[dramatic music] We're pulling off the road this week.
The Backwoods Cryptid road trip has been rolling from state to state for a good while now, and there's a lot of map still ahead of us.
So before we get back on it, we're making a pit stop.
The truck's parked, the engine's off, and the mailbag's open on the seat.
It fills up while we drive.
Every stop on the trip brings in more email, and a lot of it has nothing to do with whatever state we happen to be in that week.
It's your own encounter, something you saw on a day that started out like any other.
Or it's a story that got handed to you by somebody who isn't around to tell it anymore, and you've decided it ought to be told somewhere besides the kitchen table.
There's five of them in this episode.
Three came from the people who were there, and two came from a daughter and a granddaughter who wrote down what they'd been told.
The oldest goes back to 1953, and the newest to 2019.
They come from a ridge in Tennessee, a hill farm road in Vermont, a cranberry marsh in Wisconsin, a fire lookout in Montana, and an oyster bed in Washington State.
Cordell climbs cell towers for a living, and on the afternoon he wrote about, he was two hundred and sixty feet up one with nothing to do.
That was October of 2019 on a ridge in Morgan County, Tennessee, up on the Cumberland Plateau.
He was thirty-three, and he worked for a contractor out of Knoxville that swapped out antennas for the phone carriers.
The job that week was a three hundred-foot tower at the end of a mile and a half of gravel road with a fenced compound at the bottom about the size of a tennis court.
It was a two-man crew.
Cordell did the climbing, and a ground hand named Jory ran the hoist and the rope and sent up whatever Cordell called for.
A little after one o'clock, they found out that the mounting brackets shipped with the new antennas were the wrong ones.
They'd driven up in one truck, and Cordell's gear was spread all over it.
So Jory called a buddy on another crew who was working a site near Wartburg, and the buddy came up the hill and got him.
That left the company truck in the compound and Cordell on the tower.
He could have come down, but three hundred feet of tower is a twenty-minute climb in each direction, and he'd already made it twice that morning.
So he clipped off on the antenna mount, sat down on the steel with his legs hanging, and waited.
[dramatic music] We're pulling off the road this week.
The Backwoods Cryptid road trip has been rolling from state to state for a good while now, and there's a lot of map still ahead of us.
So before we get back on it, we're making a pit stop.
The truck's parked, the engine's off, and the mailbag's open on the seat.
It fills up while we drive.
Every stop on the trip brings in more email, and a lot of it has nothing to do with whatever state we happen to be in that week.
It's your own encounter, something you saw on a day that started out like any other.
Or it's a story that got handed to you by somebody who isn't around to tell it anymore, and you've decided it ought to be told somewhere besides the kitchen table.
There's five of them in this episode.
Three came from the people who were there, and two came from a daughter and a granddaughter who wrote down what they'd been told.
The oldest goes back to 1953, and the newest to 2019.
They come from a ridge in Tennessee, a hill farm road in Vermont, a cranberry marsh in Wisconsin, a fire lookout in Montana, and an oyster bed in Washington State.
Cordell climbs cell towers for a living, and on the afternoon he wrote about, he was two hundred and sixty feet up one with nothing to do.
That was October of 2019 on a ridge in Morgan County, Tennessee, up on the Cumberland Plateau.
He was thirty-three, and he worked for a contractor out of Knoxville that swapped out antennas for the phone carriers.
The job that week was a three hundred-foot tower at the end of a mile and a half of gravel road with a fenced compound at the bottom about the size of a tennis court.
It was a two-man crew.
Cordell did the climbing, and a ground hand named Jory ran the hoist and the rope and sent up whatever Cordell called for.
A little after one o'clock, they found out that the mounting brackets shipped with the new antennas were the wrong ones.
They'd driven up in one truck, and Cordell's gear was spread all over it.
So Jory called a buddy on another crew who was working a site near Wartburg, and the buddy came up the hill and got him.
That left the company truck in the compound and Cordell on the tower.
He could have come down, but three hundred feet of tower is a twenty-minute climb in each direction, and he'd already made it twice that morning.
So he clipped off on the antenna mount, sat down on the steel with his legs hanging, and waited.
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