Bark chipped away under my feet as I scrambled up the tree.
Not six inches below the soles of my shoes, a pack of feral dogs snapped and growled. My .22 caliber rifle lay useless on the snow-covered ground beneath the tree.
“You shouldn’t be running your trap line alone this time of year,” my father had told me as I left the house that morning. “It can get dangerous up in those mountains.”
“I can take care of myself,” I’d answered and I meant it. I was 13. I knew the Tennessee mountains. I couldn’t imagine a danger I couldn’t handle.
I stretched my hand up to a limb above my head, desperate to climb higher. The cold branch snapped. It fell to the ground where the dogs jumped and tore at it. That’s what they’ll do to me, I thought.
There were six dogs. Mixed breeds from the looks of them. German shepherds, I guessed, and hunting dogs. Only the biggest dog could possibly survive up here in the wild. I heard their big old claws scratching at the tree trunk and curled my foot up under me best I could. Yelling for help only excited the dogs further. Would the branch I clung to with my stiff fingers hold out long enough for help to arrive? Would help ever arrive?
I was at least three miles back in the mountains. I hadn’t seen anyone else all morning. What were the chances of someone coming this way? If someone did come by they’d be attacked too. I craned my head to look down the mountain, but saw only the mist rising up from below.
Resting my head against the cold tree trunk, I had time to reflect. Maybe I couldn’t take care of myself like I’d told my dad. At least not in a situation like this. But now that I realized I needed someone there was no one around.
A fresh explosion of snarling erupted below me. A big tan dog snapped and bit at a bushy one. The flash of his teeth made my blood go cold. Are they going to bite me next? The bushy dog backed off, dropping his head in submission. The tan dog launched himself back at the tree.
I’d heard the pack of dogs long before I saw them. All morning their howls and barks had rung out in the clear mountain air. “They’re tracking something,” I said to myself as I bent down to set a trap. I didn’t think much about what they might have scented. A bobcat? A deer? I was more interested in my own prey. Rabbit skins went for a dollar a piece. Coonskins for five. The very shoes I was wearing I’d bought with money I’d earned myself by trapping. Not bad for the nearly youngest child of eight!
Another trap finished, I picked up my rifle to move on to the next. I kept my eye out for squirrels in the branches above me. Squirrel meat made for a fantastic stew once my mother got a hold of it.
The thought of Mama and her stew brought tears to my eyes. When I didn’t come home, my family would search. They’d find my rifle by the tree with the remnants of my blood-stained clothing scattered beside it. Maybe some bones. I couldn’t imagine them finding me alive.
The need to pray rose up in me. Not for myself, but for the people I loved. “Lord, please take care of my family. Don’t let them pine too much over my death,” I whispered. “You know how kind-hearted Mama is so I am asking you to give her peace after I am gone.”
I peeked down at the ground where the dogs paced and howled. “Please, Lord, don’t let me die out here alone like this,” I said, trembling all over. “Not like this!”
I closed my eyes and waited. Waited for the end. I clung to the tree, sure I was living the last minutes of my life. The world around me went silent. Silent and peaceful. The dogs stopped howling. The tree grew warm under my hands.
I opened my eyes. The dogs were no longer circling the tree. They huddled together in a group, looking down the mountain, into the fog. I twisted my head to see what they were looking at. A figure appeared, blurry at first. Then a man stepped out of the mist. He had no gun, no way to protect himself.
“Go back!” I shouted at the top of my voice. “The wild dogs will come after you and kill you dead!”
The man kept walking. When he was about 10 or 15 yards away he stretched out his arms. The dogs ran to him. But instead of attacking, they whined and nuzzled his outstretched hands.
What kind of man lets his dogs run loose to attack people? I thought furiously. Somebody who needs to be horse whipped, that’s who!
“Are them your stupid dogs?” I yelled, still clinging to the tree. “I am going to tell my daddy about you. He will come to your house with the county sheriff!”
The man didn’t look scared about my threat. He didn’t look angry either. In fact, he smiled at me. The kindest, gentlest smile I had ever seen. There was something innocent and good about his face. I just knew for sure he didn’t mean me any harm. It made me ashamed for my outburst. “I didn’t mean to be ungrateful,” I stammered. “After all you did pull my chestnuts out of the fire and I be thanking you for that.”
The man didn’t say a word.
“If you will keep your dogs at bay I will climb down and thank you proper,” I called to him.
I turned my body back around and climbed down the tree. I kept my ears open, ready to climb at the first growl. The only sound was my shoe crunching into the snow as it touched the ground. “I’m not going to make any sudden movements,” I said. “Just keep your dogs in check. I…”
I turned to the man, but there was no man there. No man and no dogs. I was totally alone. My knees buckled under me and I sat down hard in the snow.
Where did he go? I thought. He was right here.
When I could get to my feet I searched the snow around me. I found my rifle, right where I’d dropped it in my mad scramble up the tree. Claw and teeth marks gouged the trunk just underneath where I was. Paw prints covered the ground around the tree.
I followed the prints to the spot where the stranger had stood. There were no footprints. The dog tracks led down the mountain, but the only human tracks were my own.
I made my way down the mountain, looking over my shoulder for the dogs or the stranger. I never saw him again.
Over stew that evening I told everyone what had happened. “It’s only right to thank the man proper,” Mama said.
“I’ll go to the sheriff in the morning,” Daddy agreed. “He’ll find him.”
Daddy did go to the sheriff and they did search for the kind-faced man. But we never found him. He had disappeared, as if he never existed. But all these years later I can picture him in my mind’s eye.
I was a different boy after our encounter. I was a little more responsible, and a little less headstrong. My rescuer seemed to have tamed not only the dogs, but me as well.
