Crucible

CRUCIBLE – A situation of severe trial, of which different elements interact, leading to the creation of something new. “their relationship was forged in the crucible of war  survival.”

I viewed Days 12 – 13 as the highlight of this “On the Road Again” trek. Trevor (46 years), my oldest son, and I planned to do an overnight camping canoe trip in the Big South Fork National Recreation Area. BSF is a National Park Service (NPS) unit, which straddles the Kentucky/Tennessee state lines. A magnificent resource named after the river that runs through it. This river, and its tributaries, have many moods. Like my nemesis of Lake Superior, which I had navigated as an NPS ranger for 11 years, I would learn this river could turn on you in a split-second.

My two sons, Trevor and Eric, are my proudest contributions to the “Greater Good.” They are the result of much more than me but how does the saying go, “Success has many fathers but failure is an orphan.” Over the years, we have tested ourselves many times in nature's grandeur. They seemed to like it, imposing similar experiences on their daughters.

Our paths crossed again at Blue Heron Campground on Friday afternoon, May 17, 2024. Trevor had driven down from Michigan, and I had made my way from Florida. Trevor had grown from not only being my oldest son, but being one of my best friends. I believe he understands me better than anyone. With hugs and handshakes complete, we blended and culled our gear in preparation for tomorrow’s adventure.

What is an adventure? The best definition I ever heard was one I overheard Eric (my youngest son) tell his daughters. It went something like this, “An adventure is something you challenge yourself with and when it’s over you can decide if it was fun.” Fun or not, they are almost always memorable. Adventures are risky by nature and participants should strive to be self-reliant.   

To be specific, our planned adventure was to canoe the Big South Fork of the Cumberland River from Station Camp to Blue Heron, about 19 miles. This stretch would include many sections of whitewater, the level depending on water flow.

That morning I checked the Big South Fork water flow and saw a graph. It indicated that the flow had diminished significantly in the past six weeks. I didn’t really understand what it meant. My bad. I would later learn that during the evening of our launch, it was flowing at about 1120 CFS. I did expect Level III rapids which I had some experience at in a canoe but believed Trevor a novice. Realizing we were pushing the envelope on our skill-set, we drew some assurance that our Sea Eagle TC16 canoe was rated to that level.

Along the way, we planned to disperse camp one night along the river. Disperse camp means there are no campgrounds, you scratch out a site the best you can on the slopes of the gulley.

After parking Trevor’s truck at Blue Heron, where we planned to pull out, we drove my van the 34 miles to Station Camp, where we would launch. There we inflated the canoe and strapped in the gear. As we completed this task, the rain started again and we took shelter in the van where we ate leftover pizza for lunch.

As we ate, we reviewed the dance of being canoe partners:  Trevor, in the front, would set stroke cadence, not frequently switch sides, and be the navigator for best routes through rapids as he could see forward better. In the rear, I was in charge of steering, and if I needed help would yell “switch.” When two paddlers have a mind to steer, discourse follows. We had previously paddled enough together to share this psyche.

It was a given that we would wear properly fitted PFDs (life jackets). Knowing that rapids awaited us, we discussed protocol should we capsize:  Keep your paddle, position feet downstream, toes up, to serve as bumpers for the boulders you may crash into. If possible, hang onto the canoe. Do not try to stand as the risk of snagging a foot between rocks could lead to a fracture. Ride it out and restage in the calm water that should follow.

It was 1:30 PM as we slid our canoe down the oozing mud of the bank to the river, the mud shrouding our Keen sandals. The river’s recent flood stage was obvious; hard to believe the water level had been that high.

Behind us were three young men with kayaks and fishing rods prepping for the same float. It was not their first trip and asked us if we planned to run or portage around Devil's Jump to which we solicited their suggestion. They advised the portage was tough, but they thought our canoe could manage the run if we were up to it.  Whichever they said, stay river left.

