The Cabin

Day One

We put in at the usual spot on the Brownsville Rd. Mr. "X" was back for another trip. I guess since Hatchett Creek soundly defeated him last year, it was time to try it again. It was interesting to see the different gear Mr. "X" had this year. He had purchased a new green Coleman canoe and had less "survival" gear this time. It was ironic how similar his gear was to ours.

George used his Mohawk, Steve was in his green Coleman, Bob was in his green Coleman, and I was in my red Coleman. We were all going solo this year on the first day, so fishing was going to be interesting. Trying to steer a canoe with one hand and fish with the other requires extraordinary coordination.

We had to contend with the usual trees that crisscrossed the creek for the first half-mile or so. The fish were biting but the number of casts per hour was probably cut in half. This was due to the solo fishing/paddling we were dealing with. Mr. "X" has yet to figure out how to catch a fish. The rest of us managed to catch enough fish to eat well at the camp tonight. The day went fairly smooth, yet Mr. "X" seemed to always be in someone’s way. George said to me that he couldn't believe how one person could stop up the whole creek, but Mr. "X" has succeeded to do just that.

Going solo has its advantages also. If you hung back from the crowd you could pretend that there was no one else on the creek but you. You tend to become more careful and observant of things that would have otherwise gone unnoticed. I liked to do that whenever the opportunity presented itself. Too much companionship can sometimes be too much companionship.

I was getting close to the hill that Steve and I built our cabin on back in the 70’s. Gliding my canoe into a crotch of a tree lying parallel to the bank, I managed to wedge my boat so that the current kept it tight against the tree and bank. This way I didn’t have to tie it off with ropes. The limb also provided a nice walkway that carried me up the bank and over the briers and cane patch. A few minutes later and Steve tied off his boat and joined me for the climb up to our old hilltop hideout.

The climb was steeper than I remembered, or I was just getting older and out of shape. We used to run up the hills around here when we were younger. Steve and I started building the cabin in the fall of 1972. It was located at the end of a road that ran along a ridge that started at the No. 9 tee on the Golf Course. We used most of an existing roadbed then cut a windy road through the trees to a point looking down on Hatchett Creek. All we used were an old orange bow saw and a double bitted ax borrowed from the Golf Course.

As the years went by we soon had our drivers' license and the road became a well-traveled and dusty path leading to our cabin. Steve had an M151 Army Jeep that we used most of the time to haul building material with. Almost all of the material used to build the cabin came from old barns, chicken houses, and several trips to the Casket Factory lumberyard. George gave us some old power poles and cross-arms and we used them to frame with.

The cabin took on four phases. During the first phase we built a one-room lean-to measuring approximately 10X16 feet. Next we added a 20X8 foot room across the front and an 8X16 foot porch down the side. The third phase added a large room that dropped down 4 feet from the last section and measured 20X10 feet. We built a rock fireplace with a huge split log for the mantel. There were glass windows across the front with a door leading out to a small porch. We got the windows from Steve's Grandmother’s house in town that was being torn down at the time. The interior walls were eventually paneled with cull pine lumber from the Casket Factory lumberyard. Newspaper was wadded up and stuffed in as insulation. The fireplace took several months to complete. (We did all of our work after school and on the weekends, between jobs, football practice, etc.). The rocks used on the fireplace were pieces of cut granite hauled in from an old house place close by. We noticed how the chimneys were constructed as we dismantled them and designed our own from what we learned. Later, a deck was added to the side of the cabin as well as an upstairs room. The upper room resulted from a hole in the roof caused by a strong wind that ripped tin roof and rafters off. The deck was made of lumber that my cousin Bill Jr. got from a lumberyard he was working at in Prattville, Al.

Getting water to the cabin was always a problem since we were on a hilltop. We dug out a spring in the deep hollow beside the cabin and installed an old windmill pump over the pool. A one-inch plastic pipe ran from the spring pump and up the hill into a storage tank. From there gravity feed provided enough pressure to operate the sink in the kitchen.

Countless days and nights were spent at the cabin working and planning our next phase of construction. Most of my teenage spare time was spent in and around the cabin. We also hunted, camped, fished, hiked, and explored every acre within a day’s walk from the cabin. There was a perpetual enthusiasm concerning working on the cabin. I'm sure this occupation had a lot to do with keeping me out of trouble in my wilder years, but I really never wanted to do anything else. We were fortunate to have access to what seemed like an endless frontier of wilderness, complete with a Jeep.

