It's been awhile, Jocassee

Summer 2004

Southern Wesleyan University Ministry Teams experience some great youth camps up and down the eastern seaboard, but sometimes are allowed to participate in some untraditional events. A SWU senior citizen gathering called Southern Celebration brought dozens of 60, 70 and 80 year old alumni together for a week-long adventure seeking the waterfalls of the South Carolina Upstate. The highlight of the week had all the alumni and the ministry team members on boats discovering Lake Jocassee, South Carolina's most scenic lake.

The line of pontoon boats visited waterfalls including Lower Whitewater and Laurel Fork falls, at which the boat pulled into a narrow cove only inches wider than the vessel itself. The waterfall plunged into the lake a few feet from the boat and provided a great spot for some cliff jumping for the few brave souls who dared to climb the treacherous rocks.

Back out on the open water, we spotted a rock jutting out of the lake. A perfect spot from which to jump. Not only did the young ministry team students go for a leap, but one of the alumni hopped out of the boat and joined. Her name was Ruth and she was 67 years old at the time. That trip is solidified as one of my fondest memories.

Fast forward to today, June 2nd, 2007.

Alarm - 6:30 a.m.
I didn't want to get up but had to be ready to go by 7. I hopped out of bed and got dressed in swimming shorts just in case I decided to take a swim. As 7 rolled around the truck pulled up and I went out to greet Doc.

[Dr. Roger "Doc" MacKenzie is the chair of the Religion Division at Southern Wesleyan. I had the pleasure of having nearly every course that he teaches. Our trip to Jocassee would have us meet Dr. Rocky Nation, professor of Biology at SWU and avid outdoorsman. I would be borrowing one of his kayaks for the day.]

First stop - Hardee's for a biscuit to start the day off right. Then back to the road to drive up Highway 130 to 11. A right turn on 11 and then the road to Devils Fork State Park. After park fees were paid, the truck meandered down to the lake via the curvy road to the remote boat access. [I'm told the purpose of the remote boat access is to give kayakers and fishermen a less busy spot to put in their craft.]

Two kayaks sat waiting - one light blue, long and slender and the other forest green, short and wide. Doc stopped and we unloaded his red kayak - the longest of the three - and placed it beside the other two. The green one would be mine for the day. After stowing items in the boats, we moved to the water's edge and shoved off; each of us trying to keep our feet dry with the exception of Doc, who decided it wasn't worth the effort (he had worn sandals for just such a purpose).

Rocky explained the basics of kayaking and we set off toward the first point a couple hundred yards away. My kayak bobbed back and forth as I tried to maintain stablility and balance. As the two long boats began to leave me behind, I realized that I would be in for a greuling day of paddling. The point seemed to be just as far away as when we had started (maybe even further).

After reaching the first point, we turned to head across the lake. I was apprehensive about this to say the least. I do not want to be out on the middle of Jocassee when my awesome paddling skills get me overturned. It took several long minutes and a lot of tiring strokes to get across, but a rare sight sat waiting for us.

Rocky focused our attention on a tree which stood on the tip of a small point. A tiny white dot sat motionless near the top of the tree. With binoculars focused, Rocky sat motionless for a moment. "It's a bald eagle," he informed us. I had never seen a bald eagle in the wild until then. The trip was already worth it. As we neared the point, the bird took to the air flying relatively low around the next point, where Rocky notified us it had lighted again.

It took some time to make it to the next point, but as we rounded it - hugging the shore - the eagle flew out of a tree to my right. I was less than a hundred feet from a bald eagle...pretty amazing, at least for me it was amazing. What is even more amazing is that I saw it poop. BALD EAGLE POOP! How about that, Andy Dixon, not in HD...in real life.

We navigated the three kayaks between the shore and a small island then turned right into a cove. The cove slowly narrowed and the sound of rushing water filled the air. Wright Creek Falls sat nestled in a crook at the very end of the cove. Huge rocks littered the bottom of the cove, some of which were as shallow as the dips of our paddles. Other spots were obviously ten feet deep or more, but with the crystal clear water of Jocassee, ten feet looks like a lot less.

