Stephen's Trip

Day One

This year was special because I was taking my son Stephen with me for the first time. We would paddle the usual stretch from Short’s bridge to Uncle Joe’s Cat Den and spend the night. The fact that Stephen was going added an extra element of excitement. I remember when my Daddy would take me on camping or hunting trips and how excited I was. I remember anticipating the trip days before we started and thinking that the day would never get here when we would leave. Well, the day was here, and Stephen was ready. He was about to turn 6 years old and was a fair swimmer.

We ate the traditional breakfast feast at "Pa Pa’s" house and drove to the put in. Stephen and I were in my old red Coleman, George was in his new blue 119 Old Town, Bob was in his green Coleman, Steve was in his green Coleman, Bill was in his new Blue Hole, Charlie was in his brand new green Mohawk, and Dick was in George's red Mohawk.

Charlie and Bill were childhood friends. They used to spend a lot of time camping and hunting together growing up in Ashland, Al. This was the first time in a long time they had had the opportunity to get together like this. It was also the first time Charlie had paddled a canoe for any length of time. Charlie had researched every brand of canoe made and settled on a Mohawk. He was going to break it in on this maiden voyage.

As usual, we started off slow because of all of the trees that had fallen across the creek. Charlie must have been thinking this was all a huge mistake because every 50 yards or so we had to cross over a tree that blocked our way. This was no picnic since all of our camping gear was in our boats and we planned to camp at Cat Den that night. Finally, we got past the last dead fall and settled down to some serious fishing. We picked up a few nice ones here and there, but we weren't filling up the boats with fish.

Bill was going around a bend on the outside and came alongside a tree that was half submerged and angling downstream. I’m sure he figured on simply bouncing his boat off and continuing on downstream, a mistake anyone who paddles will make sooner than later. Instead of bouncing off, the boat will roll ... under the log. If you are lucky, the water won’t be but knee deep. Bill was standing in knee-deep water putting his gear back into the canoe when I came by. Other than being wet, he was OK.

Stephen sat in the front and paddled. He learned quickly how to hold the paddle and soon began to propel the boat. Once in a while, Stephen would stop paddling and eat a MARS BAR and drink a COKE. His rubber boots didn’t come up very high and he filled them up with water while taking a "break" on a small sandbar. We stopped on another nice sandbar later on that morning and I helped Stephen change into some dry socks. The fallen trees were long behind us and open creek was ahead of us for the next 2 1/2 days.

Stephen quit paddling and started fishing with a lure. Earlier I had tied a lead sinker onto the end of his line so he could practice casting without hanging up. He now caught a lot of sticks and bushes before he finally caught himself. I was hoping he would get a bite, but he never did. I explained to Stephen that that’s the way it usually is with fishing. You have to go lots of times before you finally learn a few techniques. Fishing lost its luster and Stephen went back to paddling. By this time, we had eaten lunch and were approaching the backwaters behind the old dam. Stephen did most of the paddling while I fished and steered.

I had told Stephen about the old dam and told him the story about the rock that Uncle Steve and I jumped off of. He said that we must have been crazy! And he meant it too. As we approached the dam I’m sure it looked like a drop off into a bottomless pit to Stephen. He was getting very anxious as we began to hear the roar of the water and see the mist cloud beyond the drop off. Stephen was sure we were fixing to go over the edge. Nothing I could say would convince him otherwise. He finally just lay down in the bottom of the canoe until we reached the take out spot on the right side of the dam. Everyone hauled his boat around the end, (except Steve, he went around the left side and down the rock bluff). We all fished and messed around for a while before starting off again. Stephen was more comfortable now that he had sized up the mysterious "dam". He had an endless string of questions about everything he saw. Between Pa Paw and myself we were able to answer most of them.

Bill tends to initiate a string of events that ultimately lead to disaster when riding in a canoe. Below the dam and around the bend through Hog Eddy, the creek makes an "S" turn, first to the right and then back to the left. Lining up for the first turn is the trick to making the second turn. Bill was using what looked like a fairly expensive wooden double-bladed kayak paddle. His boat was full of three days’ worth of camping gear and was heavy. For some reason, the Blue Hole folks designed the seats in that boat as an afterthought. They consisted of two parallel aluminum tubes about 4" apart with a piece of ABS plastic for the seat. They were mounted flush with the gunwales, which caused the paddler to sit high and light. Anyway, I told Bill to follow me through and do what I did. He made it through the first turn OK but as I rounded the second turn there was a large mass of tree limbs, leaves, and vines hanging directly over the middle of the narrow chute just out of the last turn. Missing it required quick maneuvering with little time to plan. I looked back and saw Bill putting his weight behind a paddle stroke that resulted in the ash shank snapping like a tooth pick. This happened one foot in front of the mass of limbs he was heading for. The front of his canoe broke through the mass of limbs and sticking out either side of it were Bill’s hands griping his broken paddle shanks with white knuckles. The stiff limbs began to peel back exposed gear like a giant rake. A fishing rod uncoiled from a "U" shape and sprang into the creek like a panic-stricken sailor abandoning ship. Bill was still sitting upright on his thwart seat, with helpless anticipation of what was coming. He dropped both pieces of paddle when the mass of limbs and vines swept him onto his back molested him unforgivingly. The canoe never slowed down, and the mass of limbs hung on until it was cocked like a catapult. The strain became too great and the limbs finally let go with a sswwwiiiissshhhhhh. Vines and broken twigs trailed the unguided Blue Hole down the narrow chute of rapids. Smoothing the hairs of his beard back down after struggling back into his perch, Bill quickly reoriented himself. He was OK but needed a paddle. He took inventory and discovered he had lost his rod & reel. I gave him one of my paddles and we drifted on toward Cat Den and our first night on the creek.

