A Thanksgiving to Remember. 1998

How I Spent My Thanksgiving Vacation

November 1998

           

Somehow I never figured that I would be killed while trying to call a friend to tell him that I was safe and had survived my weekend in the woods.

            Sure enough, there I was in my car Sunday afternoon, hanging off the edge of a dirt road with the mountain falling away to a ravine on the right.  I was hanging, I knew, because the seat belt was keeping me from sliding out of my seat.  I was screwed, and I knew it. I also was scared to death.

            This is a Thanksgiving Story, one man’s search for refuge from the Rockwellian holiday missing from this year’s calendar.  Good and kind friends took me in for a very nice Thanksgiving dinner; strangers saved the weekend, and quite possibly, my life.

            You never know what is going to happen when you go backpacking.  It is not supposed to be about survival, but you are quite isolated and a nasty spill, or just an awkward step, could mean real trouble. As it happened the wilderness experience was the easy part.

            I had gone to the Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest, just this side of the Smokies.  To get to the trailhead, I took a left at Asheville and drove almost to Tennessee, went 13 miles past Robbinsville and then seven miles up a winding dirt logging road.  It’s Dickey country, the area Atlanta bomber Eric Rudolph came from and then went to disappear.

            For the record, the hike started at Fat Gap, at an elevation of about 3,000 feet.  For the first 1.5 miles, the trail dropped quickly, ending at Slick Rock Creek Trail at about 2,000 feet.  It was very cold and got colder as I remembered that I had not packed a little whisky to fight off the chill.

            On Saturday, I headed toward Naked Ground, a gap known as a major junction of old Cherokee trails, and I worked my way up to about 4,000 feet before reaching some very steep grades. I decided to double back to avoid a difficult  climb over boulders and around a large tree that blocked the trail.

            Sunday would be my best hiking day, and I did not finally decide to leave the woods until early afternoon.  It was a cold morning as I sat reading Cold Mountain and considering where to go and whether to stay in the woods another night or two.  My feet were cold, and I was soon cursing my stupidity for somehow not bringing extra socks.

            The first 2.5 miles were downhill, steep at first and then moderate. Dressed for the cold, I worked up a good sweat and had hit a great stride. An hour later and winded, I followed a false trail and slipped while boulder-hopping Hangover Creek.  It could have been far worse, but my boots got drenched.  Hemmed in by rhododendron and whipped from the walk and the spill, I took a break and let my feet breathe while socks and boots dried on rocks in the early afternoon sun.

            Doubling back meant I was now close to Fat Gap Trail and 1.5 miles from the car. Faced with soggy boots and socks, I chose bare feet and running shoes to return me to the proper side of the creek and get me back underway.  I figured that comfortable running shoes would be OK for flat hiking, so I strapped the boots and socks onto my pack and started walking.

            Sunday afternoon was gorgeous. The winter forest was naked and beautiful, with broad leaves covering and sometimes hiding the trail. Forests are mystical places, and this was a special visit as it was my first winter hike. But given the choice of [itching camp alongside the river again or walking on out and coming home, I decided to come home.

            It was, indeed, a time for giving thanks and I started naming and counting blessings as I found the cadence that would get me up the hill.

            While taking my pack off, I found that a strap had snapped open and I was missing my left boot and a water bottle. Someone will no doubt wonder how a single boot wound up beside the trail.

            Then I was back in the car, headed back down the mountain. I snapped my seat belt, something I don’t ordinarily do, thinking that I didn’t walk all this way just to die in the car.

            I was making the last hairpin turn and was straightening the car for the last leg when things got weird.  I think the cellular phone distracted me when I felt the Saturn roll up on the left side of the road and then move quickly to the right.  I jammed the brakes and yanked the steering wheel hard left as the car slid toward the edge of the road.  The car tipped and then stopped; I was leaning against the shoulder strap, my heart in my throat, afraid to breathe.

            The ground disappeared beneath me and I could see a tree out the right window.  Then everything stopped.  These things only happen in slow motion when you look back.

            “Oh fuck! This is not good.”

            I was so scared I could not draw a breath. I knew that I was stuck.  It was Sunday afternoon and I was inches away from absolute disaster in just about the middle of nowhere.  I could see a bridge at the bottom of the hill and the paved road beyond.

            God, do not let me fall!

            My life did not exactly pass before my eyes, but thoughts did race through.  I wondered whether this was where my life would end; I thought about my 10-year-old son, about my destiny, and what I have contributed during my lifetime, people I have hurt, those I have helped, people who care about me and those who don’t. 

