corner before the spillway was broad and I held the throttle wide open. The track studs finally caught in the hard-pack and the old machine seemed to leap ahead. The side of the high windshield folded back telling me without looking at the speedometer that I was doing at least 75 mph.

I slowed for the unmarked spillway and saw a snowmobile parked close to its edge, wondering why anyone would leave it there. Stopping further back, I ran up and looked over the edge and saw Shawn lying spread eagle on the ice and appearing to be trying to retrieve a helmet in the water. But when I looked closer I could see that someone was in the water! I waved my arms and shouted that I was coming, but they couldn't hear me over the roar of the spillway. I raced back to my snowmobile that was still idling and drove as fast as I could around the spillway on the trail. I grabbed my rope (that I had nearly forgotten to bring along) and ran out onto the ice.

It was then I looked into the terrified eyes of Stephanie. Shawn would later tell me that they had been struggling for about 15 minutes and that their cries for help to the nearby homes were drowned out by the roar of the spillway. And he didn't know if his numbed hands could hold her much longer. He would also later tell me that when he saw me run back from the spillway's edge that he thought I didn't want to get involved. They had both prayed that God would hear their cries and send someone to help them in their desperate situation.

Shawn couldn’t bear the thought of how he would ever explain to Stephanie's mother that he simply couldn't hold onto her any longer and that she was swept away by the violence of the current and was lost under the ice.

We both pulled on Stephanie but to no avail. I then yelled at Shawn to take the end of my rope and throw it out into the current so it could circle her and then tie it under her arms. With his remaining strength he was able to do it, holding on to her with one hand and tying the rope with the other.

But we both pulled without success. The current wedged her body tightly under the ice. I yelled at Shawn that when I yelled "go" to reach over Stephanie as far as he could, grab her by the seat and pull her up against the current. I backed away from the water’s edge to the end of the rope and was able to get leverage when I found a little bump on the ice. I held the rope tightly, braced my feet against the bump and I yelled for him to “GO!” Shawn grabbed Stephanie as I pulled, and she finally slid out onto the ice past both of us. The force of the current had ripped off her boots and her long black stockings were hanging far below her feet when she was finally popped out onto the ice.

After a quick look to make sure Shawn was OK, I got Stephanie on the back of my machine and told her to hang on tight. We raced back up the trail, across the river, up a steep bank and skidded into the front yard where a young college student looked at us in surprise. I told him she had been in the river for some time and we needed help fast. He yelled at his sister as we took off Stephanie’s snowmobile suit. The young lady put her in a warm shower. Stephanie was going to be alright.

I don't know how Shawn and Stephanie are doing today, but I assume they are both fine. She will be about 28 and I will be 70. But, at times I still wonder why I felt so compelled to ride to the Red River of the North on a day when I knew the ride would be so difficult. And why had I returned for the rope? And why had I decided (after stopping half way) to continue? And why didn't I stop to rest under the bridge as I normally did? And why had I changed direction to go back to the spillway? And why was the rope was just long enough to reach a little bump in the ice where I was able to get the needed leverage to help pull Stephanie out of the icy water?

I believe God answered their prayers for help -- and sent an "Angel on Assignment."