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The Great Hatchie Canoe Expedition -
Day 3: Just a Brief Dip
Author: Monica Clutch
Date: January 7, 2008
Location: heading north from Bolivar, TN
Photo © Monica Clutch/TNC
Previous entries in the blog
Day 3 of our Hatchie expedition was to prove memorable in many respects, not the least of which was the way the canoe would prove to two hapless adventurers just how hapless we were. Despite the promise of fair weather and sunshine — a welcome relief after the bone-chilling cold we experienced on the second day of our journey — unexpected events awaited us. This day was to be relatively short compared to our previous 26-mile trip. Twenty miles at what seemed to be our average pace set us up for approximately a half-day (about five hours) of canoeing. Anticipating a nice day, Mike Martin and I set out in good spirits.
The river was down several inches from its previous levels, recent rains having moved off over the past few days. The slower current offered little help in terms of increasing our canoe speed, but our spirits were high coming off of several days of rest and with temperatures in the high 60s — uncharacteristic, but welcome nonetheless in the month of January. Several trucks with empty boat trailers were parked at the Highway 64 put-in. No doubt they belonged to duck hunters soon to be returning from their early morning efforts. Indeed, we had not been on the river long before we heard the coughing of boat motors and experienced their wake as they headed back upstream. These duck hunters were to be the only other people we would encounter on the river that day. Even at the peak of its use, the Hatchie River sees little traffic, though it is revered by the locals (occasionally referred to as “river rats”) who know its every bend and fishing hole.
A ridge running along the Hatchie River. Photo © Monica Clutch/TNC
Mike and I appreciated the beauty of the river as we paddled downstream. I practiced my tree-identification skills as we looked for wildlife (bringing along a knowledgeable and skilled sidekick always has its rewards). Pileated woodpeckers and great blue heron were noisy and abundant, though mammals (outside of a lone white-tailed deer and a recently deceased beaver) seemed to be spending the day away from the shores. We did spot two red-eared pond sliders sunning on a log, oblivious to the fact that it was January, sensitive only to sunlight of sufficient warmth to allow their reptilian metabolism to elevate for a brief time. We would later encounter another turtle with similar inclinations to bask while the basking was good.
Not Quite the Splash I Wanted to Make
When canoeing for five hours, especially after fueling with a morning round of caffeinated beverages, it occasionally becomes necessary to empty one’s bladder. We observed a low bank that looked like a promising spot for a landing. Easing up to shore, Mike stabilized the canoe while I stood up and stepped with one foot onto the bank. It was then I experienced Newton’s Third Law of Motion (for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, force equals mass times acceleration). As I shifted my weight forward onto what I soon realized was a very slippery bank, the canoe shifted slightly backward into the water. My realization that the bank would not permit stable footing coincided with a further backward shift of the canoe. I soon found myself doing a graceless version of the splits, an unfortunately limited and precarious pose. The opposite pressure I was exerting with each leg did nothing to improve my situation; it only pushed the canoe farther from the shore as my bank-ward foot slid farther into the muddy river. I was forced to step from the canoe or risk turning the entire vessel — equipment, gear, Mike and all — into the river with me. I was soon standing waist-deep in the cold river, but at least I could compliment myself on my foresight in packing an extra set of clothing!
Monica's wet backside. Photo © Mike Martin
Such is adventure travel: always unexpected, always capable of exposing unwitting humans to the primal forces that have led to such a diversity of organisms on Earth, always permitting long-term survival only to those who evolve the best tactics for perpetuating their genes, and therefore their species, in the conditions around them.
Evidence of natural selection was all around us on the Hatchie. For example, Mike pointed out how we can tell one species of white oak from another by where it stands: Overcup (white) oak tolerates its roots being in poorly drained areas, whereas the less water-tolerant cow (white) oak tends to be found along the better-drained rises in the floodplain. Still other species of white oak is found only on high ridges along with the beech trees, while bald cypresses, with knees exposed, have made their home in the water itself. The great diversity of life in the Hatchie River ecosystem reminds us how various species evolve over time, each finding a niche based on its ability to succeed in the timeless endeavor of outcompeting other individuals for resources.
By the end of the day our canoe would inflict humiliation a couple more times. First we found ourselves unable to safely secure the canoe to the roof of the Jeep for its 10-mile trip back to the trailer, despite (as Mike put it) “previous experience and five college degrees between us.” I think we stopped five times over the distance to scratch our heads in wonder and re-secure the straps. Then, as we were raising the canoe to put it back on the trailer, a gust of wind caught the vessel, giving it just enough momentum that we lost control. Mike went over backward and ended up seated in the canoe on dry land. Fortunately, only our egos were bruised, leaving us ready to face the fourth day of our quest.
On to Day 4…
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