A River Makes up Its Mind
By Reece Turrentine
Editor’s Note: Over the years I have canoed Southern Rivers with many different companions. I have assigned stories to and edited copy from many writers who were writing about Georgia and southern streams. Never have I known anyone who, deep down at their core, cared more about rivers than Reece
Turrentine. If there ever was a person to whom the description “He has river water flowing through his veins,” applied, that person is Reece Turrentine. Not only does he truly have the spirit; Reece can describe his river experiences in a way that communicates his affection for rivers to everyone whether or not they have ever paddled a canoe. A Methodist minister by profession, Reece can hear more of God’s voice in an eddy current than most of us can find in the Old Testament.
My wife and I spent a couple of weeks canoeing, hiking and fishing around Yellowstone National Park. In the evening we were delighted to get back to the quaint elegance of the old Yellowstone Inn on the lake. Each evening meal was accompanied by a live string quartet and by “Bullwinkle,” a huge Bull Moose who made nightly rounds.
One evening we heard a little more commotion than unusual. Into the dining room strolled former President and Mrs. Jimmy Carter and their entourage. They were ushered to the table next to ours. The temptation was too great. As he approached, I stood up and offered a “down-home” introduction.
“ President Carter,” I said, “I’m Reece Turrentine and this is my wife, Onie. We’re both from Thomasville.”
My reference elicited the familiar smile, and brought both Carters over to talk. “Why that’s just down from Plains,” Mr. Carter said. “What are you doing way out here?” We chatted as we walked to the window to see “Bullwinkle.”
“President Carter, I said, “ I want to thank you for saving the Flint River years ago. I was canoeing editor for Brown’s Guide for years, and everyone was afraid we were about to lose the Flint.”
“Thank you,” he replied graciously, “for those articles and for what y’all did to keep the environmental issues of out state before everybody.” After a few more “folksy” comments we left them to their privacy.
Back in the early 1970s when he was governor, Carter took a trip down the Flint, saw the unusual environmental and scenic wonders of the area, and suppressed the proposed dam. We are indebted to him for that. There’s really nothing like it in middle Georgia. Canoeists have a mountain whitewater river, fishermen can fly fish, hikers can climb mountains and explore rock outcroppings found only hundreds of miles to the north.
The Flint River has a rather meager beginning. It starts from drainage and feeder streams around Hartsfield Airport, College Park and Forest Park. Once it survives that, it seems to gather its senses and decides to become a river. The upper stretches aren’t too much for canoeing; too many deadfalls and urban trash. As it moves through Fayette County into Pike County, it gets down to business. After the GA 18 Bridge, west of Thomaston, the river begins to open through some of middle Georgia’s loveliest rolling hills and blue-green pastures. Then comes the shocker. A few miles below the GA 18 Bridge, you think your canoe suddenly has become some kind of magic carpet and transported you far north into the mountains.
What strange forces have created a river like this in middle Georgia? To answer that, you’d have to ask Pine Mountain, and the forces that created it. Geologists could explain it. But whatever it was, something shot a ridge of mountains southward sharply into middle Georgia. So much so that the trees, plants, rocks, water all think they are still up there. So you’ve got this strange mixture. Tupelos are part of the obstacles in the rapids. Along the banks Spanish moss drips over rhododendron and mountain laurel. It is here the Flint has a hard time deciding what it is and wants to be, but is a wonderland for hikers, fishermen, hunters, canoeists and all who love the outdoors.
I started paddling the Flint back in the 1970s by bringing church groups, scouts, fellow canoeists, family, whoever would come to run the overnight canoe trip from GA 18 to GA 36.
We’d usually get to the put-in late (after work), and paddle only down to the “Dripping Rocks” area for overnight camp. That gave us time to show off our “river-bank-special deluxe” supper. Already prepared, foil wrapped, and frozen ahead of time were the required number of packages of a hamburger steak, big slices of onion, potato slices, sliced carrots, cabbage, and anything else culinary genius might devise. We’d dig a shallow pit, line it with charcoal and burn it until white, add a thin layer of dirt, lovingly place the packages in the pit, cover it with dirt, build a charcoal fire on top, and then go take a shower (or whatever) at Dripping Rocks Falls. After two hours, as we served it up, the beasts of field and forest would all but do battle to capture our feast. Well, maybe that’s a little exaggerated, but… it was good. I tried it once on the grill on the back deck and it was terrible. A package like than needs the river – and the dirt, the rocks, the waterfalls, the night critters – to make it work. Riverbank food is ethereal. As the day dies, and a star or two appear, and the night sounds begin, and friends gather around a campfire – the food is always good. But that’s not the primary thing.
What’s primary is who you are with, and where you are, and the sights and sounds you are seeing and hearing.
