ST. MARYS MEMOIRS, MARCH 2000

©2008

Part 1: Blame It on The Cell Phone!

Yours truly has coordinated six successful canoe/camping excursions for groups ranging from 5-10 people for two or three days in the Okefenokee Swamp and two similar trips on the Suwannee River. Sure, there were a couple of misadventures due to weather or to a canoe rental agent who included a defunct transportation trailer, but this year’s trip to the St. Marys River is the first misadventure due to a cell phone...at least, that’s what I blame it on, though some may claim there was human fallibility involved.

But I am getting ahead of myself. The St. Marys was a new river for me and the rest of us (the rest being Rufus, Mark, and Michael). The St. Marys defines the "toe" of Georgia that dips into northern Florida. That is, the river arises from the Okefenokee Swamp and flows south for about 20 miles, then east for about 10 miles, then north for about 40 miles, before making its final eastward run to the Atlantic. The earlier sections are rated most highly for scenery, but they are also most vulnerable to low water levels; that is, insufficient water for canoeing. With southeast Georgia experiencing a severe and extended drought (fires were all about while we were in the area) our intrepid trip coordinator (me) based on what hit and miss information he could get, settled on the bridge about 1.5 miles out of St. George (GA) as the put-in and Thompkins Landing (FL side) about 17 miles down river as the take out. The plan was to camp about mid-way and make it a two day trip.

All efforts to get reliable water level information before leaving Athens failed. Actually, we had reliable data as shown below but what those data meant for canoeing was highly unreliable. When still in Athens, I had called and asked several people from the St. Marys area who one might think would know, and the consensus seemed to be that water level would not be a problem on that section...after all, even a fully loaded 16-foot canoe needs only a few inches draft. The USGS McClenny, FL, guage, which is the closest available for the section we planned to canoe and which is about 10 miles upriver from our planned put in at St. George, was checked via the US Geological Survey (USGS-McClenny Gauge Website) on March 7, the day before departure from Athens. It read 2 feet deep and 60 cfs (cubic feet/second, a flow measure). Note that the 70-year average for March 7 is 450 cfs, but comparable depth data are not available. I can tell you that in the years (1927 - 1996) for which historical data are available on the website, annual maximum depths have ranged from 6.85 feet (1955) to 23.25 feet (1964). So, 2 feet is mighty low. The USGS provides a wealth of data on the web with links to all states.

The trip’s general beginning was ominous in another way. Rufus, is a retired Army Colonel and a research psychologist who is currently employed as a civilian on the Army’s research program in telemedicine. He lives in Silver Springs,. MD and would be flying to Atlanta where I was to meet him. To get to Dulles Airport, he had an cab driver who barely spoke English, who got lost, and who resisted assistance until Rufus insisted firmly. Rufus had a cell phone (the cell phone of this section’s heading), a Palm Pilot with internet access, and a good old- fashioned compass (the latter, I assume, because he was going camping, although Rufus is a thoroughly prepared person for most contingencies!). He finally got the driver’s compliance with his offer of navigational assistance, but too late, and the plane was missed. However, Rufus caught an early standby, and our rendezvous in Atlanta was delayed only about 2 hours.

Rufus was luggage-loaded! Not only did he have personal gear for camping, he had boots and clothes for skiing and business attire for his trip to Colorado where he would fly from Jacksonville at the end of our canoe trip on Saturday (March 11). I wasn’t sure my truck would hold it all! But it did, and by 11:30 AM ,we were on I-75, then GA 82, in Tifton, US 1 in Waycross, and finally GA 121 out of Folkston which leads to the turnoff for Traders Hill where we were to camp that night.

Traders Hill is an historic site with campground and fishing boat ramp that is maintained by Charlton County near the north end of the St. Marys River. Traders Hill is far enough inland that sailing vessels once anchored in the mouth of St. Marys and sent rowboats upriver to get fresh water to take on board. The water at Traders Hill was highly valued. We arrived about 5:15 PM, and Mark and Michael rolled from Columbus, GA about 5:45. Mark is now teaching and researching at Columbus State University, and Michael is presently a twenty-first free sp;irit century wanderer whose wandering involves an RV. We, four, have in common, among other things, current or former affiliations with the Neuroscience and Behavior Program at the University of Georgia. In short order libations, catch-up conversations, and camaraderie ensued.

