Passion for the Pigeon

Hartford, Tennessee, was one of those towns that interstate drivers blow past without a second glance. No billboards heralded its coming. The mountains opened only briefly for the lone exit. The Exxon station closed at 9 PM. The general store, which doubled as a post office, lacked even a lighted sign.

Jerry lived in a ramshackle house beneath the hacked-off face of a mountain. Keith navigated the van and canoe trailer up the eroded driveway and parked next to a rusting school bus. Jerry sat in a rocker on the front porch, bushy-haired and shirtless. I guessed him to be in his early thirties.

"Is this okay?" George called out the window as the van settled into a pothole.

"Suits me," Jerry said.

"I wasn't sure if it was assigned parking."

Jerry caught the glint in George's eye and ventured a slow smile. "I'd invite y'all inside, but there ain't nothin' in the way of furniture. You'll probably want to pitch your tents out back."

We followed Jerry around the house to a narrow wedge of lawn. There was just enough room for three tents.

"Mind if we build a fire?" Keith asked.

"No problem," Jerry said. "Just pull some of them rocks out of the garden and make you a fire ring."

"On the lawn?"

Jerry shrugged. "I'm just rentin'."

We set up camp and built a fire with branches snapped from a dying dogwood. Keith produced one of his signature meals-blackened chicken with wild rice and asparagus. Michael brought out the plastic wine glasses and uncorked a bottle of Chardonnay.

"Damn, you guys know how to eat!" Jerry said.

After the Jack Daniels had gone around the circle, I asked Jerry to tell us about the Pigeon.

"It's a kick-ass river," he said. "Seven Class IIIs and one Class IV. 'Course, it depends whether C.P.&L.'s generating or not. The feds are supposed to issue that license for the Walters Plant some time this year. If they give us scheduled releases at least five days a week, this place'll be hoppin'."

"Anything in the water to worry about?" Roger asked.

"Not unless you plan on drinkin' it," Jerry said.

Michael opened a tin of chocolate chip cookies and passed it around the circle. "What's the plan for tomorrow?" he asked.

"River should be crankin' up about 10 AM. C.P.&L.'s been running Walters at about forty megawatts-a little low for my taste-but it'll make some waves."

"What are we talking about, one- to two-footers?" Roger asked.

"Hell, you say. Three- to four-footers at least."

Keith laughed. "You need to understand who you're dealing with, Jerry. Three- foot waves are more than enough to sink this crowd."

"You hard boaters," Jerry sniffed. "You need to get in some duckies. They'll ride right over that crap. Got a couple extra if anyone wants to try." Michael sat up. "I might be interested in that."

Michael asked George if he would mind paddling the Freighter alone.

"Anything we can do to lighten the load," George said. In truth, we were all coming to realize that paddling solo was the best way to tackle pushy rivers. Tandem boats were too hard to maneuver and took on too much water. Keith and Roger had purchased solo boats shortly after I bought the Caption. Keith had urged George and Michael to do the same.

The author's party camps out in the backyard of Jerry's rental home the night before their run down the Pigeon River

In the morning, Jerry pulled two deflated duckies out of his stack of five. "I'm pretty sure these'll hold air," he said.

He plugged in his electric pump, strolled over to the school bus, and opened the back door. "Stick your boats in here. We'll leave your van in town." "You're going to use the bus to carry five of us to the put-in?" Keith asked. "Sure, dude. Gotta keep it tuned for my customers."

As the rest of us piled into the mold-scented bus, George jogged to the van and dug in the glove compartment. He came back with a small floating compass attached to a suction cup.

"I've been looking for somewhere to put this," he said. He pushed the compass onto the hood of the bus and flashed his devilish grin.

Jerry cranked the engine and we rumbled up the interstate, George hollering at every turn. "Which way are we headed now, Jerry?"

We exited the interstate at the North Carolina/Tennessee line, wound down a crumbling two-lane highway and across a cement bridge. The Pigeon rolled out from underneath, solid whitewater in both directions.

I turned to Keith with a smug grin. "See, man? What did I tell you?"

"As long as I don't die from dioxin poisoning," he answered.

The put-in lay in the shadow of the Walters Plant, a handsome turn-of-the-century brick building with tall windows and decorative molding at the corners. Three cavernous arches penetrated the foundation, from which emerged a dark, sulfurous brew.

"Whoo, boy," George said. "I'll need to wash my clothes tonight."

"You'll get used to it," Jerry said. "Couple miles down, you won't smell a thing."

We slid our boats down the steep bank and started loading the gear. Before anyone else had his life jacket on, Jerry was in his duckie, surfing the waves below the power plant.

Michael looked befuddled. "Hey, Jerry, aren't you gonna tell me how to paddle this thing?"

"Get in it and go," Jerry yelled. "Best way to learn."

With that, our guide headed off, swept up like a leaf in the wind. I climbed in my canoe, almost flipped as I pushed off shore, and turned downstream.

The rapid below the powerhouse ran nonstop for a quarter of a mile. Watery plumes kicked up by subsurface rocks sprouted all across the surface. Cross-currents buffeted my canoe. I caught up to Jerry and eddied out behind a huge boulder.

"Hold on, man," I said. "I've got a boat full of water."

Jerry shook his head and pointed to Michael bobbing over the waves in his duckie. "See what I mean? Duckies rule."

"Oh, yeah? I'll be sure to wait for you when we hit the flat water."

"Ain't no flat water on this sucker," Jerry said.