Bryson City Tales

by Walt Larimore, MD

  “My daddy still tells the story of’n how when he were a youngins’ how he done sat on the back of that thar train when it pulled out. He war lookin’ back at the valley that’d become the lake. All them trees done been cut back. The river war flowing through this terrible scar in them woods. Daddy just whittled on a stick with his pappy’s Buck knife as the train pulled out. He said all his dreams war left behind in that thar valley.” Greg took a sip of coffee, his eyes still looking away to another time, another place.

  “He’s n’er been well since then. Has to git his medicines at the VA hospital in Asheville. But he don’t git no carin’ thar. Just gits prescriptions.” Greg emptied his mug. “He done left his dreams and his heart in that valley.” We stood up to leave. There was laughter echoing off the walls of the café—but it wasn’t Greg Shuler.

  We drove west from the town and then up a long dirt road, finally pulling off the road as far as we could get and hopping out into the predawn silence. In the valley I could hear the hoot of a great horned owl. Day was just breaking as Greg opened the back of the truck.

  “I n’er asked ya, Doc. You done got a fishin’ license?”

  I smiled, remembering when Don Grissom took me fishing. “Yep. Got it just after I moved here.”

  I could see Greg’s nearly hidden smile. He knew. “News” like this travels fast and lingers long in Bryson City.

  Later that evening, back at the Shuler home place, we cleaned our catch. Greg’s pappy came down to look over our trophies. He didn’t say a word. He examined our catch, and then he smiled and laughed—and continued to laugh. I wasn’t really sure what he was laughing at or about, but in his laughter I heard the welcome of a neighbor. Somehow for him, I had completed a rite of passage. From that time until his death, he and his family were valued patients and friends. After his death his son brought me a small box. I opened it slowly and tenderly. Inside it was an old Buck knife, which has remained one of my most valued possessions—a sign that I had, in some small way, become part of their family.

  That same summer I also experienced my most memorable social event of my first year in Bryson City. Monty Clampitt gave me a phone call—the phone call that was to initiate an unforgettable adventure.

  “Doc, you still interested in working with us at the rescue squad?” I had taught a class one Thursday night on how to use the newly developed adrenaline syringes that could be self-administered by a person in the earliest stages of an allergic or anaphylactic reaction. I was surprised to see how many of the boys on the rescue squad I’d come to know throughout the year. I told Monty I’d be honored to work with them—as would Dr. Pyeritz.

  “Well then, I’ll drop by the office this afternoon with the paperwork for you boys. If you want to attend the meetings every Thursday night, we’d love to have you, but we’re willing to waive the attendance requirement, knowing you all’s call schedule. If you’re willing to come teach an occasional class and be available to come with us on some of the calls on which we might need a doc, that’d be just fine.”

  “Monty, that sounds good to me.”

  “One other thing.”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s a way that docs can be certified in advanced field first aid and in wilderness medicine. You may want to consider some of that training over the next year or two. It might come in handy if we ever need you in the field.”

  “Sounds good, Monty. I’d like to see the information the next time it crosses your desk.”

  That evening we filled out the application, not only for the local rescue squad but also for the state and national association—as well as the insurance and release forms. (Obviously the attorneys had gotten to these fellas.) As Monty gathered up the forms, he told us about a training session scheduled for that Friday evening at the station house—and that we’d be welcome to come and meet the rest of the squad.

  “Well, Monty, I think I can make it.”

  Rick added, “I’ll be on call, but I’ll get down there if things are quiet at the hospital.”

  On Friday evening Rick was caring for a woman in labor. So I drove alone to the rescue squad building for the training session—an update on water rescue. During the session there was a sudden alarm. Monty leaped to his feet and ran over to the radio receiver to listen to the call. “Swain County Rescue, this is Swain Command Center, over.” I recognized Millie’s caustic voice. Now, the command center was just a little desk in the sheriff’s small office—but the name sure sounded official and “big city.”