Next morning, we arrived at the Suwannee Canal entrance to the Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge (ONWR) at about 9:15 where we *thought* we had canoes and shuttle reserved for circa 9:30 AM. "Thought we had," another ominous note? Despite calls the week before and at 4:50 PM the day before when we were assured there would be no problem, no one there had any record that we were expected and at first they expressed concern about that. Nevertheless, there was no shortage of canoes, as the drought has also decreased most of the Okefenokee’s canoeing business. The concessioner soon rounded up a shuttle driver for us...Pete Alonzo, a friendly Mexican fellow whose English was somewhat better than Rufus’s cab driver’s. During all the arrangements-making, Kay, the nice lady who was managing the concessions at the ONWR, expressed some concern on our behalf about water level. In that context, she asked a local fellow who came up and who she thought might know, and he expressed some skepticism as well, mentioning specifically the possibility of log jams and the possibility of a few portages. Now, one or two portages might be manageable in our time frame, and, silently, I kept harking back to the fellow who lived in Waycross and who I had called back in Athens. He had kayaked the St. Marys many times, and he seemed confident that water level would not be a problem. He said he lived on the Satilla River which is also in southeast Georgia and that its level was very good...he thought the St. Marys should be, too. So, I told Kay, I thought we would give it a shot. After all, we could have a look at the water level when we reached the put in and make a final decision.

From the ONWR exit at GA 121 to St. George is about 17 miles, but Pete Alonzo and the decrepit shuttle van and trailer required more than 30 minutes to get there, and with a slipping transmission, I wasn’t at all sure we would get there. Now, I knew that the St. George bridge where we wanted to put in was on GA 94 (GA 94 becomes FL 2 across the bridge) and advised him to turn left at the intersection of GA 121 and GA 94 but ol Pete had a different idea. From what he had been told back at the ONWR, he thought his turn was past the traffic light at the 121/94 intersection (St. George’s only light, I think), and he drove on past it. But when he saw he would also have to cross a railroad track that he had been told not to cross, he gave in, stopped the van, got out, and went to ask a local resident who advised him exactly as I had done a few minutes before. Soon we were at the bridge, and after a few false starts found the road that led down to the river access.

The water level looked good, so we unloaded the canoes from the van, carried them to the water, and returned to load our gear. Let me mention that this group believes in carrying anything and everything it might need or want, so the canoes are loaded to the gunwales and over the top for that matter. Between 10:30 - 11:00 AM, we were on our way. We paddled passed a construction crew that is either replacing the bridge or adding more lanes. They are in the early stages with one coffer dam and one concrete pier poured, and they seemed to be in the process of laying the framework for a second coffer dam. Mark and Michael were ahead of us, and Rufus and I were trying to evaluate the water level as we paddled along. After all, an early retreat, if one became necessary, would be better than one later on. About a half mile down, we rounded a bend where we heard M & M yell back that the river was disappearing. At that point I commented to Rufus that we should not rely on them (the least experienced canoeists among us) as they might follow the shallowest of a division of the river around an island, for example. But soon we saw what they saw, and it appeared to be a division of the river all right, with neither channel canoeable. They had gone channel left, as channel right which appeared to have more water also had a serious log jam...but worst of all, canoeable water appear to be at least 100 yards ahead from what we could make out through the vegetation on what we assumed to be an island. One such portage with all our gear would be near forbidding in terms of the overall time factor, and if we had to portage that soon, how many may lie ahead?

As events will reveal, careful reasoning would elude us. We expressed views and stated options that should have been more carefully considered before we made any decision. For example, just a minute before M & M reported the disappearance of the river, Rufus had noted the current, and now as we pondered our fate, he said. "Where did all that current go?" And I had failed to follow my own advice expressed just a few minutes before, that we should not rely on M&M to read the river. We also considered walking ahead to see where the water resumed. All of which, if more carefully considered or acted upon, might have made an important difference. But here we were, four "over thinking" human beings, weighing too many options too hastily...and I blame the outcome on the cell phone.

We knew we had the cell phone to call back the shuttle which would be the thing to do, if we aborted this section of the river and wanted to try for one farther down river while there was still plenty of time in the day left. After all, the water level at Traders Hill had been sufficient to sustain power boats, as we had seen the night before. So we quickly decided that even two such portages would be enough to make turning back the most reasonable option and that the probability of two or more portages seemed high. So, away we dialed, 912-496-7156. We told Kay we were turning back and would be at the put in by the time the shuttle driver could get there. We told her we wanted to re-enter the river at Thompkins Landing and paddle to Traders Hill. We reversed our course to discover in about three minutes that M&M had indeed taken the wrong channel and that the main body of the river had been missed altogether. Now, I want to interject that I am stating the facts and that I do not wish to blame or demean M&M whatsoever. I was the veteran, and the stupid, rookie mistake was mine. Words fail to describe or explain my chagrin. As this is written days later, I have unsettled feelings associated with it. The thing that is most sure, is that I won’t rest easy until I paddle this section, ideally at about the same water level. Anyway, what we had thought was an island that had divided the river, we now realized had likely been a tributary entering the river or possibly a slough. There was plenty of water in the St. Marys river, enough apparently to have sustained our trip.

