September 25, 2007Smoky Mountain Peak
September 24, 2007Smoky Mountain Picture Window View
by Glynn Wilson GREAT SMOKY MOUNTAINS, Tenn., Sept. 24 - Imagine waking up every morning with a view of a different creek, lake, river or ocean. The picture window of life on the roads of America can be far better than any suburb, although the campgrounds on the East Coast can have similar annoyances. There are so many people escaping the cities in RVs that the campgrounds stay busy. And some people bring along their loud kids and barking dogs and leave behind their trash. But hey, that's America. Then, here just a stone's throw from the entrance to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, construction workers are using a band saw and a nail gun to build a deck on the cabin across the creek in front of me, while a KOA park worker blows leaves by the swimming pool behind me. Where do you have to go to escape the noise of modern life? There is one man working out his fly rod in a deep hole down stream while his wife takes pictures. I am on my fourth cup of coffee and contemplating where to go next. It is only about a four hour drive to Birmingham from here, but I'm not feeling quite ready to go home just yet. I left the Magic City on a Wednesday almost two weeks ago and headed north of Knoxville, then made my way into Virginia for the assault on Washington, D.C. I caught up with Jill Simpson there and the House Judiciary Committee, then followed the anti-Iraq war protest from the White House to the Capitol. I camped out with high speed Wi-Fi in Maryland, then hauled ass to Brooklyn, New York, where I spent three whirlwind days there meeting with editors and seeing everything we could get to on time. The view going into Manhattan was bigger than it looks on TV. The view leaving over the Staten Island bridge was such a powerful sight that it must have been almost overwhelming to the first visitors from Europe, there where the big East River heads for the Atlantic. I wish now I had thought to take out the camera and get a shot of it. But the traffic required total concentration. There has been little time for bird chasing on this trip, but perhaps I will remedy that today. I think I'll drive through the Smokies headed south and pass through the Cherokee National Forest and pay homage to my ancesters amongst the tall, old trees. Maybe I'll stop in on Lookout Mountain and catch the sunset near Rock City. If I feel like another night out on the road, there's always Lake Guntersville State Park, near Scottsboro and Rainsville. Maybe I'll pop in on Jill Simpson on Tuesday and stop off by the Swann-Joy Bridge on the way home down Highway 79. But for now I think I'll head up into the mountains in search of the legendary blue mist, which hovers in the nation's most visited national park like a wispy, smoke-like fog. It is created from rain and evaporation from the trees, although it can be obscured by the ozone haze, especially in the summer, from the nearby TVA coal-fired power plants. Native Americans called this "the land of the blue mist." But now the sun is rising through the trees over the canoe on the van, so it's time to hit the showers, find breakfast, and roll on up the road. September 23, 2007Hungry Mother Mountain Escape
HUNGRY MOTHER STATE PARK, Va., Sept. 23 (LFJ) - It is cool again here in the mountains at night, but there's no Wi-Fi in range. Too bad more of these RV travelers don't have satellite hook ups with wireless routers, open for the taking.
The Coney Island humidity was rising as I left the Brooklyn end of Long Island over the Statin Island bridge during rush hour Friday afternoon. Not a bad crawl in a van with a majestic view of big water. The Potomac humidity was so high in College Park, Maryland, Saturday afternoon that I just wanted to hit the mountain road south with the AC blasting and Big and Rich on the stereo. As the sun began to set in the Appalachians, the purple peaks and pink sky lay out as far as you could see, one rolling hill after another along the old Indian trail winding through the gap. We found a connection at a hotel lobby in Marion, Virginia, just fast enough to update the headlines. But for now, it's time to get the boat in the water in the Hungry Mother Lake. Legend has it that when the Native Americans destroyed several settlements on the New River south of where the state park is now, settler Molly Marley and her small child were among the survivors taken to the raiders’ base north of the park. They eventually escaped, wandering through the wilderness eating berries. Molly finally collapsed. Her child wandered down a creek until it found help. The only words the child could utter were "Hungry Mother." The search party arrived at the foot of the mountain where Molly collapsed to find the child's mother dead. Today that mountain is Molly’s Knob, and the stream is Hungry Mother Creek. Should make for an interesting float and a picture or two. Update We made it in and out of the lake, with photos, on the official first day of fall, but it's time to head on down to the Great Smoky Mountains to find a camp for the night. Fast Krystal hotspot on Highway 129 on the way from Knoxville to Maryville.