Some Sunday evenings Steve and I would stop by his Grandmother's house and she would have some kind of ice cream and cake, coke, and all sorts of good things to eat. We got to spend time with her and tell her about what we had been doing. There was never a time when she didn't have something special for us to eat.

We approached the cabin and stopped to get our breath. The cabin had not been visited in a long time. The lack of maintenance could be seen by the condition of the siding and the roof. Weeds grew among the small trees that were slowly reclaiming what used to be a clean yard. The deck on the side had long since rotted away and the weathered siding board was warping and pulling its self away from the frame. Inside, a musty smell testified to leaks in the roof that have gone unattended. Giblet’s of paper and leaves were scattered everywhere as squirrels and mice have become the permanent residence. Spider webs, wasps' nests and rat pills were everywhere. The old windmill pump lay across the floor by the wood-burning stove. No one had vandalized the cabin, but it was slowly surrendering to the elements. The floorboards had rotted in the kitchen and gave way under my foot. The only thing left hanging on the wall was an old Rotary Club sign. I had gotten it at my Grandfather Glass's house in Childersburg, AL several years earlier and mounted it on the wall along with other signs. I took it down and carried it back to my boat. We made a few pictures before leaving.

It’s hard to believe what has become of the cabin after all of the effort we put into it in the years past. There was so much activity around it that the grass never got a chance to grow. The dust on the road leading to it never settled. The cabin always smelled of freshly sawed lumber and creosote. The sound of construction echoed in the hollows. It just goes to show that no matter how great the enthusiasm is, no matter how dedicated the effort is, no matter how good the work is, without continued care, attention, and constant work; left alone, a cause, a family, a country, or a life will eventually decay and rot. This pattern is repeated throughout history on every scale. King Solomon wrote a whole book about the vanity of life (Ecclesiastes). He had everything this world could offer (the ultimate "Been there", "Done that", Seen that", guy) and finally concluded that it would be better to not have been born at all, (Ecc 4:3). But there is hope. There is one who has overcome the world for us. He’s found in the Scriptures, and His name is Jesus!

We paddled our boats for another 30 minutes until we reached what was then called Glenn Price’s place. This place was no doubt the choice spot on Hatchett Creek. It is located in a large bend and has about 200 yards of creek footage. There is a large sand beach on one end and the other is covered with creek rock. The land has a gentle slope to it that allows easy access to the water’s edge. There are several large trees scattered among the grassy low land. The rest of the land is covered with large hardwood trees.

George and Bob had already started setting up camp. Mr. "X" was taking a nap on the concrete picnic tables. Steve and I cleaned the fish and George cooked them with French fries and hush puppies. Mary fixed us slaw in a Tupperware dish, and we tore into that also. Earlier, I took the potatoes and started peeling them and cutting them into strips for fries. I was doing this on the table where Mr. "X" was relaxing before filling his gut. I ask him if he had a knife. He said he didn’t, so I gave him one. He complained that the only reason I wanted him to peel potatoes was because none of us could stand to see him resting while everyone else worked. He was right!

After he ruined the potatoes he was responsible for, we all sat down to a feast of fresh creek fish and all the fixings. Mr. "X" burped out some kind of complaint about how unhealthy this kind of food was. We all noticed he didn’t leave any crumbs on his plate though. Some folks can never bring themselves to recognize the efforts of others, even though the benefit greatly from being around them. I guess one would call that kind of person a parasite.

Steve and I pitched our tents in the grass below the small knoll where we ate. Mr. "X" pitched his tent among some fire ant beds. No one cared about his fate at this point. George and Bob slept in Bob’s Chevy van, but we could still hear the snoring despite their being in a closed box.

Day Two

The sky was overcast but the temperature was in the high 50’s. We all assemble slowly around the wire spool that served as our cooking table. Bob was talking about how he wished he could finish the trip with us, but he had to pull out take care of some unfinished business. You could tell he didn’t want to go, and I was disappointed he had to leave. We had two more days of paddling ahead of us. I was wishing Mr. "X" would decide to leave, but no such luck. We finished off breakfast and packed our gear in our boats. The sun started to shine through the parting clouds, and I couldn’t wait to get started. Bob drove away after shaking hands and said he would see us when we got out.

