April 10-13, 2018

     This trip was to be a training trip, stretching my backpacking and packrafting capabilities in a new-to-me, beautiful area. 53 miles of hiking and 38 miles of packrafting down the beautiful Big South Fork of the Cumberland River in Kentucky and Tennessee. Just 4 full days and I would be wiser and fitter, ready to hike and raft 130 miles around Isle Royale three weeks later. Unfortunately, some things would not go according to the plan, and I’d have to end up cancelling my Isle Royale ambitions, at least for this year.

     I arrived at the Blue Heron trailhead at midnight, several hours late, due to my typical pre-trip procrastination of small details. I slept 10 feet from my car. When my alarm went off in the morning, I snoozed it for an hour. This would prove to be a mistake. On waking, I excitedly packed the ridiculous amount of gear into the pack and set off down the mile and a half trail to the river. Several beautiful overlooks and Cracks-in-the-Rocks later, I arrived at the Blue Heron horse ford. Up until now I’d never seen a horse ford, and had no idea what one was. At this water level, apparently, it was a place where horses could ford the river. Not humans. But I needed to get across. Hmm…Not deterred, I activated Plan B. I stripped down to my underwear and shoes, and put on my PFD. It was about 40F out, and I was hurrying. Mostly naked, I heard a car door close at the top of the boat ramp, and a head peeked over the hill, took a quick look at this weirdo near the river, and said something to his wife, whose head did not appear over the hill. I slowly lowered myself into the water, one step at a time, until it swept me off my feet. My PFD kept me afloat, but so did my backpack, a mostly waterproof HMG Porter. My pack, with hip-belt unbuckled, floated much higher than I had predicted it would, and it forced me onto my side. I couldn’t swim well in this position, and the fast-moving current was sweeping me downstream further than I had thought. As I began to reflexively hyperventilate from the cold water, I noticed the couple up at the boat ramp, bewildered looks on their faces as they looked down at me. It wouldn’t be the last time I saw that look from others on this trip. I almost panicked for twenty seconds, as the pack floated too high for me to remove my arms from the shoulder straps. I had to remind myself that I was floating, and still able to kick, in case I couldn’t get out of the pack. Finally, I managed to gumby one of my arms out of the shoulder strap, and rolled onto my stomach, swimming hard for the far shore while bumping the pack in front of me with my face. I calmed down as soon as I got out of the fast current into the eddy. I pulled myself up onto the far muddy bank and quickly began to put clothes on to cover up my freezing, flushed skin. As soon as the clothes cut the wind chill, I was warm enough and made my way through the brush for the horse trail that was supposed to be a few hundred feet from my location, noticing that the couple who were putting their fishing boat in had seen me emerge alive.

     The horse trail was there, and led me hurriedly up a notch in the cliffs to the top. I realized that I needed to make 3 of these fords today, and mistakenly hadn’t budgeted any time for them. That, along with my late start, was going to make it hard to get in my full 25 miles before I camped tonight. Oh well, nothing to do for it but hike. The trail ascended and descended, making its way across quite a few pretty, burbling creeks as they flowed into the river somewhere off to my left. Creeks with names like Troublesome, Difficulty, and No Business. That last one is my favorite. As I followed it out to the river, Big Island became visible through the trees. Here I would have to cross the river again, on another horse ford. This crossing was broken up by the island in the middle of the river, however, so I wouldn’t need to swim the whole way all at once. I quickly looked down and up-river to find a good spot to start my swim, and hesitantly lowered myself into the water, gingerly hopping to avoid foot entrapment, until the water picked me up and started carrying me again. This time my pack was in the water in front of me, and it didn’t get in my way at all. The crossing went very smoothly. As I pulled myself out onto Big Island and took the few steps to see the other half of the crossing, my heart sank. There were small rapids downstream. Not wanting to risk a swim into them, I decided to blow up my boat to finish the crossing. A sticky and possibly damaged top-off valve made it difficult for me to put the final few breaths of air into my raft, but I got it done and made it to the east side of the river, having taken maybe forty minutes to blow up and then stow the boat and its associated pieces. This was time that I couldn’t spare, if I wanted to stay on schedule. I stuffed everything into the top of my pack, knowing that in a few miles I’d have to use the boat to cross again, not wanting to try to swim across so late in the evening.

