As I set to write this column, I’m not sure why I even feel compelled to share the story. Even thinking back on the day itself brings unwelcome feelings. And it will certainly reveal that I’m not an Ironman capable of all things physical. Of course, I’ve never claimed or pretended to be Davy Crockett or Cameron Haynes when it comes to wilderness endurance. I will say the worst day ever spent in the woods caught me completely off guard and has had a lasting impression on me. Maybe something about the experience will help someone or maybe I just need to tell it – I’m not sure.  

In the Fall of 2020, I loaded 5 dogs and headed up the mountain to bear hunt. I’ve been on that mountain countless times since I was a small boy. The only thing different about this particular day is that I was hunting alone. Ben, my son, was out of state hunting. That’s no big deal it’s just not normal around here. There’s almost always somebody to hunt with in East Tennessee and with the mountains being what they are it’s usually helpful to have a crew working together.  

On the way up the mountain, I didn’t strike any so about halfway up I turned left off the main road and out a USFS road. The road forks about halfway out then both forks dead end. I took the right fork which descends down the mountain to the east with a large drainage on the right. Only a few hundred yards below the fork the dogs blew up. It was obvious the track was smoking hot. I didn’t even bother checking the track. When I opened the box all five dogs left like the green flag had been dropped at Bristol Raceway on a Saturday night. The dogs were lined out and covering a lot of ground and sounding off the way hounds should on a hot track. I was glorious listening to them drop off the into the drainage.  

Once they hit the bottom of the drainage they turned straight up the next ridge and kept rolling. When they topped out on the second ridge, I began to lose hearing of them as they dropped off into the next drainage. It wasn’t long before the dogs climbed up out of the second drainage and headed for the top of the main mountain toward the Appalachian Trail. I couldn’t hear them with my ears but the Garmin told the story. About 500 yards below the AT the dogs showed treed. I needed to get out the lower ridge and get the top. The road I was on is not difficult to turn around on in the right spots, but you don’t do it willy-nilly either.  

As I headed toward the top in my Toyota, I realized that I had brought a gun but no ammunition. That kind of thing drives me insane. I hate incompetence – especially when it’s mine. I was ticked at myself. Fortunately, I had cell phone reception. I called my son-in-law Peter who was off work on Friday’s. Peter doesn’t bear hunt a lot but when he does, he’s real handy. Peter is like a McGiver in a country gentleman package. If you need something he’s probably got it. I explained to Peter my dumb oversight and he agreed to bring a rifle and ammo and meet me at the top of the mountain.  

Peter was on the spot within an hour, and we headed out the AT together. The dogs were sounding off good and were not but maybe a ½ mile out the trail from the parking area. The Appalachian Trail has some difficult walking in places and the stretch we needed to cover was a cake walk. We got right above the dogs and could here them well. They were almost exactly 500 yards below the trail. The only problem was it was straight down and as my cousin Benny says, “So thick you can’t poke your finger in it” with mountain laurel.  

I figured, wrongly, that we would just slide down the the dogs, take care of business and then go out the bottom. It’s an understatement to say that underestimated the degree of difficulty we’d run into. We got to within 75 yards of the dogs and could go no further. The dogs were on a cliff face to my left and there was no feasible way for us to get around to them. It wasn’t much better below us and we were not equipped nor inclined to repel down through it. To the right was passable but only went away from the dogs. The Appalachian Mountains are beautiful from the highway but can be brutal close up.  

At this point we actually weren’t sure if the hounds were treed or bayed on the cliff beyond us. Regardless, we decided the best thing to do was attempt to get the bear to abandon his position and run on. We fired two shots, and it did the trick. The dogs baled off the cliff and came to the shot. I really don’t know for sure exactly what was going on but my assumption is that they had bear bayed, it jumped, and when I shot they thought it was over. As the dogs approached me they realized that something wasn’t right and began casting again. One old gyp named Bling got close enough for me to catch her. In a bit the other dogs found the escape route and went on after the bear. A lot happed within 15 minutes and I may not have every detail in exact chronological order but that’s close. Anyone that hound hunted long enough knows that stuff gets so crazy so fast sometimes it’s hard to recreate in the mind later.  

I told Peter that we needed to turn straight back up the AT. That’s were things went from frying pan to the fire. Peter being 25 years younger and skinny as a rail began climbing out like he was on an escalator. I took about three steps and knew something was wrong. To this day I don’t know what happened but it happened. My mind was willing but my legs wouldn’t obey my mind. Every ounce of energy was gone. It felt like some-kind of partial paralysis. I could barely lift my feet off the ground. The terrain was a steep as a cows face and not being able to pick your feet up and across laurel brush had me pinned down.  

