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Boating
The
following appeared in The Northeast Georgian June 11, 2004.
Reprinted with permission by The Northeast Georgian. There is something exciting about waking up in the morning and deciding that the day is going to be spent in a canoe. Once my decision was made, the uncertainty of the location, the conditions, and perhaps even the feasibility of the whole venture were simply par for the course. Canoeing isn’t a picnic, it’s an adventure. Memorial Day Weekend should be considered an official water holiday. It’s the weekend when summertime swoops in out of nowhere, the intense heat controlling our minds and causing us to flock somewhere wet to cool off. For me, that wet place was going to be the lower Soque. The Soque River is thirty miles long and though most of it is inaccessible by canoe, the last five miles, from below the new bridge at 105 to the Chattahoochee River looked promising. A river is best experienced by boat, and it was time to see just what the Soque had to offer. Before the trip began some scoping was required. Beneath the new bridge on Highway 105 is Old Cannon Bridge Road which now simply dead ends at the Soque. The old bridge is gone and to the right of the dead end is a perfect area for parking. This little piece of land was the Department of Transportation’s old staging area from their bridge construction and actually belongs to the City of Cornelia. Though the terrain around the parking area is rugged and steep, there was a narrow drainage area almost perfect for launching a canoe. Before you can start a canoe trip, you have to arrange a shuttle, so before starting I left my bicycle downstream at Duncan Bridge Road at the takeout on the Chattahoochee River. One more stop for a bunch of worms and it was time to hit the river. As soon as I launched the boat I knew it was going to be a good day. The sun was sparkling off the water, the highway traffic on 105 was quickly fading in the distance, birds and dragonflies were flitting across the water and everything in front of the boat was wet, rocky or green. One thing I love about rivers is no matter how much time you spend on them, you are always going to be humbled by how much you don’t know. There are the things you recognize such as kingfishers, clubtail dragonflies, mountain laurel and dog hobble, but then you’re stumped when spotting a fish resembling a gar or an orchid like bloom on a shrub with heart shaped leaves. Pretty short into the trip I began coming upon areas that were just begging to be named. The first was “skat rock” which was a stone in the middle of the river absolutely covered with the droppings of Canadian geese. A better name might have been “loose goose rock.” I encountered two Canadian geese families during the trip with their yellowish-green goslings following them about. The father of one family made a honking ruckus trying to distract me away from the mom and kids. The next stretch of river I named “kingfisher alley.” Kingfishers are my absolute favorite bird because of their colorations, their high crest, their love of water, and their curious swooping flight. They were chittering up a storm and several were clumped together in this section, an odd occurrence since kingfishers are known for being solitary. There may have been some flirtations going on. Next up was “catfish hole.” Every river’s got a hole that you just know is full of fish. Sure enough, my dinner was waiting for me there. I even had enough for breakfast. You always know when you’ve caught a catfish because they shake their heads from side to side once they’ve been caught. They were delicious too, fried up later that night with a little Cajun style batter. Then I came upon “Barking beaver hill.” A large rustling came from a tall hill and then a mysterious low grunting, hacking bark indicated I had moseyed into hostile territory. This was a new experience to me, so I had to investigate. Upon climbing up the bank and walking a few paces I found a large beaver hut, high on the hill overlooking the river. The beaver had skeedaddled but his giant nest was a reminder of how amazing the beavers ability to cut and carry vast quantities of wood. Nature’s engineers are always busy. Throughout the trip I encountered short rapids and shoals. The river had a gentle fall that made it simple to navigate yet fun and exciting. At this point I hadn’t seen a single person all day and had only passed three or four houses. When it's summertime and no one’s around, skinny dippin' is not, or should not, be considered a sin. Besides I only had one set of britches. Don’t shake your head. I was in the middle of nowhere, all by myself, and it was a near religious experience. I haven’t named that spot yet. Rain had been a possibility all day with signs of clouds and thunder skirting the sunshine. Then all of a sudden a wicked little thundershower with dark clouds, lightning and big wet raindrops came down. The cold rain brought my goose bumps out. As each rain drop hit the river it formed an inverted drop that made the surface jump about in a beautiful display. The shower lasted all of ten minutes and then blew off. The sun came back out and the whole world had a nice steam to it. As I approached the Soque’s terminus into the mighty Chattahoochee, I felt like I had absorbed some of the essence of the Soque. The juncture of the two rivers is spectacular as the tight green canopy of the Soque opens up wide and the Chattahoochee broadens revealing tall straight pines downstream. Looking back upstream at both rivers you can see the steep drop and the whitewater runs of the Chattahoochee, a strong contrast with the dense foliage and slow easy water of the Soque. Each river has its own character, its own hidden secrets, and each are vital to millions of people who drink their waters. After pulling my canoe out and visiting with the folks at Wildwood Outfitters I hopped on my bike for the trip back up to my car. After climbing the steep hill out of the Chattahoochee Valley, I swung a left down Pea Ridge Road which forms the watershed divide between the Soque River and Mud Creek. As I peddled I realized that the farms on my right drained south to Mud Creek while the farms on my left drained north to the Soque River. The landscape of the river basin came into focus because of the gentler pace of a bicycle in the open air. There’s nothing quite like floating a river. I’d be surprised if so much as one other person floated the Soque that day. All the better for me considering my swimming wardrobe, but the Soque is like all rivers, it desperately needs us to care about it. I felt more connected to the Soque that day than I have all year, because I got to know it up close. * * * |
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