            I thought about things that I have done, both good and bad.  I considered my fate, and soon determined that this was not the way I would die.

            I did not want to do anything that might shift the littlest bit of weight, but I could reach the cell phone. I hit 9-1-1 and Send. Nothing. No service; this is, after all, way back in the hills. I try and again … crackling, then a woman’s voice, “Sheriff’s Department.” Then nothing.

Not more than a minute passed when I saw a green minivan turning onto the bridge. Then another left and it was slowly moving up the hill.  Can this be real? Can help be coming so soon?

            The power window came down as the minivan stopped alongside.  The thought ‘what should I say was barely forming before his window was down and I said, “I’m kinda screwed, huh?”  I think I tried to smile, but I am sure my eyes screamed fear.

            Billy Lewis stepped from the van.  He said something like, “I don’t think I would move if I was you.  I don’t think it’s gonna fall, but it might.” Then he had a radio in his hand, and I thought I was surely dreaming.

            “I’m Billy Lewis and I’m with the Graham County Rescue Squad. Me and the missus were just coming back from Pigeon Forge and she saw your car up here,” he said.  He was on his two-way radio with the dispatcher, telling them the situation and that he needed a wrecker “pretty darn quick” because he wasn’t sure the car wasn’t going to slide off the side with me in it.

            Teresa Lewis comes around from the other side of the van and says hello. I thank her for spotting the car and ask if they have been Christmas shopping. They have.

            Lewis pulled out a pager and some other equipment and said, “let me get my stuff on since I am back in the county.” He said he wished they were in his truck because they could have chained the Saturn to it to keep it from sliding.

            He kept up a radio conversation, and I heard a dispatcher say, “Hal’s got the call.”  Lewis got Hal on the radio, and I heard the tow truck driver say something about being at the 14-mile marker and he’ll be here as quick as he can.  Lewis told him to make it quick. Lewis told me Hal was 45 minutes away.

            By this time, I can at least breathe. He says it’s possible that the car could still roll, but he doesn’t think that it will.  I say it might just slide into that tree and not slip down into the ravine, but he lets me know that my head might be squashed against that tree if the car rolls.

            Billy and Teresa Lewis look to have an easy relationship that comes with being comfortable married.  They seem like quality God-fearing folks, and I immediately trust him as a good man who knows his job.  I feel safer, but I am still on the inside looking out, and I can still see hat tree.

Looking down toward the road, I see a big truck backing across the bridge, one of those 18-wheel type tractors looking for a trailer.  The rig comes rattling up the road backwards, and I am thinking this is going to shake me over the side.  But the truck stops and two guys, one big and one small, get out.  They have heard about me on the police radio and come to see if they can help.

While they size things up, I notice that the smaller man is holding a nearly empty 20-oz Diet Coke. As Diet Cokes are a major passion and I have been without one or 48 hours, I ask, “you wouldn’t have another one of those in the truck, would you?” “I do,” he says.  “I’ll give you 20 bucks for it,” I say.  He laughs, “It’ll cost you $50.”

Those on the outside are still puzzling over my situation and I’ve probably been stuck here for, maybe, 30 minutes.  But I am still alive, my luck is holding and I even have a cold Diet Coke in my hand.

The larger man says they can hold my car down and keep it from sliding while I get out. I hate the thought of moving and know that the car could still slide.  I ask Lewis for his professional opinion and then take it.  He says he would rather have me out of the car instead of in it. They grab the car, and I try to think, “light an dainty” as I push open my door and slip out.

I cannot remember feeling more alive.

Lewis radios the tow truck driver and tells him (and the greater Robbinsville police scanner audience) that I am out of the car and he can slow down. Hal Queen and his towing rig make the turn up the hill just after the two fellas in the big rig have accepted my sincere thanks and pulled away.

Queen is a friendly guy with a quick grin that splits his face from ear to ear. He drives a seasoned truck that has a serious winch.  He moves quickly and confidently, like a man who has solved a lot worse problems than mine. Amazingly, the car is again on the road with no problems that soap and water can’t fix. Not a flat, not a wrinkle, not even an alignment problem.

I dig my wallet out of my pack and ask Hal for a price. I say I have Triple-A, credit cards, and some cash. “Cash is good everywhere," he says.  How much? He scrunches his face and says $40.  I say OK, thankful that I have it. He grins, takes the money, and is off on another call.

The Lewises and I say our goodbyes and I am back on the road.  It is barely 4:30 and the entire drama – from near-death fright to fully functioning auto – has lasted maybe an hour.

Things have moved so quickly, that I have to make myself believe that it was real.  I stop a few miles down the road to gather my wits and Hal and the Lewises pass me headed into town.