We saw several wild turkeys that day. Charlie seemed to be completely adjusted to paddling his Mohawk canoe and said he was having a ball!!!

The sun was casting long shadows across the sand at Cat Den as we began to set up camp. I unloaded the canoe and set up our tent while Stephen looked for firewood. We soon had a fire going and began to settle down around it. A chill was creeping in as the sun sunk behind the hill across the creek. I pan-fried the fish with French fries and Stephen and I ate them for supper. Charlie had some hush puppy mix that helped stretch the small catch a little further. Stephen and I zipped up the tent and it wasn’t long before Stephen was snoring like his Pa paw. I was using my new light-loft sleeping bag that can be folded up to the size of a coffee can. It was rated down to 32 degrees F. That’s about right because it got down to 28 degrees F that night and I was wishing I had more bag. Stephen never woke up during the night. I constantly checked on him to make sure he was covered up. If he got cold, he never complained. As a matter of fact, he never complained about anything. He was just "one of the men".

Day Two

The thermometer said it was 28 degrees F that morning and a heavy frost covered our camp. Thick fog rose from the creek and hung motionless in the frigid morning air. I started the campfire up and soon everyone was crawling out reaching for the flames. Coffee was the first thing cooked and it tasted good. Stephen ate some jerky and summer sausage for breakfast and washed it down with hot chocolate milk that Bob gave him. The sun was starting to warm things up a little as we finished breakfast. Vapor clouds still rolled out of our mouths behind our words. The frost was so thick that Stephen was able to pat together a nice size frost ball and managed to throw down the back of my shirt! While we were packing up camp Stephen began to fish. He must have cast about 100 times that morning and I just knew he would catch a fish. But he never did.

We broke camp and headed down creek at about 7:00 AM. Stephen was getting out this morning at the old Sylacauga Hwy. Bridge below the Golf Course. Meg and Mary were waiting there for him when we slid into the bank. Stephen was happy to see them and couldn’t wait to tell them about all of the adventures he had had on his first canoe-camping trip.

Everyone had passed by before I got back into my boat. There was still ghost like fingers of fog angling out from the creek pointing to the clear blue morning sky. The sun was warming the air to a comfortable temperature. I took out my fishing rod because I couldn’t resist the fine-looking holes that had LARGE BASS written all over them. After about 30 casts I managed to catch a tree limb on the bank and couldn’t stop the canoe before all the line ran out and snapped. So, I drifted along listening to the water running and the birds singing on the bank as the sun warmed my cotton clothes on my back. I took out what was left of an old cigar and lit it, savoring the tobacco taste mixed with fresh, cool morning air.

The rest of the gang had managed to catch a few fish along the way. I was now chewing what was left of my cigar and ready to spit it out and drink long and deep at the water hole. We stopped at Dunham’s Rock and ate lunch. I took out my can of Denny Moore Brunswick Stew, cut the top off and heated it in the can on a one-eyed Coleman stove. I ate the whole 16-oz. can along with crackers and cheese. I burped flames for the rest of the day and most of the night.

I paddled away from the lunch rock as fast as I could with the idea of getting to the falls before everyone else did. I had my 35mm camera with a 28X90 lens and I wanted to get a picture of everyone going over. I parked my canoe on the left side above the falls and walked out on a sliver of rock that took me almost to the middle of the creek and parallel to the drop. Everyone made it over with no problems and I also managed to get fairly good pictures. Charlie later made himself some copies, framed them, and hung them in his office at work.

About half to 3/4 the way down we all stopped on a large sandbar on the right side of the creek to let George change his clothes. He had taken an unexpected swim earlier and couldn’t wait to get into some dry clothes. Steve took out his 357 and fired a few shots into the bank across the creek. Charlie was making plans to come back to this spot later in the summer to fish by wading up the creek.

We finally made it to our sandbar camp spot in the bend of the creek. The campsite was washed out worse than ever and real estate was premium. There were several fish caught during the day so George, Steve and I filleted them on the bow of George’s canoe. George was not feeling 100% due to some bad doctoring he encountered earlier in the year. He was still a little weak and didn’t want to push things where he normally would. We cooked the fish with potatoes and fries and hush puppies and were all filled to the brim. George, Bill, Bob, and Charlie carried on into the evening about the old days in Clay County. Steve, Dick and I enjoyed listening and laughing with them as they re-plowed some old ground on into the night.

