Lucky to be Alive

This is Mount LeConte. The third-highest peak in Great Smoky Mountains National Park, its summit lodge and unrestricted views attract thousands of hearty hikers each year. There are five routes to the top, each of varying degrees of difficulty. Even the easiest and most popular of the bunch, Alum Cave, is no mere walk in the park.

On Monday, September 9, the weather forecast was ideal: 70 degrees along the trail, 60 degrees at the summit, low humidity and nary a cloud in the sky. Knowing I had a new job waiting for me the following Monday, I woke up before dawn, printed out my parking permit, and made the one-hour drive to the Rainbow Falls parking lot, where the plan was to take the Rainbow Falls Trail up and either the Trillium Gap Trail or the Bullhead Trail down. I packed two bottles of Gatorade, two liters of water, and lots of trail food (beef sticks, pretzel sticks, honey stinger energy chews, trail mix). I bought a brownie at the LeConte Lodge store, topped off my water, and tightened my laces for the descent, deciding on the Bullhead Trail, which was roughly one-half mile longer than the Trillium Gap but which led directly to my starting parking lot, rather than to an additional connector trail that roughly paralleled the paved, Roaring Fork Motorway for 1.7 miles from the bottom of Trillium Gap to the bottom of Rainbow Falls.

It was late when I headed down, after 3:30 pm, so my choice of the shorter trail was the correct one, right? Seeing as I’m writing this with three broken bones, limited mobility in both arms, and a fresh forehead scar, I’d say I chose poorly.

Why I Hike

I have loved the great outdoors for as long as I can remember. As a Cub Scout, I earned every merit badge possible. As a teenager visiting relatives in Wisconsin Dells, I was constantly disappearing into the woods behind their home. I once caught a hearty case of chiggers when my parents took me to a cookout at a friend’s wooded estate, but that didn’t stop me from trying to blaze my own trail along the perimeter of their yard. A few years post-college, I moved to Los Angeles and instantly grew obsessed with the labyrinth of hiking trails that surrounded the nation’s second-largest city. I hiked all 65 miles of the Backbone Trail, an east-west hiking, biking, and equestrian trail that spanned the Santa Monica Mountains. The trail wasn’t completed yet, but that didn’t stop me. I climbed Half Dome, Yosemite’s granite landmark in 2002 and summited Mount Whitney, the highest summit in the Lower 48 United States, three months later. In 2010, I set out to climb the Matterhorn, in Switzerland, on a lark, only to be turned back by snow and hail. Later that year, I summited Mount Kilimanjaro, Africa’s highest peak and the tallest free-standing mountain in the world. I write all of this not to brag, but to illustrate my obsession.

I couldn’t get enough. Working out in a gym, jogging in place on a treadmill, wiping someone else’s sweat off an elliptical machine, lifting weights with no view for inspiration, has never been for me. I enjoy swimming and I like a good beach as much as the next guy, but I’ve always felt safer on solid ground than in open water. I’m not athletically coordinated enough for basketball or baseball, and am too skinny for football and wrestling. Lastly, while I love trail walking, with its uphill gains usually leading to some kind of grand view, I have never enjoyed running. As for the long-term damage downhill hiking does to one’s knees, I’d wager it as being on par with knee strain experienced by runners. The last few years have found my knees hurting more and more following each long hike, and I fully accept the inevitability of knee surgery if I keep hiking. If the side effect of a day of fresh air, good views, and a solid, full-body workout is a few days’ knee pain afterwards, this has always seemed a fair tradeoff.

Lately, though, the knee pain has been worsening, especially on long hikes, and on any hike with significant uphill or downhill. I’ve managed the situation by using a foot spa, by reducing my hiking frequency, by stretching most mornings before getting out of bed, by slowing my descent once on the trail, and by not putting on my hiking boots until I reach the actual trailhead, driving there in sandals or breathable sneakers instead. I should have paid heed to that voice that said, “Careful, gringo, you’re not young anymore. You have nothing to prove to anyone. Go knock out a quick, easy nature trail if you really must get outdoors, but otherwise, sleep in and stop deluding yourself into thinking you actually enjoy these punishing hikes!” “But I do, I do!” I said to that voice, and set my alarm for 5:45 Monday morning.