     Hiking next to the rive on a wide and flat trail was nice, then it was time for the final river crossing of the day, at Station Camp creek. This one, done in the boat, was uneventful. As I paddled across, I noticed that this particular horse ford may have been doable without the boat, as I could see the bottom all the way across. The river was flowing about 2000 CFS, according to my reading the previous day. Five miles away from my daily mileage goal, the sun started to fade. I hiked up another steep hill, thinking that I would hike into the night. Unfortunately, my speed had sunk so low that it no longer made sense to hike, so I stopped to camp underneath a luckily located trail-side rock overhang, about 21.5 miles in the bank. I cooked dinner, hung my food, and quickly fell asleep under the rock, no other shelter needed. Tomorrow I would wake early and make up some lost miles.

     Tomorrow morning, of course, I was really tired, so I snoozed my alarm and got on the trail an hour later than I had planned. You know how it is in the morning when you’re tired. As I hiked south on the cliff above the river, the early mist hung in the air, casting a mysterious pall over everything. The trail flirted with the edge of the cliff, sometimes bursting out onto a memorable overlook, where I would spend five minutes marveling at the amazing view, the clouds like a fog of war, not yet ready to reveal a certain part of the landscape. I couldn’t believe I’ve never been here before. I will definitely be back.

     Eventually the trail descended from the heights, and the sun burned through the clouds, and I crossed the river on the Leatherwood Ford bridge. I quickly climbed back up a steep high hill, my legs burning and removing layers as quickly as I could as the sun came out and it got up into the 70’s. I dipped my buff into the creek and wore it on my head, letting the water drip down my neck as I climbed. It’s trail air conditioning. I returned to river level and crossed on the O&W bridge, taking time to observe the O&W rapid that I would be paddling tomorrow. The John Muir Trail south of the O&W bridge is obscenely scenic for the area, and I kept stopping to take pictures and video. The waterfall is quite a sight, as is the “Devil’s Den,” a huge natural amphitheater/cave just off the trail. Good place for some Satan worshiping, I guess. Or your deity of choice. I worshiped a Snickers for a short time, absorbing its essence into my own. The cult of calories must be satisfied if miles are to be made.

     My National Geographic Trails illustrated shows that the JMT through here is incomplete, but I was pleasantly surprised to find that numerous trails exist through the area, both horse and hiking trails. I continued on for an hour, only to find myself cliffed out, cursing when I took a bearing to the O&W bridge and found that I had hiked a mile and a half northeast, instead of south. I pulled out my 1:24000 and my compass, and counted paces across the local peaks to make sure I knew where this “unmapped” trail was taking me. Soon it turned a direction I didn’t want to go, so I reverted to my original plan, which was to hike off trail across the ridge, down a drainage, and into the next creek bed, where I would pick up some kind of trail and follow it east. At first the going was good, down a pleasant little drainage with a small lazy creek and a bed of moss covering everything. But soon thick plants began to crop up, and I eventually couldn’t detour around them, but had to push directly through them. This slowed me down considerably. I found a piece of blue surveyor’s tape, and saw another. They weren’t a trail, that was for sure, but someone had come this way before and they probably lead somewhere. I followed them down the hill for a couple hundred hard-fought yards and found a trail. Woohoo! Unfortunately, the trail curved back on itself, and both parts of the trail were headed the wrong direction for me to follow. So I hopped down to the creek bed and followed that, which would lead me in the right direction, to pick up the Honey Creek Trail. Hiking in the creek was both pleasant and difficult, but I did reach the Honey Creek Trail after a few minutes.

