Friday morning we packed the trucks with boats, provisions and gear and headed west into the last of a torrential, early-morning downpour that had been moving east across the state for the past twenty-four hours, leaving flooding in its wake. By the time we rendezvoused at Crewe, the sun was breaking up the clouds and the reports of a week of good weather before us were starting to look plausible. We got to the motel near Roanoke mid-afternoon and wandered the parking lot listening to the roar of tiny Buffalo Creek over the interstate traffic, somewhere off in the thick woods. After a nice meal, some Virginia micro-brews and a couple hours of billiards in town, we enjoyed the niceties of civilization, tainted by the overpowering atmosphere of smoking rooms for which no-one had any intention of taking advantage. Under the pink glow of street lamps, on a chilly mid-May evening, we consolidated the boats and gear into the two vehicles that were to head to the put-in.
Next morning, we headed to the first take-out at Springwood, with a quick stop for ice. Arriving at the access bridge, we were greeted by the James, thirty-some odd miles downstream from the confluence, moving like a cappuccino mudslide as far as we could see in either direction. These days, looking at internet stream gauges on smart-phones can make one apprehensive beyond reason but the flow lived up to the spike we’d seen too many times on various touch-screens and the local news we’d seen back at the motel. Optimism told us it would be different thirty-five or more miles upstream, above the confluence, on the much-smaller Cowpasture River. After leaving two vehicles at Springwood and bemoaning the lack of public restrooms in the metropolis of Iron Gate, we were greeted at the narrow alley of the last boat access on the Cowpasture with what appeared to be only a slightly narrower waterway than we’d seen at Springwood, the color maybe perceptibly a drop of green in a sea of brown and flying at what seemed to be an even faster pace left-to-right when viewed down the tube of the path to the riverside.
There was a lot of thought and discussion as to whether to try further upstream, wait a day or go. David finally said something like “either you guys are going to put these boats in or I’m going home.” Jimmy thought it might be prudent if someone paralleled the paddlers on the road with a vehicle until we got a taste of what we were in for. The whole seventy-plus-mile stretch of river from there to the Maury confluence above Balcony Falls is normally a fairly gentle Class I – II float trip with dozens of gentle rapids but, with another 5 – 7 feet of water over it, it can be dangerous if an open canoe without extra floatation swamps, capsizes and forces a swim and rescue. In a daze of uncertainty, we started unloading three of the four boats and stuff to survive on the river for at least a few days. The day was crystal clear and just a few degrees cooler than room temperature as we cast off into the sweeping flow of turbulent, tan water.
In the space of a few seconds we accelerated to nearly the speed of the rushing water. Jimmy and I had been here a year earlier and the water had been transparent and slightly green in the shallows to tropical turquoise in the deep holes. Where comforting riffles and steady fishing had been there were now either low swells or small waves in the brown liquid. At the place where the pristine Cowpasture meets the industrial pollution of the Jackson River, there is normally the effect of pouring black coffee into water but on this day, there were only two slightly different shades of brown. The float that had taken us an hour an a half the year before was now over in about fifteen minutes. As we approached the Route 220 bridge, the Confluence Rapid quickly got our attention. Some of the larger waves were around four feet from trough to crest and as the swirling currents from the two rivers mixing rose up, diamond-shaped waves would break from either side oblique to the canoes’ hulls. The tipping motion and water sloshing over the sides here were as close as we came to any peril before the Balcony Falls section nearly a week later. We were now at the Lick Run gauge we had been eyeing on-line the past two days and the James was just slipping below ten feet here.
We had to cross the smaller currents approaching the boat ramp that were now flowing between trees, normally on dry land, but were finally able to land at the boat ramp next to the bridge. Jimmy was there waiting and amused at the time we had made. I broke out the ritual lunch from the cooler and dry bag and we began to strategize how we would get back out onto the river. The current was probably too strong to go back against the current the same way we had come in but just below the boat ramp was a foot-thick tree standing directly in the current of a narrow side channel with water pillowing around it. We couldn’t see clear back to the main channel downstream from there and threw sticks in the water to watch how the currents acted around the tree. None of this was very reassuring. Jimmy still wasn’t keen on joining us, especially after looking at the situation immediately below the ramp, so he decided to continue driving on to the next bridge to make a decision there. While it was tough to get lined up as we shoved off again, and there were some unexpected hazards such as iron stakes – normally on dry ground but now only a palm’s width out of the water – we three met at the downstream tip of the island in an eddy amongst the trees with little more to show for the scrape than a few broken branches in the boats.
