Bikes, Boats and Helicopters

There's a race of some kind here in Frog Pond Holler tomorrow. Three hundred and fifty cyclists will be furiously pedaling past the cows, pigs and chickens in their obscene little, bulge displaying shorts and goofy little helmets. I don't recall the name of the event, the Tour de Cow Patty or something. The race will pass by my front door, sometime tomorrow morning. I'll be armed with my Nikon in hand.

As they pass my house they will be descending from a steep, winding section of road with switchbacks so deep that vehicles with more than four wheels are prohibited. At the edge of our property lies the first sharp turn after you come down off the mountain and it's a regular occurrence for vehicles to jump the curb there, or at least scrape the hell out of their tires. I've actually got my broken down car parked on just this side of that spot, praying someone in a nice, shiny, new SUV will plow into it. I figure, it's the only way I'll get a new one.

Is it wrong that I'll be camped out on the front porch with my camera waiting for someone to wipe out?

I've heard there was a gathering of hillfolk at the diner this morning, discussing the variety of ways they could mess with the poor cyclists. There was talk of hiding in the roadside kudzu with rubber snakes, releasing a few heiffers in the road just as the unsuspecting athletes (and no doubt, folks of the Northern persuasion) come down off the mountain and placement of a few detour signs which would lead them onto an unpaved road across two peaks and over into Tennessee.

Of course, it was just talk. No one around here would dare get in kudzu this time of year (there are enough real snakes) nor would they risk losing any of their prized cows. I doubt they'd even bother with the detour signs because some fool would end up falling off the road (no guard rails) and sliding down the side of the mountain, which would result in the VFD having to go fish them out and that's just too much like work. During my time on the rescue squad, we were forever having to hike in and carry out people who'd fallen from horseback or wandered off the main hiking trail.

One summer night, all of the county departments were called in to assist in a search for someone who'd gone in the river and hadn't come out. It had been raining for days and the water was raging at full force. We soon learned that the person in question had been drinking and during an argument with his ex-wife, he'd leapt from the bridge. When we got down to the command center, a close friend of mine came running out of nowhere, sobbing and clinging to me. It was her ex-husband who'd jumped. She'd watched him as he'd leapt from the bridge and was begging me to please find him.

We were divided into crews and given instructions, orange vests and flashlights and told to walk the banks of the river. We all knew that we were looking for a body. There was no way anyone could survive that water. Walking along the river bank in the dead of night, shining our lights on rotting, floating logs and anything else a body could have gotten caught on combined with the sound of the wild rushing water was a disturbing experience I'll never forget. The three men who were with me didn't know the woman standing back on shore. She was a close friend of mine. I knew she had two incredible kids at home and I knew that at some point in the next couple of days, she was going to have to tell them their father was dead.

Occasionally during the search, there'd be a voice on the radio calling out that they'd found something and we'd all rush to their location, only to find a discarded Igloo cooler in the brush. You'd be surprised how everyday objects, when hidden in the weeds at the water's edge, with the moonlight hitting them at just the right angle, can resemble part of a floating body.

The search was called off in the wee hours of the morning, then resumed with fresh searchers the following day. Helicopters were brought in, the local rafting companies donated their time and equipment and those of us who'd spent the previous night walking the river bank, set up search lights on the bridge here in Frog Pond Holler, several miles down river from where he'd gone in. We stood there in the wind and occasional light rain, cracking jokes to ease the tension, waiting for his now swollen body to go floating by. The Salvation Army brought us hot coffee and sandwiches, the preacher held our hands and prayed with us.

As I stood there leaning over the railing, watching the water and silently hoping I wouldn't be the first to spot him, all I could think about was my friend Margie, standing there with tear filled eyes behind glasses too big for her face, pleading with me to find him.

More than a week went by before he finally washed up, near the dam and not far from where he first went in. I think everyone in the county breathed a collective sigh of relief when it was finally over.

When tragedy strikes in these hills, the people band together in a way which still amazes me. Almost instantly, there are no enemies, no arguments or grudges, just a lot of people saying, "I'm here, what do you need me to do?" Oh they get back to the quarrelin' an feudin' after all is said in done, but when you need them, they'll be there.

And that's how it should be.