Passion for the Pigeon

As we waited for the others to arrive, I gazed at the elephantine boulder sitting curiously in midstream. It was ten times the size of anything else in the river. "How do you think this thing got here?" I asked.

"Must've rolled down the mountain when they were blasting for I-40," he said. "Ain't nothing gonna move this thing."

I had worried that our trip would be marred by the presence of the interstate running just a few hundred feet above us. But the steep, wooded bank hid the view of the road, and the rush of water masked the sound of the passing vehicles. For all we would see or hear, we might as well be in a wilderness.

After a quick bailing of the canoes, we headed on downstream. The current swept us under the Waterville Road bridge and into a narrow gorge. Every bend threw up another Class III rapid, another series of obstacles to be deciphered on the run. It was the kind of canoeing I loved.

Appalachian Mountain rivers rarely offer a distant view, and the Pigeon was no exception. But in the second mile, the river straightened out, descending a long, white staircase to the base of a camel-backed mountain. I pulled over to take a picture and watched our procession of boats angle from one side to the next, sliding and leveling, sliding and leveling.

At the bottom of the run, the hills closed in again. The current piled against one bank, a long wave train disappearing around the bend. Jerry circled into an eddy and, for the first time, offered us instructions.

"This one's a Class IV," Jerry said. "Ride that wave train until you get to that boulder on the right-hand bank, then hang a sharp left."

Roger peered downriver. "This doesn't look bad. What makes it a IV?"

Jerry smiled. "You'll see."

Bending his long torso over his outstretched knees, Jerry propelled his duckie downstream.

"Give us a signal when you get to the bottom," Keith called.

Jerry dropped from view, his whirling kayak paddle the last thing I saw. We waited for him to reappear on the bank. Minutes passed.

"You think he's planning to wave us on?" Keith asked.

Michael laughed. "Who, Jerry?"

My nerves started buzzing. "Hell, I'm going," I said. "I'll signal you guys when I get through."

I set off along the right-hand bank, just out of reach of the fluttering alders. The bow pitched up and down with the rising waves. Then, as if a door had opened onto some enormous engine room, the sound of the river changed. An ominous roar filled the air; the water turned white from bank to bank. I plunged into a maelstrom of holes and cross-currents, struggled to keep my balance. There was Jerry in the middle of the rapid, aimed upstream, riding an enormous wave. I flew past, glided into an aerated pool, and pulled out on shore, stunned.

The bluff along the bank offered a view back upstream. I scaled its craggy face and signaled the others on with a wave of my paddle. One by one, they worked their way through, arriving breathless at the bottom of the rapid. Jerry, meanwhile, was turning three-sixties in the middle of the river, happy as a seal.

The Pigeon River

George shook his head. "Guys, we're in the presence of either greatness or lunacy. I'm not sure which."

Tired of waiting for our guide, I led the way downstream. The Pigeon slowed as it backed up behind a vein of rock protruding from the bank. I stood in my canoe, saw how the channel narrowed into a dark tongue that dropped briefly out of sight and into a quiet pool beyond. The rapid looked harmless, so I proceeded onward. I slid down the tongue and up the crest of the first wave. The hole on the far side took me by surprise. My stomach dropped as the canoe swooped down and up again, teetered on the crest of the second wave, and rolled over sideways.

I made it to shore with a few swift kicks, dragging my canoe behind me. I stood on the gravel bar and waved my arms. "Watch out for the hole!" I shouted. "It's a big one."

Keith came first, eyes wide, frozen in mid-stroke. He swooped down and up the waves, his face resolving to a smile as he glided safely into the pool. "Man, that was awesome! I want to do that one again."

We watched as the others rode the rapid, each one grinning as they came ashore. We pulled the boats over the gravel bar and ran the rapid a second time. Jerry went back for thirds.

Wet and exhausted, we decided to break for lunch. I set my soda in the river to cool and noted the color of the water. It looked about like iced tea, not much different from the rivers in eastern North Carolina with their natural load of tannins. But the local activists wanted further improvements. Jerry said the Dead Pigeon River Council was demanding that Champion lighten its effluent to match that of other mountain rivers. And its members weren't happy that he was promoting the Pigeon as ready for recreation.

I leaned back on my elbows, stared at the sun-dappled river and the hemlocks on the far shore. We could stay here all day and never see another person. This was it. This was my dream.

"Say, Jerry, has anybody named these rapids?" I asked.

"Somebody named the IIIs and IVs a few years back. This one's called Roostertail."

I sniffed. "Roostertail. That's kind of anticlimactic. Are these names published anywhere?"

"Not that I know of."

"So you could print your own map? Call 'em anything you want?"

Jerry shrugged. "I suppose. I've been meaning to print up a map for my customers."

I glanced around. "Whaddya think, guys? What's a better name for this rapid?"

George stroked his goatee. "How about Big Fucking Hole?"

Jerry shook his head. "Come on, dude, I can't print that on a map."

"Okay, then, BFH," George said.

Jerry nodded. "That'll work."