The Loop Hike

The 6.6-mile Rainbow Falls Trail ascends for 4,000 feet (1,200 meters) from a parking lot located on the outskirts of Gatlinburg, where Cherokee Orchard Road meets the Roaring Fork Motorway. Two other trails branch off here just past the trailhead; one is a 1.7-mile connector trail to the Trillium Gap/Grotto Falls Trail, the other the 6.9-mile Bullhead trail. Trillium is open to hikers and llamas, Bullhead to hikers and equestrians, Rainbow Falls, due to its steepness and tendency to turn slippery after periods of heavy rain or snowmelt, is open to hikers only.

All three trails lead to Mount LeConte. The only way down from LeConte is by foot. I asked at the summit lodge more than once what a helicopter rescue would cost a hiker who is simply too weary to make the downhill return. Both times, I was given a quote of $30,000.  “Sucks to be them,” I probably chuckled to myself.

The Rainbow Falls Trail is so-named for the year-round, 80-foot cascade that pours down a sheer cliff face, set back from the trail itself and an easy scramble for those wanting a closer look. As is common in the rain-abundant Smokies, the trail passes other, smaller cascades along the way, and I imagine plenty of weary hikers reach one of these lesser falls and choose to call it a day. The trail gains almost 1,700 feet in elevation en route to the falls, and might be the longest 2.7 uphill miles most people will ever hike, so it’s hard to believe that you still have almost 4 miles and over 2,300 vertical feet remaining in your hike if Mount LeConte is your destination, as it was mine.

I arrived at the trailhead just as NPS trail maintenance crews were beginning their hike up the trail to shore up the route past Rainbow Falls. Sure enough, I noticed freshly-raked runoff trenches along what I would say is the steepest portion of trail, the mile or so immediately above Rainbow Falls. I took several resting breaks here, chatting with the workers and thanking them for all they do. In retrospect, I should’ve kept my eye on the ball and just continued to plod uphill. The trail levels out for a short respite as it passes through a swath of dead trees that mark the 2016 Gatlinburg fires. Views open up to the east and southeast but are short-lived, for the trail quickly reenters old-growth forest and resumes climbing in earnest.

The Rocky Spur Overlook is a 0.2-mile offshoot that branches east from the Rainbow Falls Trail and connects to it in two different places. I bypassed it on my first time up the Rainbow Falls Trail when passing a downhill hiker who said it was overgrown and impassable. Time changes things, however, so I decided to check it out this time. Sure enough, it was dangerously overgrown, and the overlook itself was blocked by a fallen tree. Subtract another 20 wasted minutes. The trail finally reaches a junction – right is the Bullhead Trail, which I took down later, and left is the lodge and summit itself. An overly chatty French hiker stopped me not long afterwards; he was friendly and clearly in love with the great outdoors, but I had to extricate myself ten minutes into the conversation when he went off on a sidebar about how RFK, Jr. was unfairly maligned as a presidential candidate.

I finally reached the lodge, where I was hoping to run into the llamas, which bring supplies to the lodge every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday via the more-traveled Trillium Gap Trail. They had already started back down, and it was at that point I noticed how late it was. No worries, I had an LED headlamp in my pack with fresh batteries. Additionally, the Bullhead Trail faces west, in the direction of the setting sun, and a two-mile stretch of trail passes through the 2016 burn zone, offering unrestricted views. This trail, if taken on a hot summer afternoon, can be a scorcher, but the warmest hours of the day had already passed and I looked forward to the route.

After perhaps 2.5 miles, I passed a pair of husband-and-wife hikers I played leapfrog with earlier in the day when we passed each other coming up the Rainbow Falls Trail. As it turns out, they were the only people I saw for the rest of the day until rescue crews came to my aid seven hours later.

I slipped into a lightweight hoodie and donned my headlamp around 7:45 or so. The exposed, sunlight burn area was already behind me, and the remainder of the trail traveled almost entirely under the shade of trees, with the lights of Gatlinburg occasionally visible on either side and such local landmarks as the Space Needle and the SkyBridge growing closer and closer. I was plodding by now, which for me is typical on these long, downhill trails, but despite staying well-hydrated and consuming plenty of electrolytes throughout my hike, the day was long and I was tired. I wanted off this mountain.

The Accident

Do you ever find yourself running downhill and losing control of your footing, as if you need a rope or a trekking pole to slow yourself down? That happened to me sometime around 9 pm. I found myself stumbling. I always bring poles with me on long hikes for this very reason. Though sometimes cumbersome and unwieldly, they never failed to slow me down or prevent a fall until now. The pole pivoted in the wrong direction and I took one forward step too many. I tripped over a rock jutting from the trail (there are so many rocks on trails in the Smokies, just sooo many rocks) and face planted into some rocks on the side of the trail. My headlamp broke off the band I wore around my head and went flying. My head, right arm, and left shoulder slammed into the rocks. “Well, shit,” I said.

