From the Managing Editor, August 2013

Anyone who has ever spent any time at a mountain lake has, at one time or another, found him or herself intimately and perhaps precipitously acquainted with three things—red clay banks, gnarled tree roots, and unforgiving, cringe-inducing rocks. 

These natural water hazards are evidence of the lakes’ intrusion upon the landscape, as rivers were dammed to form them and valleys flooded, water met mountain, creating steep angles rather than softly sloping shores. Over the years, boat wakes and the rise and fall of water levels have eroded the banks, making the water’s edge inhospitable. Boats must dock or drop anchor in deep water, such that an adventurous crew bound for the lake’s rope swing, tucked away in some cove known only to those frequent visitors, must jump overboard and swim to shore, and clamber up the frictionless clay while clinging to the overhead trees’ exposed roots like mountaineering spider monkeys. 

{module Share this!|none}There was just such a rope swing at Chatuge Lake. The Tennessee Valley Authority constructed an earthen dam across the Hiawassee River in 1942, creating the sprawling Chatuge across the North Carolina-Georgia state line. My friend, her little sister, her mother, and stepfather had a shiny, vintage Airstream set up at Ho-Hum Campground, just on the North Carolina side of the line. I spent many a summer day at Chatuge with them. There was a mini golf course, and the campground loop was perfect for riding bikes. We had access to a canoe with which we snuck out into the water one night and paddled across the cove to a grassy hill where we climbed giant hay bales and stared up at the stars. There was always a campground-wide potluck on the Fourth of July, and I, more than anyone else, loved one fine Southern cook’s banana pudding, served up like a bushel barrel of softened Nilla wafers and meringue. 

Chatuge was where I attempted to learn to water ski—an exercise in wasting gas, as my overly dominate right foot meant that I never could quite balance myself against the force of the water pushing back. Repeated face plants and the ingestion of several gallons of lake water did not deter my stubborn refusal to let go of the tow rope—despite the fact that I often was completely underwater. Persistence finally paid off one year. I got up—sort of. My legs were straight but my torso bent forward, arms outstretched, and I was screaming. But, by golly, that didn’t stop the boat. I hung on. I hung with the tenacity of a bug on a windshield. I hung on from one end of the lake to the other. And then … we turned. 

There’s a certain element of physics about a boat turning at high speed and what happens to the terrified skier behind it that I don’t quite understand. As the boat arced left, I was slingshot around, out from behind the boat wake, into the glass slick water. I picked up speed. The shore approached with an alarming certainty of solidity. There was a cow. I let go of the rope. 

That trip around the lake was my last on skis, and my last trip to the lake was not long after. We grew up. Things changed. What hasn’t changed is my love for water, which makes these Smoky Mountains a great place to be. From Deep Creek to the Davidson, the Clinch to the Cherokee, Fontana Lake to French Broad, the Nantahala to the New, I’ve been in them all. 

This edition of Smoky Mountain Living is dedicated to the region’s waterways. I hope your memories float on like mine do.