September 20, 2007The Battle of Brooklyn
by Glynn Wilson BROOKLYN, NY, Sept. 20 - There is another party going on in Greenwich Village and everyone is trying to get me to come. Instead, in the city that never sleeps, on my third night here, I've finally caught a few quiet moments to think in front of the laptop with a little jazz in the background and a 12-pack of Yuengling on ice. As is often the case in the time of our lord and king George W. Bush, I'm thinking about revolutionary stuff. Camped out here in the place where the first major battle of the American Revolution was fought, the "Battle of Brooklyn," I'm wondering what the people here think about it all. But since they are speaking in Yiddish, I am having a hard time understanding them as their melodic language floats out the windows on a cool September night and blends right in with the jazz. They are having a hard time understanding me, too, I'm sure, since I must sound to them like every dumbass redneck they have ever seen on TV when some horrible crime is reported from the American South, a major hurricane hits the Gulf Coast - or some football coach gets run off from some big college for hanging out in nudie bars cavorting with strippers. I haven't talked to a single soul here yet who likes George Bush or his policies, so it must be a fine neighborhood, although I'm fully aware of the fact that General George Washington's Continental Army got its ass whipped their very first time on a battlefield by the well-trained British "Redcoats" here that day on August 27, 1776. The British burned down a quarter of New York then, but somehow, Washington and his army escaped to fight another day. And that's a good thing. Otherwise, the war could have all been over and we would still all be British subjects, living in an Old Country monarchy despised by the world. Now we're just a New World quasi-monarchy despised by the world and ruled at the will of the descendents of the British Loyalists, who don't mind at all mixing their religion and politics. It was the Dutch who were smart enough to first settle this western edge of Long Island, although they had to convince the Canarsie Native American tribe - and the Mohawks - to let them take it over. Gunpowder played a role in that, of course, although they ostensibly did pay for some of the land in the 1630s. The Dutch West India Company "authorized' it in 1644, and the Village of Breuckelen became the first municipality in what is now New York State, according to the Wikipedia online encyclopedia. Perhaps due to its location and climate, Brooklyn has been the setting for some key figures in American letters since Washington's Army finally sent the crown's Navy into escape across the Atlantic Ocean. In the classic poem "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry," Walt Whitman wrote of the Brooklyn waterfront. In the novel Sophie's Choice, William Styron writes from Flatbush, just off Prospect Park. The 1955 play A View From the Bridge by Arthur Miller is set here. Many writers make their home in the Park Slope neighborhood and are sometimes referred to as the "Park Slope intelligentsia." We didn't meet any of them on this trip, although we did tour the new New York Times building today thanks to a certain editorial writer who used to be a copy editor on the national desk. We won't name him, because we're not sure he would like that. But he is a super nice guy and we enjoyed the short and gracious tour. Too bad I didn't make it up here in time to see the old newsroom for the Old Gray Lady, but that also happened to me in Chicago when they cubicalized that newsroom on the week of my visit for an academic conference in 1999.
We also managed to make it to the Metropolitan Museum of Art today - before it closed - and caught the Picassos, a Van Gough or two and three famous paintings by Henri Matisse. Since old Pablo was such a hero to my old friend Spider Martin of Civil Rights photography fame, I had to see what Picasso was all about. And where else but "The Met," right next to Central Park, where we managed to catch some jazz in the trees and a green moment on a grassy knoll. Yesterday, we got the tour of The Nation Institute and visited ground zero. And Tuesday night, I met with a certain crusading lawyer/writer associated with Harpers.org I like to call "Superman" at the Grand Central Station Oyster bar. It shouldn't be too hard to figure out why I call him Superman, considering the mission to preserve "truth, justice and the American way" in Bush's America. I figured out on this trip, to interject a bit of humility, that I am only Superboy. We haven't heard anything out of the House Judiciary Committee yet, or the Eleventh Circuit, on the Siegelman investigation. But we understand there's a little controversy going on in Alabama between Gov. Bob "Cowboy boots" Riley and Rep. Artur Davis, although we've been too busy riding subway trains and walking the streets of New York - like a bataan death march - to keep up with all the local details from here. It looks like once again, it was all started by the Birmingham Ruse Newhouse newspaper anyway, so its likely nothing to get all riled up about. They say New Yorkers walk an average of five miles a day. No wonder they look so thin on TV. In Birmingham, hell we have to drive to get anywhere. Since Karl Rove has packed up his White House office and moved back to Texas, where they know him as "Turd Blossom," and since it looks like the justice train is whistling a different tune down in Washington for now, we can have a little fun. Maybe we'll make it to that party after all. You know what I always say. "The party's more fun when the work is done." September 16, 2007Heading For the C and O Canal LoopTAKOMA PARK, Md. - It's such a fine fall-like Sunday in Maryland that we are heading out to explore the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal National Historical Park to get the canoe wet, maybe, in the Potomac River. I caught up with Jill Simpson and Patricia Duncan last night near the Spy Museum in downtown Washington and got the scoop, although since her appearance before the House Judiciary Committee was supposed to be confidential, we can't report on it, yet. We have more pictures from the protest march to go through and will post more as time and Net access allows. The plan is still on to head for New York Monday night for a couple of days, then back through Philadelphia for a little Revolutionary history tour, then back through the D.C. area on the way back to Alabamaland. Update Plus, there's an Irish band playing in the park convention hall and a few protesters still hanging out from all over the country with Impeach Bush bumper stickers. Should be a party tonight...
September 13, 2007Panther Creek State ParkPANTHER CREEK STATE PARK, Tenn., Sept. 13 (LFJ) - The road rolls out there, up there, hey, hey, ho, ho.
