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THE RIVER

Athens, Georgia, was a heck of a place to go to college. In my day, the early 1960s, good times were easy to find. Penniless though I was, I spent countless memorable days and nights in that town.

Athens was especially heavenly on a spring quarter weekend, when the new foliage was emerging and the weather was paradise-perfect and you just had to be outdoors.

In those days, Athens was a plenty big town, but urban sprawl had not yet taken over. Inside the city, huge tracts of woodland remained. Along the North and Middle Oconee Rivers, both of which flow through Athens, were miles of secluded, relatively untouched shoreline.

Here are there along the rivers were special places — sandbars, dry river beds, tiny patches of beach — that were ideal for a private date, a few beers with friends, or a full-blown kegger. No doubt these spots had been known to thousands of UGA students going back many decades.

In the spring of 1962, my sophomore year at the University of Georgia, I was introduced to one such special place on the Middle Oconee River by my friends Billy, Al, and Wayne. I was enchanted. For several weekends running, we four rounded up as much beer as possible and camped overnight at “The River.”

We were never alone. From 10 to 50 other students were always nearby. That particular dry river bed, although only 100 yards from an Athens neighborhood, was a ribbon of sand that snaked well back into the forest. It could support hundreds of merry-makers, spread out in groups along its length. And it did.

THE KEGGER

Toward the end of Spring Quarter, as time was running out before final exams, we guys decided to organize a giant, bring-all-your-friends, BYOB, everyone-welcome kegger at our special spot on the river.

The word went out. The four of us and many others worked diligently to publicize the event and encourage attendance.

It was exhilarating, but at some point, I began to feel a sense of unease. If unruly elements drew unwanted attention, there might be repercussions, legal and parental.

But that didn’t happen. In the end, the party was surprisingly successful and orderly.

Untold hundreds of revelers were in attendance. Male and female, senior and freshmen, student and townie, they simply drank, smoked, talked, and shook sand from their Keds into the night with admirable maturity.

As for me, I drank more beer than ever before or since.

Al and I were well below the drinking age at the time, so we enlisted an older student to secure a pony keg for us. A pony keg, for the untutored, holds 7.5 gallons.

To receive shipment of and to transport our treasure, we needed a vehicle. Nobody had a vehicle. So I went out on a limb and volunteered the Smith family station wagon, located only 30 miles away at our home in Suwanee.

Actually, it was Mom’s station wagon. Being in charge of household purchases, logistics, and transportation, she drove a massive and powerful flame red 1957 Ford Country Squire station wagon.

It was enormous. It had a V-8 engine and a Ford-O-Matic transmission — which was good, because I couldn’t drive a stick shift. I had turned 19 only the previous January. My driver’s license was not yet a year old. I had driven nothing but our two family vehicles, ever.

When I asked Mom if I could borrow her car for that weekend, she was leery. I didn’t tell her why I wanted it, of course. I just said that for once, I wanted to provide the transportation for my friends. I also whined and pleaded.

Finally, and clearly against her better judgment, she relented.

THE TRESTLE

The party began Friday night. At twilight, Al and I took delivery of our pony keg, drove to the river, parked as close as possible, and manhandled our silver prize down onto the sand, along with an assortment of munchies. People were arriving in a steady stream.

One landmark at our chosen party spot was a huge railroad trestle that crossed the Middle Oconee River. Athens had numerous such trestles then. They were majestic, handsome wood structures that soared high into the air to span the rivers and creeks and maintain a level grade.

The most famous of the Athens trestles, the “Murmur Trestle,” crossed Trail Creek in another part of town. In 1983, an evocative photo of that trestle appeared on the back cover of the Murmur album by R.E.M.

My trestle was not the Murmur Trestle. Had it been, my story would be much the richer. But it was a twin to the Murmur Trestle, and that will have to suffice.

Sometime later that night, after we had consumed a goodly portion of alcohol, Al suggested that we take a closer look at the trestle. Not venture out onto it, mind you. Just check it out. So we left the others and wandered back through the woods, up to the spot where the train tracks rested on level ground.

Minutes later, Al and I were inching slowly and carefully forward along the track, out onto the span, getting higher and higher above the river, snickering nervously and trying not to spill our beers.