The few miles to Glen Wilton went by just as quickly as the last few. Swells were impressive in places but none of the waves were as threatening as what we had encountered just before lunch. One quickly begins to take the spectacular scenery in this part of the Commonwealth for granted but in nearly every direction, there are hazy, undulating mountain ranges in the distance, smaller mountains on either side of the river and occasional rocky cliffs and other formations. We were immersed in this glorious panorama all week.
Discounting lunch, we had been on the river about an hour at six-plus miles when we pulled up under the bridge where Jimmy was waiting with his canoe unloaded and half his gear laid in to strap down. It was now or never if we were all going to camp at Haden Ford Island. At this point, we had averaged more than five miles an hour and just hoped we could find enough dry, flat land on the island to camp. The trip down for the rest of the afternoon was uneventful and, as we approached the island, everyone searched for a landing spot between the debris that had accumulated during the previous two days’ flooding. I was at the back of the group and made the first of many trips up side creeks of the week. At this level, tiny Shirkey Mill Branch was accessible for nearly a hundred yards. The water was deep aquamarine and peaceful with small rock cliffs rising on either side right up to the point where the brook shimmered down into the pool created by the James’ high water. On the way back out, I made my first quick attempt at fishing and hooked a small mouth that kicked up out of the water twice before spitting out the spinner without the bait. That was the only fish I saw for several days. Upon catching back up with the group, they hadn’t been disappointed landing on Haden Ford Island. With plenty of daylight to spare even before dinner, we set about our daily ritual of clearing a camp site, setting up tents and a kitchen area and building a camp fire.
That evening Jimmy grilled brats and burgers over the fire and we all relaxed with a warm glow of physical exertion, getting past the initial apprehension over the high water and a genuine feeling of adventure and accomplishment. The island was covered in thick, lush greenery and mature river birch and the sound of the rapids on either side surrounded us. As the sun faded behind the steep, high bluff across the narrow channel to the west, we lit the first of many wonderful campfires and settled in for an evening of river stories and catching up on each others’ lives.
I’m always the late riser of the group if I don’t make it out of the tent by eight. The guys already had coffee going and we all felt pretty good considering our dry bags and coolers were loaded with everything from Aventinus to Absente. David whipped up some incredible breakfast burritos and I broke out Bloody Marys that quickly became a morning habit. The water still rushed and roared around us as it had all night and had lost just the slightest of its opaque brown to the more normal leafy green color. We took our time breaking camp as we knew, even with well over ten miles to the next potential camping spots, we would only need a few hours on the river before looking to settle in again.
The river was maybe a couple of feet lower but conditions once we were floating hadn't changed much. We made a few vain attempts at fishing here and there. Many navigable creeks along the way were promising. We paddled up Mill Creek and got out to look at the recently flooded parking lot in Gala; the water was almost cobalt blue and clear down several feet. We paddled up Craig Creek a little way and it seemed to go on forever without a sign of its last rapids. Still no fish. Passing through Eagle Rock, its namesake and numerous other formations on either side were stunning. There were quite a few highway and railroad bridges across the James and the creeks on either side through here but little signs of the small town. The scenery really demanded our attention. I don’t even remember where we had lunch that day and we were soon coming up on Catawba Creek near Salisbury and decided to stay to the right of the island to see if there were any potential camp sites. The right bank had a road and too many signs of potential visitors and habitation. The island on the left, up to the creek, showed no signs of a good landing spot or clear, high ground. At the last minute, David spotted something that looked promising and we all paddled upstream through the trees on the downstream tip of the island in an area that resembled a mangrove swamp.
We landed and walked about a grassy area less than five feet above the water and still slightly damp from having been submerged in the past forty-eight hours. Everyone agreed this would do and I climbed up on a huge pile of damp driftwood to start scavenging fuel for the fire while the others unpacked the kitchen and set up tents. Jay cooked up a delicious dinner of goulash and rice and we settled in for another evening around the fire. Always looming in the background was a forty-foot tall monolith of raw quarried stone arranged like a hollow half-pyramid with a six-foot thick oak growing out of the center. From the resources we had packed for the trip, we looked it up and found that it was a canal tow-path bridge abutment, dating back to the mid-1800s, for transiting cargo boats from one side of the river to the other. The island had formed around its immovable hulk. It had an ancient, supernatural, ghostly appearance even in the broad daylight but was even more spectral later under the half-moon. We had a long, relaxing night around the camp fire and the sky cleared and lit up with stars and the lunar glow. We all turned in around midnight as the mercury threatened to plunge below forty.
To be continued . . . Coming soon: "Jay Don't Move!", Five Foot Waves and Helgamites, Nettles and Snakes, oh my!
David at Balcony Falls - - - - - Jimmy at Balcony Falls
Last modified June 9, 2014 - Back to the RRCC Main Page.