by Akart, Bobby
It was extremely warm that day and dry. It hadn’t rained in East Tennessee for months, so Doug didn’t give the weather a second thought. He slathered on the sunscreen and donned his long-billed cap to shield his face from the sun as he made his way along the asphalt trail.
For thirty minutes, he strolled along the trail, reminiscing about his wife and their travels together. The days of working side by side in the drugstore were a distant memory, replaced by their days of freedom and exploration of America.
He tried to remember the trail and the place where the two of them had ventured off the beaten path. They were full of excitement that first day of their new adventure and giddy like schoolchildren when they ignored the warning signs and ventured into the woods. Doug and Betty weren’t exactly sure where they were headed and what they were looking for, but they continued through the trees nonetheless.
That was when they found it. Doug’s Rock.
One would have to have witnessed the sense of adventure exhibited by the two retirees as they scampered down the hill toward the hunk of granite dislodged centuries ago during some form of cataclysm or another. Like the pioneers of old, they’d found something they were certain had been left undiscovered by modern man. It became their place and was named after the man who’d made the discovery—Doug.
Once again, after years of travels, Doug Smith rediscovered his rock. He picked up the pace and used the trees to steady his descent to the rock that overlooked the Cumberland Gap. It was a private, serene spot in the middle of the woods, off the beaten path and hidden away from the trail.
He hoisted himself onto the moss-covered, twenty-foot-wide boulder and climbed on all fours until he could sit at the top.
Doug took a deep breath and exhaled as he recalled the days of sitting with Betty, sipping coffee and munching on the almond-covered delicacy. After a moment, he settled down and sat with his legs dangling over the front of Doug’s Rock, admiring the view.
During the next hour, while he finished the bear claws and drank the last of the coffee, Doug, like millions of other people around the Northern Hemisphere, was oblivious to the massive geomagnetic storm that engulfed the planet.
Modern electronic devices were fried. Vehicles became inoperable. Power grids were damaged beyond repair despite the president’s best efforts. The world had changed forever. And Doug Smith had no idea.
For another hour, he studied his wife’s picture and fumbled with the cross-stitched artwork. He pulled out his cell phone and planned on taking a picture or two for posterity, but vocally cursed himself for forgetting to charge his phone, although he was sure he had.
After another thirty minutes, he decided to head back to the camper. But first, a thermos full of coffee required his old body to relieve itself. Despite being in the middle of the woods with no one else around, Doug’s modesty dictated that he step around the back side of Doug’s Rock to pee.
Using his hickory stick to guide him, he steadied his feet before he unzipped his pants and let loose a steady stream of urine. Then, inexplicably, he became tickled. At first, he giggled; then he heartily laughed as he raised his face to the heavens and shouted to his beloved wife, “Look, honey. This is truly our rock now. I’m pissin’ on it!”
Doug Smith, perhaps due to his emotional, euphoric state, or because he became dizzy from looking upward too long, lost his balance on the pine needles of the forest floor. With his pants unzipped, he lost his footing and fell. His hickory stick rolled away from him, where it came to rest against a pine tree. His body tumbled downward. His clothing was ripped and torn by dropped tree branches. His body crashed against tree trunks and partially embedded granite until it came to a stop.
At the edge of a cliff.
Chapter 15
Five weeks prior, the day the rains came
Pinnacle Overlook Trail
Cumberland Mountains
Southeast Kentucky
Doug Smith had been knocked unconscious as a result of the fall. As he rolled down the ridge, he struck his head against trees, rocks, and the hard soil multiple times, moving his brain violently around in his skull. The repeated twists and pulls of his brain stem caused him to black out.
He was awakened by drops of water pelting his face. Slow at first, his now semiconscious state assumed he’d been rescued and water was being sprinkled onto his head to bring him out of his cloudy stupor. He was wrong.
It had begun to rain.
