So with my little playboat on the roof (as opposed to the large creek-type boats everyone else had), we cruised up I-59 to the Collinsville exit slamming coffee and talking excitedly. We met Todd, wolfed down some egg McMuffins and drove through the placid countryside of central Alabama, passing chickenfarms and churches filled with cars, managing to run over only one pea hen on the way.
Finally we arrived. The first thing I did was hop down to High Falls, the impressive waterfall right above where we were to put in. Quite impressive. On the river right side of the falls is a sluice through which the water is forced, creating a nasty chamber of violent whitewater I would not want to end up in. The cool thing is that the water has eaten its way through a thin wall of rock right beside it, creating a natural bridge over part of the base of the falls. When we got in our boats and paddled close to it the spray coming through the hole wrapped us in thin beads of mist, and the wind churned the water. After some meditation and speculation as to the best way to run the falls were the water high enough, we decided to head on down the river.
Now I would be lying if I said I wasn't nervous about paddling a new river. But I would also be lying if I said I didn't act as if I did it every day. The river is about 5 miles or so of class III-III+ rapids, with one class V on it called "blockage" or something to that effect, so I knew it wouldn't be too bad, but you never know. The water was low so there were a lot more rocks, which can make tipping over disagreeable, especially to your head and face. Anyway, we cruised on down, staying in order so each person could follow the other's line without getting too bunched up or far apart.
Everything went beautifully. As we approached a rapid Todd would edge ahead and scout it out, then drop down into it below our view. Rachael would follow, then me, then Tony. You never really know what you are heading into until you are right in it, so it's important to watch where the guy before you went (and whether he appears downriver again). Most of the rapids were fairly easy but a few were more technical, with required eddies. (FYI: that means pulling into the calm water behind a rock in order to get positioned for the next section of rapid.) So far so good.
We approached one rapid that looked odd, and Tony asked "Is that fallen tree in the way?" Um, yes it was. We didn't realize it until we were right above it and we had to scurry to the bank before getting swept into the branches. To quote an old pun, strainers suck. We portaged around it and headed down, making a few more runs until Todd told us to get out: the class V was ahead.
As you can see, this is not something you want to go down. Well, not in a boat. I might run it in a large inflatable padded sphere, but that's it. The little pourover you can just see to the upper right actually claimed a boater some years back. He fell out, ended up in that hole and never came up. So we were happy to lug our boats through the forest and hang on the rocks below, in awe at the combined power of gravity and liquid. When people sit watching a frothy mass of moving water like this, everyone at some point gets quiet and simply stares. I like watching it happen; it's like sitting around a fire. Those present are drawn into a sort of primal contemplation of the mystery of the world. It's good stuff.
Most of us had been paddling for the past several days, so as we finally loaded up and headed downstream through the final set of rapids some complaining about aches, pains, and whatnot could be heard. For the record, I did not participate in such embarassing, unmanly behavior. I merely noted the fact that my feet were about to fall off. They did manage to stay intact despite my observation, and we made it down the rest of the run with no problems, finally emerging onto a remote arm of Lake Guntersville. Unfortunately we had a two-mile flatwater paddle to get to the trail, where we then had a half-mile hike uphill to get to our car. It was a bitch but we made it (I was reminded of a phrase my Dad said once: "Camping (or boating) is like hitting yourself over the head with a hammer: It feels good to stop.").
As we drove back over the country roads in the back of Todd's pickup, waving to the locals who looked at us in our strange wet garb suspiciously, I was tired but couldn't wipe the grin off my grizzled, sunburned face. We had gone to Town. Once I get feeling back in my feet, I'll do it again, too.