  “Swain County Command, this is Swain County Rescue, over.” I smiled. It seemed to me that he should have said, “Millie, this is Monty. What do you need?” It would have been quicker and more natural, but admittedly and markedly less official-sounding.

  “We have an overturned boat on Lake Fontana just west of the new T. A. Sandlin Bridge. One person missing. Search-and-rescue needed stat and requested by officers on the scene. Over.”

  “Ten-four. Swain County Rescue responding with water rescue units. Will notify you of ETA when under way. Over.”

  “Roger. I’ll notify the officers on the scene. Over and out.”

  As Monty was speaking, the squad leaped into action. There was no need to sound the rescue siren, which echoed across the valley and called squad members to the station, as they were already there. The trucks, lights blazing, were pulled halfway out of the garage so that the trailers containing the inflatable rescue boats could be attached behind them. Men were grabbing their equipment bags.

  “Walt, hop in the passenger side of Unit One,” Monty instructed. “I’ll be driving.”

  “You want me to go?” I shouted.

  “You bet, son. You’re one of us now!” He turned to run around the unit. I paused for a moment. You’re one of us now! It sounded incredible.

  “Come on!” I heard him shout. I jumped in, he turned on the siren, and we were off.

  I had never ridden in the front of an emergency vehicle. In medical school, while on one of my ER rotations, I had ridden in the back of ambulances out on emergency calls—but never up front. It was exhilarating, and I could easily see how one could become addicted to the rush—seeing people pull over as you raced by them. We sped up the hill toward the four-lane and then headed west.

  “Swain County Command, this is Swain County Rescue, over.”

  “Swain County Command here. Come on back.”

  This sounded to me like two truckers talking over CB units. I almost expected to hear Millie add, “Come on back, good buddy!”

  “This is Unit One en route to the Sandlin Bridge. ETA 10 to 15 minutes. I do have Dr. Larimore with me. Over.”

  “Roger that, Unit One. Did you say you have Dr. Larimore with you?”

  “Ten-four, Millie. He’s on his first rescue squad call.”

  “Hmm!” she sighed. I had no idea what emotion she was trying to express. But she continued, “Rescue One, I’ve also been notified by the park service that they’ve launched a search boat from the Almond boat dock and will be at the search site within thirty minutes. Over.”

  “We’ll take all the help we can get, Millie. Over.”

  “Roger that. By the way, Monty, there’s a one-lane dirt road just before the new bridge. At the bottom of the road, around a small cove, there’s a place where you can launch the boats. That’s where the officers are stationed.”

  “Ten-four. Unit One out.”

  “Have a safe search. Monty, you boys be careful, OK? Command out.”

  I couldn’t believe it. Millie’s voice actually had a hint of softness in it—a touch of concern. I smiled. The old girl really did care!

  As we pulled off the four-lane, the truck’s emergency lights penetrated the darkness of the road leading to the lake. At the bottom, a sheriff’s car, emergency lights still blazing, awaited our arrival. Deputy Rogers and the sheriff both ran up as our truck stopped.

  The sheriff summarized the situation. “Monty, some fellas were drinking and fishing just below th
e bridge. Said their boat turned over. Two of ’em made it to shore. They say their buddy went straight to the bottom. The ambulance took ’em both to the hospital. They’re near enough drowned. Don and Billy will be back here shortly.”

  As our other units pulled up, Monty went into action. “Joe,” he called to one of his deputies, “I want you to take two smaller inflatables and place the marker lanterns. Then I want you to shore-search a half mile up-lake and two miles down-lake.”

  He turned to look for Ray, his other deputy. “Ray, let’s launch the larger inflatable for dragging, OK?”

  “Dianna!” Monty recognized his wife as she drove up. She had been monitoring the radio at home, as did most of the rescue squad wives—many of whom would be coming. “Honey, can you set up the food tent for us?” She nodded and turned to begin her work. She would erect a tent in which the spouses would prepare coffee, hot chocolate, and snacks for what I imagined could become very fatigued workers.