At launch, we were immediately faced with a rock dam which required us to paddle cross current hard, to then make a ninety-degree turn through a break. We made it, and with it, we crossed to the point of no return.

The repeating sequence was rapids, followed by calm, then rapids. Sometimes our canoe scraped the bottom, other times the depth was well over our head. Being Trevor’s first experience in rapids in a canoe and being in the front, he quickly caught on to spotting the “tongue,” the main water flow, and directing me to steer to it. As he did, he watched for rocks just below the surface which he would direct me to steer around. He would call the way to go verse hazards, saying such things as “Go ten o’clock or one o’clock.”

We lost count of the rapids. In the calm water between we talked of our past canoe adventures. Storytelling interrupted by the crescendo of roaring water, notice to get ready. At least twice we were cooled by spring showers. It was the best of times.

Around rapid number seven, our canoe got hung up on a boulder, the current pushing it sideways to a hard stop. We were in a precarious situation and calmly worked together to remedy it.  With each tactic failing, we finally agreed we would have to exit the canoe, which would make it light enough to float across the boulder. We planned that Trevor, hanging on port side mid-ship, and me starboard side mid-ship would then swim the canoe out.

Before doing so we reinforced our buckled P.F.D.s by zipping them and pulling the straps of our hats beneath our chins. In that Trevor wore a sling bag that contained our vehicle keys and his phone, wallet, cash, and other valuables, he placed the bag in a waterproof container strapped in the canoe. Our waterproof map, which had been on my lap so we could track our progress, was folded and placed in my pocket. Neither hesitated with the command “go.” We did not notice if the water was cold.

As we cleared the boulder field, calm deep water followed. Hanging on, we used a scissor kick to propel us river right. As we did, we spied a flotilla of kayaks beached, and a woman taking pictures of us. We reached shore upstream from her and asked her to text Trevor a copy of the image once she had cell service. She said she would. It was now 4:00 pm. We paddled on, agreeing to begin watching for a campsite at 5:00 pm.

With each set of rapids, our confidence grew along with latent fatigue. According to where we thought we were on the map; we were making good time. We talked of doing it all in one day. We passed a water gauge on river right but saw no signs of what the map labeled Bear Creek canoe launch.

A louder roar then usual warned us of what we thought was labeled on the map as “Big Shoals.” Before braving this gauntlet, we beached the canoe river left and scouted the best line. While beached, we felt hunger pains and thought of eating but didn’t as we hoped to soon find a camp spot. We then got in the canoe for our attempt at “Big Shoals.”

I would estimate ‘Big Shoals’ to be between 50 and 100 yards long, the peaks and valleys of the waves growing as we traversed its gauntlet.  A significant amount of water splashed into the canoe. I recalled the first time I canoed rapids on the Green River in Wyoming, just below the dam for Flaming Gorge, where required gear included a bailing device. We flawlessly traversed ‘Big Shoals’, and with it, our confidence was enhanced.

The water that had splashed into the canoe made it logy and less maneuverable. We beached at the first opportunity, river left and, using the drain plugs on the aft of the canoe, drained the water. As it drained, we drank water and then refilled our bottles. We considered eating but didn’t. Fatigue was noticeable and as Dad, I told Trevor we should camp at the next possible site.  We paddled on.

We now watched for any possible campsite. We considered a flat-topped boulder in the river where we could have pitched our self-standing REI Half Dome tent.  We came to realize there was little time to decide as the current would sweep you by a consideration and there was no paddling upstream. An adapted quote from the ‘Wizard of Ozz’ flashed my mind, “Toto (Trevor), something tells me we are not in Kansas (Florida).

As 7:00 pm neared, we had not yet found a campsite.  Again we heard the approaching sound of rapids and saw our next challenge. There, in the river just right of center, was a boulder the size of a one-car garage. There had been others bigger than this one but this one had a secret, which it would soon share.

Its secret was that its configuration created a sieve in its middle. While most boulders are like a negative magnet, deflecting you around it, this one, if you approached it from the middle, was like a positive magnet, drawing you into it. A veteran paddler of this section on the river later told us he named it ‘Taco Rock’ for the canoe he has seen wrapped around it.