I didn’t feel any pain upon impact, and, amazingly, didn’t pass out despite the head injury. I reached for the headlamp with my left arm to assess any injuries, and a starburst of pain shot through the shoulder. I figured I dislocated it, but could still walk out—slowly, carefully—if that was the extent of the damage. I shined the headlamp on my right hand so I could set down the trekking pole it was still holding. My fingers were slack and devoid of feeling. Shining the light further up my arm, I squirmed at the sight of a 90-degree bend between my wrist and elbow, something that wasn’t there before. And at the sight of blood and of bone, which had poked through, by now retreating back inside my arm.

Well, shit, indeed. I tried to sit up by pushing with my left arm, but the pain in my shoulder was more severe and I couldn’t make any leeway, except to scoot myself further off the rocks that broke my fall and onto the trail itself…which had a drop off into brush on the other side (and a den of rattlesnakes or copperheads for sure, no doubt wondering what was the commotion above, I thought before my leveler head prevailed). I was on my back, pack still strapped around my shoulders and secured by waist and chest straps. Remembering the lights of Gatlinburg growing closer and closer on my descent, I figured I might be close enough to the trailhead to have a cell signal. Now, to get my phone from my pack.

Time is tricky in the mountains, but I’d say it took 20 minutes to get out of my pack, since I only had one, semi-functional arm to work with. I finally got the pack removed, only for it to be positioned upside down, zipper inaccessible, snagged on a rock or a tree root. I shouted for help, hoping that maybe, just maybe, some tardy hiker was still making their way down the trail in the dark, but in my gut I knew I was alone. Shivers set in. Feeling defeated as I lay under the stars, it was at this moment I reached my lowest point.

I was going to die out there.

Composure

Untold time passed and I began to grow colder. I was well hydrated, and my bladder was full since before the accident. I reasoned now was not the time not to hold back. The urine warmed my body and stopped the shivering and the chattering of my teeth, if only for a few minutes. I gritted my teeth and tried one last time to get the pack moved and flipped over. Success! Getting the front pocket unzipped was one of the harder things I’ve done, but when I finally retrieved my phone, I was elated to see I had two bars!

I dialed 911 and half-expected them to say I was in such a remote location I’d have to lay there until morning. I knew that if I did, I’d eventually fall asleep and succumb to exposure. Color me surprised, then, when the dispatcher, whose name I don’t know, immediately conferenced in park rescue services and put me on the line with Cutter, a Search and Rescue lead (I think) and one of the SAR workers who eventually climbed to my aid. I explained my situation and said I needed a splint and a gurney, assuring them I would not be able to walk out as I couldn’t get the leverage to boost myself into a standing position. GPS triangulated my position to within 0.1 miles and I was told to hang tight as a crew was assembled, most of them rescue workers who would end up being called in from their night off.

I owe this 911 dispatcher my life.

I knew it would take awhile for them to reach me, but as I wrote earlier, time is tricky in the mountains. I passed some of it by calling my dad and a couple friends to let them know what had happened. All the same, I didn’t want to wear down my battery, so I kept those calls brief. Had 911 informed me that I’d have to wait until morning for an extraction, I suppose those calls to friends and family would have been to say my goodbyes.

Finally, I heard someone shouting my name from the wilderness. Britt, a Gatlinburg paramedic, was the first person to reach me. He informed me others were coming but still an hour out. Britt did everything right. He noticed my legs shaking and immediately draped his jacket over them. From there, he checked my vitals, relayed them by walkie to others in the loop. He fed me water from the Camelbak-style hose on my pack, the one accessory I still couldn’t reach on my own. By now, my right arm, which Britt noted was a compound fracture of the radius and ulna, was throbbing. Britt fashioned a makeshift split and set up an IV—painlessly, I should add. He pumped fentanyl through the IV to help with the pain. “I’ve become yet another grim, East Tennessee statistic,” I joked when he mentioned what he was giving me. “Don’t worry,” he said, “It’s not that kind of fentanyl.”

I owe Britt my life.

