Red River Gorge
Daniel Boone National Forest
Kentucky
May 1998
The publicists, in their usual inclination to the obvious, didn’t resist the play on words, calling this area “gorgeous.” And it truly is, the little of the place we saw. There were stunning rock formations, hillsides loaded with sassafras, and the mountain laurel and giant magnolia were in bloom.
Mind you as I tell this story, we are all experienced backpackers who traveled to this designated Geological Area of the Daniel Boone National Forest in Kentucky. But experienced as we are, we might not have been able to make any more beginners’ mistakes had we tried. I’ll skip names.
The rain begins about ten minutes before we complete our eight-hour drive, about 5 p.m. The thunderstorm seems to wait for us to settle in our tents before it rages. And it does rage! It is the kind of severe wind-and-rain-and-lightning-and-thunder event where they tell you to get the dog in from the yard, nail down the children and hide the porcelain.
Next morning. No injuries from lightning strike or falling tree. But one of the guys had decided not to bring all of his tent poles. Must’ve been saving weight, huh. He and his companion virtually have to swim out of their tent. It is, at this moment, still raining.
We had heard a rumor — actually, a 36-hour-old weather forecast — which predicted that thunderstorms would be with us most of the weekend. We learn that one of our group had decided not to bring any of her rain gear — must’ve been saving weight, huh — we think about packing up and driving east to find, hopefully, an area where rain gear isn’t so imminently important. The two who had swum from their tent needed no more incentive than that. “Okay, we’re out of here,” and they bunched up their wet tent, threw it into the back of their van, and they were gone. Homeward bound.
The remaining six of us pack a little more carefully and decide to drive to the ranger station to get an updated report on weather conditions. Maybe a national map would show us where to go if we choose to leave this area. While chatting with the ranger and perusing maps, the sky clears. So we stay in the area, drive around and hike around and see other wonderful areas of the Forest. No little rain is going to stop us.
We pitch our tents that night and survive yet another thunderstorm. With greater resolve the next morning, we plan to backpack the next two days, and we are not to be swayed. This is what we believe.
About three o’clock in the afternoon of the third day of this four-day trip, with about three miles to go to our intended camp site, we come to a stream. On the way down the steep muddy slope to this stream, one of our women falls down. She gets up and falls down again. She is muddy, pissed off, discouraged — not a happy camper, literally. But that seems to work out because at this moment, one of the other women reports that she is breaking out in hives, like she’s having an allergic reaction to something. She can’t stop scratching — it’s serious. We submerse her into the cold stream to see if we can slow down the reaction. It helps the itching a little, but now, her face and hands and feet are swelling up. Worse, so is her tongue.
After watching her carefully for a short while, we think that the swelling has gotten as bad as it’s gonna get so we let her rest. We set up our tents and make camp. Nobody hiking anywhere else today.
In a few hours, she rises to report that she is feeling ill. Now she promptly passes out and has a seizure. Two of us hike out to get medical assistance. We reach the road as the sheriff is driving by. Flagging down the car, we are impressed with how this official seems to be both indifferent and efficient. The sheriff radios for help. The deputy shoves a fistful of his dinner — french fries — into his mouth and unfolds himself out of the squad car. He’s what you would call a “tall drink of water.” A bony man with a three-day growth of stubble on his face, old chinos and white tennis shoes, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down when he swallows his lump of potato. He speaks, but we don’t understand any more than a gist of his Kentucky elocution. He’s having trouble getting through an entire sentence without spitting.
Soon, a Forest Police Officer, drives up in his official forest green Jeep. He hikes back to the campsite with us to find that the sick woman doesn’t want to be evacuated, that the previous five or six times this has happened to her (!) she was okay after a day or so, and she was sure she would be okay this time too. Which turned out to be the case. She is back to the city, her swelling has gone down. She called me to say, “I’m almost cute again.”
I’ve always kidded my backpacking groups that my hiking trips are successful because no one has died on any of them. It was supposed to be a joke. Now it doesn’t seem so funny. From now on, we hike with an even better stocked first aid kit including epinephrine in an injector pen. And also with our rain gear. And maybe a full complement of tent poles. It’s an idea…
The relief of not having anyone die on the trail freed up my mind to go to trivial places. For example, are Daniel Boone and Debby Boone related?
Ha! Debby is a direct descendant of Daniel Boone. Pat Boone was her dad and in an unexpected bonus, she is the cousin-in-law of George Clooney.
Maybe knowing of these famous people will keep us safe next time.