The River, the Stars and the Stories

Stories about rivers are as common as…well, rivers. Water saturates our every cell and some say, like the tides, we are affected by the moon.  I am no Mark Twain or Joseph Conrad, and while my river was not as sweeping as the Mississippi or as foreboding as the Congo, it had lessons to teach me. 

How we came to the river is how I’ll begin my story. I believe that we planned the trip in the late evening of an early spring Pig Picking. School Psychologist Dan Jones, and I were talking about whitewater rafting. Add a few friends, several beers and much bravado and an adventure began to take life. It was the mid 70s and the movie Deliverance should have cautioned us away from the trip down the river but we didn’t listen. 

When summer warmed the Catawba, we would rent canoes from Jesse Brown Outfitter in Charlotte and spend three days on the river from the old Kanawha Spratt Memorial Bridge between Fort Mill and Rock Hill to Springs Park near Great Falls, a trip, by land, of about 40 miles. 

We arrived at the Catawba’s edge from different paths: a businessman, an administrator, a principal, a coach, a psychologist and a teacher. Two brought their young teen-aged sons. We came together to challenge ourselves and to slake our thirst for adventure.

We borrowed cooking pots and utensils from Boy Scout Troop 108 and everyone scrounged for personal gear. Lightweight tents, individual mess kits, changes of clothes, ponchos, and sleeping bags served for each of us. We all carried hunting knives because that’s what men do. I was in charge of First Aid. They had to put me in charge of something.

With the planning done and our gear gathered, we lined up our five canoes on the bank of the Catawba just below the bridge on highway 21 across from the old Celanese pump house.  We stowed the canoes with anything we thought we’d need and slid them into the water The Catawba, all the way to Landsford Canal State Park was undeveloped and a haven for wildlife. Here and there we would scare up a flock of mallards or a lonely wood duck. Sometimes a great blue heron would look up from his patient fishing to watch us pass. The water release from Wylie Dam kept the river flowing slowly at a good level allowing us time to safely maneuver through the rocky water.

In the early afternoon we arrived at Landsford Canal and sensibly put in our canoes at the State Park just as we could see the water begin to churn over the shallow rapids. We took our sandwiches from the cooler and sat at the park tables for lunch. A friend drove the pickup truck with the canoe carrier to meet us at the park. We planned to portage the canoes around the rapids to a downriver camping area and resume our journey where the whitewater calmed after its clash with the rocks of the Nation Ford. 

That was the plan… but life, again like a river, sometimes sets a new course.  Eddie Weldon was a coach by profession and motivator by nature. He scratched his chin, not yet stubbly from the journey, and decided that someone should brave the rapids. I had, in the past few years, sat around campfires with Eddie and had fallen victim to his confidence. I was inclined follow him at least to the gates of hell if not right on through. I was in.

We loaded the canoes onto the carrier, leaving out one canoe for our adventure. Eddie and I made much of adjusting our lifejackets and looking at possible lines through the rocky rapids. Finally, after much pointing and not a little posturing we were ready. A small crowd of park visitors had gathered to watch us launch from a calm area beside a couple of big oaks at water’s edge. As I held the canoe for Eddie to settle in the front and began stepping into the back, I could hear Tom Thomasson telling the spectators that we were experienced and not to worry because we knew what we were doing.

At my signal, Jim Rountree tossed me the drag line. We eased out of the calm water by the bank and caught the current which pushed us directly into some low hanging limbs.  Like some claw of karma, these limbs dragged us out of the canoe and we were swept sputtering into the water.  I managed to hang on to the canoe but not to my dignity. Like a couple of wet rats, we shamed our way back on to the bank for a less hopeful restart.

Again we pushed off and this time, thankfully, were out of sight before we found another opportunity for misadventure. The river was shallow and we had to get out on the rocks occasionally to set the canoe down on the other side of a small cascade.  At one point Eddie stood on one slippery rock holding the bow and I stood across the flow from him holding the stern.  When we put in the canoe, the force of the cascading water against the side threatened to pull us both in. I came to the realization before Eddie did and yelled, “Let go!”

“It will pull you in! The current’s too strong.” He yelled back.

“Let go!” (I must have sounded more forceful this time because Eddie released his end.).

The canoe, obeying the law of least resistance, swung around with the current and I was able to hold on to it easily. I breathed a sigh of relief and we climbed back in to continue our ill-conceived journey. The rapids were more furious than we anticipated and twice more we were upended and had to clamber back aboard.

Soaked, a little banged up and a lot less self-assured, we finally cleared the rapids. The water slowed and calmed and we breathed a sigh of relief.  We had, despite our difficulties, made it through the whitewater and no one had seen our mistakes. “We don’t have to tell everything,” Eddie said.

We were drifting easily full of confidence and looking for the campsite when Eddie called, “Rock! Straight ahead.”

“I’ve got it,” I said. “It’s just one rock.” I used the paddle to steer and correct our course a little.

“Rock,” Eddie said, more forcefully now.

“I ‘ve got it!” and I again tried to right our course.

I didn’t got it.

We hit the rock head on and the canoe, heavier at the stern because I seriously outweighed Eddie, rode up the rock and tipped us out…again.

We came up, both holding the canoe and sputtering. From the bank on the right came gales of laughter.  We had found the campsite and there was no hiding our last mishap from our friends. It is possible to be proud and humbled at the same time.  We had come through the rapids and were washed in the blood-warm water. Despite suffered setbacks and mishaps, we had faced the rapids and they hadn’t. We had a story to tell around a campfire and an audience of ready listeners. 

A communal meal of rice and canned chicken plus a healthy splash of Tabasco Sauce filled us up and a flask of Old Charter might have made its way around the fire. We talked as we watched the flames die down. One by one, we surrendered to the night and made for our tents.

The sun chooses wake up time for campers and we were up at six. After a cold breakfast of cereal, we were on our way downriver.  Beyond the rapids the river seemed to grow lazy and we took our time, occasionally coming ashore to let the boys swim a little or to eat lunch and tell stories of other adventures.

In the late afternoon we spotted a small island about the size of a baseball diamond. We beached the canoes on high ground to prevent them floating away if the water rose and we claimed the island as our own. Exhausted from the day, we cooked hot dogs on sticks and everyone turned in early.

I awoke and dressed before dawn on that darkened island.  Something drew me to a clearing where the trees opened to a star-rich sky. It seemed as I stood there that I was alone with all the stars in that black sky and the sounds of the impatient river. I was, for that moment, part of the land and the river and the sky. It was one of those instants when the universe pulls aside the curtains and opens its wonders to us. Those times are both short-lived and everlasting.

The rustle of movement at the campsite brought me back to the world. The campfire had died down to a few glowing coals and Tom Spratt was guiding the younger boys to gather firewood so we could get the coffee pot going. We would begin the most remote part of our river journey early. Tall pines and hardwoods lined the banks and now and then a bald eagle or an osprey would fly over, scanning the water for a meal. It was the last of our solitude before the river slowed its pace at Fishing Creek.

We paddled across the lake and put ashore at Springs Park late in the afternoon of the third day. We were three-days dirty but we came ashore like we were the first explorers to step onto the American soil. We had subdued the river and we had heard not the first banjo along the way. As with many journeys, our stories grew over the years as we retold them over beers and campfires.

I never told about the morning and the stars. Real men don’t mention that stuff.