Occasional radio chatter outlined the coordinated effort to send people to my aid. Six more people eventually arrived, two at a time. Chief among them were Cutter, with whom I spoke on the radio two or three hours prior, and his partner, Sarah. They lifted me onto a padded gurney, a welcome respite from the trail’s rocks, and placed a heated space blanket on top of me. I finally stopped shaking. It was Sarah who got things rolling after she noticed there was a puncture wound on my right arm from where the bone poked through. Concerned about infection (and amputation, I suppose, although she mercifully didn’t say that out loud), she declared this a trauma case. The trauma designation allowed for a National Guard rescue chopper to be dispatched.

The plan was for Cutter, Sarah, and the four other SAR workers to carry me by gurney to a safer extraction point further down the trail. They secured me snuggly and buckled me into a helmet, but progress was slow-going. For one thing, there were drop-offs at various points along either side of the trail, and the path wasn’t wide enough for my gurney and the people toting it. For another thing, the rocky trail had a few steep descents, the knee-busting kind I’ve always referred to as “18-inch rock steps.” And if that wasn’t enough, one of the handles broke! Due to the broken gurney, the final extraction point, open to the stars above, couldn’t have more than 2,000 yards from the accident site. I didn’t envy my rescuers, most of whom were called in off the clock, possibly roused from sleep, to help. If any of them mis-stepped over one of the drop-offs and suffered a similar combination of broken bones, we’d really be in trouble.

I owe Cutter, Sarah, and their SAR colleagues my life.

Extraction

Behold: the waiting game. It was 4 a.m. and I desperately wanted off this mountain. I had last eaten something around 7 p.m.—pretzel bites and trail mix—and was forbidden from eating anything so close to being rescued and operated on. Not only was I hungry and tired and hurting, but I also had to poop. Frankly, I first felt the urge just halfway down the Bullhead Trail, but by now things had reached DEFCON-2. My pee-stained undies had long since dried, but shitting myself—and dare I say soiling the SAR gurney—was a bridge too far. I gave ample warning before firing off a series of farts that bought me what turned out to be several extra hours. My extremely amiable SAR saviors, who must’ve seen a thing or two in the line of duty, paid it little mind, but fart humor has always made me laugh, and so I share it with you, Loyal Reader. You’re welcome.

While waiting for the chopper crew to drive themselves to Knoxville’s McGhee Tyson Airport for boarding, I whiled away the time by listening to the rescuers chat amongst themselves. Two of them mentioned a rustling in the brush further down the trail that they were certain was a bear; I saw a bear in the same spot on my previous Rainbow Falls-LeConte-Bullhead hike in August 2023. I wasn’t really worried about wildlife encounters while lying alone, pre-rescue, as I knew it was too cold for snakes to be out, but it did occur to me that a curious bear could’ve come across me, drawn by the scent of trail mix in my pack, and after determining I pose no threat, absconded with said pack, which also included my wallet and keys.

Everyone sprung into action upon receiving word that the chopper was about to lift off. They fastened goggles on me, inserted ear plugs, and raised the sides of the gurney so high and tight I could neither move my neck nor see from the corners of my eyes. The rescuers took turns hovering over me once the chopper arrived to keep as little dirt and debris from blowing onto me as possible. I was hoisted from the ground and raised into the chopper. I remember the hoisted gurney spinning vertically at one point, allowing me to see the rescuers on the trail below, craning their necks and no doubt ready to call it a night. The ride to University of Tennessee Medical Center was just ten minutes, and I was amazed how spartan and noisy it was on board the Blackhawk helicopter. The goggles had settled uncomfortably over my eyes, and no matter how loud I shouted for them to fix the goggles, the on-board paramedics couldn’t hear me.

This was my first time on a helicopter. In March 2009, I signed up for a heli-hike—a helicopter flight and guided glacier walk—on New Zealand’s Franz Josef Glacier, but the flight was canceled two days in a row due to inclement weather. I imagine that would have made for a better “first flight” experience, but fast forward to 5 a.m. on September 10, 2024, and I was finally off the mountain and on the way to Trauma. To borrow a popular expression, it beats driving.

The Hospital

Things happened very quickly from here. My clothes were cut from my body, my broken arm was x-rayed, and the break was set. I was admitted and told that surgery would be performed in a few hours to fuse the compound fracture with a plate and screws to prevent fresh tissue from growing between the two, identical breaks. (Can you imagine?!)

A compassionate nurse found a hospital johnny for me to wear. He cleaned me after that much-delayed poop could wait no longer, and he offered to retrieve my cell phone, which was locked in a trauma safe along with my wallet. Hospital staff took additional x-rays and marveled, as did the SAR rescuers on the trail, over how my blood pressure never spiked.

