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Ch. 7 — Probably Not a Fork At All

The route of the creek was relatively obvious. Although the channel was disguised by the unbroken sheet of water, the presence and absence of trees allowed me to follow the creek’s steady, serpentine course.

I paddled slowly along, taking in a scene that was both odd and beautiful. The vegetation was bursting with new growth, and half-submerged shrubs were green above and below water. Occasionally, I saw the faint yellow outline of crocus flowers beneath the surface.

Most journeys into the unknown feature a turning point, and this time, it occurred when I came to a fork in the creek. Nobody said anything about a fork in the creek.

The choices before me – main channel and wrong channel – were utterly indistinguishable, maddeningly equal in size and flow. Under non-flood conditions, the route probably was obvious. Maybe it wasn’t even a fork at all. Otherwise, the guys back at Adamson’s would have mentioned it. Surely.

I backpaddled for a minute above the junction and tried to assess my predicament logically. The left fork turned south, in the general direction of Beard’s Bluff. The right fork headed west, away from the bluff. It made sense to choose the left fork. Besides, I thought, if I’m wrong, I’ll know soon enough. I’ll simply return to the fork and follow the other channel.

Wrong on both counts. Considerable time passed before the obvious (that I was lost) became obvious. And by then, a homing pigeon with a map and flares could not have retraced my route.

Ch. 8 — Exhaustion Well Earned

Beyond the fork, the channel narrowed somewhat, but remained open and identifiable. However, the swamp soon began to close in, and the task of following the channel began to require active attention. The trees became more numerous, the current more insistent, the need to change course more frequent.

Fast-forward five minutes. I am wide-eyed and sweat-soaked, paddling hard to stay in open water, any open water. It requires all the mental agility I can muster to outsmart the current and keep my boat – a paltry two feet wide – from wedging tight between the next two trees.

I was getting tired, and a sense of unease – concern, alarm and panic were still some distance away – began to insinuate itself into my consciousness.

The sight of dry land ahead was a happy surprise. It was a low ridge, covered in palmetto and assorted shrubs, probably an extension of the bluff, coming in on the left. It was the first ground I had seen in a while, and it reminded me that my back, arms, and bladder needed relief.

I pointed the nose of the kayak to a spot on the shore and stroked forward. The bow dug into the mud. I stood up unsteadily and lurched ashore.

Immediately, I peeled off my drytop and fleece layer, which suddenly had become very warm and heavy. I squeezed out the fleece and threw it across a bush to dry. With a thud, I slumped to the ground and leaned back against a fallen tree, savoring the cool breeze.

Exhaustion well earned, I told myself. No flips, no wet exits, no snakes in the lap. Not bad for a novice kayaker.

After a feast of bagel, raisins, Snickers bar, and a half-quart of delicious South Georgia sulfur water, I was reinvigorated and rejuvenated and ready to set out again. My little open boat and I had an unknown distance yet to go to reach the Big Obstacle that had loomed large in the back of my mind all day: the Altamaha River at flood stage.

Ch. 9 — Zone of Quiet Water

For the next 15 minutes, however, I thought about the river not at all. My attention was back on the task of staying upright and threading my way through the flooded landscape. One moment my paddle was a tool to fend off obstacles, the next it was a hindrance, snagged by a passing branch. My back would punish me later for continually leaning forward, head flat on the deck, straining to pass beneath immovable objects.

When the Altamaha came into view through the trees at last, the relief was immense. The sight of the river meant I was not far from Adamson’s and officially no longer lost.

Better still, I could see I wasn’t in danger of being swept away by some demon current. As the manager had promised, the floodwater had widened the river by 30 to 50 yards, creating a buffer along the shore – a zone of quiet water beneath the trees that I could follow with relative ease back to camp.

As I drifted along under the protection of the trees, the current not far away in the main channel churned and roiled. Mini-standing waves, only inches high, formed and dissipated. Whirlpools darted and spun, and pieces of tree glided past, moving gracefully and silently downstream. The river was humbling, frightening, beautiful.

For 10 minutes, I paddled south along the shoreline, very pleased with myself. The boat and I were undamaged, and I would return on time, under my own power, no rescue requested or required. I had a few adventures to relate. And really, “lost” is a relative term. Why mention that at all?

A wild fit of barking heralded my return to Adamson’s. The dogs spotted me from an uncanny distance and maintained their chorus until I beached my boat. By then, Danny was waiting, and the two of us carried the kayak back to camp. He asked if things went okay. I said yep, things went great.

The manager put down his paintbrush as I walked up to the office. “Wellsir,” he said. “This water wants us to leave, so that’s what we’ll do in about 30 minutes. Sorry your weekend was cut short.”

I looked in the direction of the flooded road back to civilization. I strongly disliked the idea of being remembered as the fellow they towed to the highway. “Can my car make it out of here?” I asked.

He laughed and said the road I traveled that morning was impassable by me or anyone else.

“But we’ll be okay. There’s another road we can take back to the highway that crosses higher ground.”

Buoyed by that bit of news, I walked down to the water’s edge and sat down to rest and watch the river for a while.

Ch. 10 — The Bridge at Doctortown

Half an hour later, I was back behind the wheel, following the wake of the pickup truck along the flooded road back toward U.S. 301. The boys and dogs dozed quietly in the back of the truck. The adults in the cab were in spirited conversation.

A short distance from camp, we turned onto a spur road that climbed above the water for good. We remained on dry land for several miles and several turns, and then were back to the pavement.

The pickup turned onto the highway and slowed momentarily. Honking and waving erupted. Then the truck accelerated west toward Glennville, and I turned east in the direction of the coast.

Halfway between Ludowici and Jesup, U.S. 301 crosses the Altamaha River in an isolated spot just north of Doctortown. The bridge there, built to span the entire floodplain, is long and massive. I parked on the north bank and made the long walk to the middle of the huge structure.

From high atop the bridge, the hiss of the current below was almost inaudible. The muddy water was almost gentle, almost unintimidating.

I stood there for a long time, studying the water. I thought about Brownian motion and traced the paths of eddies and whirlpools. I followed debris as it came into view, passed beneath me, and floated out of sight. I chose imaginary routes and mentally navigated the shifting current. I pictured myself drifting serenely on the river at normal flow.

Every five minutes or so, a lone car or semi crossed the bridge, and the driver would offer a nod or wave. I suppose it was odd to see someone on the bridge, especially on such a lonely highway.

When the sun was almost gone, I drove the last few miles to the coast and checked into a motel near Darien. I then executed the rest of my fallback master plan and located a quiet little seafood restaurant.

I was the last customer, and the proprietor came out of the kitchen to talk. I told him about my day, culminating with my snake story. I said I worried that the creature might not have survived the floodwater.

“That snake is fine,” The man told me. “He‘s done this before, like all us locals.”