Sure, I was tired, but not that tired.  I knew I wasn’t in the best of shape and was carrying was to much weight but I had never been in a place I couldn’t get out of before. It scared me. Mostly, it scared me because I didn’t know what was happening. Peter and I had a rope and we devised a plan to get me out. He would take the rope and go up hill to the rope ran out. Then he would anchor the rope on laurel, and I would drag myself up hill on my knees. The plan was working but it was slow. It took me an hour to go 100 yards, and I had 4 more to go with darkness coming. Another hour went bye, and I had made it about another 100 yards. I began to wonder if I was going to have to spend the night. Peter offered to go out and get help, but I was concerned that I may have had a stroke and may have another one. It wasn’t the kind of place you wanted to black out and slip back off the mountain.  

About halfway back up to the AT my upper body began to give out. A couple hours of dragging myself up the mountain had exhausted my shoulders and arms. I got on the handheld radio and attempted to make contact with some bear hunters that I could hear talking. Letting someone know what was going on would be a good thing I figured in case my symptoms got worse. What really helped was when I made a cell phone call out and got ahold of a fellow bear hunter named Mike Jeffers. When I explained to Mike what was going on he rounded up another hunter named Dion Lynch and came from miles away to see if they could help. About the same time my second son-in-law Brennon Price also headed up the mountain to assist.  

One of the more endearing parts of the story involves the dog Bling. The other four dogs had left I wasn’t sure what was going on with them and there wasn’t much I could do about it anyway. Earlier in the ordeal I had taken Bling’s GPS collar off her neck and left her with a telemetry collar. I figured if Bling wondered off I could find here later with the telemetry and anyone coming to help me and Peter could find us with the GPS. As it turned out, Blind would not leave me. She would go a few yards ahead of me and wait until I caught up. If I stopped she would stop. When I would rest she’d lay down near me. I’m not an animal psychologist but I believe wholeheartedly that she knew something was wrong and stayed right there. She wasn’t the kind of dog to abandon a bear race for no reason.  

As I lay there on my back looking up through the laurel at the sky, I contemplated on the root of my problem. I wondered if I had a stroke or maybe a heart attack. Would I have another heart attack. I had reached the point of nearly compete exhaustion. I think Peter sensed that I needed a boost to my morale. He said something like, “There’s a reason you need to make it”. He went on to say, “Hannah (my daughter) is pregnant”. What? Out family loves kids and I was absolutely thrilled to hear that. It didn’t exactly put a spring in my step but it sure put a smile on my face. Peter had gotten me this far and he wanted me to cheer up and press on.  

Mike, Dion and Brennon used a GPS to get straight above us on the AT. When they got there I had managed to get within about 150 yards of the trail. It had taken nearly 4 hours to go 350 yards. Mike, Dion and Brennon broke trail down to me leaving a path a horse could walk up. All three men came down to me to help. Mike and Dion turned and went back toward the top continuing to break brush. Brennon took a dog lead by one end and handed me the other end. It took all the strength I had left but I stood up and Brennon pulled me step by step up the mountain. I would lift a leg, and he would pull me forward until it made a complete step. Then another.  

It took near 5 hours to go 500 yards but I could finally hear the Mike, Dion and Peter in the trail above me. A few more tugs and Brennon had me in the trail. Bling was standing in the trail watching when I made it. It was dark now and I’m sure the men wanted to get the ½ mile back to the truck, but they let me rest for a bit. Then they walked as slowly as they could to stay with me back to the trucks.  

As I said already, I had never been in place that I couldn’t get back out of. The ordeal rattled me. Not knowing what happened and not knowing if it will happen again is still in the dark recesses of my mind. I give the good Lord the credit for making it out. And I’m still very thankful for the efforts of Peter, Brennon, Mike and Dion. If I had been alone without any ability to communicate I would’ve been in real trouble. I also have a tender place in my heart for Bling. She’s gone now but I’ll never forget her hanging with me.  

I’m sure someone reading this is like, “fine, find you survived but what happened to the bear race”? My two dogs Crow and Gideon had stayed on the track from the jump and and crossed the AT into North Carolina. They ended up treeing the bear.  

As I close this story I’m torn on what angle to take. What’s the point or moral of the story? There are several important take always for me like the uncertainty of life, the importance of helping others in need and the intuition of an old dog. And I don’t want to miss saying how grateful I am to God for helping me. However, one thing that is a pervading thought for me is the reality of wild places. Every time we venture out into the wild places we absolutely never know what might happen. Wild places are beautiful but they can also be cruel and merciless. One minute we are the predator looking to end the life of a wild thing and the next minute we are the prey. The steepness of a mountain, the depths of a lake, the freezing temperatures of a snowstorm, a tree blown over by the wind and a million other things can turn the tables on us quickly and relentlessly. And even if nature itself is playing nice our own bodies can sell us out without warning. No matter how well you’re prepared your never prepared for everything. My health has never been the same.  

On a lighter note I once told my son Ben that I hope I die 5 miles from the truck so he will have to drag me out. Ben, not one to be out witted, said, “ If you die 5 miles from the truck I’m not dragging you out. I’m leaving you’re their and turn lose on you in a few days”. Wouldn’t that be a way to go? Die and become bear bait. Come to thing of it that would be pretty epic to know you were dead but still killing bear!