Trip Reports: Vol. 1

The following is a joint retelling of our recent canoe trip in Upstate South Carolina. Our words are woven together into one narrative, each author’s voice following his initials.

J (Jonathan Kelley):

“Why do you want to go and mess around with that f****** river?”

“Because it’s there.”

Besides the awe-inspiring cinematography and scenery in the movie Deliverance, that quote is what stuck out to me the most. I’ve messed around on the Chattooga before. I’ve waded around in some of the trout sections and watched guided rafts plunge over Bull Sluice.  With a long weekend coming up, and the heat index climbing, Hank and I planned to try a proper overnighter on a quieter section, hoping for cool mountain air, and a chance to find Bart.

H (Hank):

With my 1979 Blue Hole canoe strapped down tight, “Yep she ain’t goin’ nowhere”, I set off from Auburn a few minutes after Jonathan got on the interstate in Birmingham. I felt nervous about the trip, not because of any movie I wish I could unsee, but because I had done the absolute bare minimum amount of planning to get us home safe. Nonetheless, I trusted the intel I got from some upstate Tigers, and I was excited to test my limits as a backcountry canoeist.

J:

After driving through a flooded creek to reach the take out point we shuttled about 12 miles upstream and put in. We saw several baby Bartram’s bass right at the put in and we both smiled without having to say more. It was going to be a good trip. We launched and quietly floated through the crystalline waters, spotting trout, sunfish, and suckers cruising along the sparkling mica river bottom. Before long, we got to a shady spot with some still water and downed wood.

All photos but this one by Jonathan Kelley

H:

I said “toss one way up in there.” With a quick check for back-cast clearance, Jonathan slung a popper uncomfortably far over some submerged timber. When the ripples had dissipated, a trap door opened, and the angelic white Boogle Bug was flushed into the netherworld. We found Bart. “Mission accomplished. Let’s go home,” we joked, knowing we had at least 24 hours to cover the 10 miles down to the 4Runner.

J:

As the daylight waned we caught more native bass, some rainbow trout and gorgeous redbreast sunfish. We exclaimed at their fire-and-ice hotrod markings. A few more toilet bowl slurps and a crushing eat in a deep tail out produced a handful of “trophy” Barts. As we cruised to the golden sandy beach where we had planned to camp on Google maps, we both laughed again. One of the prettiest camp spots we’ve ever seen. We pitched the tent and Oggie, Hank’s young chocolate lab, ran around the beach, freed from the confines of his Royalex jail cell. I took a dip in a little side branch with a sandy bottom I dubbed “the spa”.

H:

While Jonathan soaked, I poured Oggie’s daily ration into the bottom of the canoe. Like a few other sort of important items, I forgot his bowl in my absolute mess of a car. As the sky darkened, we watched trout leap from the riffle in front of us. We finished the whisky a little too quickly and called it early on account of wet firewood. I don’t know if Oggie’s savage dream-kicking or the light from the moon was to blame for my lack of sleep, but I didn’t care. I was just grateful to be exactly where I belong.

J:

The next morning, we knew there were going to be a few treacherous areas to get through. With every run through a chute, our teamwork improved, and our confidence increased. We hollered at the bottom of even the easiest rapids. But, near the end of the afternoon, we turned a corner and came down to a long slot canyon with a lot of white water. “Are we gonna go for it?” Hank asked. Without much hesitation I said, “Let’s do it”. Hank muttered, “Well this might be the one”, and we stifled nervous laughter.

H:

We should have just pulled over and scouted it. We didn’t even think about it. We didn’t even pause to put our life jackets on properly. I tried to line up the bow so we wouldn’t go in sideways, but almost as soon as I thought “We might pull this off!”, Oggie lost his footing, and the boat rocked. We braced against the gunwales, and suddenly the utility of our paddles evaporated. Even if we knew what they were for, all hope of using them properly was now lost.

J:

We hit the chute and midway down started rolling to the right. Everything went black for a few seconds and when I peered up out of the chilly water, I saw the canoe overturned, but nobody else. I thought, “How am I going to get Hank out from underneath there when I can’t touch the bottom and we’re flying down this rapid?”

H:

Blind with adrenaline, I snatched the bag with my keys and phone and tried with my other hand to hold onto the canoe and find my footing on the river bottom. I got pulled under and bounced off of every rock in that rapid before I could even take a breath. I kicked desperately in my ratty Chacos trying to keep the canoe from dragging me down, but I realized I was sinking the boat as much as it was sinking me, so I let it go and came up for air. Thank you, Jesus.

J:

After another minute or so bobbing down the tail-out we were able drag our dry bags to shore and drift into a beach. As we collected our scattered flotsam, relief started to cool the adrenaline. We both knew we were very lucky to be alive although those words were not said.  The gear in my 2 failed dry bags, and both of our fly rods were not so lucky. We cheesed for a selfie. 

H:

Oggie seemed to know that what had just happened was not part of the plan. He seemed a little rattled, and definitely reluctant to get back in the boat. But we had another two miles to cover, and we hadn’t even got to the worst rapids yet. Needless to say, we portaged over the rest of them, stopping to admire the Jurassic (Mesozoic?) rock formations that just barely make Deliverance worth watching. Not sure if it was the adrenaline high, or a change in the lighting, but suddenly the rhododendrons became twice as beautiful.

J:

During the long and complicated portage, I slipped about half a dozen times, wading boots be damned. Both of our legs got beat up pretty badly. As we approached the take-out we heard faint music that became louder: reggaetón, not banjos. There was a beach party going on and to our surprise, the friendly locals helped us bring our gear back up to the 4Runner. Some funny looks were given to us by helmet wearing whitewater kayakers that launched downstream from us.  We cracked some beers and thanked Mother Chattooga for her mercy.

H:

After our trip, I watched YouTube videos of people running the rapid we flipped at. It looked about as dangerous as a kiddy pool waterslide. My ego whimpered, but that was all it took for us to learn our lesson, and we won’t be so casual about life jackets again. The danger of the rapids kind of added a secret ingredient to our trip. Just enough trauma to bond over, but not enough to scare us off rivers for good. Hell, we were back on another river the next day, strapped up tight, and happy to be still allowed to receive the gifts of flowing water.