According to Rocky, it's customary to get the front of your kayak wet under a waterfall, so we each took our separate turns splashing the cold, mountain-creek water on the tips of our boats. I believe that my commitment in this tradition was much greater than the others', because the tip of my kayak was two feet closer to the opening where I sat than was theirs.

We relaxed for a while with our feet propped on the tops of the shells until I decided that I wanted to get out and explore the waterfall from a closer vantage point. I pulled to the shore, got out and made my way through the underbrush and spiderwebs to the second tier of the falls. The total height of the falls is probably fifty feet, maybe a bit higher. Rocky explained that the last time he visited the falls at Wright Creek, the lowest tier was hitting the rock bottom of the lake. [A video on this site shows the low levels of the lake a couple years back - the place where the woman is standing in the video is under a few feet of water now]

The end of break time found us eating a small snack. Paddles hit water and we were on our way back toward the ramp. About halfway to our final destination, a group of common loons greeted us. Six or seven of the sharp-billed, light brown waterfowl took turns diving for fish. I paddled within ten feet of one, which quickly ducked under the water. The rest of the 3.4 miles back were relatively uneventful with the exception of several boat wakes to make the ride interesting - one of which almost made it into my kayak.

The boat ramp was much busier than when we had arrived. A dozen people or more scurried about pulling kayaks into the water and strapping camping gear to them in order to go to a remote campsite. Once everyone was out of the way, we pulled up to the ramp and got out.

I wanted to try one of the narrow kayaks and Rocky wanted to try Doc's, so I jumped in (rather, I slowly slinked into) the blue boat while Rocky sped about in the red 14.5'. The slender kayak paddled incredibly easily compared to the stubby one. I felt as though I was flying on water. Doc wanted to try the blue because it had a rudder, so I got out and let him take his turn while Rocky continued speeding around in the red. "I got it up to 6 miles per hour," Rocky stated, citing his GPS.

We dragged the boats onto the pavement and loaded them onto the vehicles. Rocky waved goodbye and was off as Doc tied off his kayak. We hopped in the truck and headed back out toward the highway, all the while I read a book on the furbearers of South Carolina which Rocky had so eagerly given away. Who knew that muskrats could be so interesting?

We took a different route home than the way we had come. We rode on Highway 133 through Six Mile, then Maw Bridge Road to Central. Doc dropped me off and I walked in the apartment with new dreams of life on the water. Now, how can I get my hands on a kayak?!

Chattooga - Part 15

...continued from Sunday, December 31.

Every moment of time spent in the drenching deluge was watery torture. Two bodies sat with heads between knees discussing the options afforded them. Option number one: build a small fire, attempt to cook dinner, lie under a poorly constructed “tent” and sleep in the middle of nowhere less then ten feet from the river. Option number two: pack all the stuff up, head farther down the trail, try to locate the camping area by Licklog Falls, set up the “tent”, somehow eat dinner and manage to get some sleep. Option number three: pack up all the stuff, backtrack the five miles to Burrell’s Ford Campground, find the girls there and take them up on their offer of hot dinner, set up the “tent” again and get some shuteye. After many minutes of debate, a unanimous decision to head back up the trail fueled the grueling task of breaking everything down and packing it all up.

Seven o’clock had already passed when walking resumed and over four and a half miles of trail lay ahead. Dark would relay its greeting before any of the girls would. Less than two hours and several missteps over gnarly roots later, the first campsites (or last as seen before) came into view. The tiring pace drained bodies and caused legs and backs to ache under the strain of thirty-five pound backpacks. Thirteen miles in one day and only eight miles of progress to show for it.

The river ran barely visible left of the tired company. No audible sound could be heard due to the depth of the water. Walking in the dark beside a quiet river can be best described as eerie, not unlike a trip through a ghost town devoid of life. The now familiar right turn into the heart of the campground and the sight of the large campfire were welcoming.

Check back soon for the next installment...

Chattooga - Part 14

...continued from Saturday, December 30.

