South Branch

South Branch

The bottle had already been opened, with much of its contents absorbed when Richard tipped it back.

"None of you boys ever been down this river, so make sure you listen to me," he belted after his drink. "This trip could be dangerous; those rapids will sneak up on you."

The backdrop to his proclamation was the shimmering rocks and the rushing water of one of West Virginia's most beautiful rivers. It was early summer, and the water was still a bit high from Spring thaws.

We had decided on this trip the day before. We were spontaneous like that. Richard called the canoe rental place and secured three for us for 7:00 a.m., three hours away from the magic trailer, of which you will soon learn all about.

There were six of us taking the trip that day. All of us were working with little sleep, having jammed at the trailer the night before the trip. We were young.

Sleep is for those who can't keep up.

As the sole non-drinker of the bunch, it fell to me to roust the "un-roustable." It was not unusual to step over the passed-out bodies of some of the best musicians and perpetually drunk artists I have ever known to get to my front door.

With barely two hours of sleep, except Richard, who had fallen asleep on the couch as soon as the guitars were tuned up, none of us were happy future campers.

We grabbed everything we thought we needed and headed toward Romney. The other issue with being the sole non-drinker is that I have to do all the driving. If it weren't for my good nature, I don't think I could have corralled this group of long hairs into one vehicle.

In truth, I was nervous about the trip. Yes, I grew up in West Virginia and can throw a line with the best of them, but I had never tried to balance my fat ass in a canoe. Richard's proclamation did nothing but reinforce my trepidation. At that point I was pushing 300 pounds.

We gathered our shit and started to put the canoes in the water, all the while laughing at Richard as he was already unsteady. Alcohol has that effect. Even the others who were well known to imbibe, 7:00 a.m. was just too damn early to tip a bottle.

It was me (Matt), Richard, his brother Roger, Mike, Steve, and Keith, respectively. Mike and Steve were the most hardcore anglers of the bunch. Richard and Roger were the comic relief, and Keith and I observed from the far back.

We started about twenty feet apart in a very nice section of the river. The river was the perfect width for a nice, two-foot-deep float. Quiet and serene, it flowed amongst the most wonderful Appalachian surroundings one could ever experience.

I could see far in front of me where Mike and Steve were already casting near the bank on a "fishin mission." Richard and Roger seemed to be arguing already. This was a common source of delight for us others to hear. I had not picked up my pole, enjoying the buzz and the calm river.

As expected, the serenity gave way when Mother Nature welcomed us to the river.

I could see the snake making its way across the river. It was something I had never seen before. Its head and neck were about a foot above the waterline as it glided toward its destination.

Mike and Steve just paddled a little quicker so as not to impede the snake's efforts. Hilarity ensued as the snake had perfect, or not so perfect, timing as it swam up to the side of Richard and Roger's canoe.

Richard, the self-proclaimed river master, decided he was going to catch that snake. On his knees in the canoe, he started moving his hands back and forth, trying to draw the snake's attention to one side so the other hand could make the grab. All of this happened in seconds, although when I replay it in my mind, I make it last longer for the pure joy of the memory.

As Richard stared intently at the snake, his arms still waving slowly as the snake finally reached the boat. Just as Richard started to grab with his left hand, the water shook and splashed around him with the heavy sound of a paddle smacking it. Roger had other ideas.

The brothers hit the water at the same time with a good throw from the canoe. Fulfilling its destiny, the canoe rolled over, spilling everything inside. The snake crawled up the bank right after the brothers hit the water. He didn't seem to care.

Mike and Steve didn't get to see the show, but Keith and me busted a gut.

The brothers tried to grab what they could, and we did the same. We all shouted ahead to have Mike and Steve on the lookout for the rest. They had reached the first set of small rapids where the river had narrowed. They heard us, but could not stop.

Roger had the dexterity to catch the canoe, and Richard emerged with the one remaining paddle. Curiously, we never found that other paddle.

Richard said the snake stole it.

Collectively, we were able to gather most of their stuff; Keith grabbed the liqueur bottle, much to Richard's delight. Keith and I made it through the rapids easily, and our first break of the day came about 100 yards downstream from the drop-off point. Not much progress so far, but a good smoke break was needed to take the time to laugh at Richard.

Row vs. wade: although it may sound like a Supreme Court decision, it's the best way to describe floating down a West Virginia river. With the widening and narrowing of the banks, the depth can go from two feet to six inches in an instant. That's when wade wins the fight. Stone bruises be damned!

The river, being 200 to 400 million years old, had well-rounded stones with an average of about 6" in diameter. That's right, millions of years old. I looked that up.

