Dean and Gary, meanwhile, had been trying with no success to radio search-and-rescue headquarters for help. They debated what to do. It would take a long time to backtrack for help. And given that boot print they saw, the kid might be close. “We have a little daylight left,” Dean said. “We've gotta get him out before dark.”
They traced the path into the basin, thrashing through brush. The tracks led up onto an abandoned logging road and back into the ravine. They found places where Andy must have broken through and fallen into the creek. Then, in a grove of trees, they saw the bed of boughs. The kid had spent the night here. “Andy Zeller！ Andy！” they called out, over and over.
The trail led downstream. Dean and Gary followed the tracks until they dead-ended； the ravine walls became too steep to continue. Footprints milled around, ranging here and there. The men could not make out which way the kid had gone —— and the light was fading.
After slogging for so many hours, the two searchers were exhausted, wet with sweat and cooling quickly. Reluctantly, Dean and Gary decided to trek out and resume in the morning. Again they called to Andy, hoping like mad to hear a response. “Andy！ Andy Zeller！” There was no sound except for an eerie, unbroken silence.
Andy had finally reached the edge of the clearing and was sunk up to his armpits. He was struggling for each step, struggling to make headway. Then came the moment： When he heaved one leg out of the snow, the ski boot stayed put —— and there in the freezing air was his foot, covered only in a damp wool sock. In desperation Andy dug the boot out. Leaning against a tree for balance, he tried without luck to shove his foot back in.
A bit later, a small plane flew overhead, so low Andy could read the numbers on the wings. The plane quickly disappeared. Stunned, unbelieving, Andy strained to listen. The sound faded to a heartbreaking silence. At least I know people are looking for me！ he thought. If they're in the air, they're on the ground too.
His hands were useless by now, and his exposed foot was painful and swollen. He abandoned the ski boot and crawled into the clearing, hoping the plane would pass again. He was exhausted, struggling to keep warm.
That's it. I'm staying here, he decided. I'll dig a snow cave. Unable to stand, he dug into the slope from where he sat. He soon reached ground level. The cave was small and shallow, but it was the best he could do. He would sit and wait. And pray to God. The light faded as he drifted in and out of sleep. He dreamed of catching rabbits to make shoes for his freezing feet. He thought, Bunny slippers would be incredibly warm. And as the wind howled and temperatures dropped, the search was called off for a second night. Some news reports had already written Andy off as dead and gone.
In the predawn hours of Saturday, Shawn Cross, a survival-school instructor at Fairchild Air Force Base in Spokane, pulled into the Silver Mountain parking lot. He had brought along three buddies from the school. Shawn had been following the story of the missing teenager on TV since Thursday. As the men were unloading their car, a woman approached. “Excuse me,” she said. “Are you the Air Force boys？”
“Yes, ma'am, we are,” Shawn said.
Eileen Zeller looked him in the eye. She'd been pacing, hardly sleeping at all since she, her husband and her younger son had arrived at the mountain. She said, “Please find my son.”
Shawn met her gaze. “I'll find him.”