  “Walt.” Monty was walking up to me. “You ready for your initiation?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Then I want you in the dragging boat with me. I’ll show you the ropes.”

  I nodded, not at all sure what I was getting myself into.

  First the small inflatables were launched, one to search each side of the lakeshore. The large inflatable was being launched as Don and Billy drove up in the ambulance. “Don!” shouted Monty, “you want to be in the dragging boat with me and the doc?”

  “You bet,” bellowed Don, as he ran over. One of the guys handed him a life vest, which he put on as he stepped into the boat. Monty started the small engine, and the three of us pushed off.

  “Monty, y’all come back when the doc’s tired, and we’ll change off personnel, OK?” shouted Joe.

  “You bet,” responded Monty. “Might not be too long. Doc’s fresh at all this.”

  “Doc’ll do good, Monty,” exclaimed Don. “I bet he’ll set a record for a newcomer.”

  What were they talking about? I wondered as the little engine kicked into gear. Within moments we were in the middle of the pitch-dark lake. The only light that could be seen came from the growing encampment on the shore, the searchlights of the two small boats examining each shore, and the lanterns they had placed about fifty yards apart on each shore. Occasionally we’d see the lights from the top of an eighteen-wheeler above the guardrails of the bridge as it thundered through the night.

  “Don, show Doc how to use the grappling hook, will ya?”

  “You bet!” Don shouted over the sputtering of the outboard motor. “Doc, this here’s a grappling hook.” He pulled on what looked like an oversized treble hook, attached to about ten feet of chain and then a long rope. “Put on these gloves. Monty will move the boat back and forth across the lake. He’ll be watching the shore, monitoring our progress with those lanterns on each side. He’ll be using a precise pattern so we don’t cover the same area twice.”

  “Mark,” called Monty.

  Don dropped the hook into the water and let the rope slide over his hands until it hit the bottom. “’Bout twenty-five feet here, Monty.”

  “Walt, look here. The rope is marked with tape every five feet. You’ll know then how deep you are. You just jig the hook up and down. It’ll slide over most of the rocks and boulders, but if it hits something soft, it’ll usually stick in. You’ll feel the weight, and we can pull it up. Sometimes it’ll be milk cartons or a garbage bag. It’s worse when we snag a log. We’re done when it’s the body.”

  I felt a shudder go down my spine.

  “Doc, this is hard work. The current record for a new squad member is forty-five minutes. Want to see if you can beat that?”

  “Might as well try.”

  So my life as part of the Swain County Rescue Squad began, dragging the bottom of Lake Fontana looking for a recently inebriated and now likely deceased angler. I didn’t know how long I could make it, but I was determined to give it the old college try.

  The first ten minutes weren’t too difficult—except for the times when the hook would snag. Monty would have to change the boat position, and sometimes Don would have to help me unsnag the hook. Eventually I could begin to “feel” the end of the hook. I could feel the difference between a rock and a log. After about fifteen minutes my arms were beginning to burn. At the twenty-five minute mark, my neck and upper back were aching, screaming at me to stop.

  “Doc, you want someone to spell ya?” Monty or Don would call from time to time.

  “I’m fine,” I’d reply—knowing full well that I was not.

  I thought it peculiar that Don would call out the time in five-minute increments. “Thirty minutes, Doc. Want to keep going?” I noticed that the search boats were picking up the lanterns on each side of the lake. I remember wondering why. But I was seriously considering quitting, so that had become my overriding concern.

  Only fifteen more minutes to the county rescue squad record. For someone who’s an outsider to the county, the opportunity to set a county record was too tempting to turn down. “I’m fine,” I lied once again—a white lie!

  I could see another boat speeding up the river toward us, emergency lights flashing. “Looks like the National Park Service boat,” shouted Monty as they passed us and headed to shore at the encampment.

  “Thirty-five minutes, Doc. You OK?”