Regardless of the source of the water droplets, Doug was now fully aware of his predicament, as well as the pain that seared through his body. He forced open his eyes, somewhat thankful that it was approaching dusk. His head was throbbing from the pain, and he knew the bright sunlight would most likely send him over the edge, metaphorically speaking.
Because Doug Smith was on the edge, of a cliff, that is. His fall had led him to a rock outcropping that marked the end of the ridge overlooking the Cumberland Gap and the cliff that led to the dense forest below. Had it not been for the jagged rocks, he would have rolled over one time too many and plunged hundreds of feet to his death. For that, he was thankful for the jagged rocks.
It was also that same outcropping that had shattered both of his shinbones and grotesquely broken his left ankle. The pain from the breaks was so bad that his brain almost disregarded it as being impossible to endure. It wasn’t until Doug tried to push himself up the slope with his heels that his brain shouted—ouch, dammit! To put it mildly.
He began to shake uncontrollably from shock as the broken bones became too much to endure. Then Doug Smith passed out again.
The next morning arrived although it was hard to tell from the deluge of rain that had consumed much of the United States. What was once a glorious view of Virginia to the east had become a dark gray sky full of torrential downpours.
Doug was awake again, and the agonizing soreness was right there with him. Feeling helpless, he began to shout for help. It was a fruitless exercise. Even if the Pinnacle Overlook Trail had been full of hikers, it was unlikely they would have heard him, much less pinpointed his position. The edge of a cliff could be a frightening place, especially when it was rain-soaked and slippery. His cries for help were met with only silence.
The reality that nobody knew he was there was beginning to set in. He tried to find his cell phone in his pockets before giving up when he remembered the battery was dead. He repeated his shouts for anyone who could hear him until his throat became sore and hoarse.
He begged God to help him. He wished Betty was there to lend a helping hand. He wondered if his battered body had the strength to pull his way up the side of the ridge.
His brain raced faster than his heart, but it couldn’t produce a solution.
The rain continued, now creating steady streams of water flowing down the crevices in the ridge. As the day wore on, Doug tried to regain his strength and find his will to live. His injuries were excruciating, and he knew they would not go away.
There was a time just a few weeks before he returned to his travels when he’d sat in desolation and despair in his recliner at home. He wanted to die. He didn’t want to kill himself. He couldn’t bring himself to do that. He just wanted to die.
Now he had his chance. He could end it all by pulling himself over the jagged outcropping, saying goodbye to the proverbial cold, cruel world, and flinging his body to a certain death hundreds of feet below. It would have been simple. Painful. But simple.
Yet he couldn’t gather the courage to end it all. Not everyone was capable of suicide, and Doug Smith was one of them. So he tried to save himself.
He began to claw his way up the hill, grabbing at exposed tree roots and fallen limbs that weighed more than he did. Blocking the immeasurable pain out of his mind, his hopes brightened as he made slow but steady progress. He still tried to shout for help during his brief rest periods, to no avail. Eventually, his throat became so sore he couldn’t endure the discomfort of the hoarse attempts.
Doug didn’t know h
ow many hours he’d spent trying to claw his way through the wet soil and underbrush. All he knew was nighttime was upon him and he was exhausted. Shivering in the cold night air, he quickly fell asleep and rested until morning.
The sleep did him good. It was time to try again. The rains were much heavier, and the air was cooler, causing him to shiver uncontrollably at times. However, he would not be deterred. He continued his climb, ignoring the searing pain emanating from his legs into his torso.
The water had turned the wet ground to crevice-filled funnels and now rollicking streams complete with waterfalls. As the soil eroded from the onslaught, the bed of pine needles that covered the forest floor gave way to mud. Small rocks that had been embedded in the ground for a hundred years became dislodged and occasionally bounded past him.
Doug continued against all the obstacles. Dragging himself upward, trying to make sense of how far he’d actually fallen. Occasionally looking downward to check his progress. Inch by inch, like the Marines on the soft sandy beaches of Iwo Jima during World War II, he gathered his strength and continued to pull.
