Running the Watauga on a Warm Winter’s Day
Perhaps ill-advised adventure, a group of us decided it would be fun to go a canoeing trip, the only problem being that it was the 2nd week of February. Although, like many times before, the bravado of one of us would become infectious within the group and encourage even further fearlessness in even the meekest among us. Soon enough, we were all convinced this would not only be the best course of action, but that conditions were in fact optimal.
Us men standing by our proud vessels and provisions.
We prepared excitedly for a long float from the base of the Wilbur Dam to the town of Watauga itself, missing only the smallest portion of the river before it becomes Boone Lake. Josh and I had run this exact route that summer, without any incident, albeit in much shallower waters. With that in mind, we felt quite confident of an easy ride, and time to reminisce and take in the scenery. Along with us were Ben and Hank, who had not previously been on any canoe outings with us and were excited to come along. They’re featured prominently in the photos, as I was able to wield my Pentax ME quite comfortably from the rear seat of mine and Josh’s canoe.
Ben and Hank in his father’s classic Old Town
It did not take long for us to notice that in these conditions, sand bars and shallows would not be a concern on this trip. To the contrary, we were moving at a swift pace and finding deep water, waves, and currents in many places unfamiliar to Josh and I. This made for some excellent canoeing, slipping into and out of currents, plotting our paths down river from a standing position and calling out the strategy, just as we’d seen in our antique canoeing media. All was well and good as we rode the swift waters into and past Elizabethton and rounded our way toward Sycamore Shoals.
This photo would be damaged in this manner by water and my own opening of the camera to remove said water.
At this point we were all quite proud of ourselves, and had ran multiple class 1 and a couple of 2 rapids with ease. Josh and I remembered that Sycamore Shoals, the old meeting place of the Overmountain Men, still lie ahead, but that while it was a significant feature, it had posed us no challenges last time. This was not the case on this trip however, as the higher flow bottlenecked into the narrow gulley, and water moved faster and higher all around it. When we began our approach, we all knew immediately that this would be tricky, and we had begun to batten down the hatches and secure our provisions. On the banks of the river, we noticed a growing audience standing by the walking trails of the park near the rapids. Josh and I took the lead with our larger boat, and our remedial knowledge of the rapid, and eased our way into the left channel, which we had taken the last time.
I let out a shout “stay hard right, run through the chute on the right, then bank left, and ride the incoming flow!” We could see a path, but what we couldn’t see was the volume of the swift flowing waves coming in from the right side where the channels joined back together. In an instant the rapids were upon us, and we were in the thick of them. The boat veered right, and I applied rudder with my paddle to ease our ever-increasing speed. We slipped down the first fall and were tossed to the side, Josh and I both instinctively leaned right to keep the rushing rapid from washing us over. Much to our mutual misfortune, we did this just as we were thrust into the incoming water of the right-hand channel, which filled and swept away our boat so quickly that we had little time to even notice it was no longer upright.
Suddenly, we were swimming, some above and some below the rapids continuing to throw us and our boats down the river. I can recall being underwater and seeing the light of the sky above, and swimming vigorously to it. When I had surfaced, right in front of me was Josh’s hat, which I put on my own head without thinking at all, so as to recover as much of our gear as possible. Once I was able to grapple with the situation, I saw that Hank and Ben had passed us by no less than 25 yards and were hanging on to their overturned vessel. Then I noticed Josh doing the same, perhaps half that distance from me. All of us bobbing along swiftly.
“Meet on the right bank, swim to the right side!”, I called out as if I were a captain giving his final orders to his miserable crew. We all did just that and collected ourselves after such a folly. Upon closer inspection, we had lost three of our four paddles, approximately four cans of beer, and a fishing rod. Not to mention that my camera was absolutely soaked from being underwater for what felt like several minutes.
We were able to fashion some paddles out of fence pickets that had been washed onto the bank during Hurricane Helene, briefly celebrated the continuation of our lives, and then plotted the remainder of our trip.
Josh at the bow of our canoe.
The Watauga mellows significantly after these rapids, with some notable shelves, and eventually long winding curves that carry those waters to the town of the same name.
Not knowing if my camera or film would survive, I photographed this train crossing the river nonetheless.
There we emerged from the river, living to fight another day. The river took some of our stuff, took some of our egos, and nearly toasted a Pentax ME (which I later returned to working order), but it gave us countless wonderful memories, a renewed confidence in our own abilities, and a burning desire to tame those vicious rapids this upcoming summer.