Drawing near Robbinsville, I am thinking there must be something I can do to thank them, to commend two men for doing there jobs and doing them well.  I decide to write the local newspaper and praise the local folks for helping a stranger in need. But I wasn’t sure of anybody’s name and will never know the two fellas who gave me a Diet Coke and helped me out of danger.

As I get into town, I see blue lights flashing and an ambulance on the scene.  A young girl in a white Toyota has pulled out in front of a truck and the driver’s side of her car is caved in.  She’s lucky, too. Just a scratch on her elbow.

Hal Queen is in the middle of things, hooking up her car to clear the intersection. I stop to say thanks, again.  He gives me a surprised “hey, I know you” look and his shit-eatin’ grin and then gives me his name and address.  I ask about the Lewises and he points me to a fella on the corner, one of a dozen or so local folks who have come to watch what is left of an almost-serious fender bender.

“I heard about you on the radio,” the man says, acknowledging my 15 minutes of local fame.  I tell him how great the Lewises were and about the two fellas in the heavy rig who helped pull me to safety.

“People here ill help you, it don’t matter none who you are,” he says. “If they can help you, they will. They’s just like that.”

Just then, another truck goes by, this one driven by a small dark-skinned man in a blue shirt who also had helped get my car off the mountain. He simply raises a hand in passing recognition. What’s his name,” I ask. “I dunno, he’s some Injun fella.”

With that, I am back in the Saturn, headed to Columbia and it is a little past 5. My two days in the woods pale in comparison to my last two hours in civilization.

The writer in me pulls over in a parking lot a few minutes out of town. I have been keeping a journal while I the woods and I need to record the details of this flirtation with disaster. I sit outside Delmar’s House of Prayer, a small church with a portable sign bearing an appropriate Thanksgiving message minus a letter here or there.

I have been scribbling for about 15 minutes when a long black new Volvo pulls up alongside. The driver asks me if I am here for services, but then notices that services do not start until 6:30 and that is an hour away. I mumble something about just stopping to write something down before I forget it.

He pulls into a parking place to wait, and I notice that it is an expensive car with South Carolina plates, and this is a simple church.  Something about this feels a little funny, and I have all the weird that I can take for one day. I get back on the road for Columbia and sleep in my own bed Sunday night.

-30-

Adventures are, by nature, unpredictable. This one was no exception, ultimately deemed "not a good fit," though it seemed like a good idea at the time. Perhaps I will one day tell the story of the 40 days at the Moultrie News. That can wait. For now, a look back my return from the woods. 

From the Forest to the Newsroom

        

         The temperature dropped to 35 degrees my last night on the Appalachian Trail, but I left my tent early to watch the sun rise over a New Jersey mountain and burn away the fog that covered the Delaware River.

         My fourth season as a trail ridge runner ended on the second Monday  of this October, and while I was sad to be leaving the forest I was also looking ahead 10 days to far warmer weather and to my wonderful new job back home in South Carolina.

         I am delighted to join the staff of the Moultrie News and am excited to be back in the Lowcountry.  I have put away my backpack, tent and hiking gear and am thrilled to be back in the newspaper business as a reporter, writer and editor.

         Thank you, readers, for giving me the opportunity to share your stories and help you get to know your neighbors and our community.      Let me share my story so you’ll know who wants to share yours.

         I grew up in Greenville, studied political science at Furman and journalism at USC and then fell in love with being a newspaper reporter and landing my first job covering cops and city government for the Daily Item in Sumter. 

         The News and Courier hired me in 1978 to write about city government and politics. That was during Joe Riley’s second term as mayor and the rise of the Republican Party and fledgling politicians like Glenn McConnell and Arthur Ravenel.  I chased the fire trucks and sirens on a Sunday night in 1981 when the old Charleston museum at Calhoun and Rutledge burned; our breaking news coverage of that fire earned a reporting award.

         The State newspaper hired me in 1982 to cover the legislature and politics and I spent a quarter century in Columbia, raising a family, thriving in — and then leaving —the newspaper business and doing TV news for three years as a reporter and twice-weekly commentator. I “switched teams” in 1992, working as communications director for state agencies, answering tough questions instead of asking them.

         Charleston friends questioned my sanity in 2005 when I told them I wanted to be public affairs director for Charleston County schools. Maria Goodloe-Johnson, the county’s first black female school superintendent, desperately needed spokesman and public affairs director. Having spent a decade handling media relations for the state Department of Social Services, I believed could handle most anything.

