Passion for the Pigeon

We broke into laughter. BFH. But this was how rapids got their names-Harold's Tombstone, Volkswagen Rock. They were all named at the whims of paddlers like us. Years from now, people would ask what BFH meant and where it came from. Guides would tell them, "Some guys from Durham and Chapel Hill. George Small, John Manuel . . . "

Late in the afternoon, we arrived at the take-out in Hartford. We loaded the canoes on the trailer and strolled over to the general store. The old woman behind the counter frowned with disapproval as we came through the door. I examined the selection of white bread, Spam, and Vienna sausages. "Dare I ask for a cappuccino?" George said.

Back outside, I took a bite of my stale candy bar and stared at the boarded-up schoolhouse. "This is where it's all going to happen," I said to George. "Outfitters' stores, parking lots . . . "

"How long do you think we have?" he asked.

"I figure another year, maybe two. Then people will find out what a great river this is. If Jerry plays his cards right, he'll make a killing."

George laughed. "Maybe. But I'm not sure Jerry's cut out for customer service."

We came back to the Pigeon the following spring.

Jerry had bought the general store and was doing double duty as checkout clerk and guide for the Smoky Mountain River Company. The water quality of the Pigeon was steadily improving, and C.P.&L. had agreed to start regularly scheduled water releases the following year. Fortunately for us, the masses had yet to discover the river.

"Let me ring these people up, and we'll get paddling," Jerry said. "Anybody know how to change the ribbon on this cash register?"

We waited in the parking lot while Jerry attended to his customers. George noticed that the compass was gone from the hood of Jerry's bus. He sighed. "Some things just aren't meant to last."

Back on the river, Jerry was a happy man. He flew down Powerhouse, the long rapid below the Walters Plant. He surfed the wave in the middle of Lost Guide and, just for fun, rode backward through BFH. As we paused for lunch on the gravel bar, I marveled that we still had the Pigeon-and Jerry-to ourselves.

"Another year and you're going to be booked solid with paying customers," I said. "You won't have time for us."

Jerry shook his head. "Nah, I'll always take time off for you guys."

"Hey, what happened to the map?" Roger asked. "Did you ever print one up?"

"Just a hand-drawn thing, but I'm making photocopies," Jerry said. "It's got your rapid on it-BFH. Folks around here are already calling it that."

George slapped Jerry on the back. "You're a good man, Jerry. Just for that, I'm going to give you one of my baloney medallions."

"Dude, I'm honored."

When I called the store the following spring, a woman answered the phone. I asked for Jerry. She hesitated.

"Are you a friend?" she asked.

I said I was.

"I'm sorry to tell you this, but Jerry's passed on."

"He's dead?"

"Yes, sir. He was riding a horse across Big Creek. It had been raining a lot and the horse must have slipped off the bridge. They found him on the rocks."

It was another two years before I could muster the will to return to the Pigeon. Cathy, Jackson, Allison and I were in Knoxville for the annual family reunion. The kids were eager for adventure. I suggested a raft trip down the Pigeon.

Hartford had been transformed just as I'd imagined. Billboards lined the interstate, beckoning the public to raft the Pigeon. Outfitters had taken over the abandoned school house. A giant cinder-block boat barn claimed the empty lot by the river.

Our trip with Wildwater Adventures was scheduled for 3 PM, but the girl behind the counter informed us that the one o'clock group had become stuck in traffic and was running an hour late. She urged us to look around the gift shop.

I thumbed through the postcards and calendars. I asked the clerk if she had any maps of the Pigeon.