     It was…not very trail-like. This trail appears to have been built by an angry person who has a bone to pick with hikers. The trail itself is not visible, only the non-reflective markers that are a very merciful…green. The color of everything else in the freaking woods. Spaced every hundred feet or so, you have to follow them into the most unlikely of places, crouching to fit under small caverns, through narrow spaces between fallen rocks, and over large fallen trees that haven’t been cleared. It slowed me to half a mile an hour, at best. It was very pretty, but very hard and slow. I wasn’t in the mood for it at that particular time. The sun was setting and I knew I couldn’t follow the trail by headlamp, so I hurried to get out of the canyon before the sun set. Relieved, I finally saw the river as the canyon opened up. The trail curved out of the canyon, climbed, and almost immediately entered another canyon. Well crap. It was dark by now, and when I reached a destroyed wooden structure underneath a huge fallen tree, I knew I couldn’t go any further tonight. By headlamp, I couldn’t see which way the trail went, so I started looking for a place to sleep. And found nothing. The steep canyon walls fell precipitously down into the creek, and everything was covered in bushes or rocks. Desperate for a place to camp, I climbed thirty feet up a nearby house-sized rock, hoping to find a level flat spot on top. No luck. But the top of this rock provided access to yet another house-sized rock, so I climbed further. And there it was: a spot big enough to bivy for the night. Sixty or so feet above the creek, I laid down to cook dinner. No food hang tonight, as I didn’t anticipate any visitors way up in this fortress in the sky. The weather report had said no rain, so I didn’t bother with a shelter.

     Morning, on day 3. According to my plan, I was supposed to be almost six miles further than I was. I was supposed to wake up at the river and put in for the float back, but I would now have to hike those miles this morning to earn the river. So I did. The previous day, my right shin muscle and lower tendons had begun to bother me, and now they were screaming. I popped vitamin I and continued, slowly. At about 10:30 I saw the river off to my right through the woods, and hopped over to it. I took a lunch break and inflated the boat, an Alpacka Yak with a cruiser spray deck and my new DIY thigh straps, which I had made to allow me to navigate the class III water that I would be paddling today. I put on my wetsuit, PFD, and climbing helmet, and got on the river. Within 20 minutes both of my thigh straps had popped off the boat, at the hip attachment points. Crap. I had used the glue that Alpacka recommends, but it was maybe 18 months old, and it had gone on pretty thick and gloopy. Easily fixed at home with new glue, but now wasn’t the time for a thigh strap failure.

     I’ve only run class III rapids a couple times in my life, always side-country, and always in a group. I wasn’t yet confident in my ability to navigate the ten or more class III rapids that I would face today, even with the thigh straps. I thought I was ready, but I didn’t know. Oh well, I would just have to play it by ear. I could always portage. A lot. Today was my 35th birthday, and due to the particular way that PTO works at my employer, this was when I had been able to get off to do this trip. As a birthday present, the river was running about 1700 CFS today, according to the gauge after my trip, which is pretty close to the perfect level for a newb like myself. The first few rapids, including Swimmer’s Rapid, were nice splashy class II, which gave me a chance to warm up and get some confidence. As I approached the Flume, a class III where the river is funneled into a channel about 10 feet wide, I pulled off to scout from a rock. It looked too hairy for me, so I portaged on river left. The Flume is part of a set of three rapids, the other two of which I was able to run after scouting, so that gave me some confidence.

     Soon I passed the confluence with the New River, and approached Undercut Rock rapid, a class III. I heard the roar of the water, saw the horizon line, and eddied out close enough but not too close. I got out of the boat, pulled it on shore, and scrambled over the shore rocks to reach a place where I could observe the rapid. It looked doable, and I memorized the best line through it, imagining what it would look like at river level, and planning the moves I would need to make. Then I scrambled back to the boat, got in, and nervously put my plan into action. And it worked! I made it through, and didn’t swim. Sweet! This would become my pattern for the rest of the day: get close, get out, get up, stare at it, plan it, and then do it. Probably fifteen minutes or so of non-moving time for each of these shoreline scouts and little planning sessions. I portaged the Ell, a class IV, and ran sneak routes on a couple of the other rapids, dumbing down their difficulty. Baby steps here. Because I was behind schedule, I stopped very little, only enough to grab water with my BeFree filter and eat a bar now and then, and study the map to make sure I knew where I was and what was next. I had printed out beta from AmericanWhitewater.org, and it helped greatly to give me confidence that I was choosing the right routes. The whole day, I didn’t swim once. I was very surprised. This surely had a lot to do with the low water level in the river, but I’ll take it. As the day progressed, my confidence increased. As I approached the last two class III rapids of the trip, the beta said they were relatively non-technical, so I decided in advance to boat scout them, instead of getting out. Deliverance Rapid, and O&W rapid, which I had seen from the bridge earlier. I maneuvered through them both without incident, as a family watched me from the top of the bridge.