George, Steve, Mr. "X", and I headed down creek without much conversation. I just wanted to float easy and adjust my course only when necessary. I flipped my lure into some shadowy holes next to the rocky bank. Fog lifted off the water and evaporated between the rising sun and me. There was no wind blowing and everything was quiet and peaceful. I could see the other boats up ahead as they zigzagged to avoid rocks and slowly picking their way down the creek. Nothing is more discouraging than having to get out of your boat in the early morning and feel the shock of cold water. You have been defeated before even beginning, but there was Mr. Mr. "X" pulling his Coleman off of a shallow rock bed and trying to get back into his boat without turning it over.

Not much conversation took place for most of the morning. Everyone was enjoying just being there and, after all, that is the real reason we make this trip every year. Most of the time not much happens worth telling about, that’s true with most expeditions. The things worth telling are the things that are out of the ordinary; therefore, if someone reads this who has never been canoeing they might think that we have one disaster after the other. That’s not at all the case. As a matter of fact, 95% of this trip is filled with events that are personally pleasing, in their own way, to each individual involved and cannot be expressed in words. I am simply recounting the hi-lights as I remember them and put them down for future readers to relive.

The four of us floated the 12 miles that day without incident. We were making good time and arrived at our campsite at about 3:30. The sandbar was washed out worse than it was the previous year. It would take major work to make it comfortable. George and I used our paddles for shovels and leveled out a place in the sand large enough to setup two tents. Mr. "X" pulled into camp during all the work and drank a beer while we labored. When we finished leveling out the sand he started unfolding his tent on the spot where George and I had just fixed. We handed him one of his paddles and pointed to an area that was not level and said, "There’s where your tent will go." He messed around for a while and finally pitched his tent right in the middle of the main path leading to the camp. George and I had already bathed in the creek and were sitting on the sand soaking up the last warmth of the day before the sun went behind the hill. We shot our pistols into the bank across the creek and talked about hunting deer and turkey. Later, we had to make ourselves get up and gather firewood. Steve slid up an hour or so after we did and pitched his tent on what was left of the sandbar. He drug up some more firewood and started a campfire. We all sat around the fire after supper and talked of pleasant things. I made several pictures of the area then stuffed my camera back into its waterproof container. We all finally crawled into our tents and went to sleep.

Day Three

Mornings on the creek are always different. Some mornings we wake up to freezing temperatures and frost covering everything. Other mornings we have had thick fog and cool temperatures. This morning everything was soaking wet from heavy dew during the night. Since we were on a sandbar, we didn’t have to worry with mud and all the filth associated with water and dirt mixing. I got up first because my bladder was about to rupture. When I got back to the camp I went over to the pine stump and chopped off a few pieces of pitch to start the fire with. Before long everyone else was up and fixing something to eat. The dew was so heavy that we waited until the last minute to pack up our tents, hoping most of the water would evaporate. When the fire was out and everything packed, the four of us launched our boats and headed for the old dam below US-231 Bridge. Everyone made it through the dam with no problems. I went first so I could eddy out below and make pictures of everyone else coming through. George’s canoe came off the chute; nosed under and then shot skyward the instant I snapped the picture. It looks like his canoe is pointed down and sinking stern first, but he made it through without turning over.

Most of the day went by as easy as the previous day. The next most challenging section on the creek was the falls above the old Iron Bridge. It was midafternoon and everyone was dry for the most part. We all went over the falls single file and collected in the pool below the rapids 

Steve and I paddled back up stream to surf in the standing waves below the falls. A few minutes of this and you get exhausted pretty quick. George was watching us from the pool, and I could tell he wanted to try surfing. I encouraged him to try and told him what to do. He paddled his boat slowly towards the churning water and began to surf. He started getting sideways and decided to cut out, but the water accelerated his bow around and he was off balance and leaning in the opposite direction. His boat capsized and George went for a swim. Steve caught his canoe and I was there almost as soon as he fell in. He climbed into my boat and we went to the shore. George was soaking wet but otherwise OK. He unholstered his .22 and fired it into the sky to dry out the barrel. Mr. "X" was sitting across the creek watching everything but not helping in any way. Later he told Mrs. "X" that I had deliberately tried to drown George by forcing him to surf his boat in the rapid. This guy is so out of touch it’s not worth trying to explain his actions.

Mary was waiting for us at Kelly’s Crossroad with the trailer behind the Suburban. Instead of unloading all of our gear and trying to pack it into the wagon, we just loaded our canoes upright on the trailer with our gear still inside. This sure makes leaving easier and faster. Since we only had four canoes the weight wasn’t too much for the light trailer. If there had been more I don’t think it would have worked.

Another trip is over, but we will be back. You can count on it!

G. Sanders, April 19, 1992