Soon after Carter halted the dam project, another young man appeared on the scene to watch and protect the Flint. Jim McDaniel, who was born and reared near the river, and his wife Margie opened the Flint River Outpost at the GA 36 Bridge. Jim and I have canoed several rivers together through the years, strange places, like Potato Creek, and the remote section of the Ocklockonee River in Florida. But I hadn’t seen the Flint since the flood of 1994. I wondered what damage had been done. I picked up the phone. “Hey Reece,” came his familiar voice, although several years had passed. “Where do you want to go?” I kinda hated to tell him I just wanted to canoe down to his place on the Flint. He sounded like he was expecting some exotic local with a strange name. But he loves the Flint more than any place on earth, so he was ready to set the date.
I wanted someone else to go on this trip. Just a few miles from the Flint in Barnesville live Guy and Joyce Hutchison, some of the dearest friends we have. He and I were fraternity brothers, and we have traveled over the world on vacations. Plus, he’s one of the finest outdoorsmen I know. He was with Jim and me on the trip in Florida on the Ochlockonee, and they got to know each other. Until a few years ago, Guy was not much into canoeing. He’s a fly-fisherman. Everything I know about it he taught me during 40 years of friendship. He can present a fly into a mountain stream that’ll float right into the mouth of a prize rainbow trout. Several years ago I suggested to his wife Joyce that she drive down to Jim’s outpost and buy Guy a canoe. I was tired of him banging up mine. Since he’s a natural boatsman, canoeing would come quickly. True, he “bit the dust” a couple of times while getting his “canoe legs,” but so does everybody who canoes much. Show me someone who brags that they’ve never turned over in a canoe, and I’ll show you someone who just hasn’t canoed much in challenging currents. But I knew Guy would be ready to go. One phone call confirmed it. I picked him up in Barnesville and 20 miles farther we were at Jim’s outpost on the river, ready to go to Sprewell Bluff, launch and paddle.
Sprewell Bluff’s massive rock outcroppings looked the same. Thank God they hadn’t been touched by a dam builder’s drills and explosives. The water was high and swift, swollen by recent rains. I imagined Yellow Jacket Shoals downstream would be running close to a Class IV rapid at this height. But we weren’t going that far. Thank goodness. I’ve fought that monster in past years, and will again in less water. But not today, in this current. It wouldn’t take long to go the five miles to the outpost at the bridge.
As we launched our canoes into the swift waters, I thought I felt an old familiar pull in the paddle. But that’s foolish. Water is water, and rivers are rivers. When I get on a river my sentiments and feelings stimulate my imagination.
I was paddling with Jim so I could ask him questions about recent happings on the river. Guy was soloing behind us. It was good to be with my canoeing buddies again. Jim and I talked about groups we’ve taken on rivers in the past. Neither of us has had much formal training in canoeing. We’ve just paddled a helluva lot of rivers. You learn strokes, even if you don’t know all the textbook names for them.
As we approached Owens Island, Jim told me about the old Confederate bridge that crossed there and was burned during the Civil War. A stagecoach road crossed it on the Old Alabama Road.
“There’s an old well up on the river bank where the stagecoaches would stop.” Jim said.
“Do you know where it is?” I asked.
“I used to,” he replied.
Let’s go look,” I said as I executed what textbooks would call an across the bow draw-stroke. Jim followed with a reverse stroke that headed us toward the bank.
“Whata y’all doing?” Guy hollered from behind, obviously puzzled by such unexpected changes.
“Just follow us,” I called back to him.
It was easier said than done since he was soloing. He had to dig hard in the swollen currents. He fell right in behind us, as we nosed in by an old fallen tree. Soon we were all up on the bank, tromping through the woods looking for an old stagecoach roadbed and a rock-lined water well.
We broke up and walked alone to search. It took a minute for it to soak in. In an instant we had stepped out of the river, and back hundreds of years, looking for remnants of stagecoaches and wells. We found them, as well as some strange rockpiles, which Jim identified as Indian graves, or possibly slave graves. Then we scattered again to see what else we could find. It was as if a time machine had transported us to another world. Once again, I felt the old exhilaration, or maybe inspiration, is a better term. Whatever, such feelings have swept over me many times.
Through the years I’ve paddled rivers, camped by them, bathed in them, watched their moods and listened to their murmurings. I’ve been caressed by them and bruised by them. I’ve climbed their banks and marveled at the delicate but sturdy plant growth that lies hidden everywhere. The plant life, and the amazing array of animal that calls to you from a distance… it all makes you feel the energy and harmony of it all. It makes me want to reach out and claim kinship with the wholeness. But I can’t do that.
I can’t ignore the fact that I’m an outsider. I’m more of an intruder than a kinsman. I’m of a species that seems bent on destroying places like this. But I still get the old feeling. I knew Jim and Guy felt it. I could see them through the trees in the distance, walking slowly, looking at the ground and up in the trees, as if in deep thought. They were thinking it, or praying it in their own way, what every outdoorsman has felt: “O God, let it stay like this forever.” With people like President Carter being a river leader, and Jim McCDaniel a river lover, maybe we will.