Each nurse was cuter than the next, and I would love to have met any of the OR nurses during better circumstances. My right arm was eventually plated, and I have no memory of being given anesthesia for the surgery. The surgeon informed me of two alarming things: 1) my left shoulder clavicle, or scapula, was fully broken but could not be cast nor operated on, and would simply heal on its own, and 2) when x-raying me prior to surgery, he discovered a moderate hiatal hernia in my stomach. This hernia was news to me, but in reading up on it later, I learned that associated symptoms indeed mirror some problems I’ve been experiencing for the past year or so—increased heartburn, acid reflux, and a heightened gag reflex. Time will tell whether I can manage the hernia through diet, or if I will ultimately need stomach surgery.

I was finally allowed to eat, and I wolfed down everything served to me over the next 36 hours. Never did a turkey sandwich on Rotella bread, or a breakfast muffin, or a grilled cheese and fries, taste so good. Let’s never mind the fact that without full range of motion in either arm, one out of every two bites spilled onto my lap. Meanwhile, one of the nurses offered to charge my phone, and I found myself having a crush on nurse #1,724. Treat your hospital support staff with kindness, people. On a daily basis, they surely suffer more than we do.

Stomach full and phone charged, I was as comfy as could be. Okay, so the O² monitor was constantly beeping. Okay, so I overflowed the portable urinal and spilled its contents all over my midsection the first time I tried using it. Okay, so the remote control was always about two inches out of reach. I was alive.

Discharge

I was sent home Wednesday afternoon. My first step after being wheeled to my dad’s passenger seat, pain meds and gauze bandages in hand, was to call AAA and have whatever tow truck driver they dispatch meet me at the Rainbow Falls parking lot, where I would hand him the keys and have him follow us back to my place; I certainly was in no condition to drive.

AAA provides an invaluable roadside assistance service, so much so that demand often exceeds supply. As it turns out, we beat the tow truck driver, Paul, to the parking lot by several hours, as towing companies were understaffed in the area and he found himself being assigned low-mileage mini-tows on the way to my longer-distance job. I was surprised there was no cell service in the parking lot since my phone worked 1.5 miles up the Bullhead trail, but we made contact once I reacquired service a few miles down the road. Arrangements were made for me to drop off the key somewhere discreet, lest my dad and I spend the next several hours waiting. Paul, who is new to the area and owns or manages Hanover Wrecker Service, is a straight shooter. He found the keys and dropped the car off as promised, better late than never. He turned down my offer of a tip and even helped me off the couch, which has been a struggle ever since my discharge. If you are in the Knoxville area and need a tow, call Paul at 866-597-5872.

I live in a two-story townhouse, and had my dad set me up to spend the next few days living on a single level, sleeping on the couch and using my laptop from the sofa instead of from the desk upstairs. He bought me plenty of easy-to-cook, but bland, food—condensed soup, granola bars, crackers—and agreed to come by the next afternoon and help change the dressing on my right arm. He set up a handicapped toilet seat with a raised seat and armrests to make for easier standing and sitting. Alas, I found myself quickly whittling off the pain pills, as they constipated me to the point I couldn’t use the handicapped loo, anyway. I had a friend come by at some point to help pack—more on that later—and to help me wash myself. Nothing too gross, just washing my feet and applying deodorant. The outpouring of support via social media has been wonderful, and in a news cycle filled with harsh vitriol about immigrants eating pets and childless cat ladies contributing nothing to society, it’s been nice to read simple messages of love and light.

The Long Road Forward

Last Monday’s hike was supposed to be a celebration. After 19 months of not working, I found myself excited to land a job in Knoxville. In terms of title and responsibilities, the job is a step down from my previous role in call center leadership—and comes with a hefty pay cut as a result—but the handful of people I know who work there all sing its praises. Besides, it’s just far enough from my current residence to give me an excuse to finally move to Knoxville!

The stars were alignment, it seemed, when I found my future apartment, close to shopping and just four miles from work. The apartment search had become frustrating, as it seemed Knoxville’s influx of fall semester college students beat me—by mere days, I would say—to its best-priced apartments. Nothing was available in my price range. But at the end of a long day of apartment hunting, I stopped off at one last complex on a whim. A tenant had just given notice that morning, so the unit had yet to be formally listed. I grabbed it, sight unseen. The apartment, which meets my price points and features a generous floor plan with most of the modcons I’ve been looking for, isn’t available until late September, but I figured a two-week commute of 60 minutes each direction, with a planned start date at the new job of Monday, September 16, was doable.