  I grunted. I could barely feel my fingers they were so numb. By now the only light we could see was at the camp—which for some reason seemed very festive, especially in light of our grim task that evening. Maybe these boys were just too used to death, I thought.

  “Forty minutes, Doc. Only five minutes till the record. You gonna make it, boy?”

  Boy. In any other setting it might be a demeaning term. Not here. Boy. Don or Monty, I’m not sure which, called me boy. Not doc, but boy. Despite the blinding pain in my neck and back, shoulders and arms, I smiled. I guess I was one of the boys!

  “Forty-three minutes,” Don shouted. There were cheers from the shore. This was surreal. Here I was trying to locate a dead body, and the other boys were cheering me on to a new record. They sure didn’t teach me about this in medical school, I thought.

  “Forty-four minutes,” shouted Monty. The chants on the shore began, “Go, go, go . . .”

  “Thirty seconds . . . twenty-nine . . . twenty-eight,” Don shouted, as the gang on the shore chimed in, “ . . . ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”

  I felt a new surge of energy. Everything in me wanted to stop when he hit zero, but I didn’t want to just set the record, I wanted to shatter it so that it would never be broken again. Not likely, I thought, given how many records are broken and broken again, but, why not try?

  “Two .. . one . . . zero!” The crowd on the shore erupted. Sirens were turned on and truck horns pierced the dark, quiet night. Don and Monty were cheering and slapping me on the back.

  “Doc, you did it!” yelled Don over the noise of the motor. “You can stop.”

  “Stop?” I yelled. “No way! I’m going for sixty minutes!” I screamed.

  The boat was silent except for the sputtering of the small engine. Don and Monty were laughing hysterically. Finally they stopped laughing long enough for Don to bellow, “Doc, there ain’t no record. You can stop.”

  I was stunned. “No record? What are you talking about?”

  “Doc,” exclaimed Monty, “this here was just an initiation, boy. There ain’t no record. You just had to prove you wanted to be part of our squad.”

  “There ain’t no record?” I asked. “Are you kidding me?”

  They both rolled in laughter. From the shore I could hear a chorus of “Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray!”

  I rolled over on my back, my arms slumped at my side. The most brilliant stars illuminated the sky. My arms were numb, but my heart was happy—perhaps as happy as it had ever been. I had been hoodwinked, but hoodwinked by friends—good friends.

  Don pulled in the hook, and Monty gunned the boat back to
shore. The celebration had begun. A new member of the squad had been initiated. The friendly pharmacist John Mattox had come up in the NPS boat with his son, Ranger John Mattox. Don and Billy, Deputy Rogers, the sheriff—they were all there, cheering and slapping me on the back.

  An older woman approached, bringing me a mug of steaming hot chocolate. I could barely hold it in my frozen and fatigued hands. “Dr. Larimore, my name’s Millie. Good to meet you—and congratulations.” She actually smiled at me. She bent over and whispered, “My husband works at Cope Chevrolet. Let me know when you decide to get a new car, ya hear?” I smiled back.

  As I sat down, Dianna Clampitt walked over. “Walt, from now on Barb will be invited to these initiations. Welcome to the Swain County Rescue Squad, and welcome to our community.”

  I remember sitting around with the men and women late into the evening. I remember the laughter. But most of all I remember the intensely satisfying feeling of belonging and of being accepted.

  The next morning at 6:00 A.M. the clock radio went off and Gary Ayers’s voice boomed, “The Swain County Rescue Squad was called to the site of a reported drowning last night near the new T. A. Sandlin Bridge. Turns out the call was a hoax, according to the Swain Command Center . . .”

  “Walt, turn that thing off before it wakes up the kids!” exclaimed my sleepy spouse. My mind told my hand to reach over and turn off the radio, but my arms couldn’t move—they were too stiff and sore. Barb had to crawl over me to turn off the radio. Before she could click it off, Gary Ayers continued, “Chief Monty Clampitt reported that Dr. Walt Larimore, officially the newest member of the rescue squad, participated in the rescue mission . . .” She clicked it off.