Smokie Mountain Rivers

Tuckaseigee Crossdraw

Serenity Surfing

Crash Splash on the Hiawassee

Island Lunch

Land of the Noonday Sun

Post Script

Off in the distance, as the air begins to change, the blue haze looms up, low on the horizon. At first, it looks like a cloud. Then, as we watch it come closer, the shape grows solid. If it’s dark and we can’t see, we smell the change in the air, and we feel the ground rise, slowly at first, then, as we start the long pull up Black Mountain, pace slows and engines gear down for serious work. Excitement quickens as headphones give way to mountain magic and we come out of ourselves to be where we are. Finally, the road narrows to two lanes, twisting and banked for sharp curves, while off to the right the blue haze still follows us, distant, high peaks through the trees. We seem, at last, to plunge down to the Nantahala, and great, roaring, insane Big Wesser, source of wonderdread for whitewater crazies with mad dreams.

One mile away, careful on the curves, we reach Lost Mine. Pine smell with soft needle floor for tents. Peaceful falling water: small brook with fish pools. Cold water for morning wake-up: face splash or body dip for brave folks. Tall trees protect our sleep. The stars are too bright for eyes which would gaze, heaven-fixed, through the night. Morning mist slows the sun. Warm in our bags, we grope for wake-up: bright tent colors in morning light first, then bird song, pine smell, and bacon on fire.

After breakfast, we watch as slow fog burn-off reveals the shape of our surroundings: tree tops, ridges for goat climbing, mountains, and finally, blue sky. In a rush to get there we inventory: lunch, sneakers, swimsuits, T-shirts, jackets, first aid, suntan lotion, paddles, life jackets, boats, throw ropes, camera, Land Rovers, canoe trailer. GONE.

On this, our third day together, we’ve known each other a long time. New/Old friends. Splash pals. Absolutely deft at paddle spray. Soaked.

Body rotation, weight shifts, boat lean. “Wow, I can do that!” Arms swap elbow locks. Paddle dip like honey at the catch. “Whew…” Love my body-boat connection. Current in my knees and thighs. Moving up. Hip snatch. REACH Un-coil. Spring. Rooo-tation. Water Watch. At the catch, paddle dip like honey.

“Boy, we’re good. Watch. Go. Go. Go. Go. WHOA! BRACE…Hey, you expect me to read your mind ???” “It’s O.K., guys. Only way you learn.”

The river is your friend. The rock in the river is your special friend. Come in behind the rock in the river and rest.

“Did the Cherokees do rapids ?” “No way. Just calm water.”

****

“Back then, hit would take a half a day to git chere from Ocoee. With them curves, a good horse git you chere bout as fast as the auto-mo-bile. When they commenced to build the dam, Daddy got him a ’38 Ford. We still got it, back thar in the barn. Things chere at the store picked up rite smart, and he needed a truck to haul supplies. There was people all over, worken on the dam.

But now before they built hit, you couldn’t hardly find folks what had heard of Re-liance, Tenn-essee. We had hit all to ourselves.”

We listen to old man Webb, built like the tractor he is working on, heat-stripped to the waist, muscles ripping. His great white beard makes him look like Father Time.

“But now, hit kindly pends on how far back you wont to go. My Daddy’s Daddy, Big Popy, used to know some Indians back up thar in the mountain, what hid out from Andy Jackson’s men.”

Maybe he is Father Time, old man Webb. We have come to paddle his river, The Hiawassee.
Like all the rivers we paddle on this trip, it has a Cherokee name.

“Half of um died out. The other half went over thar to live at Cherokee, Noth Calina. And Old Hickory, he tried to send them out to Oklahoma. But he done broke the tribe by then.”

We talk about the Trail of Tears to Oklahoma, and the Hermitage—Jackson’s plantation, now a museum near Nashville. When you go on a tour of the Hermitage, they don’t talk about the Indians.

Heading upriver in the road dust we cana imagine the ride in the buggy and the auto-mo-bile. The way he talked, I couldn’t understand half of what he said.” The road peaks 800 feet above the river and we look down at the blaze of sun dancing on water. Big wide water which we can begin to scout as the road flattens out next to the river. Ledges an eighth of a mile across. Islands in the pools. Trout fishermen on the bank. Smiles on our faces. Excitement growing. Put-in, feet wade, wake up water. Sixty-five degrees. Who said Tennessee is hot in summer? Before you can see the first rapid, you hear the water. Eyes in the sun squint to read river. At far right we find nice waves. Eddy out at bottom. Waves all across bottom of ledge. No waiting time for surfing. Yellow boats throb and bounce on white foam. “Whooppee” time. The rapid holds us. No one wants to head downstream.

The rock in the river is your special friend. Come in behind the rock.

We come to staircase ledges, six-foot river drop in 200 yards. Ferry back and forth for chutes, like switchbacks coming down mountain. Island lunch. Our spot. All ours. We’ve been here forever. Never gonna leave.

Afternoon flow picks up. High volume chutes. Spin on a dime. Eddyturn WOOSH. Crash splash then jet ferry at The Needles. Monster swamper waves at Devils Shoals. Got to do that one again, so we run it twice.

Late afternoon soft light on smooth water before Webb’s store. Load boats. Change clothes. New muscles. Two lane twist on blacktop back to Ocoee. Takes us half hour, not the half day for Webb as a small boy.
Sun on Ocoee’s raging, brown and white water is gone. We watch some kayaks finish their second run for the day. Looking down we wonder how big the water is at eye level. We watch until first star. Stomach surge sends us down highway, as one by one the bright lights fill the sky. New moon catches wisp of smoke from chimney up ahead. Air fills with fragrance we move toward. Moon chasers. Transfixed travelers, reaching total definition through our stomachs, we pull into FAT SAMMY’S GEN-U-INE HICKORY SMOKED PIT BARBEQUE. YUM!