“Let’s take a celebratory hike,” I told myself, “one last hurrah before starting the new job.” As I mentioned at the start of this long post, Monday, September 9^th promised sunny skies and low humidity, and what better place to be on such a beautiful day than atop Mount LeConte?

Alas, the trail gods had other plans. I’m lucky to be alive—and grateful for this second chance—but my immediate future is dicey.

My new employer has been enormously understanding, and remarkably patient as they wait for my doctor to complete and fax the return-to-work paperwork. I’m one of eight or ten trainees in the 9/16 class, and am chomping at the bit to join my colleagues and learn all I can about my new employer and my role there. But they’re not going to wait forever, so color me disappointed when I learned today that the doctor noted a six-week no driving restriction on the form.

Job or no job, I decided to continue with my move. I hired movers for next weekend and informed them in advance I won’t be able to carry any boxes myself. I can hire an Uber, or reach out to a Knoxville friend, for rides to and from work once in Knoxville on Monday, September 30, but I can’t ask for rides to work from my current Morristown address, 55 miles each direction, both ways, for five days straight…can I?

I hope, hope, hope my new employer is amenable to pushing the start date back to 9/30. I’ll still need to arrange transport to my lease signing, to my follow-up doctor’s appointment, and to the inevitable Target run that follows every move. I pushed my luck yesterday by driving myself to CVS on a quick errand, and with such limited mobility, the trip was terrifying.

Bottom line: this could happen to anyone, but the timing sucks. So do the financial circumstances. At best, I will have missed out on two weeks of pay and spent $200 unplanned dollars on gauze, Ace bandages, and handicapped toilet seats. At worst, I will find myself having to search for work all over again while medical bills in the tens of thousands slowly pour in…

…because I don’t have health insurance.

I know, Loyal Reader, I know. Hear me out: I explored COBRA after first losing my previous call center job. It was $800/month to continue that level of coverage, an expense I simply could not justify. Even if I had signed up for COBRA, coverage lapses after 18 months. I can’t find the words to describe how angry I would be if I paid COBRA on time for 18 consecutive months, only for my hiking accident claim to be denied because coverage lapsed just one month prior. Don’t think COBRA would do that? Think again.

But I digress. Just as it’s true that there’s no such thing as rock bottom, it’s also true that things have a way of working themselves out. I’ve already looked into financial assistance for my inevitable medical debt, and was delighted to learn that UT Medical Center has a relief program of its own. Meanwhile, my dad, his fiancé, and a couple friends have been tireless in checking on me and assisting with tasks like shopping for groceries or helping me apply deodorant. Additionally, the outpouring of support and well-wishing via SMS and social media has been generous. Finally, I believe my employer will make the right decision.

As for my slow, healing journey, I feel a little better with each passing day, and know that no matter how bizarre my story and how painful my injuries, I fared better than I should have. My arms hurt like hell but my bones are healing, and the swelling is gone from my right hand and fingers. My head wounds have already healed, leaving behind a single scar that might add a delightful air of mystery to my profile. But my God, the fact is this: I should have fractured my skull on the Bullhead Trail, passed out, and bled to death.

I am lucky to be alive. I won’t waste the new life I’ve been given.

______________________________________

Funny story: When I was bundled up in the gurney, helmeted and waiting for the National Guard chopper to arrive, I asked Sarah from SAR to snap a pic of me. I figured it would something funny for Facebook. She texted the pic to me the following day; you’ll see it below. By then I saw that my rescue made the local news, and Sarah mentioned in her SMS that others were worried about me as well—Amber and Peter in particular, the husband-and-wife Ohio hikers I played leapfrog with during my hike.

Amber and Peter ended their hike in darkness, too. They noticed just one other car in the parking lot, and assumed it was mine. Good Samaritans both, they woke up the next morning wondering if I ever made it back to my car. They drove back to the Rainbow Falls parking lot and sure enough, there was my car. After first debating whether to hike up after me, they later decided to share their concerns with rangers at the Sugarlands Visitor Center. My plight was park-wide news by then, and rangers at Sugarlands confirmed that the owner of the parked car, the tired solo hiker they passed, and the poor schmo airlifted off the Bullhead Trail, were all one in the same.

Amber and Peter had the good thought to leave a note for me in a Ziploc bag and pin it under my windshield. It survived two days of exposure and a 50-mile tow to Morristown. I’ve already summarized its content in the previous paragraph, but its very existence, their very good intentions in writing it and in reporting me as missing, left me flabbergasted.