Could we now reverse our decision to abort made only a few minutes before? Alas, now, Rufus could not get a cell phone connection at first and by the time he got through a couple of minutes later to tell them to hold the driver, we were told that it was too late. Kay told Rufus the driver was on his way...three times... because Rufus repeated the question and received the answer three times due to transmissions that were breaking up. Turns out, we later learned, the driver had not yet left. Either Kay didn’t realize the driver was still there, or they had miss-communicated due to the static-y connection, but it was too late. Nothing to do but paddle back and live with the mistake. Did I mention that I have been canoeing for more than 25 years on dozens of rivers and for thousands of miles and have never had such happen before? Had we not had that cell phone, we would have relied on more primitive skills and most likely would have reasoned the whole thing differently from the beginning, and at the very least, the earliest we could have called would have been from a pay phone back in St. George. Of course, as we all lamented, we learn best from our mistakes.

One more comment about the cell phone. I have resisted them on these wilderness outings, because they change the character of the experience. It’s just not the same knowing that if you get into trouble, you can call in a helicopter for rescue, e.g., snakebite or other medical emergency in the middle of the Okefenokee Swamp.  It is just not the same when you approach such trips without the option to rely on a cell phone. But, of course, it would be irresponsible not to take one for the very same reason. Still, I don’t yet own one myself.

Well, chapter one was not yet over. Back at the put in we waited and waited. We waited about an hour, long enough for Rufus to try to call and reconfirm that a driver was on his way. But again, he couldn’t get a signal. When that failed, I decided it might be prudent in the long run to walk to St. George and use a pay phone. Also, there was some uncertainty about what had been communicated in the earlier static-y calls, especially, since no driver had shown up in more than twice the amount of time it should have taken to have driven from the ONWR to where we were. So, walk I did, in near 90 heat, and on an early March day! It wasn’t too comfortable either when somebody’s yard dog came at me that looked like he had rottweiler blood...but it only barked. Walking fast, I got into St. George in about 25 minutes and called. I was told that the driver had been waiting for us for an hour and that Kay was on her way to see about it. So, I trekked back in another 25 minutes, where I met Kay just beginning her return trip from having talked to the others at the river. She said she was going to look for the shuttle van. We waited about 30 minutes more when Stanley drove up. Stanley is a retired gentleman in his 80s, moved to Georgia with his wife after retirement, from Pennsylvania I think. He drives shuttle for the ONWR concessioner part-time. He has driven for us before on some of the Okefenokee trips. Stanley was muttering that they had told him to go to Stokes bridge, about 10 miles upriver and that he had a flat tire (a pretty bad blowout) which he showed me three or four time. He was both apologetic and obviously irritated that he had been misdirected by someone (we inferred Pete Alonzo) back at the ONWR. He kept muttering about both the tire and Stokes bridge the whole way to Thompkins Landing.

ST. MARYS MEMOIRS Part 2: The Stars At Night Are Big and Bright

The next moment of concern was when Stanley re-entered GA 94 from the dirt road from the river landing where we had awaited him. He turned right towards Florida instead of back to retrace the way we came. In our party, this was salient, perhaps, only to me, as I had envisioned the trip to Thompkins Landing being GA 94 (the 1.5 miles back to St. George), then right on GA 121 to Folkston, then US 1 south into Florida to some turnoff unbeknownst to me that would lead eventually to Thompkins Landing, seven miles upriver from Traders Hill. Recall that our original destination, Thompkins Landing, was now our point of departure. We would paddle to Traders Hill, a mere seven river miles, far from the two-day, 17-miles we had started out to canoe. By now, it was about 2:00 PM, and Stanley had crossed into Florida still agitated by the flat tire and misdirections.

But I reasoned that Stanley had done this many time before, and after all, on the map this was more direct. So what, if it was not what I had envisioned? We cruised along, me on the passenger chair beside Stanley, Mark, Michael, and Rufus talking away or in their own worlds in the rows of van seats behind Stanley and me. It was interesting to see the Florida contrast, which was more imaginary than real I suppose...I am such a Georgia chauvinist, that I always think the air is just a little cleaner in Georgia, the vegetation and terrain a bit nicer, etc.

