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.

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