Day Three

I got up at first light and had a fire going. Soon coffee was being cooked and the morning air filled with breakfast smoke. Steve fixed a breakfast of country ham, a half dozen fried eggs, and toast. He ate every crumb.

We packed our gear once again and hit the water at 7:30 AM. Steve and I loafed around the camp and brought up the rear. Dick was really enjoying this canoe trip. He fished more than anyone else and managed to catch several nice bass. He was paddling with one of those kayak paddles that didn’t have any drip rings. As a result, he got wet soon after getting under way.

We soon passed under US-231 Bridge and this time no one was talking about getting out. I think everyone was having too good a time and wouldn’t think of quitting now.

Since George didn't feel up to going through the old broken dam below US-231, I paddled his little 9-foot Old Town through so he could walk around. Steve went through next while I went back around and followed in my Coleman. Except for Bob, Dick, Charlie and Bill had never gone through the old dam chute. It looks more frightening that it turns out to be but there’s no use trying to convince anyone of that the first time. George, Steve and I were on the bank below the dam waiting for the others to come through. Dick was first and went through as smooth as silk. I saw Bill’s Blue Hole flash by the opening of the dam toward the far bank. I stretched my neck to see where he went and saw him flip over next to the bank in calm water. Charlie helped him recover but I’m sure his confidence was diminished somewhat. However, Bill made it through OK and had a big grin on his face when he slid into a clam harbor. Charlie was calculating all the way through. You could see the gears turning as he approached the gap and slid over the edge. He pointed the nose of his boat toward the bank where we were all standing hoping to glide into the sand. It happened so quick that it was over before we realized what had happened. Charlie stuck the nose of his canoe in the backwash of an eddy while the rest of the boat was still in swift water. This caused the boat to turn faster than Charlie anticipated. Somehow he slid right off his canoe seat and into the cold water without rolling his boat over. I swear the water was 4-feet deep, but Charlie managed to stretch his neck enough to keep his head from going under. It beat all I ever saw.

We all got back into our boats and pointed them down stream. There were no problems between the dam and the lunch spot on a large sandbar just past King’s bridge. We were all eating our lunch when a man on a 4-wheeler buzzed out of the woods and into the open. I talked to him for a while and found out he was a truck driver by profession just having some fun on the weekend.

I remembered I was taking on more water that usual lately, so I rolled my canoe up to inspect the bottom. There was a pea-sized hole in the keel with a pea-sized piece of gravel stuck in it. I removed the gravel and squirted some silicon glue into the hole. I hoped it would skin over enough before we left to keep water out. After we left I noticed less water leaking in but every rock I scraped over I held my breath. My canoe was over 12 years old and has seen some rough treatment over the years. It was abused as a child even before I got hold of it and where the hole was is where a crease is from it having been wrapped around a rock like a horse shoe on the Hiawassee River in Tennessee. I don’t expect it to live forever though.

Everything was going fairly smooth until Bill broadside his canoe on a rock and overturned about midafternoon, filling his boat. Charlie was snapping pictures of the disaster area while Steve and I waded up creek to assists Bill. Bill was tired from man handling that big ol’e Blue Hole canoe. I don’t see how anyone can sit on two little bars all day long and perform a balancing act as well. There were things floating up all around. George, Dick and Bob collected several effects as they floated through the debris field. Everything Bill had was soaking wet. Steve and I were soaking wet, but it felt surprisingly good actually. After we heaved Bill’s boat back to the surface and got him underway, we all looked around and noticed everyone had been wet except Bob Willis. He was dry as a bone and had not even the first drop of water in his boat. Not only was he dry but he hadn’t been stuck on rocks either. We brought this to his attention, and he declared it was his all due to his canoeing skills acquired over the years. We still had to go over the falls at the old steel bridge. We would get an opportunity to witness Bob’s canoeing skills put to test.

Bill, Charlie and George went around the falls. Steve, Dick and I went over and eddied out to wait for the others. Bob decided to show us how it was done. He started at the right place but ended up going over a rocky area. He bounced down a few cascades and landed in a pool of swirling water. His canoe started turning around until he was going backward down the remainder of the falls. He went through the worst part backward and to top it off he did it all without the use of a paddle, because he had long since let go and was holding onto the gunwales with both hands. Not a drop of water was in his boat as he palmed his paddle and slid by with this "no problem" look on his face. Indeed.

We got to Kelly's Crossroad an hour or so ahead of our estimated time. Mary came in the suburban pulling the canoe trailer while Meg, Stephen and William followed in my Nissan pickup. All Seven boats were loaded onto the trailer and Steve and I road in my truck pulling the trailer while everyone else followed in the suburban.

This was a fine trip. Bob had a flawless trip and declared he should quit on a good note. I suspect he will be back in Hatchett Creek again. It’s in his blood. Charlie said that he had had more fun on this trip than he had had in a long time. Dick said the same thing as he hauled his dozen or so bass out of my truck. We all shook hands and waved good-bye. Another year is just around the bend.

G. Sanders, April 1993