Not much further ahead a small, flat area about ten feet above the riverbank looked to be a suitable spot to set up camp for the night. Local regulations which require campsites to be set up no closer than fifty feet from the river were decidedly ignored. The rain had increased to a soaking downpour and complicated the setup. There would be no dry place on which to set up the makeshift “tent.” The “tent” included one large piece of plastic, nylon string and the tan poncho to be used as the floor. The plastic was quickly strung up between a few small trees and provided barely adequate shelter.

With the “tent” finished, the gathering of wood for a fire commenced. Finding dry wood immediately presented itself as an issue, but with enough time and energy a suitable pile of kindling and timber found its way into the pile. Starting a fire using wet wood is complicated at the very least – frustrating and nearly impossible are probably better descriptions.

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Chattooga - Part 13

...continued from Friday, December 29.

Big Bend signaled its goodbye as we plodded away from it and toward the next set of waterfalls – Licklog and Pigpen. Miles separated Big Bend from the others, but the trail lay flat between and weaved a serpentine path along the ravine walls.

Puffy, white clouds slowly became grey and covered the sky as far as the limited view would permit. The thickening humidity warned of an ominous peril for hikers: thunderstorms! The search for a suitable place to set up camp began, but the steep grades would allow no such thing. Long, low rumbles came rolling over the ridgelines, quickening the walking pace. It would be nearly an hour before the first raindrops softly pattered the leaves.

The forecast for the day had mentioned a forty percent chance of rain which, according to Murphy’s Law, meant precipitation was inevitable. The slow rate of the rainfall picked up until clothes and packs became damp - an indication that it was time for ponchos. One GI style, tan poncho emerged from a pack along with an “engineered poncho,” a euphemism for a piece of plastic with a hole cut for one’s head.

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Chattooga - Part 12

...continued from Thursday, December 28.

Back on the journey, the trail tightened to a corridor of trees on each side with the river visible through the braches on the right - the path still a distinctive dirt strip. A slight, downhill grade made walking nearly effortless and afforded a chance to concentrate on taking in the natural beauty of the area.

The dominate green of the leaves oversaturated the view in an almost surreal way, contrasted only by the deep brown hues of the path and the tree trunks. The thick sound of water rushing over large rocks complimented the deep colors of nature. Glimpses of the rapidly quickening water and the growing cacophony signaled the approach of Big Bend.

Big Bend Falls spans the entire width of Chattooga, plummeting 15 feet in its entirety. Though a modest waterfall, Big Bend makes up for is small size with volume. A wall of water drops over the first ledge and creates a roar that can almost be described as deafening.

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Chattooga - Part 11

...continued from Friday, December 1.

The dirt path meandered by the last campsites and drew close to the river’s edge. Feet strode no more than a couple of absent-minded steps from a fall into the deep, cool water. The walk traversed mostly level ground and would have been a boring section without the quickening pace of the watercourse.

Empty stomachs brought up the discussion of lunch. The next open area with a fire pit would signal time for a meal. Forty-five minutes and more than a few voiced complaints about lack of viable stopping points later, packs were opened for the first time since setting out on the trip. Food and fire-starting gear were brought out and a small, efficient fire was started.

Canned food is generally a bad choice of hiking provisions; the extra weight adding unnecessary pounds to the packs. An exception to the rule found Chef Boyardee ravioli sizzling in tiny mess pans. An attempt to produce forks from the bags proved a moot trial. Silverware: a forgotten necessity. Out of the packs came the knives. A nearly weightless skeleton knife and the legendary BFK would have to function as forks. One is extremely careful when endeavoring to eat with a razor-sharp utensil.

Mess kits met river water and knife blades were wiped clean of victuals. The intricate packing of mess kits can be an art in itself. Memorization of the order is essential. The diminutive cup rests inside the miniature pot. The pair then lies in between the plate and the pan, the handle of which acts as a latch to hold it all together. The process is comparable to opening and closing a Russian nesting doll.

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Chattooga - Part 10

...continued from Thursday, November 16.

The first campsite offered a strange encounter: Adventure Scouts, the co-ed version of the Boy Scouts. The co-ed crew was anything but mixed gender, consisting of 5 girls under 18 and a forty-something woman scout leader. Disheveled hair and grungy clothes marked the woman, who had obviously seen her share of the outdoors.

