Thirty nine years ago today, January 19th, 1985, on a cold frosty morning, my cousin Allen Latham and I eagerly embarked on a duck hunting adventure to Lake Barkley. The morning air was calm, crisp and serene, hinting at an impending snow around lunchtime. As seasoned duck hunters, we knew this snowy forecast promised excellent conditions for the ducks to take flight.
We launched our modest 10-foot John boat from a ramp at Bacon Creek, nestled on the LBL side of Lake Barkley. Gently trolling a three miles out, we reached a sand bar in the lake’s heart. By daybreak, our decoys were strategically placed, and we concealed ourselves within a makeshift duck blind of intertwined brush.
The morning passed with sparse action, save for a few missed shots. However, by 11 AM, as the snow began its graceful descent, the ducks started soaring more frequently. Unexpectedly, to my surprise fierce winds accompanied the snowfall. The lake turned tumultuous, with waves cresting at three to four feet, challenging the hope of leaving with our small vessel. Initially, we weren’t overly concerned, hoping it would calm down or we would flag down a larger boat for a ride back.
Three hours later with the blizzard raging, we flagged down a boat carrying two hunters, their dogs, and a load of decoys. They regretfully declined to take us, citing safety concerns with the added weight. Unbeknownst to us, they struggled to reach the dock due to the treacherous waves and couldn’t return for us. Moreover, they had alerted the rescue squad, initiating a large-scale rescue operation that we were utterly unaware of.
As dusk approached, realizing our grim situation, we strived to ignite a fire. Armed with lighters and burning anything flammable from our wallets, we battled to maintain the fire amidst the relentless 40 mph winds on the open sandbar. Our boat served as a meager windbreak, but the smoke constantly swirled back into the boat, nearly choking us. The snow depth and dwindling wood supply soon left us huddling against the boat for warmth.
The night’s temperature plunged to 15 degrees below zero, with a wind chill reaching a bone-chilling 70 below. The worst thing was we were not dressed for those temperatures.
Our fire eventually died out because of lack of wood, leaving us in the midst of a blinding blizzard, each lost in our thoughts about our grim prospects. To keep spirits up, we talked and even joked, but the harsh reality loomed – we might not survive the night.
As the icy tendrils of the cold crept over us, our bodies instinctively responded with uncontrollable shivers. This involuntary quivering was the body’s desperate attempt to generate heat through rapid muscle contractions.
As each shiver racked our bodies, it chipped away at our resolve and was a constant signal of the harsh reality we were facing in the heart of the blizzard.
The mystery of the other hunters’ absence weighed heavily on us. Why hadn’t they returned? Were we forgotten, left to be mere whispers in the howling wind? The possibility of a rescue seemed as distant as the stars twinkling mockingly above the storm. Our minds raced with questions, each more unsettling than the last. We speculated, imagined, and even fantasized about daring rescue scenarios, but deep down, we knew the brutal wind was an adversary few would dare challenge. (The worst part was wondering if anybody knew we were stranded, had we known the rescue squad had been alerted it would have completely changed our outlook.)
Yet, unbeknownst to us, a drama of epic proportions was unfolding beyond our snowy enclave. The rescue squad, having been alerted by the hunters, had braved the treacherous conditions in a valiant effort to reach us. Their determination was met with frustration as the merciless waves thwarted every attempt. The situation grew so dire that a Coast Guard Cutter was summoned but wouldn’t make it until morning.
In a twist of fate, our salvation came from the skies — Fort Campbell Military had been contacted, and they dispatched a rescue helicopter, a guardian angel slicing through the storm.
At 3:30 AM, in a moment that felt torn from the pages of an adventure novel, the first glimmers of salvation pierced the darkness when I spotted the spotlight from the Blackhawk helicopter down the lake, a blazing beacon of hope, cut through the blizzard, seeking us out in our desolate sandbar refuge. As it slowly searched its way towards us, the sound of its rotors was like a symphony, a powerful chorus against the howl of the wind. Finally what seemed like eternity, the spotlight found us. As it descended, battling the storm with a defiance that seemed almost superhuman, we stood in awe. At the moment we didn’t know whether they would rope down to us or be able to land, luckily it was the latter.The snow swirled violently as it landed, a whirlwind of white obscuring our vision. Then, out of the snowstorm, a figure emerged — a soldier looking like a super hero made his way to us asking if we could walk to the chopper or did we need a stretcher? Our response was instant; we could do more than walk — we could run.
He wanted us to leave our guns but we refused. So after checking to make sure they were unloaded, we dashed towards the helicopter, our hearts pounding with a mixture of adrenaline, relief, and an overwhelming sense of gratitude. The helicopter lifted us from our frozen purgatory, carrying us over the turbulent waters to a parking lot beside the bridge on 68, where an unexpected crowd awaited, a testament to the concern and solidarity of the community. Among them was my father, his presence a comforting reminder of home and safety. He ushered us into his truck, and soon we were on our way to Trigg County Hospital, where the embrace of heated blankets felt like the warmest of welcomes. After hours of recovery, we were ready to return to Todd County, our journey forever etched in our memories as a testament to the unpredictable fury of nature and the unyielding spirit of human resilience.
Note: The very next week, fueled by the awe-inspiring rescue, I found myself at the military recruiter’s office, my heart set on becoming a helicopter pilot. That harrowing night had ignited a burning desire within me to soar through the skies, to be a savior in the storm, just as that helicopter had been for us. But fate, it seemed, had other plans. My dreams collided with reality when my asthma, a condition I’d lived with but never seen as a barrier, became the obstacle that grounded my aspirations. The recruiters regretfully explained that my health condition was incompatible with the demands of aviation in the military. In that moment, I learned a tough lesson about the fragility of dreams in the face of unyielding circumstances. Yet, this revelation didn’t dampen my spirit; it merely steered my journey down a different path, one where I could find other ways to make a difference, grounded but no less meaningful.