Tennessee’s perfect lonely paradise, Scott’s Gulf Wilderness State Park
If you’re stubborn, particular, have limited time, and can confidently approximate the range of your ability, you’ve probably gone stag with the river a time or two. Whether as a result of circumstance (a shortage of fellow travelers), or even by design, the compulsion to trace the aqueous line of symmetry alone requires planning. The sense of self-reliance resulting from the management of your own logistics is an enjoyable one, but let’s take care to not overindulge - self-shuttle is not a sport. It’s not a sub-genre of paddling, an identity, nor is it something necessarily worth talking about at all. It’s merely the means to an end. Tools of the trade range from running shoes to ebikes and other wheeled devices, with consideration not limited to the final location of dry clothes, how the lines change when there’s no one to pick up the pieces, who to tell where you’re going, and whether to get the sweaty end of the proposition hammered out before or after the river portion. I can’t recommend fooling with it, but I do have some thoughts on the matter.
First of all, you should get ready the night before. I mean when the call is still strong. The passion of a last-minute-muse is often threatened by the weak will that tends to accompany cold mornings. However if pre-packed, the inky black predawn silence, the cold westerly wind whipping your face, and the steadfast belief that this time, you can change your life forever in a day, will all bolster your resolve.
Consider a personal favorite of mine. I’ve paddled Bee Creek on the Cumberland Plateau more times alone than not. Bee Creek resides about as in the middle of nowhere as you can get in Tennessee, is beautiful enough to to make a grown man cry, and is sufficiently difficult and dangerous so as to completely replace all the tackiness of the wandering, chaotic mind with the muscle-memory-intensive, choreographic process of simply being and doing. Flowing. The act of fully immersing oneself into a mindstate governed by the laws of timing, precision, and tenacity provides a fair glimpse into what much of life must have been like for our Pleistocene counterparts. The flow-state can be achieved intentionally, even formulaically after adequate training, but there’s still a charm to having it administered at gunpoint, under duress, by a river that has many voids to fill, and much time with which to fill them. It’s not getting chased by a saber-toothed tiger, but I would argue it's somewhat more enjoyable.
It’s not the longest drive to Bee Creek, but long enough to notice yet another inevitable loss to the blonde assassin lurking in my rear-view. After finding the limit of my van’s ability, romping down to the river, and ferrying across to the inaccessible south-side of the Caney Fork drainage, it’s a solid hour-plus hike to the put-in by way of a collection of faint paths that require intuition and just a dash of imagination to stitch together. The footing is relentlessly treacherous, especially in April, when a vivid carpet of scorpionweed and dwarf ginseng adds a mesmerizing element of distraction.
A flattish rock slopes into the water right where you’d want to put in. I like to sit still here for a few moments to acknowledge the far extent of the trip. Farthest from home in both geography and time, and depending on your take, some portion of the way through the exposure to significant peril. Done is the risk of rolled ankles, envenomation and predation, now on to the river’s own brand of indifferent treachery. Bless your heart if in this moment of pause you think there will be quiet. Our minds are all too quick to fill any silence, at the ready with a procession of thoughts, all vying for attention with the chatter of a thousand cicadas.
And for that matter, don’t expect the river to say anything to you either. It’s a categorical mistake, though a forgivably human one, to think that a vast, indifferent river canyon has anything to relate to the lonely traveler. Its ability to swallow us whole is what makes the desperate pull to steal away into its shadows so strong. Even a gorge of modest proportions will absorb the most chord-ravaging, autonomous bellow. Try it. To rinse away the grime of self-importance that has caked on since last time, and become privy to that same old reminder of our own inconsequence, we necessarily must get as far away as possible from our central heat and air, social clubs, inventions and conventions alike - everything that distracts us from the truth - the reality that the giant plates and their slow-motion rendition of bumper cars will far outlast us. It’s the only way. Our inability to fathom deep time is a byproduct of the very stasis that preconditions our existence. So slowly must the stone roll for any moss to grow on its surface. Yet the water makes quick work of it all. Thrust up over millions of years, the great mountains fall in mere thousands, once the rivers get a hold of them. It’ll make quick work of us too - as little as 90 seconds; but unlike the incomprehensible movement of the earth itself, the water operates on a wavelength that we can harmonize with in real time, if we’re careful. Mindful.
Sliding into the pool directly above the first drop, I set aside my unrequited riparian love, for the time being, and wholeheartedly engage the dimorphous realm of rock and water. Skipping and drawing from one eddy to the next, I wouldn’t say I’m thinking. Merely operating. Everything prior has led up to each moment and that one to the next, and I’ve learned it’s best for me to stay out of the way. The river will sort it all out. I trust myself and therefore lose myself, in the grain of the flow, as the river bends over boulders and stretches like liquid taffy through tight slots. All to plan, I am ceasing to exist, but dare not acknowledge it, lest the spell be broken and the contrast between me and everything else become distinct again - that can spell trouble. My timing is flawless, yet as a result time itself seems to break down. Not far ahead, the slippery wet curvature of a dark form dives from the bank and into an eddy where the turbulence abates, jolting me back into self-awareness. With the acknowledgement of a friend I’ve seen here before, I check my watch and note that the ego died, and remained so, for thirty-two minutes. I’m grateful. As I float down towards the Caney Fork I feel humble and inconsequential, and a creeping yearning for my family, my home, my life back there, intensifies with my approach to the confluence. I know what I have, what I want, and what matters. Going out is all about coming home, stripped of the superfluous, born yet again through the flow, with eyes fast upon truth and love.
