Trouble in Paradise
I called the hike “worth it” at my first glimpse of Ramsey Cascades and its 100 feet of rocky outcrops, covered by hurtling streams of water. As the exclamation mark of that four-mile trail through Great Smoky Mountains National Park, the sight melted away memory of the preceding 2,000 feet of elevation gain.
Though it had been a pretty great day already. I was tackling the trail with Cora, my oldest and best friend, and we’d made sure to take time for goofy pictures at the trailhead and detours to identify budding wildflowers and to pay homage to the pair of centuries-old tulip-poplars standing sentinel at 2.5 miles in.
A near miss with a black snake slithering across our path was plenty to round out our need for excitement that day.
Or so I thought. Partway through our descent, we came across a middle-aged couple sitting alongside the trail. The woman wore what Cora later termed “the look of defeat.” An emergency medical technician since high school and now a paramedic, Cora had seen that look plenty of times. She’s never been able to ignore it. When I’m in the mood to tease her, I call that compassion of hers a “Super Cora complex.”
“Are you OK?” she asked the woman, whose name turned out to be Chris.
“I’m fine, I’m just—I can’t make my legs move,” Chris said.
Super Cora kicked into gear. She took down Chris’s weight, age, medical history, details on how much she’d had to eat and drink and when—not much, we learned—and dug into her own pack for the squeezable applesauce packets she keeps on hand for occasions like this.
“Eat it. I promise you’ll feel better,” she told Chris, who protested that it would make her sick but gamely tried some small sips anyway. Then she flopped down on the ground, and we knew it was time to call for help. Cora drafted a set of text messages, and I ran the phone up the trail in search of signal while Cora kept an eye on her patient.
When I got back, Chris was resting while her husband, Bill, chatted with Cora. A hobbyist photographer, he was hauling a backpack full of lenses, filters, and other gadgets.
“We just didn’t know it would be this far,” he said for what seemed like the 50th time.
“It happens more often than you’d think,” Cora said. “Chris, do you think you can try walking a little bit now?”
That was more than an arbitrary question. The route back to the parking lot included a long footbridge over a ravine, too narrow to carry a stretcher. Getting an immobile patient over it would require a lot of time, labor, and rope. If Chris could cross the bridge under her own steam, she’d get home a lot faster.
Luckily, Chris and Cora were the same height, so Cora stood in as her crutch. The bridge came into sight as they walked together, chatting about cooking and recipes and the stand mixer Chris had received for Christmas from her kids. Trailing them with Bill, I spotted the team of seven responders at the same time as the bridge.
“God sent me an angel today,” Chris said as she walked across the bridge and toward the red and yellow carryout litter awaiting her. The professionals took care of business, and once again Bill and I stayed behind, talking cameras and lenses and favorite photography shots.
The sun disappeared just about the time the hard surfaces of the parking lot began peaking through the trees. We were getting home much later than anticipated—so much for a night of cooking, eating, and lounging around with Cora.
But I didn’t much mind. Chris would be fine after a good night’s sleep, and she thanked us profusely for our help. She asked for a mailing address to send cookies to the crew, which Cora later described as “the best cookies I’ve ever had in my entire life.”
Our day hadn’t gone as planned, but then, what adventure in the wild does?
Meanwhile, the spring evening deepened. The woods turned a mysterious shade of green, the air struck a perfect balance of crispness and warmth, and the post-sunset sky cast a gentle glow on our drive toward bedtime.
About the author: Holly Kays of Waynesville, North Carolina, is a forester’s daughter who is happy to live, write, and hike in the land of many trees.