Legend has it that both Panther Creek and Panther Springs, located about 1 1/2 miles southeast of the park, received their names from the claim of a Colonel Bradley of Virginia who, while exploring the area, shot a panther here. The big cat fell dead into the spring. I didn't see any panthers. There probably are none left in these parts since scared men killed them all. But there was a brave group of about five or six fawns feeding in the grass near the bath house as we pulled in about midnight last night. And we heard the sound of coyotes in the forest. Read Scott Horton and the silly Birmingham News editorial today for the latest info and fun. No time for more blogging now at the Krystal hotspot. On to Virginia... June 18, 2007Secret Vistas: Guntersville State Park
October 20, 2006Spotlight On A Different Big Orange, And RedMARION, N.C., Oct. 20 - We bypassed the Big Orange scene in Knoxville on the way here, so our spotlight for the next few days will be focused on the autumn color in the mountains. We also heard tell of some gold in these hills, left when the Gold Rush swept all the serious minors west to California in the 1800s. In addition to its unique location in the Catawba River Basin at the eastern foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains, Marion is near the first gold mining site in the original colonies, and the home territory of a large band of Cherokee Indians before the Trail of Tears. It is 35 miles east of Asheville and serves as a gateway between the mountains and the piedmont sections of North Carolina. The color on the way across U.S. Highway 40 looked near peak, so it appears we picked the right time to make this run. And we have an excellent guide lined up, a local adventurer, entrepreneur and real estate man we will introduce later. It's a quiet night in the valley here - except for a couple of yap dogs. Made friends with one dog and one cat already. And we hear there are bears not far from here. Maybe elk too? The plan is breakfast on the Blue Ridge Parkway in the a.m., photos ops in the fog on the way and a host of sites, which will include a float down the Catawba River before the weekend's done… Say no more. It's off to the smoking porch and then the guest bedroom before midnight. October 16, 2006A Brown Pelican On Mobile Bay
October 13, 2006Secret Vistas: Migrating Monarchs...
October 12, 2006Ivory-Billed Woodpeckers Remain Elusive...BRUCE, Fla., Oct 12 - Willie Hill of Ebro, Florida, gives up on the fishing as the sun's about to set on the Choctawhatchee River north of Panama City. He's been fishing around these parts all his life, "a very long time," he says with a contemplative smile. Has he heard about or seen a large black, white and red woodpecker, maybe 21-inches tall and with a wing span of three feet?
"I heard all about it, but I don't recollect seeing nothing like that, nothing that big, uh, uhh," he said. But just up river near the Nokuse Plantation preserve, some Auburn researchers say they saw it 14 times and recorded its unique "kent, kent" call. "That plantation, it's up river, that-a-way," said Johnnie Hill, 71. Has she ever seen the elusive ivory-billed woodpecker everyone's now searching for in the waters and forests of her youth? "Not me," she said, putting away her fishing rod for the night. I headed over from Navarre Beach down coastal Highway 98 over West Bay, and turned left on state Highway 79, then turned left on 20 and eased into Bruce in time for a beautiful lunch at the Bruce Café. Barbecued chicken cooked on the bone, rice and gravy, butter peas, tossed salad, a large glass of water and sweet iced-tea to go, but not before the banana pudding, thank you very much, maybe the best I've ever tasted, all for $6 plus tip. A quick check at the Bruce Bait and Tackle shop across the street brought conformation that the main channel of the Choctawhatchee River was just five miles down the road, with a free state boat ramp. Easing into the water, I could feel the primitive nature of the land as soon as the sounds from the bridge disappeared behind me. Again, there were families of flickers every 50 yards or so, cluk, cluking from behind the tall cypress trees along the water, behind nature's mask. It makes one wonder if some birds warn others when a man comes floating up the river. What appears to be a kingfisher guards one section of the river as I go about as far north as I dare before turning around and heading back before dark. It makes a hell of a racket and flies ahead of me, then circles back and lands on a tree at my back. Then it does it again... There are other kinds of woodpeckers in the woods making noises. Then the shrill call of a blue jay far off makes me sit up and take notice. What does an ivory-bill really sound like? If there are ivory-billed woodpeckers here, they ain't showing themselves today to this traveler. So we'll have to come back again early in the morning and paddle further north.
The Ivory-Billed Woodpecker Search Continues...
October 11, 2006Searching For The Ivory-Bill On The Choctawhatchee RiverCHOCTAWHATCHEE RIVER, Fla., Oct 10 - The skeptics say it can't be done. Obtaining conclusive evidence that the legendary ivory-billed woodpecker survives in an American swamp may be as hard as proving that string theory explains everything in the universe. But that will not stop true believers who revel as much in the search as in the discovery.