He fought back against his pain. He ignored his hunger. He thought only of Betty and making his way to the top.
Night came again, and his body gave out, as it had the day before. Exhausted, Doug propped his body against a tulip poplar, the state tree of Tennessee, and fell asleep.
During the night, he dreamed about his life with Betty and their days working side by side in the drugstore. As he came out of sleep that morning, he lay awake, enjoying the flashbacks of raising their family and traveling together in retirement that dominated his subconscious. He recalled the time they’d made their way to California to see the famous Golden Gate Bridge. Afterwards, they’d camped in Mount Diablo State Park just east of Oakland. That was the evening the Hayward Fault awoke from its slumber with a shudder and a shake.
Living in Upper East Tennessee, temblors were far and few between. At least, there weren’t any like what he and Betty had experienced along the Hayward Fault. At daybreak, while he was in his half-asleep, half-awake state, he felt the earth shake. Doug immediately assumed an earthquake had struck the Cumberland Mountains.
He was wrong, but the ground was indeed shaking.
The old tulip poplar, a tree known for its shallow root system, had begun to uproot from the steep incline on which it had lived for several decades. The incessant water runoff had taken its toll on the soil surrounding the tree and washed it away, destabilizing the root system. The very tree that had kept him from backsliding toward the edge of the ridge now threatened to carry him down the slope with it.
Doug frantically pulled himself away from the roots, which began to pop out of the earth like zombie arms and hands emerging from their graves in the night. His feet got tangled up in the exposed roots, and he struggled to free himself. He could feel himself getting pulled downward, and he couldn’t find anything to grip to gain traction.
Then the ground shook again. This time it generated a thundering sound resembling buffalo on a rampage. Doug looked up the hill and saw the source of the rumble.
Several boulders were careening down the hill, crashing through pine trees and bouncing off one another as a small avalanche began to grow larger. He wiped the rain out of his eyes and squinted his eyes to get a better look. In the dim morning light through the rain, he saw a massive object sliding at first and then rolling end over end.
It was Doug’s Rock, and it was coming straight for him.
Desperate, he tried to pull himself sideways to avoid the coming deluge. Then, out of desperation, he allowed himself to be dragged down the slope with the fallen tree, hoping the enormous boulder would either stop or miss him to the side. He ignored the pain and fought for his life, using every means possible to free himself from the roots that gripped his broken ankle.
Then it was over. Doug’s Rock narrowly slid past him, bringing an immediate sigh of relief. It got caught up in the branches of the tulip poplar, and although it slid a little way farther down the hill, both boulder and tree finally came to a stop.
Doug began to cry tears of joy that he’d survived the onslaught. The pain was forgotten for the moment as he surveyed the two potential killers that lay peacefully just below him. He pulled himself upright at the waist and caught his breath, allowing the rain to soak his body and wash away the blood that was now spurting out of his leg.
Blood?
Doug’s eyes grew wide as he noticed the inside of his thigh was gushing blood onto his lower leg and across the wet ground. He twisted his body so he could pull up the left leg of his shorts. That was when he saw the tree root jutting out of his thigh.
Through it all, Doug hadn’t felt the pain as a broken root had ripped into his leg, creating a gaping hole and severing his femoral artery.
Panicked, his heart raced. Blood was pumped through his body, following its normal circulatory paths. Until it found his femoral artery. The circulation continued, but the resupply to the heart and brain was gradually cut off.
Doug Smith had survived falling several hundred feet. His body was battered and broken, but it hadn’t gone over the cliff. He’d avoided a fallen tree that threatened to carry him to his death, and a massive boulder, one adopted by him and his loving wife, Betty. Only now he was bleeding out, unable to stop the inevitable conclusion of his final journey to the Pinnacle Overlook—death.
