LOST IN THE FLOODED FOREST
by Steve Tanner
I set out to explore the Flint River. Oddly enough, this powerful river has it's humble beginning as groundwater under the Atlanta Hartsfield-Jackson Airport. It's one of the few rivers left in Georgia that hasn't been damned and so flows unimpeded for nearly 350 "river miles" before it converges with the Chattahoochee.
I checked the road map and found 3 bridges over the Flint that would possibly provide access.
The first bridge was high above the water, with guardrails on both sides of the road. There was no place I could get down to the river. Strike one.
The road to the next bridge was blocked by a wooden barricade, painted with black and yellow warning stripes. A sign read - NO TRESSPASSING - ROAD CLOSED - BRIDGE OUT. I couldn't believe my bad luck! Strike two.
My next, and last, swing at bat was a bridge far downstream. Upon arrival I was immediately excited because the Flint river had overflowed into the backyards of homes along the bank! Still, I couldn't drop in without slepping across someone's property in broad daylight and in this part of Georgia that could get you shot.
I looked acoss the bridge. There was a building, one of those barn style designs with a tin roof and a hand painted sign that read - The Finishing Touch Furniture Restoration.
After two strikes I was determined to get on the river. Now desparate, I decided to do something I never do, ask permission.
The shop was crammed with antique chairs, tables, armoires, headboards, you name it; each waiting for an extreme make over. The sunlight piered through other amputated chunks of furniture, stacked like firewood, in front of the windows. The air was dense with the smell of turpentine. Out from behind all of this stepped a man with a protective mask over his mouth.
"Hey, how's it going?" I said.
"Good, Good, how you?" he warmly replied as he removed the mask.
We shook hands and introduced ourselves. His name was James E. Smith.
In polite Southern drawl, I said, "Say, I've got a kayak and I'm looking for a way to get down to the Flint, but I'm not having much luck. I see it's flooded?"
"Yep, does that every few years. Last time, it turned the neighbors property across the street into the Okefenokee."
"Seems like that would make for some interesting kayaking,"
"Yep, The Flint, she's beautiful back there; been living here all my life. Used to float her barefoot in a tire-tube. There's a lot of boulders downstream and it can really move when the water's up like this."
"Well, I'm not looking for any white water action, just like to paddle the flats. Is there a place to put in around here?"
I held my breath.
"Well now, there's the Flint River Outpost about 30 miles south of here," James said.
My heart sank. That's too far.
"But I've got an old road that leads out my backyard here that goes down to the river. You can use it if ya like."
I couldn't believe what I just heard.
"You sure? I really appreciate that!" I said enthusactically.
James opened the back door and pointed to an overgrown path that curved off into the woods in the direction of the river.
"The Flint's only a little ways back there. You can leave you car out front if you like. Nobody will bother it."
"Sounds Great. Thank again!" I said.
James left with cautious words, "Just be careful down there, people drown when it gets like this."
My last swing at bat was a homerun. Not only did I have access to the River but it was my own private launch, complete with a secluded road and a parking lot. To top it off, I was about to paddle a flooded forest for the first time.
A flooded forest, that's the best way to describe it because there wasn't a river I could see. I paddled around tall pines, in deep water the color of coffee with heavy cream. I zigzagged along the base of a steep hill.
The pines gave way to cypress. There were turtles basking on tree branches. A real feat of balance for a creature with stubby legs and a big shell for a back. They dive-bombed into the water as I paddled by.
I came to a grass field at the bottom of a gentle slope that was a cow pasture. The flood water laid on it like a split drink on a table. No cows were around, just sunshine beaming down creating a comforting picture. I paddled over the top of a bob-wired fence as I left the pasture. Then, the canopy grew thick with vines and kudzu. There still was no sign of the river. Water crept into the woods all around me.
I paddled and heaved the boat over, under, and around newly fallen trees and dead, rotten, waterlogged ones. The carnage was everywhere. One toppled tree had a trunk so large I couldn't get over it. Instead, I trailed along side for several yards before worming my way through it's thick, half submerged branches. On the other side, standing tall, was a happily rotting pine, stripped of it's branches. Woodpeckers had bored so many holes in it that it looked like a totem pole. I pushed through another thicket and, at last and unexpectedly, found the river. The bank was flooded, but the way the trees lined up easily gave it away.
Now on the clear path of the Flint, I paddled out of the flooded forest, and soon came to power towers with cables strung across the river. It was late afternoon. I stopped to have lunch and watched the sky as late clouds began to roll in. It was pleasnt moment. Afterwards, I turned the boat around and headed back into the flooded forest for the trip out.
I was looking forward to the golden glow of the late afternoon sun on the water and trees in the forest, but instead heard thunder in the distance. I was reminded to drop any expectations when on the river because things seldom go as planned. Overcast clouds expelled any chance of afternoon sun. The wind began to blow, then more thunder with lightning. Nothing raises a volcanic rush of fear in your soul like the crack of lightning; especially when you're outdoors. I immediately headed for the cover of cypress trees and squated under my poncho on some cypress roots to wait out the storm. The wind suddenly died and then the rain fell.