Heraclitus famously said "I never stepped into the same river twice." If only he saw the changes wrought by flooding on the Piney River. Although its course barely budged, Middle Tennessee's record floods had swept clean the beaches and banks. The little outpost where the canoe livery stood barely survived; the pavilion was reduced to firewood, the convenience store and washrooms might not be salvageable. The people who ran it had all their business records and backup money carried into those currents.
But through it all, they stayed in business, and ably ferried us to the drop off point. I squeezed the driver for information about the river, and having not ventured out himself, he only said a few people complained about turns, but most said nothing. I would have been wiser if I held those words close.
Mill Creek, which spills into the Piney ran much deeper than I remember, and the rocky bottom which snagged the kayaks on past trips has been wiped clean. The reeds on the banks were also gone, and the river bore new turns as well. One first canoe spill came less than a mile in; I cruised just left as they smashed into an island of mud and tree limbs.
We stopped at the usual fishing spot, a flat sunny bank where tequila and beers went down easily. From there, it was a veritable cruise to the next stop. A few spots presented problems for the canoes, but the kayak cruised through, even where the trees only offered a few feet of clearance. Soon enough, the infamous rock loomed in our sights. Everyone jumped off the rock but me; last year's incident with the eyeglasses left me gunshy. No amount of coercing would get me off that boulder without my kayak.
From the boulder, the river turned frequently. But not all turns were as remembered; this was a vastly changed river. At times, the banks played tricks, and looked as if the river were dammed; only the babbling waters beyond gave any indication which direction to follow.
Following that noise almost proved fatal.
As I passed the final bridge and had thoughts of running the kayak upon the rock beach, I came to a hard-right turn, in which I couldn't paddle fast enough. Swept into a whirlpool and realizing I had little recourse, I hope for a gentle bump off the roots of a massive overturned tree.
I got a harsh one, which threw me and all my gear into the pool. It kept forcing me under, and by the time I regained my composure, my longtime fishing hat and life-jacket were long gone. I saw my mini-cooler drifting; with my phone, wallet and keys inside, I flung it to the bank. Then the paddle. Then i began dragging the waterlogged kayak; whatever adrenaline I could deploy came out in hauling that monstrosity from the water, with all its excess rolling away and its 30-pound weight revealed again.
I dragged the canoe past a whirlpool to a new launch point and finished the journey. Don't ask me what remained. I was too shell-shocked to say. But I ran aground, turned the boat over and waited for the rest of our crew. One boat emerged quickly, the rest took another hour. They ran into the same river troubles I did; for all the debates I had about whether to tell them, I couldn't contain it once I knew I was the only one who had trouble.
Between the constant sunshine, 90-degree temperatures and adrenaline rush brought on by the kayak, I was spent.
The banks will change again. Deliverance not only taught me about sodomy-loving rednecks but about the belief that you can't really conquer a river. You can run part of it, but that's it at best. We did that in May, at next weekend, we'll go again. This time, I'm on whirlpool alert.
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