Upon hearing recently that a research team led by Auburn University Professor Geoff Hill published audio evidence that a population of ivory-billed woodpeckers survives in a remote river basin in the panhandle of Florida, I just had to see this river and attempt to meet these woodpeckers myself. I loaded up the Chevy van, put the canoe on top, and made the long drive east down Highway 90, past Crestview, Florida, until the Choctawhatchee River (pronounced Choct-a-hatchee) bridge came into view. It is named "the river of the Choctaws" because it was once home to that native band of Indians, ran out of the territory by the U.S. Army under Gen. Andrew Jackson just as my ancestors the Cherokee were ran out of north Alabama. Floating along as quietly as possible, hoping for a lucky encounter, it's not hard to imagine hearing the high-pitched, trumpet-like call of the ivory-billed woodpecker while straining for a glimpse of this magnificent bird amongst the tree tops. There are woodpeckers of every variety along the way, calling their mates, issuing warnings, tapping on trees to find the grub worm and "betsy-bug" larvae they love to eat. Professor Hill, an ornithologist at Auburn's College of Science and Mathematics, reported his findings in Avian Conservation and Ecology, an electronic scientific journal. He claims to have seen an ivory-bill in flight on 14 occasions and heard its signature double knock, while kayaking on the river in May 2005. He was leading two research assistants on a search in the remote part of the panhandle so unexplored that few bird records of any kind exist for the area. "These swamps are very rarely visited," he said. "I think this area has barely ever been visited by somebody with book knowledge of birds." The team captured 300 recordings consistent with the sounds of the ivory-billed woodpecker. Cornell University researchers stunned bird-lovers last year by announcing that the ivory-bill had been rediscovered in the Big Woods of Arkansas, although the evidence in that discovery is still subject to debate and controversy. A concerted search based on another alleged sighting was conducted in the upland cypress swamps of the Pearl River basin in Louisiana in 2002. With a wingspan of three feet and a height of 21-inches tall, the ivory-bill is the world's second largest woodpecker next to the imperial woodpecker of Mexico. The last survivors who confirmed a sighting of the ivory-bill were so impressed with it they dubbed it the "Lord God bird," because the first thing they said when encountering it was, "Lawd Gawd." The ivory-bill is black with large white stripes. It has a long, ivory-colored bill and a tall crest on its head. The male's crest is red and the female's is black. Researchers say it requires large tracts of unbroken hardwood swamp, territory that is vanishing in the American South as the population grows and the suburbs sprawl.
Spotting an ivory-bill would be to birders what finding the holy grail would be to pilgrims searching for the cup of Christ. The ivory-bill is listed as an endangered species but thought to be extinct since the early 1970s. But on April 1, 1999, Louisiana State University forestry student David Kulivan says he spotted a pair on a water oak while sitting under a tree, camouflaged, stalking turkey. He insisted it was not an April Fools Day joke, and a panel of experts gave his story enough credence to mount an organized search. Dr. James Van Remsen conceded then that the odds were heavily against the expedition coming away with pictures or video of the ivory-bill, or even sound recordings of its unique nasal call. It would be like finding a dodo bird long after it was declared extinct. No evidence of ivory-bills turned up in that search, but the researchers in Arkansas last year came up with a few seconds of low quality, shaky video, which many scientists say is inconclusive. The date of the last ivory-bill sighting is the subject of dispute among scientists and birders. Many media reports date the last ivory-billed sightings to the 1930s, to a tract of land owned by the Singer Sewing Machine company near Tallulah, La., across the Mississippi River from Vicksburg, Miss. In his Birds of Louisiana, the late Dr. George H. Lowery Jr., one of the world's most renowned bird experts, tells of watching four ivory-bills feed there on a dead snag on a rainy Christmas morning in 1933. But Dr. Remsen is in possession of three photographs of an ivory-bill couple taken in 1971, which could represent the last confirmed sighting before the grand and rare woodpecker disappeared into extinction. "Those photographs are disputed by some as fakes," Dr. Remsen said. "I happen to be 100 percent confident that those are good photographs, but that doesn't do any good for the people who think those are mounted ivory-billed woodpeckers in a tree. If that's not a real bird, I'll turn in my ornithology credentials. And I talked to the guy who took the pictures, so I'm convinced." The photographer's name and the exact location of the sighting in northeast Louisiana are closely held secrets. Another search is underway in Cuba, where there are unconfirmed sightings as well. Loggers clear-cut much of the area where the ivory-bills lived before World War II during the massive timber harvest of the early 20th century. Working with giant cross-saws, then shipping the trees out by rail to feed the needs of a growing, industrial population, they felled Southeastern forests from North Carolina to Texas, taking the rest in the 1950s and '60s. A mating pair of ivory-bills would need at least a six-square-mile area of virgin bottomland forest habitat to survive, experts say. Why should people care if the ivory-bill or other species survive or die? Isn't extinction part of nature? Yes, says the theory of evolution and natural selection, adaptable species survive while the weak perish. The recent problem of biodiversity loss has to do with the intervention of Homo sapiens, say experts such as Edward O. Wilson of Harvard. In his 1992 Pulitzer Prize-winning book The Diversity of Life, he estimates only 4.3 percent of the earth's land surface is legally protected, a critical factor in dooming about 27,000 species each year. Even the dodo's extinction can be blamed on Portuguese and Dutch explorers who fed on the flightless bird in the 1500s and 1600s while exploring islands in the Indian Ocean. All of this information runs through my head as I listen and look for the ivory-bill for the better part of an afternoon. The flicker, also known as the yellow-hammer, goes "Wick wick, kee-you, flicka, flicka." The red-bellied woodpecker sings "Chirr-r-r-r, chaw, chaw." Further into the dark woods came the "kuk-kuk, kuk-kuk" of the pileated woodpecker, a close cousin of the irovy-bill. If there is a place where there are a sufficient number of ancient trees to support ivory-bills, the Choctawhatchee River basin may be it. This is a metropolis of serious woodpecker habitat, so just being here is enough to give one hope of a sighting, enough to stir the imagination at the strangest, most distant call. Searching for another few hours turned up no sign of the shy and elusive ivory-billed woodpecker, but the trip and the float was worth it anyway. Chances are I'll come back at it again this winter, when the foliage dies down and the snakes are fast asleep in their holes. If there is a pair of mating ivory-billed woodpeckers out there somewhere, what a unique thrill it would be to see them - and be the first to get a definitive picture.