     The sun was now getting low in the sky, and I was almost 10 miles behind where I wanted to be for the day. I paddled hard until I came to Leatherwood Ford a half an hour later. It’s my birthday, I thought. I should take out of the river and enjoy the last hour of daylight, and not worry about making any more miles today. So I took out at the ford and enjoyed the picnic table, where I sat in luxury, my gear spread out around me drying in the last of the evening light. To save weight, I hadn’t brought a puffy, knowing that I wouldn’t be spending time in camp unless I was in my sleeping bag. I washed my shoes and socks and changed out of my wetsuit into my clothing, and enjoyed the first warm night of the trip, not even wishing for the puffy tonight. I was tempted to stick the birthday candle that I carry for firestarting purposes into my Cosmic Brownie as a tiny little birthday cake, but ended up getting distracted by a little book that my wife had made for me to take on this trip instead. I read gratefully for a while (remember, I’m sitting on a bench! Woohoo!) and then crawled contentedly into my sleeping quilt. I was very pleased with my ability to read the water and successfully navigate the (for me) difficult section of river today.

     On the morning of day 4, I woke up early to get a move on. My shin muscle and tendons hurt even worse, and I limped painfully around camp until I put on my wetsuit and shoe, and the compression made a very big difference in my pain level. I was 24 river miles from the take-out and about 1.5 uphill miles from my car, followed by a 5 hour drive to get back home. I really, really wanted to get back home to see my wife, so I moved with purpose. The second half of the river has no class III or significant class II rapids on it. I removed the spray deck and sat snacks and filter bottle in the bottom of the boat so that I wouldn’t have to stop paddling at all today. It worked, and I averaged 3 mph. Well, except for the mandatory pee breaks. Should you pee in a wetsuit? Not sure, I decided not to. There were numerous fun little class II- rapids, and lots of beautiful scenery to be seen. I decided that if I ever do this trip again, I’ll give myself an extra day to relax. Although this trip was planned and excecuted as a training trip to push my body, and it worked. I learned about river crossings, running whitewater, and now how it felt to paddle flatwater all day long, which is less exciting, but more scenic. I portaged Angel Falls, and took the boat out just before Devil’s Jump rapids. As I packed up a few feet from both the river and the trail, I decided to leave my wetsuit on for the short uphill hike to the car, to save transition time.

     As I felt the tendons grinding in my lower shin, I realized that the injury probably wasn’t going to heal in time for me to take my planned trip to Isle Royale this year, and I don’t really want to spend 6 days pushing as hard as I can. It was a good realization, and I’m glad I took this trip to figure it out. I’ll replan that trip for another time, with different mileage goals in mind, and hopefully take a friend since I’m not pushing it too hard.

     Wearing the wetsuit was a mistake. I soon began to overheat as I ascended the 500 feet from the river to the parking lot. I stripped the wetsuit off the top half of my body, and put on my Tilley hat to block the sun. As I hiked upward, sweating my butt off, skinny wetsuit legs propelling pale bare skinned chest, holding trekking poles, carrying huge pack with way too much stuff hanging off of it, I passed a family of locals out for a stroll. They could barely contain their laughter at the sight of me. Though our respective strolls were a bit different, they were right. I must have looked like a hilarious idiot. I’m 35, very alive, and super weird.

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Post trail food: Arby’s; 2 large Pepsis, 12-piece mozzarella sticks, some kinda brisket sandwich. Real, real good. I mean so good. Still lost 2 pounds.