I shook my head to clear it. I rolled onto my right side, then onto my stomach, and took a deep drink of the ice-cold water — the drink I’d come down to get, before my fall. Then I found a gnarled rhododendron branch snaking down the high, steep embankment, grabbed it with both hands, and pulled myself upward.
I found the pole star again, low above the opposite ridge. It was on my right as I turned downstream. That meant I was still heading west. Still heading for the highway. Still heading for life. I scrabbled uphill as quickly as I could, putting some distance between myself and the stream’s treacherous gorge, and as I did, the effort gradually took away some of the chill.
Eventually I felt, rather than saw, an opening ahead of me. I still couldn’t see my hand in front of my face unless I held it up to create a five-fingered silhouette against the starry sky. But the blackness ahead was suddenly less black than it had been. It seemed like open, empty blackness rather than forested blackness. Grasping a tree branch for safety, I used a foot to probe the ground ahead. It turned rocky, and then it turned to empty air. I was on the brink of another cliff, though I had no way of knowing if it was ten feet high or a hundred. If I turned slightly left, I could continue along what felt like the edge of the precipice — but that would be heading south, not west. Had I come to a sharp bend in the river gorge, or was this a side canyon, carved by a lesser tributary? If it was, then following it would take me back up into the mountains, and that would be disastrous. I had to stop until daylight. I hoped I could make it until daylight.
Once again I braced my feet on a tree and lay down on steeply sloping ground. As before, I began to shiver within a few minutes of lying down. This time, unable to press onward, I jumped in place to warm up. I shook my arms and hands — my fingers had remained numb ever since my tumble into the stream — to keep the blood circulating. After warming up, I lay back down until the shivering recommenced, and then I jumped and flapped my arms again madly.
The third time I lay down to rest, I must have slept briefly, because when I opened my eyes, the sky had gone from black to gray. I had survived the night — the near fall off a ledge, the near miss with the boulder in the landslide zone, the hard tumble into the frigid stream. As the terrain around me grew visible and the air began to warm, the odds began shifting in my favor for the first time since sundown. I took a deep breath and exhaled, smiling at the plume of fog in the cold, pale light.
I’d been wise to wait. I had indeed come to a side canyon, and the bluff here was fifty feet high, with only a few narrow notches that could be descended. A tall, thin tree slanted up through one of these. Leaning out, I grabbed the tree with both hands, braced against it, and chimneyed down the cleft. Once down, I stepped across the small stream that had carved the ravine and continued along the left bank of the West Prong.
A short distance after I’d crossed the tributary, the river curved to the left, and as I rounded the curve, I felt my breath catch: A hundred yards away was the bridge over Laurel Creek Road — the bridge I’d been aiming for all night. I was exhausted and hurt, but I was alive, and I’d made it.
As I approached the bridge, the left bank grew increasingly steep. There was no avoiding it: I’d have to ford the river one more time. Damn, I thought, but I half smiled. I can do this. This is nothing.
I stripped once more, rolled up my clothes, and hung my shoes around my neck again. The river was bigger and deeper here than at the spot I’d forded far upstream — this time the ice-cold water rose above my waist, nearly to my armpits. As before, I quickly lost feeling in my feet, but, mercifully, the river bottom was sandy and smooth, and I crossed without stumbling. As I emerged near the base of the bridge, steam swirled from my naked body into the golden light of morning. I dressed as best I could — this time there was no hope of tying my shoes — then ascended the bank and turned north onto Laurel Creek Road. I was miles from my truck — possibly farther than I’d been at any time since I made the fateful decision to bushwhack — but unless whoever had fired five shots at me happened to be cruising this stretch of road looking for me, I was in less peril now than at any time since I’d veered off the trail.
I heard a car winding up the road. Stepping into the center of the pavement, I waved both arms to flag it down. The driver, a middle-aged woman, rolled her window down half an inch, eyeing me with deep suspicion.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said, “but I’m wondering if you have a cell phone and if you’d be willing to make an emergency call for me?”
“Yes, I have a cell phone.” From the dubious tone of her voice, I suspected she might call to report that a sinister stranger was trying to abduct her.
“I was stranded in the mountains all night,” I explained, “I think maybe I’ve got some bruised ribs, and I expect the park rangers are starting a search for me along about now.”
She took a closer look at me, and I could see her eyes taking in the scratches on my face, the rips in my clothes, and the exhaustion in my posture. Her eyes softened. “Oh, my stars,” she said, “get in the car.” She unlocked the passenger door, and I eased myself down into the seat. “I’ll take you to the ranger station at Cades Cove.”
I hesitated. “I hate to impose, but my truck’s parked at Tremont, and I’m guessing that’s where they’ll start the search. Would you be willing to backtrack and take me to Tremont?” Pulling onto the shoulder, she made a quick U-turn. A moment later I heard a loud, staccato clacking; when the woman glanced at me in alarm and cranked the heater up to full blast, I realized the clacking was coming from my chattering teeth.
“Thank you,” I said. “You’re very kind.”
We reached the Tremont turnoff in five minutes or less, then made it to the end of the gravel road in another ten. Amazing, I thought. In fifteen minutes we’ve covered the same distance it took me twelve hours to crawl last night.
At the turnaround loop, two park-police SUVs were idling beside my truck. As I got out of the car and hobbled toward the truck, a ranger emerged from one of the SUVs. He glanced at me briefly, and then his eyes widened. “It’s you,” he said.
“Yes, it’s me.”
CHAPTER 42
“And you think someone took a shot at you?” The ranger, a bearded, middle-aged fellow named Stapleton, seemed skeptical, as if he suspected that my night in the mountains had played tricks on my mind. That wouldn’t have been an unreasonable thing for him to suspect, I realized. Ranger Stapleton was sitting behind the wheel of a Jeep Cherokee that was painted pea green — a color so hideous that the park service could be certain no car thief would ever be tempted to steal the vehicle. I sat in the Jeep’s passenger seat, the heater blasting blessedly hot.
“Five shots,” I said, tipping aside the oxygen mask so as not to muffle the words. The mask had been handed to me by another ranger, a young paramedic named Nick, who was leaning through the Jeep’s passenger window with a stethoscope and a blood-pressure cuff. Before offering me oxygen and checking my vital signs, Nick had draped my shoulders with his own jacket, a bright yellow fleece. I took another whiff of oxygen, then added, “Maybe the shell cases are still there. I can show you where he was.”
“You stay put till the ambulance gets here,” said Nick.