August 01, 2006Blogging On Water...
by Glynn Wilson LAKE WEISS, Ala., July 31 - If you are born in a land of lakes and rivers and have not completely lost your sense of biophilia, there should come a time in a man's life when the idea of possessing a boat is something you just cannot get out of your head. There are many boats to choose from depending on your idea of how it should be used. In the northeast corner of Alabama around Lake Weiss, most men - and some women - feel the deep desire to own a boat made for fishing. I distinctly remember when this urge hit my own father when he was in his late 30's or early 40s. He could not rest until he had it - a 17-foot aluminum fishing machine with a v-shaped hull. It had the added benefit of being fast enough for dragging around a couple of bored kids on skis with its 35-horsepower Evinrude outboard clamped to the stern. Every chance he got from that point on, until he died at the age of 47 from stress on the job with the old Southern Bell telephone company, he would attach the boat trailer to the hitch on the back of his 1962 Chevy pickup and high-tail it to a lake. He was happiest on the water, where they still say in these parts, "a bad day fishing is better than a good day at work." Sometimes as a lad I got dragged along on these trips. Sometimes it was fun. When we actually caught fish. Catching fish or not catching fish did not seem to matter one whit to my dad. He just liked being away from it all, on the water. He was not a drinking man, at least to my knowledge, but he would pack a cooler of Coca-Cola's, load up on Winston's and cheese crackers and live minnows, worms or crickets, and get his line in the water as fast as humanly possible. Since he died, in 1973, I have been on countless bodies of water on many boats. I even owned a canoe briefly just a few years back when artist and photographer Spider Martin gave me his 17-foot Kevlar to put on top of my 1998 Plymouth Voyager in New Orleans. I think he was worried about me surviving hurricane season. That was before Katrina.
The Voyager did not survive my almost four year stay in New Orleans. It died one strange night on the side of Maple Street about four blocks from my apartment across from the Plum Street Snowball stand for reasons there is no need to go into tonight. I gave the canoe back to Spider, so we would have it in Blount County for our occasional runs on the Locust Fork River. I replaced the van with a loaded Chevy Venture last year, after cashing the paychecks from covering the Scrushy trial for the New York Times. Since then, not a week has gone by without a picture of another canoe on top of the new van floating through my mind, usually about the time I'm about ready to fall asleep. In recent days, the thought has grown so strong that I started the research in earnest to find the right canoe for the right price. As I e-mailed the Locust Fork focus group just the other day, a preliminary investigation into the best canoe to represent LocustFork.Net atop the Chevy Venture mobile blog office resulted in a strong desire for the fine lines of a Wenonah Prospector. First designed by the Chestnut Canoe Co. in 1910, and made famous by notable paddling enthusiast and wilderness artist Bill Mason, the Prospector remains one of the most recognized canoe designs. It is a special edition canoe in honor of the 200th anniversary of the Lewis and Clark expedition, which would make it a fitting boat considering our interest in science and American democracy. The research took us on a mini-adventure to Alabama Small Boats in Helena on the Cahaba River. The guide there recommended the 16-foot Prospector after I described the types of uses we have planned - and after we talked a bit about business philosophy and politics. He recommends Wenonah as a company that has resisted the corporatization of the other boat companies, continuing to innovate in creative ways. Even after talking to him and looking at a number of boats, I still liked the idea of a smaller one, maybe a 15 or even a 14-foot. The idea being the smaller and easier to handle the better. The plan for the LocustFork.Net canoe will range from a quick, lone paddle around lakes and streams to refresh the spirit, to joint ventures during bird migration season for digital wildlife photography, to the occasional wild river adventure over white water rapids with one or two onboard. For the record, this particular guide does not recommend running the Locust Fork River rapids in ANY canoe. But I suspect from just a short visit he is from Mountain Brook and values his safety more than his freedom. I also doubt he truly understands the idea of being humbled by nature, finding the edge of experience. "It's dangerous," he said of the Locust Fork. I told him about running every bit of it with Spider Martin in the 17-foot Kevlar, never coming close to crashing or turning over, really, except for that final rapid right before the popular swimming hole near the takeout point at Highway 160. But I admitted it did seem a bit crazy. "I don't recommend crazy," he said. I always knew Spider was a bit crazy. He would never take the easy way down the river, the natural way where the water flows the strongest around the rocks. But when