After awhile, when we had gone about what I had reasoned was an appropriate distance, Stanley began to express some uncertainty and confessed that he had usually gone to Thompkins Landing from the other direction. Ha! But, of course, in his defense, most often he likely would be coming form ONWR rather than St. George. He kept slowing at each side road that turned left in the (presumed) direction of the river, looking for familiar cues. Eventually, he came to a highway intersection. Most of the crossroads we had passed until then were backroads...if they had names or numbers, they ‘rang no bells’ with Stanley, and they surely meant nothing to me. Anyway, his reaching that more significant intersection seemed to convince him that he had overshot the turn. He reversed direction and headed back towards where we had just come, again looking at side roads, now right, for familiar cues. After awhile we were coming towards the only apparent business establishment I had seen in our two traverses, and I suggested we stop and get directions. He passed it by though, still convinced he would recognize the turn. A couple of miles later, he conceded that he needed to get directions, and he went back to the establishment, some sort of local crafts place combined with a hair stylist or something like that. He ignored my offer to go inside for the information. Actually, I should mention that Stanley was very hard of hearing and maybe he did not hear my offer or, maybe, he just felt that he was the ‘captain of this ship,’ and that it was his duty. When he returned, he said we needed to go back towards the highway intersection where he had turned back earlier and continue beyond that intersection a few miles. The main cues were to be two "hills" (in north Florida?), and it should be the next left turn after that. Sure enough, there were two distinguishable hills, and the turn was there as promised. It also bore the road sign Stanley had said he remembered, not a bold or prominently displayed one, but one, nevertheless, marked "Thompkins Landing Road." A few dirt road miles later, lined occasionally with red clay banks just like Piedmont and north Georgia, we arrived at the river.

There awaiting us were some apparent natives of the area, three men and two women. They appeared to be in their 20s or 30s, except for a distinctly pot-bellied, middle aged man. I might add, all were in bathing suits or cut-offs. "Mr. Portly" was shirtless which added, I suppose, to the prominence of his abdomen. He was also red as a beet. They were enjoying mid-afternoon libations and too much sun. The portly fellow was a wee bit intoxicated but friendly and highly curious. The others ignored us, or at least I had no interchanges with them. We offloaded the canoes and gear as quickly and efficiently as we could, although Mr. Portly asked many questions about this and that. I remember him saying, "I don’t mean to be nosey, but how much did it cost to rent them canoes?" We answered him straightforwardly of course, and he seemed to chalk such rental up as a possibility for himself some day. Actually, I told him $20/day, which we had paid a few hours before, while Stanley was answering $17.50, but I figured that wasn’t worth trying to straighten out. I am always courteous and friendly to local folks, as I have encountered many in my years of canoeing in remote areas, and some do feel that you are guests, even when it might be federal or state property.

I have had only had one belligerent encounter in all my canoeing years (unless I am now "suppressing" others), and that was based on my potential adversary’s total drunkenness together with my failure to realize that the webbing-busted lawn chair I had laid my gear on was not abandoned as I had thought but apparently was his. Whatever he was saying made so sense to me, and as matters seemed to be intensifying despite my calm but puzzled manner, I began to feel the need to get my canoe paddle in hand, as the fellow was not alone. However, his brother intervened and led him off apologizing quietly to me and my fellow paddlers, before I had realized the chair may have been an issue. Before then, just in the normal course of events, I had removed my gear from the chair, and it was only when he grabbed it and took it with him that I belatedly realized the role my use of the chair may have played. Actually, I think there were some other dynamics going on, but they are more speculative, and I will omit those here. Let me add that I have never met any of James Dickey’s Deliverance archetypes, nor do I expect to meet them if they exist. I will add also that I do have a Georgia Firearms License and often have a handgun or two with me. I don’t recall if I did that day, but I did on the St. Marys, two in fact, in a waterproof bag, but I have them for sport and hope never to use one on another human, even in self defense, but of it came to it.... Rufus can tell you about a more dramatic encounter our camping group once had with another group at a bluegrass festival in North Carolina circa 1970, involving some locals and their perception of us as being hippies or something (and, hey, I didn’t have long hair or a beard and Rufus had the grooming suitable to the Captain in the U.S. Army that he was), but that is another digression, and I need to get back to the St. Marys.

