Print
E-mail
Comment
Rate
Queasy back seat breezes ruin sweet float
By Justin Raines
Whitewater sizzled and sprayed on both sides of the canoe, but the boat was going nowhere. The dog was running from bow to stern, causing the Fiberglas craft to seesaw violently on the shoal.
Sharp cracking sounds from the bulging hull made me think that perhaps our voyage had been a mistake.
The morning started innocently enough with a friend and I shuttling vehicles from the put-in to the take-out and back again. Young lush leaves danced in the breeze and pollen dusted the dashboard of my truck, blowing in yellow tendrils through open windows.
Led Zeppelin sang stories about the misty mountains, and the speakers sounded crisp and good. Nobody stole the canoe while it waited in the weeds at the boat ramp. Saturday seemed full of promise.
My shuttle driver waved goodbye as I loaded the dog, a jug of water and my trusted, termite-tunneled wooden paddle into the canoe and shoved off. In the spirit of ancient Cherokee boatsmen, I was traveling light without even food, knife or fishing pole. It was to be a reconnaissance mission that might require a portage, so I thought it best to reduce my payload as much as possible.
No matter how much Internet surfing is done, no amount of secondary research can truly prepare a rookie canoeist for the Chattooga River. Even Section II, described to me by a knowledgeable source as a "very pleasant float," contains hazards and lessons that cannot be learned without getting wet.
For instance, passages in guidebooks don't seem to account for adolescent Labrador retrievers bounding untethered in a poorly ballasted 18-foot canoe. Books also do not mention dealing with river folk.
It was like being on a twisted version of the "Pirates of the Caribbean" ride. During the first leg of the float, where the Chattooga paralleled the highway, dozens of campers and fisher people flanked the banks and beaches. Most were friendly, waving and giggling at me and the dog. But some folks were downright weird.
One old man faced me as I approached and instead of nodding and smiling, he bared his toothless gums and raised a strange holler that echoed off the cliffs.
"Haaaayoooo!!" he screamed.
My dog and I flinched and began paddling fast to escape the weirdo. Once we were past, he let forth another terrifying yell.
"Haaaayoooo!!" cried the old man.
I looked back in terror to see him flip a trout onto the bank. The only thing I could figure was that he was voicing some sort of victory yodel every time a fish was caught. It was the only explanation that made any sense. Otherwise he was just a toothless old man, screaming in the mud. But I had more important things to worry about by that point.
My research revealed that at least one decent drop would be encountered on the trip, and I felt prepared, having already racked up dozens of hours in the canoe. Surely the dog and I could navigate some measly Class II rapids on our pleasant leisure cruise. But the challenge was not in the whitewater itself. It was keeping the boat from getting dashed on exposed boulders and shallow shoals revealed by low water.
Many rocks were stained with the blood of canoes gone by. Speckled with blue and red flecks of boat paint, they lay just below the surface, waiting to snag my hull and flip the dog and I into the Chattooga. It seemed that at every tricky turn or craggy drop, people waited on the shore to see me flail and cuss my way down the river. At several points, I was forced to disembark and walk the canoe around obstacles. It was a messy and shameful display of skill, but soon I left mankind behind and spent the final third of the float in blissful riverine solitude.
When I pulled up on the beach at Earl's Ford, my shoulders and neck were sun-cooked and shrimp-pink. The dog was surly and seasick. Too many paddle slaps to the head had turned him mutinous and sour. His insubordination peaked at the parking lot. After dragging the canoe 400 yards uphill, I was in no mood for puppy games, and when he disappeared into the woods, my patience wore thin. He disobeyed my calls at first, but then trotted back to the truck holding something in his mouth.
Upon closer examination, I realized it was a sort of animal organ, possibly a discarded beef liver. The meat smelled like it had been sitting on the roadside for weeks. I have no idea why it was in those woods, and it's probably better that way. The nasty beast ran several laps around the truck with the liver flapping in his mouth before engulfing it whole and leaping into the back seat.
The breath wafting in from the back seat was a queasy end to a sweet day on the river and a good reminder that dogs, whitewater and beef livers rarely mix.