         I got the job and loved it. Maria moved to Seattle to run their schools in 2007 and I left the District a few months later, happy with what I had been able to accomplish but not a good fit for the new administration. I wept when I heard that Maria had died; she was a wonderful person and a great boss.

        

         The economy tanked in 2008. I was working for the math and science charter school when a budget crisis killed that job.  Fortune smiled and two weeks later I met Charleston attorney Larry Kobrovsky at a deposition. He remembered my work at the State newspaper from a quarter century earlier and later hired me to manage his 2010 Congressional campaign. We finished fourth in the nine-man race that Tim Scott won.

         Hoping for better job prospects and thinking I might have decent  political connections, I moved to Washington DC only to end up back in SC making the finals for a great job with the University of South Carolina.  The high-stress interviews with the search committee and then a one-on-one with the prospective boss hit a wall. I called later for an update only to be told they decided they weren’t going to fill the job.

         Looking back across the years, I sometimes wonder how I have come to be here now writing this story.

         The short answer is Mepkin Abbey. I sought peace in nature there during difficult times and then built a relationship with the brothers during week-long retreats.  The woods have always been my spiritual base, but the mountains were out of reach and I thought the monastery might be the answer. 

         Hard work, solitude and soul-searching brought me answers and peace as I worked through anger and disappointment and anxiety and loss.

         Not knowing what might come next, I vowed to be prepared and to get myself in the best possible shape physically, mentally, emotionally and, especially, spiritually. Suddenly my path seemed clear — now is the time to hike the Appalachian Trail.

         I left Springer Mountain in Georgia on April 2 for the 2,180 mile walk to Maine. (Friends and other hikers always ask whether I saw the governor out there (haha) but I never did, though a man in Franklin, NC told me he had once shuttled him one.)

         I hiked from Georgia to Massachusetts when Hurricane Irene blew through and took Vermont off the hiking map. A young friend and I took a bus to New Hampshire, hiked Mt. Washington and the White Mountains. We caught a ride to Millinocket, celebrated our hike atop Mt. Katahdin, and then hiked south until we just decided it was time to stop hiking.

         Adventurers still, we hitch-hiked home from the middle or nowhere in Maine — first to Virginia Beach to my young friend’s home and then hitching alone to Mount Pleasant, arriving here the last week in October four years ago.

         I returned to the monastery for a few days to give thanks for my journey and amazing adventures and returned to Columbia, still seeking my path. I interviewed for a job as a ridge runner on the Appalachian Trail but had heard nothing more. I looked to Mepkin. Again.

         The Brothers accepted me into the monastic guest program and I spent the 40 days of Lent there in 2012, living and working and praying, living the life of a monk. Those 40 days were, in their own way, more difficult than my six months on the AT.

         The trail folks told me I was on the waiting list for a job in New Jersey, and me while I was at Mepkin to tell me I did not get the ridge runner job, but they asked if they could put me on the waiting list and I said OK.  They called again in early May, offering me a job because another hiker had gotten hurt and had to withdraw. I headed to New Jersey two weeks later and returned each year since.

         The 75 miles of trail in New Jersey are quite beautiful and my years working there have been a joy.  Being paid to camp and hike five days a week is “Living the Dream.”  A thru-hike is an incredible journey and I have been honored to give back the kind of help and support that countless others gave me during my long walk north and my hitch-hike home.

         So many memories; so many stories.

        

         A 400-pound black bear wandered through my campsite one night last summer. He never threatened me, but closed to within 10 yards as he patrolled his neighborhood, but I was the only human within several miles and, frankly, it rattled me and I moved my tent into a wilderness shelter.  Another bear had attacked my tent the year before and run off with my backpack, a crisis that ended well as I found my pack — including my wallet, ID, debit card and car keys — a hundred yards into the trees.

         And others sometime needed help.

         Park police called me late one Sunday night and sent me out to find three hikers who were lost and sitting in the dark a few miles away. I found them and led them to the rangers who transported them off the mountain. 

        

         One Sunday morning, I came across a body laying in the road deep in the forest. I summoned help as the man regained consciousness from a nasty bicycle accident and struggled to remember who he was and what had happened.

         I was pondering what might come next when the job opening at the Moultrie News appeared out of nowhere. I jumped at the opportunity.

         I told Editor Sully Witte in my interview, “I have ink in my blood” and will always be a newspaperman at heart.  Working for a community newspaper, I added, would be “living the dream, but just without the hiking and the tent.”

         I come now to the Moultrie News, once again a newspaperman, returning to a career and working to share news and features in a community I love, one that shaped me personally and professionally. The journey that has sometimes mystified me has now brought me home.

-30-