A few times, we were spotted by party-goers below. Some yelled insults. Some yelled encouragement. Some told us we were idiots.

As it turned out, the correct opinion was the latter. One-third of the way to the opposite bank, we heard the mournful, distant wail of an oncoming train.

Al and I did not even tarry a split second to curse. We turned and high-stepped our way off the trestle with blinding speed.

The retreat probably took 30 or 40 seconds — long enough for the whistle to moan twice more. Each time it did, we speeded up in unison. The only thought in my head was a simple refrain: Oh, shit! Oh, shit! Oh, shit!

But we survived. We were off the trestle at least two minutes before the train’s arrival. But the show we put on, high above the partying throng, delighted one and all. Only our deaths would have pleased the crowd more.

I returned to my spot on the sand, leaned against a tree, and continued doing my part to empty the keg. Hours passed. People and trains came and went. Now and then, I drifted quietly off to sleep.

But never for long. I awoke numerous times to join Billy or Al or some stranger for another draft. The night was a happy blur.

THE AFTERMATH

When dawn finally came, only a handful of hardy souls remained. I stumbled back to Mom’s Country Squire and flopped with a thud onto the back seat.

When I awoke, it was nearly noon. Billy was asleep on the front seat, and Wayne was on the floorboard below me. Al was nowhere to be found.

After a time, we emerged from the car without speaking and walked slowly back to the river. There on the sand, we found a bleary-eyed Al and four other students, two guys and two girls, none of whom I knew. Other slow-moving figures could be seen here and there along the river bed.

After splashing my face with river water, I examined the pony keg. It was empty and feather light. The guys and I, and probably numerous passers-by, had drained the tank completely.

Slowly, we began to gather our belongings and police the area a bit. We returned to the car and prepared to reenter civilization.

I put the key in the ignition and turned it. Nothing happened.

I repeated the procedure. Nothing happened. The Country Squire would not start.

After my friends scattered to find rides on their own, I spent several hours laboring valiantly to breathe life into that vehicle.

First, I banged on various parts, cleaned the battery terminals, and checked the fuses. Nothing.

Second, I walked back to the highway and hitch-hiked the short distance to my dorm. I borrowed a car, went back to the river, removed the battery, took it to a garage, had it charged, returned to the river, and reinstalled it. Still nothing.

Defeated, demoralized, and hung over, I took my only remaining option: I telephoned my mother.

Mom’s end of the conversation went something like this:

“Hi, Rock! How’s your weekend going? When are you coming home?”

(Pause.)

“You did WHAT?”

(Pause.)

“You left the car WHERE?”

“Jesus Christ, Rocky! What the HELL were you thinking? Jesus Christ!”

(Pause.)

“Okay! Okay! Shut up for a minute! I’ll send Robert. If he can start it, fine. If not, he can tow it back to the shop.”

“Jesus Christ, Rocky.”

While I waited for Robert, I returned the pony keg from whence it came and collected my deposit. Before long, Robert arrived at my dorm in his tow truck.

Robert was a family friend, Suwanee born and raised, who ran an auto repair shop. He was enjoying my predicament immensely. During lulls in the conversation, he chuckled frequently.

I don’t recall the details, but Robert worked his mechanic’s magic, and the vehicle sputtered to life. He drove away in his tow truck, still chuckling, and I followed him home to Suwanee.

Sometime in the 1980s, I drove to Athens to search for our special spot on “The River.” The place doesn’t exist any more.

The dry river bed has been paved over and built upon, and the trestle has been dismantled. Maybe they rerouted the railroad tracks. I don’t know.

As housing developments went in, almost all of the Athens trestles were modernized or torn down. As far as I know, only the Murmur Trestle still stands — and only because R.E.M. fans rallied to preserve it.

After the River Incident, Mom stayed mad at me for a good two weeks, but she never told Dad.

I don’t know if Robert told him. There was no safe way to find out.

Back cover of R.E.M.’s “Murmur” album.

The Murmur Trestle today, a dead ringer for the Rocky Trestle.

Mom’s Country Squire a few months later, safely back home.