The Voice in the Darkness

A late-night search, a whispered prayer, and a life saved on the edge of a cliff.

It was a warm summer night when the tones went off. Around midnight, my pager buzzed and I was called out with the team to a place called The Needles—rugged, jagged peaks that rise above the Black Hills of South Dakota like granite sentinels. Beautiful by day, they become treacherous after dark. I knew we were in for a long night.

The subject was a woman in her sixties named Joyce. She’d come to the hills with her family from Chicago to hike the nine-mile trail that winds to the top of the Needles. Her family, worried about the terrain and the hour, had gently suggested she stay behind. But Joyce, full of resolve and perhaps a little frustration, waited until they were out of sight... and then tried to follow.

Somewhere along the trail, she vanished.

The local team had already been searching for hours before they called us in. We arrived around 1 AM and began by reviewing what had already been covered. Her car—our Point Last Known—offered little help. We covered terrain that had already been searched, methodically clearing one segment after another.

Law enforcement was considering all angles: foul play, misadventure. But the family insisted—this was just Joyce being Joyce. Stubborn, independent, determined. She must’ve gone after them.

I was handed a three-person team, and we set out again.

After our first assignment, I was offered a chance to rest. But something inside me said “keep going,” so I asked for another area. I proposed starting again at the PLK—the vehicle. We headed back to the trailhead, and after hiking for a solid half hour with no signs, we came to a fork. Right or left.

That’s when Carl—one of my teammates—turned to me and said, “We should pray.”

I’m not usually the type to lead a prayer in the middle of a mission. But this time, I nodded. “Carl, why don’t you take this one.”

There in the quiet darkness, three men knelt on the trail. Carl’s voice was calm and confident—like he’d spoken to God many times before. “Father,” he said, “help us find Joyce. Help us know which path to take.”

When we stood up, we still had to decide. That’s the way it usually works—you pray, then you move. We chose the right-hand trail.

About 500 meters down, as the clock ticked past 2 AM, we called out again: “Joyce! Joyce, we’re here to help!”

And then... faint, distant, almost imagined... a voice called back:

“I’m here.”

I froze. Then I yelled, “Joyce, stay where you are—we’re coming to you!”

We found her not far ahead, trembling from the cold. She was standing—barely—on the edge of a 500-foot cliff in the dark. Early-stage hypothermia had set in. She’d been walking and searching for hours, trying to find her family, with no food, no water, and no idea how close to death she truly was.

We wrapped her in spare clothing, started a fire, and poured her some of the hot chocolate I always carried for situations like this. I keyed up the radio:
“2EM329 to base... we found Joyce. She’s conscious, alert, and breathing.”

In the background, I heard a scream—her family’s relief exploding over the airwaves.

They wanted to send in a basket and lift her out, but Joyce, true to form, insisted on walking. So Carl and I flanked her, step by step, down the mountainside. When we reached the bottom, she fell into her family’s arms. It was raw, emotional, unforgettable.

Before she left, Joyce gave each of us a hug—tight and lingering. Then she was gone. Back to Chicago, back to her life. But she left something behind in those mountains.

I’ve responded to a lot of calls. Some end in tragedy. Others fade into routine. But this one stayed with me. I believe it was prayer—and Carl’s faith—that led us down the right path. Literally. And just in time.

That night, we weren’t just responders.

We were instruments in a miracle.