I saw the look in that guide's eyes when I told him about our exploits, he seemed scared to death. "You can get lucky and beat the river many times," he said. "But it only takes once for the river to claim you. That river is scary." Although the year we did most of our runs was 2002, a year remembered for a heavier than normal amount of rainfall in the winter and spring. This year, there's not much water in the Locust Fork. In places it is as dry as a boneyard. But back to the point. The LocustFork.Net canoe might also be used once in a while to accommodate a member of the opposite sex in a romantic moonlight float on one of the many small and large lakes in the area - or anywhere from the Smoky Mountains to the Great Northwest, when we get ambitious. Or maybe we will take along three companions, one of the kid variety. It should also work just fine for longer camping trips. The main thing you have to know about this canoe buying experience is that the lighter the canoe, the higher the price. Since I'm slowly becoming a member of the old, lazy fart club, the priority again is: The lighter the better. The Prospector comes in the class of canoes called Touring Canoes, which are the most versatile for the widest range of uses. They are durable enough, maneuverable enough, stable enough, etc. It should be pretty fast in a lake or handle most river work, although it won't be as maneuverable as a kayak or even a smaller canoe designed more for rivers, such as the Pelican Navigator. Some of the focus group recommend a kayak or yak for short instead of a canoe. It would be much easier to pop on the van and go, for sure, but the prices look about the same. And, I wanted something you can carry along a 12-pack of Yuenglings and lunch, plus an expensive digital camera and a laptop. I wanted something that doesn't turn over, especially in cold water. Also, keep in mind what a canoe would look like on top of the Chevy van with LocustFork.Net in big white letters on both sides, upside down of course. It will make a fine billboard. Considering the prices on new canoes started making me think the boat idea was just going to have to float around in my head awhile longer. Then the idea hit of looking for a used one on Crag's List. An ad in the Birmingham online classifieds turned up nothing, I suspect because B'ham. is still not up to Internet speed with America's larger, real cities. So a friend recommended checking Atlanta. Boom. There in Rome, Georgia, was a 13-foot red Pelican Navigator for $200. So on Monday after a late breakfast, I made the arrangements and crafted a Mapquest map up I-59 to I-759 at Gadsden, then to Highway 411 all the way to Rome. It is just across the state line from serious Bob Riley and Confederate flag territory, judging by the public displays along the highway. On the way there, I made a mental note of the free state boat launch on the western side of the bridge over Lake Weiss. Then in a community ironically called Mountain Brook, I found a man named Joel and made a deal. I won't reveal his last name or address to save him from the prying eyes of Google searches, spammers and the Bush NSA. But he was a very nice and knowledgeable boatman himself who has graduated to kayaks for himself and his young son. He told me all about the boat, how it turns pretty quick in class I and II rapids, but is not so fast in a lake. The best way to canoe a lake solo would be from the front seat, he said, paddling backwards. But since we have no plans for long boat races on any lakes, and at only 57-pounds and made from tough RAM-X polyethylene, we know it will serve our needs for some time - until we can afford that $1900 for the ultra-light Kevlar you can lift with one hand. We strapped and tied the Pelican on the Chevy and I headed back toward Alabama in search of a watering hole to make sure the damn thing actually floated before I got too far away to take it back. The local knowledge at the red neck marina and gas station on the paying side of the lake said you don't need a boat license for any craft without a motor. Good news. Possessing beer on the lake is a misdemeanor, but not so much if you pour it into a plastic cup and don't go running up on anyone's peer. "You shouldn't run into any trouble today," the man behind the counter said. "Somebody sunk Rob's boat this morning. Pulled the plug when he wasn't looking. He won't be going out today." So I eased over to the other side of the bridge and took her down to the water and loaded the paddles, the cooler, binoculars, the digital camera, a large flashlight in case it was dark on the way back, and pushed off. I paddled around the bend to the other side of the launch and into a cove, where I spotted the only large bird worth a photograph. It was a large, white Egret. Guess the presence of a strange man in a strange boat scared him from his fishing hole. Too bad, but I only had a couple of hours of sunlight left anyway. And the purpose of this trip was just to test the boat in the water and get a feel for what she would do. "I'll be damn," I said to no one in particular. "She floats." There is not a New York Times reporter alive who has ever accomplished that feat. Even Ed Abbey wrote his stuff from dry land after the trip.