The first sight of the camp revealed three small tents, a more than adequate fire pit, between-the-trees clotheslines, a large pile of firewood and the aforementioned group. Appropriately located nearest the “bath house”, the oversized campsite was anything but shabby. Everything was placed neatly but efficiently. Nothing was unnecessarily unpacked and everyone shared what was used. It could be called a perfect model for a recreational pleasure-seeker.

The six companions - a later conversation disclosed - had been hiking for five weeks already and had two more weeks to go before the summer expedition was complete. The girls had driven from the unexciting terrain of Florida up to the lower end of Appalachia. Tennessee, Kentucky and North Carolina trails had previously been navigated and South Carolina was the last destination of their journey. Oconee State Park for the Fourth would be their final stop before packing up and heading home.

A light conversation turned into an hour of spent time. After the standard topics of discussion were covered, dialogue ranged from life dreams and aspirations to random hiking adventures. The majority of the conversation was one-sided, coming mostly from the woman. A short while later, following goodbyes and a declined offer for dinner cooked by the girls, eyes turned south and on toward Big Bend.

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Chattooga - Part 9

...continued from Tuesday, November 14.

Chattooga runs strewn with boulders along most of its length, creating a system of rapids and eddies. The river’s features create a paradise for kayakers and rafters alike. Deep, placid pools can turn quickly to raging rapids and waterfalls. Novice navigators, along with the advanced, find enjoyable trips on the scenic waters.

Burrell’s Ford Campground is a favorite destination for many hikers and campers. With its many campsites and proximity to the river, Burrell’s Ford is the perfect stop on the long Foothills Trail hike from Table Rock to Oconee State Park. The peaks of tents are a welcome sight to weary travelers. This day’s hike would require more walking before setting up camp. Burrell’s Ford sits over ten miles from Highway 28 - the final destination.

The campground was once accessible by car, which is evidenced by the gravel roadbed that runs right up to the first campsites. The rugged roadbed lies basically useless for any vehicles other than the most heavy-duty four-wheel drives because of steep runoff ditches cut at angles across the road.

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Chattooga - Part 8

...continued from Monday, November 13

The Foothills Trail overlaps the Chattooga Trail a few miles from Fish Hatchery Road. At the intersection, a left turn moves the path farther from the northern end of Chattooga, Ellicott Rock and the North Carolina border. The last section of Foothills before meeting the river trail slowly migrates toward the water until it meets Burrell’s Ford Campground.

It was two hours after setting out before the sound of gurgling water met eager ears. The flat trail slowly started descending to the river basin. The path had been relatively straight, but it began making the first of many twists and turns which would follow.

Chattooga River runs through a deep valley along the Georgia border, creating the jagged state line. Standing high above the water, the trail heads southwest toward Highway 28. Ellicott Rock Wilderness Area boasts a three-state river rock - plaque included. Georgia, North and South Carolina converge on the spot. Hikers often stand on the rock claiming to be in three places at once.

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Chattooga - Part 7

...continued from Monday, October 23

The walk from Fish Hatchery to Chattooga is less than picturesque. Flat terrain and trees are about the only things in view until midway to the river. Three and a half miles separated the parking area from the river. If any hike can be boring it is this section.

The air stood still; shadows of branches showing no movement. Most vernal days the forest ground seems to be a woodland dance floor with its dark figures fluttering and flittering about like nature’s fanciful ballerinas. Of course music is the dancer’s compliment. Songbirds provide the melody and the wind in the trees is the fluid accompaniment. Summer days are often much more quiet – a subdued tranquility.

A few, stray clouds strafed the beaming sun. The fiery orb floated high over the canopy, sending its rays between boughs. The synthesis of sun and shade created a nice climate. The temperature became more pleasant, if but only slightly hot.

The same muscles that were tight only moments earlier moved much easier and walking became a syncopated cadence. Two pairs of shoes plodded on with distinct footfalls – one heavy and almost labored, the other sure and steady. Final adjustments were made to pack straps, ensuring that the burdens didn’t bounce or sag. A sore back is the last thing a tired hiker needs.

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