Fear and loathing in the wilderness
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By ALLEN JERNIGAN
Special to the Tar Heel pg. 6
Lightning sizzled in the valley. Looking
. from Water Rock Knob into the darkness of
Haywood County, we passed a bottle of Bol
la Valpolicella Waynesville's best and
watched the thunderstorm roll across the
Great Smokies. If there ever was a dark and
stormy night this was it
They could have been twin fireflies, swirl
ing knee-high out of the rhododendron, or lu
minous eyes swinging this way and that
claws crunching on the ground Clawsl An
other flash gave a glimpse of a dark,' furry
shape. But another warm slash of the "dry,
red Italian wine lent courage enough to ig
nore things that scurry in the night
Sitting on the hood of the car, we spoke of
the white water on the Tuckaseegee River,
and of the Subtle ways of the Cherokee with
Floridian tourists. A star or two glimmered
behind the clouds) then branches crunched
and snapped not twenty-five feet away. Beth
sat Still and silent - as 'the mountains; I
jumped off the car, but never lost my grip on
the bottle. . .1 -
"Lets get out of here!" was enough to
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send us both scrambling for door handles.
Secure behind locked doors and rolled up
windows, we laughed about city folk scared
of noises in the night But we turned on the
headlights in time to see Mama Bear rendez
vous with Baby Bear, who growled indig
nantly at the bright intrusion on their tender
scene. Mama Bear rose on her hind legs and
advanced, pointy teeth gleaming.
Beth's Japanese sewing machine fired up,
and we fled the wilderness that is known as
the Blue Ridge Parkway. We were no fools:
We were deranged white water fanatics. And
we were survivors.
But for the occasional kingfisher, moun
tain laurel, and fisherman, the river was ours
alone. Which was good, not only for the soli
tude amid the scenic splendor of the Smo
kies, but so nobody played spectator to our
first run. Beth sat in the bows, scanning for
rocks and other obstacles Astern, I manned
the beer cooler, and attempted to guide our
way through treacherous waters.
"Essential to success in white-watering are
three paddle-strokes," I told Beth. "First is
the draw. It takes you in the direction you
draw, if you are sitting in the front The sec
ond is the pry; it does the opposite. The third
is the basic go forward flat water stroke."
"Okay," she said. "Just remember that it
takes me a while to tell left from right"
With a few scrapes over rocks, and a few
inches of river in the bilges from seepage
and plowing through standing waves hy
draulics, in the lingo of paddlers we felt
lucky, even accomplished. Until . . .
At one point the entire river roars through .
a gap that could be no more than ten yards
wide, though we didn't stop to measure. In
the midst of the chute are the dreaded hy
draulics, which wave by wave fill your boat .
with water until the river is at gunwale leyel."
Hidden by the treacherous waves are .two
monster boulders, each the size of a dorm
room. That left about five, feet of room to
maneuver. Remember, a canoe is about
JUL
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Looking down river
three feet wide.
Into the valley of death we rode, budweis
ers safely stowed, white knuckles on. the
paddles. Whooosh into the thundering
throat of the river. "Hang on! You're gonna
get wet!" I cried. -
"Why just me?" she replied.
"Because I'm in the back," was the an
swer the river swallowed.
We did f ine past the nasty rocks, and only
shipped a little water in evil hydraulics. But
at the bottom of the rapids, the river turns.
"Draw!" I screamed. Somebody pried. But
we're here today to tell the tale. After all, we
paddle white water. We're survivors.
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.Thursday, July 15. 1982 The Tar Heel 7