Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, May 7, 1995 TAG: 9505090042
SECTION: DISCOVER NRV PAGE: DNRV-2 EDITION: NEW RIVER VALLEY
SOURCE: MELISSA DeVAUGHN STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: ON THE NEW RIVER LENGTH: Long
The northerly wind that one riverside resident claimed had pulled the metal roof off her shed should have been a warning signal. The far-off whitecaps in the distance should have been another.
But the New River called us.
We were drawn by the sound of the water lapping at the edges of the Whitethorne public boat landing. We were enticed by the belief that the morning sun promised warmer weather as the day would progress. We had looked forward to this for too long to let a little wind deter our efforts at a float trip down our valley's noble New River.
The goal: Whitethorne to Pembroke in a daylong float. Lunches packed, maps nearby, spare clothes tied in and sunscreen on-call, we came prepared, my partner, John Heckman, and I.
Our canoe, a 16-foot Old Town Kennebec, would be ideal for maneuvering quickly around the few riffles and Class II and III rapids we'd encounter along the way. The slight cool river breeze was refreshing as we paddled away from the landing. Not too strong out here on the water, noted John, a graduate student at Virginia Tech.
In no time, the boat landing became smaller and smaller, finally disappearing as we approached a sparsely vegetated island, home to river debris caught in tree branches and snagged in weedy undergrowth. Cattle in a field grazed undistracted while a long train, laden with coal cars, whistled its approach. The cars rushed by, breaking the silence we had hoped to find out on the river. A great blue heron hurried past us, frightened by the sudden commotion of the huge engines.
We paddled on in silence, staying close to the river bank. As the end of the train neared us, we were surprised to see two engines pushing the behemoth load rather than a caboose tagging along for the ride. The engineer opened his window, waved at us and was on his way. We waved back, crossing paths for a brief but memorable moment.
About one mile completed. Less than 15 more to go. "Making good time, making good time," I thought to myself, feeling my shoulders work as we paddled in unison.
|n n| But the wily river fooled us. She and her friend, the wind, had a trick up their sleeves.
We rounded a slight curve where the river widens into an open stretch and - whoosh - a gust of wind took the boat and turned it broadside. I dug in, paddling hard, as John straightened the boat from the stern. I looked ahead and saw the river, whitecaps making their way UPSTREAM.
We moved the boat closer to the river bank, hugging the shore as we paddled. The boat would move only about an inch for every forward stroke we took, but we didn't give up. It was better than going backwards.
The wind, from that moment on, was unrelenting. In a brief pause between gusts, John and I slowed our paddling, took a breather and laughed.
Nothing much more to do about it, we agreed, than to enjoy it. After all, how often does one end up on the river on a day like this? I had never seen the calm New River look so powerful except during floods, when no one should be on the water anyway. It was a different side of this mostly serene, slow-moving section of water.
We decided to go on, shooting for the small community of Belspring, less than a mile away. With another gust of wind, we were on our way - Forward ho.
The waterfront assortment of houses that is Belspring is tiny - about a dozen or so homes ranging from a modest makeshift trailer to a tidy blue wood-frame house with a sizeable sun deck overlooking the river.
We paddled quickly and silently past the houses, taking advantage of a short break in the wind. I regretted not being able to go slowly and take in the views, watch the wildlife and perhaps stop for a visit at one of the houses.
John began talking about a friend, Willie Reay, who lives in Belspring.
"I don't know him," I began, then - wham - another explosion of wind and our boat was spun around.
All of a sudden I saw myself not on the New River, but on the Atlantic Ocean. It was comical, exciting, frightening. We bobbed up and down in the water like a buoy, fighting to straighten ourselves against the whitecaps that tossed cold water into the boat at every rise.
Finally, we rested the canoe against a small dock in front of the blue house, the waves slapping against the shore loudly.
"We need to rethink our strategy," I said, knowing full well we would never reach Pembroke that day.
"I agree," John said.
|n n| No sooner were the words out of his mouth, when out of the house walked Bob Ratcliffe, our rescuer.
Bob and his wife, Linda, have lived along the New River for 20 years, fishing in its waters, hunting wildflowers along its banks and swimming in the heat of hazy summer days. The windows from their comfortable living room offer a clear view of the New River, which on a calm day, Bob swore to us, looks like a big pond - not the seething cauldron we had just encountered.
Bob, a former Hercules employee now on disability, confirmed our suspicions - we'd never make it to Pembroke. We decided it was time to abort our lofty plans and see where the day took us.
Bob hooked our little craft to his johnboat, which he uses for daily hourlong fishing excursions. In an instant, we were on our way - back to Whitethorne, that is.
I laughed, thinking what a sight we must be. The canoe bounced along in the wake of Bob's boat. John sat at the bow of the boat, me near the middle, while Bob controlled the big engine from the stern.
"Used to be, you could catch a 5-pound bucket of fish - red eyes and small game fish," Bob said above the clamor of the engine. "Used to be walleyes in here, too. Now you just find them up near the [Claytor Lake] dam."
As we neared the Whitethorne boat landing, Bob had to pick his way through the shallow water to avoid missing rocks and other debris inches below the water's surface. Displaying years of boating experience, he maneuvered the craft with ease, but the water still was too shallow for the boat.
"This afternoon it won't be like this," Bob noted. "The water just hasn't come down yet." Appalachian Power lets water out of the dam every day except weekends to maintain dam level.
But the river finally got the best of us - and Bob's propellor, which came off in the water after catching on a rock.
"Well, it looks like you'll have to get out here," Bob said. "Just paddle on up to the landing. You'll be there in no time."
John and I got out, feeling guilty that Bob had lost his prop helping us.
"Don't worry about it," Bob said. "Boaters help boaters, that's just the way it is."
We loaded our gear back into the canoe, and began to paddle away from Bob's boat, waving to him as he became a mere dot in the middle of the wide river. We realized the day had not been a waste: We had met a good neighbor in Bob Ratcliffe.
Our two-hour excursion had been exhilarating and exhausting. We were glad to be out of the wind's clutches but determined not to let her get the best of us. We quickly tied the canoe onto our truck and decided to head for Eggleston and paddle from there to Pembroke. Surely, the tall, jagged rock formations that line both sides of the river on this section would shield us from the wind. Surely we would be able to make the 51/2-mile float to the Pembroke bridge without much difficulty.
This time we were right.
We started at the Eggleston Springs Campground, paying our $2 parking fee to Mary Wendell, owner of the park. The sun was warm as we paddled from the shore, and I quickly took off my wool sweater.
The palisades were imposing, rising from the river in cragged, rocky slabs. I wondered how long it had taken the New River to carve out these remarkable rock formations, and then realized I didn't care. I just felt lucky to be able to look at them.
The afternoon float down this section of river was mostly secluded and went by surprisingly fast without the wind at our faces.
I watched a mallard duck and drake take off from behind some trees, surprised at our presence. I saw a bright little turtle slip into the water from its sunny spot on a partially submerged log. I looked up at small hawks flying in the sun and watched a lethargic turkey buzzard wander around a rocky shore.
This was the float trip I had imagined.
by CNB