December 15, 1998 — There was a moment during my 13-mile, four-hour kayaking excursion down the Chattahoochee River last week when I stopped paddling and lay back to take a rest.
A single leaf fell from the river’s tree-lined banks.
It lazily glided through the air, finally landing on the water, ready to begin its slow journey down the river.
The leaf and I drifted along the very same current, at the very same deliberate pace.
A large heron leisurely monitored the sky above us, it too enjoying the unusually warm December sun.
There were no electrical wires in view.
No sounds of automobiles within earshot.
No signs that the world is quickly tumbling toward a new millennium.
The landscape seemed untouched, idyllic.
I mused that the area’s early inhabitants, hundreds of years ago, could have looked upon an identical scene from their canoes or rafts.
And I wondered if their backs ached as much as mine did.
I was three hours into my virgin kayaking odyssey and I concluded that paddling this 13-mile stretch of the Chattahoochee would be a laborious task regardless of the century the feat was attempted.
My partners, Gary Gaines, 48, and Katherine Baer, 29, both of Gainesville, were now some distance ahead of me. They had more important things to do than wait on a journalist with a sore back.
Katherine is Director of Headwaters Conservation for Upper Chattahoochee Riverkeeper, a nonprofit advocacy organization dedicated to protecting the Chattahoochee, its tributaries and watershed.
The organization’s Gainesville headwaters office opened in 1996, and is responsible for the 1,036-square-mile stretch of the Chattahoochee from north of Helen to Lake Lanier.
That’s a lot of water to keep track of, and the five-person staff at the Gainesville office relies heavily upon local community groups and volunteers for help.
That’s where Gary comes in. An avid kayaker for more than 15 years, Gaines has been responsible for monitoring the 13-mile stretch of the Chattahoochee from Duncan Bridge to Lula Bridge since 1994. Twice a year he paddles the route, reporting problems such as funny odors, discolored water and erosion to Katherine.
Thankfully, there is usually little to report from Gary’s beat. Unlike other heavily developed sections of the Chattahoochee to the north, road access along this particular stretch is sparse, keeping change to a minimum.
There are many feathered and furry creatures along the way — but no humans. The isolation can be peaceful. After a while, it can also get lonely.
Beavers and geese don’t talk back to you. And if they start to, something is very wrong.
For that reason, Gary invited Katherine and myself along for the trip.
I’m fairly sure Gary knew I had never kayaked before. If he didn’t, he was dead certain of the fact after a few moments on the water with me.
I had a really hard time getting my kayak to go straight, which slowed me down considerably.
I’d be headed straight for a few strokes and then suddenly I would start turning sharply to the left. I paddled frantically to correct my path, but to no avail.
I either had to stick my paddle in the water to my right and bring the kayak to a complete stop, or let the kayak do an entire 360-degree turn.
This happened repeatedly.
“Please go straight,” I pleaded to the piece of plastic beneath me. I wasn’t so kind in the hours following.
Like beavers and geese, however, kayaks don’t respond — in words or actions.
The figures of Gary and Katherine became smaller and smaller ahead of me as the afternoon wore on.
I blamed my crooked course on a bent rudder.
Gary later informed me that the sit-on-top whitewater kayak I was using was rudderless.
There were a few small whitewater sections that interrupted my pirouette down the Chattahoochee, and I was thankful for them.
Anything that didn’t require heavy paddling was a blessing.
For we were kayaking just two weeks before Christmas — a blessing in itself, especially for a northerner — and the river level was low, about a foot below normal, and the current slow.
So when I wasn’t stuck on rocks, I was paddling hard — probably twice as hard as I should have had to — because … well, because of that darn crooked rudder.
I guess we can call it a baptism by water.