Justin Raines is a sports writer for The Clayton Tribune.
Sharp cracking sounds from the bulging hull made me think that perhaps our voyage had been a mistake.
The morning started innocently enough with a friend and I shuttling vehicles from the put-in to the take-out and back again. Young lush leaves danced in the breeze and pollen dusted the dashboard of my truck, blowing in yellow tendrils through open windows.
Led Zeppelin sang stories about the misty mountains, and the speakers sounded crisp and good. Nobody stole the canoe while it waited in the weeds at the boat ramp. Saturday seemed full of promise.
My shuttle driver waved goodbye as I loaded the dog, a jug of water and my trusted, termite-tunneled wooden paddle into the canoe and shoved off. In the spirit of ancient Cherokee boatsmen, I was traveling light without even food, knife or fishing pole. It was to be a reconnaissance mission that might require a portage, so I thought it best to reduce my payload as much as possible.
No matter how much Internet surfing is done, no amount of secondary research can truly prepare a rookie canoeist for the Chattooga River. Even Section II, described to me by a knowledgeable source as a "very pleasant float," contains hazards and lessons that cannot be learned without getting wet.
For instance, passages in guidebooks don't seem to account for adolescent Labrador retrievers bounding untethered in a poorly ballasted 18-foot canoe. Books also do not mention dealing with river folk.
It was like being on a twisted version of the "Pirates of the Caribbean" ride. During the first leg of the float, where the Chattooga paralleled the highway, dozens of campers and fisher people flanked the banks and beaches. Most were friendly, waving and giggling at me and the dog. But some folks were downright weird.
One old man faced me as I approached and instead of nodding and smiling, he bared his toothless gums and raised a strange holler that echoed off the cliffs.
"Haaaayoooo!!" he screamed.
My dog and I flinched and began paddling fast to escape the weirdo. Once we were past, he let forth another terrifying yell.
"Haaaayoooo!!" cried the old man.
I looked back in terror to see him flip a trout onto the bank. The only thing I could figure was that he was voicing some sort of victory yodel every time a fish was caught. It was the only explanation that made any sense. Otherwise he was just a toothless old man, screaming in the mud. But I had more important things to worry about by that point.
My research revealed that at least one decent drop would be encountered on the trip, and I felt prepared, having already racked up dozens of hours in the canoe. Surely the dog and I could navigate some measly Class II rapids on our pleasant leisure cruise. But the challenge was not in the whitewater itself. It was keeping the boat from getting dashed on exposed boulders and shallow shoals revealed by low water.
Many rocks were stained with the blood of canoes gone by. Speckled with blue and red flecks of boat paint, they lay just below the surface, waiting to snag my hull and flip the dog and I into the Chattooga. It seemed that at every tricky turn or craggy drop, people waited on the shore to see me flail and cuss my way down the river. At several points, I was forced to disembark and walk the canoe around obstacles. It was a messy and shameful display of skill, but soon I left mankind behind and spent the final third of the float in blissful riverine solitude.
When I pulled up on the beach at Earl's Ford, my shoulders and neck were sun-cooked and shrimp-pink. The dog was surly and seasick. Too many paddle slaps to the head had turned him mutinous and sour. His insubordination peaked at the parking lot. After dragging the canoe 400 yards uphill, I was in no mood for puppy games, and when he disappeared into the woods, my patience wore thin. He disobeyed my calls at first, but then trotted back to the truck holding something in his mouth.
Upon closer examination, I realized it was a sort of animal organ, possibly a discarded beef liver. The meat smelled like it had been sitting on the roadside for weeks. I have no idea why it was in those woods, and it's probably better that way. The nasty beast ran several laps around the truck with the liver flapping in his mouth before engulfing it whole and leaping into the back seat.
The breath wafting in from the back seat was a queasy end to a sweet day on the river and a good reminder that dogs, whitewater and beef livers rarely mix.
Justin Raines is a sports writer for The Clayton Tribune.
 |
||
| Local rider's career off and running |
Article Rating
Reader Comments
The following are comments from the readers. In no way do they represent the view of theclaytontribune.com.