By 3:00 PM, we paddled away from Thompkins Landing, having first negotiated with Stanley to meet us as Traders Hill at 2:00 PM the next day. Since we now had only 7 miles of river trip and at a rate of about 2 miles per hour, that meant that we had the luxury of paddling an hour or two before starting to choose the *perfect* sandbar on which to camp for the night. I think we had probably gone about 3 miles, when we started looking for the sandbar, preferably on the Florida side. For all of Florida’s "poor comparisons" to Georgia, Florida has more progressive laws governing river rights. In Florida, up to the normal high water mark is public domain, and that includes the sandbars. In Georgia, a landowner owns to the middle of the river with public rights of access guaranteed only for "navigable" rivers. The problem is that "navigable" was defined in the early 1800s, and the definition of navigable was "capable of sustaining ocean going vessels." The law is slowly being challenged, mainly by canoeists, in Georgia (usually unsuccessfully), but so far, canoeists on rivers bordered by private property must rely on the good will of the land owner. Fortunately, most land owners don’t seem to mind, and many of the best canoeing sections, in north Georgia at least, are within federal or state properties.

The perfect sandbar was soon found, large and clean with a level surface at the top on which to pitch the tents. Actually, Michael planned to sleep under the stars. But those who preferred tents pitched them, got out chairs, had snacks, poured drinks, and laid back or engaged in activities we enjoyed to pass the rest of the daylight hours. Of course, there was firewood to gather. We felt that we could safely contain a fire on the "beach" and not add to the distresses of the many forest fires recently, if not ongoing, in the area. We laid in a huge pile of wood, but as it would turn out, we never actually built a fire...not due to second thoughts about fire out of control but due to the pleasures of viewing the night sky that simply took precedence.

There was still a couple of hours of light left, but I cannot recall doing anything special, except sitting or lying on the sand, viewing nature all about me, and drinking my favorite "cocktail" of Seagrams 7, a splash of orange juice, and a splash of water...I consider that an acceptable stand-in for the greater fuss and bother of an Old Fashioned. Sometimes I even dash Angostura Bitters. I think M & M were also enjoying their own versions of preferred cocktails. Rufus is much less of a drinker...he may have one or even two, if he gets real happy, as he did later, but mostly he avoids it. What he did do was get a hankering for some fishing.

I had brought a moderately stocked tackle box and two ultra-light, collapsible rods and reels in my truck, but last-minute attempts to renew my fishing license in Athens had failed, and I hadn’t packed them among the canoe trip gear, as I prefer not to poach. Rufus found some tangled line, hook, and bobber in nearby trees and rigged himself a pole. For bait, he tried wiener pieces and bread. He paddled the canoe nearby to a likely spot and began to fish. The fish were jumping about, but they were not going for his bait. He gave it a long and good try, and we later recalled Gordon, who usually accompanies us on these trips and likes to comment at about this point, "Well, they don’t call it ‘catching.’"

I don’t really recall what we did for dinner, but I think it was hotdogs. As the sun began to set, it was Michael who first spotted Jupiter, I believe it was. We had an excellent view of the western sky across the river above the tree line. This was a night when Saturn, Jupiter, and Mars (I forget about Venus) would be visible and aligned just to the right of the moon above and below the moon. I know pitifully little about the stars (my one claim to fame being that I can name the seven stars in the big dipper) but Mark is a highly knowledgeable amateur astronomer and Michael is very knowledgeable, too. I think Rufus is at about my level (but, hey, this is going to all trip participants, so I hope they will chime in on this "story" and correct and embellish it as needed). However, Rufus had the honor of spotting the first human-made satellite that night as well as one large enough to have possibly been Mir. Later, Mark would find and tell us about a website that gives the day to day positions of the satellites and I believe it was consistent that it could have been Mir that night. This is being written more than two months later, and I forget all the wonders that were pointed out to be that night, but I did learn more about nebulae, old and new stars, etc. We literally passed most of the evening star gazing together with the inevitable philosophical discussions and speculations that such leads to. We talked about Ptolemy, Copernicus, and the Arabian astronomers. The Arabians were the most advanced pioneers among the early astronomers. It is a bit painful to think that Saddam Hussein controls the territory in which so much of human civilization emerged.

The next year, we succeeded in doing the trip that we had planned before the cell phone messed us up.

See St. Marys 2001.

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Postscript: Rufus did not make the 2001 trip as he had been diagnosed and was being treated for cancer.  He passed away in May 2003.  Rufus had been a dear friend of mine since he had been my teaching assistant in 1968, and I will miss him as long as I live.