Belton, Pat and I put in on highway 84 between Stockton and Naylor, Georgia. The river current was strong, over 2 mph. The first 10 miles were pretty with lots of big open sandbars but otherwise uneventful. Quite suddenly the shoals began. The first one was the biggest and the drop here was very substantial. We evaded the worst of it by following a channel on the right. There was still a pretty good drop and wave train here but smaller than the main one. Thereafter the ride was just bumpy enough for about 10 miles to keep a little adrenaline flowing.

We had been told that campsites were numerous and very nice but in fact at this water level sandbars were not that common on this river. On the first night, after a 23 mile day and much searching we had to settle for a spot that didn't have much level ground. We all spent the night struggling to avoid sliding downhill into the river. Of course, as any experienced paddler could have predicted, the following morning we came upon the "perfect campsite" just 200 yards downriver. While we were lounging around, shooting the bull and digesting our dinner there suddenly was a great noisy fluttering of feathers about 20 feet above the river right in front of us. A large mass of wings and feathers plunged directly down into the middle of the river. A little sharp-shinned hawk flapped his way off the water and up to a tree limb, his talons empty. A moment later his escaped prey, a wood duck that outweighed him at least 3 to 1 popped to the surface a little dazed but otherwise unharmed. Pat remarked, "now thats what they call biting off more than you can chew".

On day two we were met by Karen and George, (despite George's very recently broken shoulder). They had left their bikes at the next bridge about 10 miles downstream for a shuttle. Near that Bridge we encountered an old fellow on the bank with a six pack of Old Milwaukee Light and a rifle. George spoke with him briefly but he was evidently half deaf and not very coherent. It was supposed that about a mile further downstream we would encounter the famous "suck hole" as they call it in those parts. This is the place where the river is reputed to disappear into the ground. Karen and George decided to paddle on down with us in hopes of seeing it and then return upstream against the current. After more than a mile we found no suck hole so they turned around. George tells me that when they got back to the bridge the old guy, "all stumbly and red eyed, was firing off rounds like crazy with his rifle!" They high-tailed it out of there.

We continued and after another mile or so we saw a tiny rivulet running off to the right. It was very small but had a pretty good flow. Even so it was hard to imagine that this little creek could be the famous suck hole to hell that causes an entire river to disappear. The main river channel seemed entirely unaffected. This must have been it though since we saw no other possibility before we arrived at the Suwannee confluence, still twenty miles downstream.

That second day we had paddled well over 20 miles when we found ourselves ready to make camp but smack in between two bridges. One of them was I-75. We were not about to suffer that sort of noise pollution all night so we continued another 5 miles until we found a more-or-less suitable campsite. Unfortunately after we made camp and had dinner a vehicle passed by on a jeep trail on the bluff just a few feet above us. As we were not on a sandbar and the land was private property we didn't dare to make a campfire until they came back out which they never did. Finally about 8:30 we decided to chance it even though I was hearing banjos and Pat was sure they were hunters and would regard us as quarry.

That night at about 3:00 am, in addition to Belton's sleep-talking in tongues, we heard an enormous Bang like a cannon followed by a huge Ker-Ploosh as of a cannon ball landing in the water. Bang! Ker-Ploosh!. . . . . . . . . . . Bang! Ker-Ploosh! it went, five times by my count with each instance a little further downstream than the one before. Either the hunters had artillery and were aiming a little higher with each shot or it was a beaver going down river. The latter seemed probable since one had been sighted earlier that day.

So far the weather had been perfect. On the morning of the third day we had only 8 miles left to the take-out. There was some deadfall to contend with but otherwise the trip to Gibson Park near the confluence was short and easy Our timing was perfect! It began raining torrents less than ten minutes after we got packed up to leave for home.

The whole trip from highway 84 to the Suwannee confluence was 56 miles and the river changed character drastically three times. First it had sandy banks and big sand bars with cypress and pines on the higher ground. Then there were limestone banks and many shoals. Finally very high bluffs, willows and enourmous live oaks. All agreed that this was a great river, lots of fun and we would do it again. The only complaint is that it is badly trashed by the local trash. We did it at 900 to 1000 cfs which seemed about perfect. According to one source it is runable down to about 200 but believe what you will. :-)

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Michael Lampman lampman@solitaireboats.com

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