Growing up in the Smokies afforded me several opportunities to get outside and play—with friends and, most importantly, with family. Some of my favorite memories are of times spent out in the woods and spent for no other reason than to be outdoors and with one another.
I remember a field knee-high in grasses and summer weeds and wildflowers that became the site of an afternoon picnic. My parents and I lounged on a worn green comforter, and the trees curved around the nearest edge of the field like the cupping of a hand in which something precious is held.
I remember us three hiking to a streambed and pondering what had dug a curious hole in the ground before turning around to spot a bear posing, equally curious, on a rock above jutting from the thicket. We calmly, but pointedly, fled.
And I remember whitewater rafting down the Nantahala River outside Bryson City with my father. The trip was one I’d made at least twice before—perhaps on a Girl Scout outing or the like—so when my father proposed a float along with some friends, I eagerly agreed to go. The problem was that one need not be a genius to raft the Nantahala. One needed only to purchase or rent a raft, come about some paddles and vests, and be bold, or stupid, enough to launch an unaided craft of inexperienced crew members down river. And that is exactly what happened.
The plan concocted by this intrepid bunch of office mates relied heavily on a coating of silicone spray applied to the bottom of the boat, which would allow us to “slide right over” the rocks that came into our path. Note: the Nantahala is rocky. Very rocky. Some rocks are so large that they must be navigated around. I knew this. Apparently the rest of the crew did not. However, I was not yet to the point of having a driver’s license and quite literally a girl among men, and therefore, my opinion didn’t count.
We had slid our way about halfway down river when the silicone wore off. Our run-ins with rocks were becoming more laborious and there was much weight shifting and beleaguered paddling to unpin the raft each time it became lodged. We had picked up speed in a rapid when our boat swiftly negotiated a stone in a movement that provided an extra bit of bounce for the back end of the inflatable boat where my father was positioned as the rudderman of the craft—a position that typically is manned by an experienced river guide. That extra bounce was all it took for my father, who failed to have his feet tucked properly into the snugness of the raft’s seam between side and bottom, to flip backwards out of the boat.
Though the water was none too deep, I instinctively feared for my father’s safety. A city boy from Chicago, he was never a swimmer. I jammed my paddle straight down and used all my force to stop the raft in its watery tracks. Dad surfaced spluttering and without his glasses, but otherwise unharmed. He clambered back in to the boat with a grin and an ego worse the wear (his ego also greatly urged me not to tell this story). We carried on downriver, though the blind man took a seat opposite me in the belly of the raft.
As we approached the final rapid of the river, I pondered our plan for navigating it. The rapid spilled over two large rocks in an S-curve. One was supposed to line up to the far left, nose of the raft pointed into the rapid, and paddle through the curve. Enough rafters routinely spilled out of the crafts that rescuers with towlines were stationed downstream to haul in the drifters. I knew this. My raft mates did not, or they simply chose to disregard tested methodology. Our plan it seemed was to simply get near the rapid, and then pile everyone in the middle of the boat and hang on. Again, I had little say in the matter, but was nonetheless surprised when five large men toppled inward and my right elbow was somehow left prey to one last rock that cut a V-shaped gash.
At the take-out we all were wet and shivering. I was less than enthused and soggily walked back to the car with blood staining the front of my shirt as I used it to apply pressure to my elbow. Rafters waiting to gear up and set off on their own journeys looked at me aghast. I could read their vacation-addled minds—water is not supposed to make you bleed.
I was empowered. I had run the river. I had, despite circumstances, survived. And I was soaking wet and bleeding to prove it. I was hardcore. With an air of gusto, I stopped pressing my shirt to my elbow and instead let the small trickle of blood run down my arm.
When my father and I reached the car, he turned up the heat to burn off the whitewater chill. We rode home together, the blind leading the bloodied, safe in the knowledge that we had made it through the adventure together.
Such tales are the kind shared again and again in families lucky enough to have had their own adventures in these mountains. With this issue, Smoky Mountain Living brings families ways to reconnect with one another in the great outdoors and stories about those families who have made their livelihoods in the mountains and dedicated their lives to making the Smokies a place for all to enjoy.
— Sarah E. Kucharski, managing editor