Haunted by Water

“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.

I am haunted by waters.” Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It and Other Stories.

Cortner's Mill - A River Runs Through It

Chuck Richardson is haunted by water, visited by the same joyous specters of nature as Norman Maclean. His is a good haunting, or even possibly a possession… loving Mother Nature…one which he has willingly given his heart and soul.

Chuck has been my friend for 40 years if we can ever get past this cursed Twin Twenty alive. We met in a Radio Shack in McMinnville he had been chosen to manage. I was a raw recruit sent to help setup. I put an audio cabinet together backwards without reading the instructions. This was a harbinger of times to come. Chuck reads the instructions, yet somehow we became friends.

In recent years, we have gathered three or four times annually to take in dinner and a guy movie. With the theatres closed, our time apart has stretched uncomfortably. In my quest to reach out to friends who are now old men, he was naturally the first call. We had read about the death of a 15-year-old girl on the Duck River near Cortner’s Mill and both been texting back and forth disturbed. Cortner’s had been a place of treasured tranquility where we had wade fished and visited many times. We determined to do something that had been neglected since the 1980s, a float trip down the Duck River.

Chuck is famous for his “Chucklists” where he obsesses over every detail of the trip, planning for days on a longer excursion. He already had the boats loaded and the gear we needed when I showed up at his house. All I was told to bring was any food or drink I wanted in a soft sided cooler. I was up to the task. There was nothing to assemble.

We arrived at the Duck and discovered there was crime scene tape along the road leading to the entrance to Dement Bridge landing, but not over the opening itself. We knew the TWRA and Bedford County were resolved to start legislating against accidents like what had happened on June 1st. We went into WarTrace to check with the canoe livery folks, who told us it was okay to launch at Dement but not at Cortner’s Mill.

On our way back, we decided to stop at Cortner’s Mill and take a look, even though it was closed. We couldn’t get to the water due to a couple of dogs of undetermined friendliness. From what we could see, the downriver side of the dam was marred by what looked like dirt fill and downed trees.

The tranquil beauty of Cortner’s Mill was not in evidence.

Dam at Cortner's Mill

The young girl who died had gotten trapped and pulled under a log just a little way down from the dam. There was a massive downed tree there and I wondered if that was the culprit. The girl and her parents launched when the river was at 400 feet per second, 4 times what it was for our trip. We wondered about the wisdom of parents launching with a teenager into that kind of flow. We understood the reason for the crime scene tape, though this was tragedy and not a crime. Bedford County has determined kayakers need to be protected from themselves during flood stages of the river. I was reminded of the surfers of my youth on the Gulf Coast who could not wait to paddle out into hurricane waves. Some met their maker in the storm.

Sometimes Mother Nature cruelly reminds us of our mortality.

We had last floated the Duck together in about 1983. We had both taken a mental health day off from work after verifying there was only a 20% chance of rain. We had a nice day on the Duck until about mid-afternoon the sky darkened and rain began to come down in torrents. We got off the river and pulled the boat up to higher ground, then headed for the truck to come back and load up. By the time we got back, the river had risen quickly. The boat was teetering in current that had not been there just a little while ago. Another 10 minutes and we would have lost the boat.

I have never looked at 20% chance of rain the same way in the weather apps on my phone. You can drown in two inches of water and be swept away by 20% chance of rain.

On this day, the river was only running about 120 feet per second, which Chuck said is the amount to keep pace with the inflow into the lake above the dam. There was almost no chance of rain, though we both crossed fingers knowing the unpredictability.

We launched at Dement Bridge and Chuck got me to paddle upriver in the wide quiet water to get my kayak legs under me. I had once canoed a lot in Texas, through some Category 4 rapids on the Guadalupe River. I had been semi-proficient navigating through drunk college students sprawled in inner tubes, beer coolers trailing behind on a second tube. Chuck’s kayaks are 12 footers, much more stable than the little short ones you often see playing in rapids, practicing underwater rolls off rocks to test the paddler’s helmet. This one handled like a canoe, the navigation strokes were the same though getting used to the double-sided paddle was different and took some practice.

As I paddled, I thought how disengaged from Nature I have been. Golf courses and beaches are wonderful in what they are, but there is not the tranquility one can find on a river. I felt closer to God midst His handiwork than in my home church, even before the pandemic forced the congregation to worship by car or internet only. Norman Maclean talks about some of the words being released from under the river rocks being “theirs”. I prefer to think of the words being released with the bubbles as “His”.

The thought of God talking through the ripples brought me to a poem I share with my students in one of my classes titled: In Stillness Wait. The poem is based on the 46th Psalm, verse 10: “Be still and know that I am God…”

Speak, Lord, in the stillness,

While I wait on Thee;

Hushing my heart to listen

In expectancy.

Speak, O blessed Master,

In this quiet hour;

Let me see Your face, Lord,

Feel Your touch of power.

For the words that You speak,

“They are life,” indeed;

Living bread from Heaven,

Now my spirit feed!

Speak, Your servant hears You!

Be not silent, Lord;

My soul does wait

For Your life-giving word!

We took our time down the river as we were only going about four miles. We stopped and had a snack and watched a couple of groups of women and girls go by laughing. Chuck has a saying that sums up being an old man on the river or anywhere else as Life and beauty passes you by: “They’re just so young and pretty they make you sad.”

Which is Old Man River?

We saw a raccoon in the top of a tree felled across the river, the original Covid mascot, who washes his food and wears a mask. We also saw two snakes in the water that looked like Copperheads. We were not sure Copperheads can swim and our phones were locked up in the safe so we could not easily Google. I later checked and yes, they do swim, but more likely with their head out of the water. These snakes were swimming with head in the water and even diving to the bottom, so I’m comfortable they weren’t copperheads.

The fact my phone, wallet and keys were locked in the little safe with the screw on top turned out to be a good precaution. I made it through almost the whole trip without incident until we hit the next to last rapids, about 300 yards from the point to get off the river. Chuck was ahead and my boat caught up a little too close. I tried to backstroke to hold my place, but the current pushed me right into a downed log. I tried to push away from the log with my paddle and managed to push myself over sideways.

The water was cold and the rocks slick as I stood up. I had kept a hold on the kayak and was lucky my paddle caught on the log. I got my paddle and maneuvered back into the boat. I was able to paddle on through the rapid and get my crocs that Chuck had retrieved as they floated by.

Into every life a little rain must fall and on any boat ride the river may run through you. This was kind of fun at 120 feet per second. At 400 feet per second, it could have been fatal. Rivers demand respect and good sense. The refreshing little dip was a gentle reminder how quickly flowing water can turn from lazy to treacherous. Or how one wrong move can get you wet.

The entire day was a reminder of what a good friend I have in Chuck. Our days going to Tellico Plains trout fishing faded when I got married 28 years ago and discovered golf. The last time I went trout fishing 10 or 15 years ago my rods weren’t up to par and my waders leaked. Yet our friendship has persevered despite not getting outdoors together enough.

The title of my website is “A Country For Old Men”. I have other friendships I’ve paid less attention as time has sneaked past me too quickly. Now, all of us are old men. I have resolved to reach out to some of those whose roads forked from mine so much we lost track of one another and see what they have been up to as lives reach the fourth quarter.

I will close as I started, with a quote from Norman Maclean:

“Slowly we became silent, and silence itself is an enemy to friendship.”

Let us no longer be silent.