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The Chattahoochee River in North Georgia begins, appropriately, at Chattahoochee Spring, located in Chattahoochee Gap, on the southern slope of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

At the spring, the water bubbles weakly from the ground and cascades through a series of small pools. Not very impressive.

But as it flows downhill, other springs and streams add to its volume. Soon, it becomes a rocky, lively mountain river, tumbling south toward Atlanta.

Time was, the Hooch flowed southward unimpeded. That isn’t the case anymore. It still flows onward to the Gulf, but by the time it reaches the northern edge of Metro Atlanta, the river has been tamed.

The culprit is Lake Sidney Lanier, formed by Buford Dam. Lake Lanier is 93 square miles big, with 700 miles of shoreline. The lake intrudes upstream on the Chattahoochee for many miles.

The truth is, the Chattahoochee stops being a river and becomes a lake about 10 miles before it reaches Gainesville, near the little town of Lula.

From that point south, the Hooch has a few interesting pockets, but mostly isn’t worth your time.

From that point north, it’s terrific.

I own a recreational kayak, which is a hybrid with a keel to help you go in a straight line. It’s perfect for that section of the Hooch below the mountains and above the lake. I’ve paddled there many times.

It’s pretty amazing up there — clean, green, and beautiful. A few bridges span the river, but the stretches between them are long and pristine.

There are no houses, billboards, or other man-made structures along the banks. All you’ll see are herons, egrets, the occasional group of cows in a riverside pasture, and a few small fishing boats.

The fishermen have it easy. They motor upstream and stake out a likely spot. Kayakers have to work a little harder.

Actually, it isn’t that difficult to paddle a kayak upstream against the current, but you can’t stop. If you do, you go backward.

My usual practice is to head north and keep stroking, with a rest-pause every few minutes. It’s surprising how much progress you can make. Every hour or so, I will tie up to a tree, have a drink and a snack, and recover.

Several years ago, I decided to go for distance. I wanted to see how far upstream I could advance — no gawking and sightseeing.

I started early in the morning at Belton Bridge Park in Hall County are headed upstream.

A few hours later, I began to encounter a few ripples and shoals. To get upstream of them required tricky maneuvering and hard paddling.

As the obstacles got more numerous and more difficult, I got more exhausted. At length, I came to a pour-over that ran from bank to bank. After several attempts to find a way past it, I gave up.

It was about 2:00 PM. I turned around and began the long drift back to the car. Far from being disappointed, I was relieved, and also proud of a good day’s work.

The float back downstream on trips like that is always a pleasure. It’s the reward you earned for your efforts. No paddling is required. Just a bit of steering. It’s all very indolent.

For most of that day, I had been a long way from any roads that provided access to the river. But by 4:00 PM, as I was getting close to the put-in, civilization wasn’t far away.

So when I came around a bend in the river and saw a man on the left bank in the distance, it wasn’t a surprise.

He was a thin Caucasian fellow, about 40, wearing long pants and standing in the water up to his knees. On the bank beside him was a refrigerator.

As I drifted silently toward him, still 100 yards away, the man began wrestling the refrigerator into the river.

He tilted it on its side and let it drop into the water. The door was secured with a strap, so the fridge didn’t sink. It bobbed there as he maneuvered it further from shore.

Standing waist deep in the river, the man loosened the strap. Water flowed in. As he pushed and guided, the refrigerator started sinking at an angle.

In a few seconds, only a six-inch white pyramid, the corner of the appliance, was showing. By then, the man was up to his neck in the water. He pushed and pulled energetically, and the pyramid finally disappeared.

By the time the man waded ashore and turned to look back at his handiwork, I was floating past him 10 yards from shore.

He went rigid. His eyes widened, and he stared at me. Looking quickly left and right, and without a word, he turned and disappeared into the woods.

I paddled over to the sunken refrigerator, which was mere inches below the surface. The door was ajar, but I couldn’t quite see inside.

That’s when the questions began to bubble up.

Was the appliance empty? Had he jettisoned a piece of junk or dumped a body?

Had he run away because dumping is illegal, or had he gone to get his pistol out of the glove compartment?

Feeling way too vulnerable, I slipped back into the current and vacated the area.

The boat ramp was only a minute or two downstream, and I was soon back on dry land. I hurriedly secured the kayak to the roof of my car and drove away.

By the time I got home, I had decided to notify the Hall County Sheriff’s office.

The dispatcher listened to my story without the slightest hint of interest. She said she would pass along the information to the proper people, but I doubt if she did. I can’t feature a uniformed deputy wading into the river to investigate a refrigerator.

Which, when you think about it, means that the fridge is probably still there.

Personally, I have no intention of going back to find out. But if you’d care to do so, the refrigerator is located on the east bank of the Chattahoochee River, a few yards downstream from the confluence with Mud Creek, about 10 feet from shore.

If you want the GPS coordinates, let me know.

The Hooch near Belton Bridge Park.

The upper Hooch.