March 24, 2006Save The World, Savor LifeNow don't get us wrong. We have a modicum of respect for Albert Brewer, especially since that dirty, racist 1970 George Wallace campaign against his run for governor was recently named Number One on the Most Negative Campaigns of All Time. But Mr. Brewer's recent decision to recruit and hire Andrew Westmoreland away from Ouachita Baptist University in Little Rock, Arkansas - even after he admitted lying about praying about taking the job - raises all kinds of questions about religion, ethics, politics and education. Baptist Samford U. Hires President Who Admits Lying About Praying
Slain Tennessee Minister's Wife to Be Charged with Murder I've said it before and I'll say it again. Can we please stop the religious crusades and jihads and get on with the business of saving the world and savoring life? If you find yourself saying, "The world has gone crazy," then think about this. You don't hear a lot these days about pot smoking, beer drinking, nature loving hippies causing the world a lot of trouble. What the world needs more of are canoes on top of vans and a reconnection with nature. Alabama native and Harvard scholar E.O. Wilson called it biophilia, and it may be more important to our mental health than any words that could ever be uttered from a pulpit. So forget the preachers and the religious educators who lie about prayer. It's beginning to look like a beautiful spring around here, even if it is still a bit cool. Get out of the house and try to enjoy the outdoors. And if you really feel like you must, say a "thank you" to whichever god you worship. We tend to find more value in the Gia theory, and believe when the founding fathers of our country talked about "natural rights," they were thinking more about the laws of nature than the laws of Judge Roy Moore's Old Testament Ten Commandments. Think about it... August 07, 2005Feature Photo: Under the Swann Bridge
July 31, 2005Secret Vistas: A River Runs Through It
by Glynn Wilson LOCUST FORK RIVER, Blount County, Ala., July 30 - "I am haunted by waters," author Norman Maclean wrote in the conclusion to his memoir A River Runs Through It. It is a line that will be familiar to anyone who watched the movie produced by Robert Redford about fly-fishing on the Big Blackfoot River in Montana. "Poets talk about 'spots of time,'" Maclean wrote. "My father was very sure about certain matters pertaining to the universe. To him, all good things - trout as well as eternal salvation - come by grace and grace comes by art and art does not come easy." Maclean was a great American writer, not just a regional writer, who learned to think and write - to create art - first working for a newspaper, I suspect, then a university. "All there is to thinking is seeing something noticeable which makes you see something you weren't noticing which makes you see something that isn't even visible," he said, writing near the end of his life.
He was talking about his ancestors. And he was onto something. I too am haunted by waters, if that is the right word. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say I am drawn to water. In that I am not alone. Another great writer, Edward O. Wilson from Alabama, once theorized that humans have a genetic connection to nature. He called this theory "biophilia." As quantitative evidence to back it up, he cited the percentage of people who live near water in the United States. Something like 66 percent of the people in this country live within 100 miles of an ocean, a lake or a river. I suspect, however, that large numbers of those people are no longer intellectually or spiritually connected to the water because of a corruption in our institutions and culture, not the kind often lambasted by the right. You can see it in their faces in the rear-view mirrior as the people in this rural area drive their pickup trucks and SUVs right up on your rear bumper, in a hurry to cross the bridges of Blount County - rarely pausing to glance at the river on their way to and from work, church and the Piggly Wiggly. As I walked along a path down the Locust Fork River on Saturday, taking a break from the city, the suburbs and this computer, I felt a familiarity in the red clay and sand between my toes. Part of this familiarity comes from growing up in this part of the world and spending some time on the creeks and rivers - mostly as a teenager skipping school, drinking beer. But there is an older form of knowledge at work that may come from some of my Cherokee ancestors who hid from Andrew Jackson's Army in these woods. There is scant written record of this history, since Jackson's men destroyed the only printing press to ever produce a newspaper in English and Cherokee. You can see the remnants of that newspaper in the special archives library at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville. But if you sit on the big flat rock under the waterfall near what they call "Budweiser Beach," just a short hike off county road 160, you may feel the past in your bones as well. The youth of Blount County still sneak down here with their beer, although someone has now purchased the property and is taking a stand for private property rights by running them off the beach. I didn't bother to approach the man myself, a white man of course, no doubt a Republican looked upon as a fine Christian. So I didn't ask him what should be asked: Why he thinks he has a property right to the bank of a public river? I was not in the mood for a confrontation, so I sat on the other side and sipped my Yeungling and soaked up the electrolytes from the waterfall and did some thinking, mostly about the idea of helping others - since the world needs a lot of help about now. "Help is giving part of yourself to somebody who comes to accept it willingly and needs it badly," Maclean said. "So it is that we can seldom help anybody. Either we don't know what part to give or maybe we don't like to give any part of ourselves. Then, more often than not, the part that is needed is not wanted. And even more often, we do not have the part that is needed...." His conclusion? At least, he said, "You can love completely without complete understanding." Perhaps you can. I think that is right and necessary, while not necessarily sufficient - at least not in these times. I just don't know how you can sit back and love George W. Bush and his cronies and not do more to try and rescue America from the grips of corporate fascism. It is too late for the Cherokee. They live on only in those of us whose ancestors escaped the Trail of Tears by hiding in the woods by the river and becoming integrated into American society through intermarriage. If my sometimes pessimistic friend and author Rick Bragg is right, we will live under corporate GOP rule for the rest of our lives. But I cannot accept that or love it or even understand it. I cannot understand or accept that other newspaper editors and reporters and journalism professors in these parts do not share my concern. I think there is another factor at work and it goes by the name of "fear." No one can go through a life without feeling fear, of course. But I've always been able to subdue the feeling and push forward and try to make a difference. That is one reason I decided to start this Web site. I am looking for kindred spirits who also understand intuitively about biophilia, who are not happy with the direction our country is headed in, who want to love but also to help. Surely an individual can make a difference. I have seen it happen many times. In my own life and times, there is one great example of this embodied in the Locust Fork River. The Birmingham Waterworks Board tried to dam the river about 13 years ago. A public relations firm was paid nearly half a million dollars to try and bend public opinion for a dam. At that time I was between journalism jobs and was paid $4,000 by a group of property owners, who will remain nameless, to produce a report and come up with a strategy to stop the dam. The odds were lopsided to be sure. But the episode proves that an individual can help - and make a difference. If you take the time to notice, you will discover there is no dam on the river. And that is something.