Chapter 16
Present Day
Pinnacle Overlook
Cumberland Gap
Southeast Kentucky
“Heigh-ho, heigh-ho!” shouted Chapman and Tommy in unison as they swung an axe onto one shoulder and rested a chainsaw on the other. The designated lumberjacks made their way toward a path leading to the edge of the slope marking the boundary of the Pinnacle Overlook parking area and the steep drop toward what used to be Middlesboro, Kentucky.
The two men were in good spirits, as their day would consist largely of cutting down the larger trees with the chainsaws. In the coming days, the two-man hand saws and the axes would be the tools of choice, and the grumbling and groaning would commence accordingly.
Sarah and the kids were assigned the task of finding fallen tree limbs to break into kindling and firewood. Also, tall grasses were gathered to feed the horses. Part of their overall plan was to separate the horses and Wonky Donkey into separate areas to prevent overgrazing. It was also a protective measure. The horses were one of their greatest assets and needed to be protected from predators as well as potential thieves. By separating them, they’d mitigate their risks from any threats.
Isabella and Kristi, with Brooke as a sidekick, focused on cleaning out the camper and the Chevy pickup’s cabin. Removal of any fabric-covered items had been a good idea and made the cleaning and fumigation of the interior tolerable. As they worked inside, they came across the owner’s personal effects.
“They are a nice couple,” said Isabella as she handed Kristi a picture frame containing a photo of Doug and Betty Smith taken overlooking Old Faithful at Yellowstone National Park. “Where do you think they went?”
Kristi shrugged as she searched the cupboards and storage compartments for clues. “I’m not sure, but I do believe the man was traveling alone. Look.”
She pulled open two drawers from underneath a bench seat in the dining area. Men’s clothes filled both drawers. Then she opened a closet and found jackets and sweaters that belonged to a man.
“There are no women’s clothes,” observed Isabella. She looked inside the cabinets in the small bathroom. “Also, no toiletries or makeup for a woman.”
Kristi pulled her tee shirt over her mouth and nose. Wearing Playtex rubber gloves she’d found in a package under the sink, she gathered up the clothes and heaved them out the camper door onto the asphalt parking lot. She then handed a grocery tote bag found under the sink to Isabella to empty out the bathroom cabinets.
After an hour, the two of them had emptied the camper of all its contents and thoroughly scrubbed th
e hard surfaces with Lysol disinfecting wipes. Kristi lowered her shirt and allowed herself to breathe in the air inside the camper.
“Much better.” She nodded to Isabella, who did the same.
“Now we wash, oui?”
“Oh yeah,” replied Kristi. “Happy, happy, joy, joy.”
Isabella laughed as they exited the camper. Brooke scampered past them and went inside to inspect. She was chattering happily as they gathered up towels, blankets, and clothing. They hauled several piles of clothes to the overlook’s restroom building just as Sarah caught up with them.
“I looked inside the camper,” she began. “Well done, girls.”
“Thanks, Mom,” said Kristi hesitantly. She pointed toward her mother’s hands. “Now what? You want us to clean toilets?”
Sarah laughed. She set down a plastic bucket and a bottle of Ivory Snow detergent. Then she raised a toilet plunger into the air. “No, missy. This is your washing machine.”
“I do not understand,” said Isabella with a puzzled look on her face.
Sarah explained, “It’s pretty simple, actually. You add detergent to the bucket and fill it half full with water. Add your first garment and then plunge. The toilet plunger acts like an agitator in a washing machine. You scrub out the dirt and smell, rinse, and hang dry. Just like that, you will have washed a load of laundry.”
“Just like that,” Kristi grumbled. She looked toward the woods, where the sound of chainsaws roaring and trees falling could be heard. “Why us?”
Sarah handed the plunger to her daughter. “Would you rather go hunt deer like Levi and Carly?”
“Um, no.”
Sarah turned to Isabella. “Would you rather cut down trees by swinging an axe?”
Isabella shook her head side to side in response before kneeling down to retrieve the wash bucket. She immediately offered Sarah a smile and headed into the restroom to fill it up.