Boots and waders were not the proper attire for the trip. Who am I kidding? We could not afford that high-end crap. The common fashion statement was old jean shorts, a T-shirt, and old tennis shoes. We never carried a change of clothes; the weather took care of drying you off.

After dragging the canoe through a few long stretches of shallow water, the stones do quite a number on your thinly clad feet. Be sure to add in there bruised shins and knees. Falling was not a matter of if, but when.

Baked skin on a farmer's tan was the ultimate reward for any trip down this amazing river. Men don't think about sunscreen. At least we didn't back in the day. Our surroundings and adventure far made up for the discomforts. Pain is temporary. Fishing is essential.

There is no way to describe the majestic scenery throughout the trip. It really needs to be seen to appreciate its glory, set against the stunning Appalachian Mountains. Large cliffs cut into the rocks over millions of years, providing Bald Eagles with nests. Something rare to see in those days.

Keith and I were lucky. Although disputed by our friends who were far ahead of us, we were privileged to see one fly down to the water to catch dinner. As Keith as my witness, we saw that. Another area of dispute was the Mountain Goats I spotted on a cliffside.

An excursion railroad cut through the cliffs to allow passengers to revel in the beauty. They would sometimes pass, making us the attraction for just a little while. I heard that around the 70s and 80s, the railroad had to caution passengers about seeing naked hippies. Thank goodness that none of us were the leading cause of eye damage. We kept our clothes on.

When Keith and I finally rolled, it was not a good time to fall; I was in the midst of packing a bowl. I was fixated on the job at hand, so I will take responsibility for our up close examination of the riverbed. I was quick to grab the baggie, but my cigarettes were waterlogged. I had saved the important thing; the rest was inconsequential.

After an exhausting first day, subjected to many other turnovers and a couple of marathon drags, the shore we had planned to camp at was in sight. It was where the railroad tracks crossed the river. There was a wicked rapid there going around the bridge support that we all seemed to navigate just fine. It seemed we learned a good bit through our trials and many errors.

We pulled the canoes to shore and started making camp. All but Richard, who crawled up the bank to fall asleep on the rocks. The rest of us set up our own sleeping stations and started building a fire. I slept in the canoe. I still felt the rocks through the bottom. I had no idea how Richard could sleep that way.

He joined us at the fire later on in the evening for some night fishing in the deep pools surrounding the bridge support. He seemed to be doing better after his nap.

Steve was my roommate at the Magic Trailer, and a more resourceful guy one would ever meet. He had retooled an old freezer to convert into a holding tank with minnows. The system had complete aeration and constant flow—good guy to have around in a pinch. We seined for minnows in the small creeks and always had that live bait on hand.

This meant we had a couple of good minnow buckets with aeration tabs to keep them breathing. One of the buckets was a little too close to the fire, but not enough to harm the little swimmers.

They only got agitated when they looked up to see Richard's butt. After about two hours, the minnows had developed a plan. Richard had switched to beer this time. He was not alone; by the end of the evening, I was the only one not pickled.

After a couple of hours, the minnows determined they had enough of staring at a butt and put their plan into action. They started swimming hard from side to side in unison. They had an advantage: the bucket was tilted downhill. On their last heroic effort, they tipped the bucket and threw Richard in the fire.

He rolled straight through and sustained only a couple of singes and scratches. The minnows, however, had their revenge with only a few casualties from the fall.

You don't mess with Mother Nature.

I awoke the next morning with dew covering my tattered shirt. There is a kind of peace that comes with the first thing your eyes see: the majestic cliffs. It is calming to hear the flow of the stream. I enjoyed the feelings for about five minutes, then the pain kicked in.

A fat boy ain't supposed to sleep on rocks.

The rest of the day was relatively short, with just about a 4-hour run down to the rental place. Not a whole lot happening that day, a few fish, a couple of canoe drags, and a bit of complaining. After the last few days, we were wrecked.

The truck wasn't too far from the shore, but it hurt like hell to walk to it. We had all lost stuff on the trip down river, but Richard and Roger had it worse.

They exited the water with one real paddle and one crafted from a stick and a catfish board. I assume that was found on a bank, as I was not with us at the start. He had secured the board to the stick with his T-shirt. One fishing pole was saved, but that was it. They had lost everything.

Roger came out with only one shoe.

Considering the shape we were in, one could wonder why we did it? This trip was well worth the bruises, scars, and sun-baked bodies. There was no question we would all do this again in a heartbeat. In fact, this started a yearly river float that added more and more friends as we went.

My body would heal. The worst part of the journey for me happened about three hours before reaching the end.

I had no more smoke.