To make matters worse, before the boulder was a drop, which concealed from sight the route to be pursued. Like the many rapids we had now traversed, we expected the preferred route to reveal itself as we neared. Trevor, the navigator, strained to detect the route so he could call direction. Now in the shadow of the gorge, visibility was reduced. It was an anxious moment, part of the thrill of white-water.

At nearly the same moment that we made the drop, Trevor yelled “11 o’clock, hard!” followed by an expletive.  He had sighted a large rock, just beneath the surface of the water, and hoped we were not too late to dodge it. A tricky maneuver so late in the approach. For a few strokes, we struggled to go with the flow while keeping the canoe from going sideways.

The canoe struck the rock just starboard of the bow, capsizing it. Our earlier review of what to do now paid dividends. Maneuvering in swift water, as quickly as we could, we got our feet forward, toes up, bracing for impact. One hand grasped our paddle and the other, as best it could, hung on to the upside-down canoe. The script said we would be deflected around the boulder and spit out on the other side into calm water. We were on the wrong page.

It was now that the boulder began to reveal its two-punch secret, first drawing us to it like a magnet. With Trevor positioned near the front of the canoe and me mid ship, I yelled, “Don’t get pinned between the canoe and boulder!”  The current pinned the now upside-down canoe against the boulder. From Trevor’s position at the end of the canoe, with his feet up, he braced against the boulder, where he scrambled to secure himself.

At midship, I braced for impact with my feet beneath the canoe. My legs couldn’t reach the boulder. It seemed the boulder was undercut from years of water flow and the undercurrent was sucking me in.

At 68 years of age, I remain fit. As a past lifeguard, water safety instructor, and triathlete, I am confident in the water, but not foolish enough to not wear a PFD. I was surprised that I was being pulled underwater, even wearing my Type III PFD. Three times the undertow would pull me under, each time longer than before. It took all my strength to resurface for a breath. As my second surfacing ended, I saw Trevor to my left, extending the blade side of his canoe paddle toward me for me to grab. I was too late and the undertow reclaimed me.

I struggled to resurface a third time. One way or another, it would likely be my last. Only my face broke the surface for a quick breath. Again, I got a glimpse of Trevor, now extending the handle side of the paddle towards me, and I read his lips to say “Grab this!” And I did.

Adrenaline is magnificent. That I had the strength to hang on with one hand and that Trevor had the strength to pull me from the sucking undercurrent is evidence of it. As Trevor helped secure me against the boulder. My first words were “You just saved my life.”  There was no time for emotion, but Trevor did remind me to pause and make a self-assessment for injuries before continuing our self-rescue.

Now positioned out of the positive force and in the negative force, we swam around the boulder to its lee side. From there, we accessed whether we could climb onto it and maybe free our canoe. As I attempted to claw myself onto the boulder, my mind flashed to the final test in LEWST (Law Enforcement Water Survival Training), where after fighting a person, the student had to pull themselves into a boat. I failed this attempt so we decided to cross-current swim to the river's right shore.

Here we accessed our situation and took inventory of the gear we still had: The wet clothes and PFDs we wore, three folding knives, a map, my reading glasses, a combination compass/whistle/matches, two paddles, and two hats. All the wood was damp so I knew attempting to start a fire would be futile. We both wore matching long-sleeved hooded synthetic pullovers, a Father’s Day gift from a few years back.

From the bank, we could barely see our upside-down canoe, pinned in the sieve of the boulder; the boulder that nearly became my tombstone. In that canoe was all we needed to survive comfortably in the wilderness.  So close, yet so far.

Picture compliments of Ranger Shreffler; taken afternoon of next day

Now safe from drowning, we faced other lethal threats, hypothermia topping the list. With gathering darkness, this ordeal was far from over.

Watch for the upcoming episode of CRUCIBLE.