April 10, 2005A Lucky Dog Horseshoe AdventureSitting in the back yard of my home away from home in Takoma Park, Maryland, on an spring-like April day, I watched with some trepidation and interest as the neighbors' dog Stella dug a huge hole under the house. Should I stop her I wondered? Or is she after a mole? Should I let her go? The plan on Saturday was to take Highway 270 north from Silver Spring to 70 west, then 81 south, and cruise control down through West Virginia, Virginia and Kentucky to Tennessee to camp for the night. Knowing about the Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest from my time at the University of Tennessee, I figured to find a campground around the Nantahla National Forest and visit the awesome site one more time on the way to Birmingham. It is not on many maps, certainly not the new Rand McNally from Wal-Mart. Even many locals who have lived around Maryville all their lives do not know about the unique spot in the North Carolina woods. Alas, driving up the foggy, winding mountain section of Highway 129 was not advised at night, especially on the weekend when bikers from all over the country come to stay in the Motorcycle Motel, eat Trout sandwiches and ride up and down one of the best roads in the country for showing off a Harley. So I stayed straight on 321 headed for the Great Smoky Mountains National Park entrance at Townsend and pulled into one of the camp grounds by the Little River. When you are cowboying in a van with a bed in the back, there are times when you can find a place to camp for $5 to $20 a night. As I pulled in about 11:30 p.m., though, the office was closed. Luckily, the night watchman was a friendly fellow who said, when I asked if I could park to sleep for a few hours, "You can pull into number one. It's pretty dark, secluded. No one will mess with you there." No mention of a fee, so I pulled in and pulled out the last beer in the cooler to help wind down from the trip. I cracked the back windows so I could hear the rippling brook and smell the wood smoke from a nearby camper's fire, then crashed - thinking of the lucky horseshoe. When I came to about 4:50 a.m., it was still dark and no one else was awake. So before the office could open, I eased out and headed for coffee at the 24-hour gas station down the road. Since the Joyce Kilmer was out of the question for a morning hike, I studied the map and got some help from the waitress at the Huddle House. It was decided a good morning trip on the way to Chattanooga would be to back track down 321 and take the back way down 441, which crosses Highway 64 near the Ocoee River, the spot where they held the white water races when the Olympics came South in 1996. Choosing at random the Welcome Valley Village, I ran into some super nice guys from raft.com. They were training the new interns and staff for the summer, but advised me to head for the Sugar Loaf public recreation area, where a Tennessee Valley Authority dam controls the water level in the Ocoee. "In about an hour and a half, there will be people everywhere on the river," one of the guides said, "when they release the water." It was fascinating to see, but since my canoe with the logo LocustFork.Net painted upside down on both sides was not quite ready for the trip, I was without a boat. So I took in the scene for while and then headed back for the highway to make it to Birmingham in time for Sunday dinner. One of the cool features on the new Chevy van is a computerized device mounted on the inside roof. It tells you the temperature, the direction you are headed, the average gas mileage you are getting and, among other things, the "range." This is supposed to indicate how many more miles you can travel without running out of gas and is based on the data collected by the computer from the rest of your trip. Unfortunately, I had increased the cruise control speed by about 5 mph after hitting the smooth part of Interstate 59 in Alabama, the scenic stretch with very little traffic. I had also rolled the window down further so the breeze would keep me awake. Those actions must have fooled the computer. The gauge said I had a range of 71 miles left to go. With only 28 miles to go before hitting the Birmingham city limits, I figured I could make it without stopping for gas. Big mistake. The engine sputtered to a stop. The good news was, it stopped right next to a state trooper median cut turn-around, about a quarter of a mile from an Alabama rest stop. I crossed the highway with cell phone in hand and approached. A sign indicated an attendant was on duty 24 hours a day. I found him and asked: "Hey man, you don't just happen to have a gas can out back with a gallon or two in it, do you?" Robert Pierce looked up from his work and said, in a friendly North Alabama accent, "I believe we do." He pulled around front in a 4-wheeler with a big red gas can and drove me back to the van. "Now if I was you, I would turn around and head back to the Asheville exit and get some gas," he said. "The next exit is 13 miles, that away." I thanked him and promised to write a nice letter to the governor. As I started the van, I patted the lucky horseshoe - and thanked Stella the dog. |
