A little while later, I awoke. Coughing, choking, and vomiting up water. Lying down on my back, on the cold hard ground. Staring up at two men. And the lush green canopy and blue sky above them.
What the…? I asked.
Take it easy, man, one of the men replied. We just pulled you from the water. And dragged you up here. Your girlfriend said she couldn’t get you out. Wasn’t solid enough. You’re just lucky we just happened to be hiking along the trail at the right moment. That’s when she flagged us down. Pointed you out in the water. And had us pull you out of the creek. She said you’d been underneath the water for awhile.
Girlfriend? What girlfriend? What are you guys talking about? I asked, still dazed and bewildered.
Your girlfriend, KD. She said she was going to get the ranger down by the lake to help us out. So that’s where she is now. Said you two were camping down at campsite 85.
NO, she didn’t. No, she didn’t. I suddenly erupted in a tirade, still catching my breath. I came in here, by myself. By myself! A few days ago! And I’m camping up at 84! So why don’t you guys just cut the crap about KD, I glared up at both of them, furious. Unable to understand what any of this might mean at the moment.
But they only responded with a question, shrugging in their disbelief.
84, huh?
Yeah, 84. I came in here by myself a few days ago from the lake and set up camp there, I responded, my breath finally returning to me.
Are you sure?
Absolutely. And KD hasn’t been here in years. Years. Besides, we broke up a long time ago. So, it must’ve been somebody else, I replied, suddenly remembering a few bits and pieces from the strange dream I’d just had about KD after I’d drowned. And now, also, wondering what it could all mean, while, also, still trying to stay focused on my recovery for the time being..
Well, we’ll walk you back up as far as 84. Get you to camp. Figure, if you can get that far with us, then you’re fully back, which is saying a lot. Given that your face was completely gray, when we first got you outta the creek. But your color seems to be slowly coming back. So you might just survive, yet.
And so, they pulled me to my feet. Then, we walked together all the way back upstream to my camp at 84.
And there, we said our goodbyes. Turned out, they were both fly fishermen, just like me. Joseph and John, from Waynesboro, NC. And I thanked them both for saving my life, dragging me out of Hazel Creek. But they were in a big hurry to get to their destination, too, and set up their own camp at 83. Before it got too late. So I didn’t have much time to express my gratitude. As they quickly hopped back on the trail again and were gone.
While I was left alone. Taking off my wet waders, boots, and drenched fly fishing clothes. Then, drying off with my small camp towel. And finally, getting into my dry merino wool base layers and crawling into my tent and sleeping bag. In which, I soon drifted off into a deep uninterrupted sleep underneath the Smoky Mountain starry night.
And let me tell you that it sure did feel like a dream to wake up the next day, still living and breathing. And feeling somewhat okay. But also knowing that I’d actually died in this very creek just the day before. But I didn’t have much time to dwell on my near death experience, given that I soon decided that it was best to just break camp. Given all my recent troubles. Then, head back in the direction from which I’d come from.
And so, I did. Right after breakfast. Rolling up my sleeping bag and sleeping pad. Organizing and stuffing all my gear into my expedition backpack. Breaking down my fly rods. And so forth, and so on. Until I finally hoisted my rather large backpack, with all my gear attached, onto my shoulders. Then, I surveyed the camp briefly, ensuring that I wasn’t leaving any items behind. And finally, I just left camp and started hiking downstream alongside Hazel Creek.
So now, I was just a man on a mission to end this long misadventure. So I kept a good pace, heading for the lake. Only stopping briefly to stare in utter disbelief at the deep hole downstream, where I’d almost lost my life from just a slight slip of my foot.
And again, I also stopped at campsite 85, where KD and I had once camped in that unforgettable downpour all those years ago.
But, you know, that campsite just seemed empty and desolate now in the afternoon sun. Even after I’d conjured up an imperfect image of KD in my mind, standing among towering Oaks in the same spot where we’d once camped.
But it was just a flickering, fleeting ghost of an image, which quickly vanished, like a desert mirage, in the stark afternoon sun. Leaving not even a trace of her behind. So, it would be only me, who knew how young and innocent she’d looked here at that moment in time.
And, with that thought in my mind, I just started hiking downstream again on the creekside trail. And, in no time, I arrived at my canoe, which I’d locked to a big downed tree high up on the shoreline of the lake. So I unlocked it, then carried my canoe back down the steep shore and put it the lake. Then, I put my backpack and other gear inside. Put my life jacket on. Got my paddle in my hands. Sat down in the canoe. And shoved off into the lake.
And wasn’t it ironic now that I’d dreaded this very flatwater paddle across Lake Fontana for two sleepless nights. Just a few days ago. Because I was somehow terrified that I was surely going to die paddling back across the lake to the other side.
But now that I’d already died, once, back on Hazel Creek, it just seemed like I had no fear at all of disaster, or my impending demise.
So I paddled with great confidence across the lake. With each stroke, being brisk, smooth, and strong. My canoe, holding steady and decisively straight in its line. Even against the winds. And waves. Which never even once made my canoe feel shaky, at all. And so, in such a way, I made my way that day, paddling across the lake. My canoe cutting right through the rolling swells, like a hot knife slicing right through a stick of butter.
And then, I was there. Safe and dry at Cable Cove, where my truck was parked. So I loaded up the bed of my truck with all my gear. Lashed my canoe on top of my truck to the roof racks. And finally, I started up my truck and began driving around the lake, headed for the four-lane highway, which would take me back to my home in East Tennessee, which was only a few hours away…
Gary Alan
After a long career in the publishing industry, Gary Alan left his corporate job to pursue his next adventures in life as a blogger, writer, investor, fly fisherman, hiker, and traveler. He is the author of the adventure fiction book, 'Big Thunder-Hearted River'.