It was not a good morning…as the day of the trip dawned. Don’t get me wrong…the weather was absolutely perfect and water levels were spot on, but a week of being on call for work, complete with middle of the night crisis calls had left me sleep deprived and delirious. A night camping at Warrior Creek, before putting in at Tailwater on Friday morning would normally have been a welcome respite…but there was a bear in the campground, grunting, bellowing, and rummaging on into the night, and it was cold. So morning arrived at 4am, despite efforts to extend the slumber…I packed up camp, and then simultaneously consoled myself and celebrated turning off the work phone by indulging in a wonderful, greasy two egg and bacon breakfast at 6am, along with a few other solitary souls who silently occupied our respective booths at the Coffee House Diner in Wilkesboro. Unable to ignore the unseasonable chill and with plans to hammock camp for the next two nights, I stopped at Walmart after breakfast to improve the sleeping situation. Doors didn’t open until 7, so a quick parking lot nap was had…a sounding alarm, extra foam pad, and $15 puffy vest later, it was time to put the boat into the river. On this blurry morning however, I forgot the gummi bear.
For decades, I have driven across the 421 bridge that crosses the Yadkin River and marks the eastern entrance to North Wilkesboro…peering over the side, full of wonder at the fact that a person could put a boat in the water here and float all the way to Winston-Salem, uninterrupted. What an incredible way to cover miles…to ride a magic seam of liquid across home territory…territory made unfamiliar by one’s vantage point on the very watery path that has shaped the land and the people around (and in) it. Paddlers know this to be a potent draw…to see a place from the water is different and exciting for many reasons, not least of which is having an ever changing visual/sensory offering presented to you. It is one of the finest situations that a person can find themselves in. Having paddled several of the local Yadkin tributaries for the entirety of their navigable length, and after years of digesting the Surry County Four Rivers map, I knew that a multi-day Yadkin trip was imminent. I am a huge fan of the Ararat, Fisher, and Mitchell Rivers and find them to each be engaging and challenging in their own way. The Yadkin trip felt like more of a trip to check a box, as opposed to the compulsion associated with (for example) running the Ararat from the Virginia line to the Yadkin. I had no doubt that “big muddy” held value, but I did underestimate its impact as a giver of good things.
Phone calls were made prior to the trip, advice and connections were sought related to camping along the way…this was the main unknown variable…and I assumed in days leading up to the trip that I would simply wing it (as usual) and hope for the best. This has worked out many times in the past but does not compare to sleeping peaceably on land where the owners know of your presence and are happy to have you there. Reaching out to the Yadkin Riverkeeper office proved to be a fantastic choice. The phone was answered by Executive Director, Edgar Miller, and it was a lovely start. Our conversation was unhurried in a way that I did not expect and his excitement about the local rivers and this upcoming trip was very encouraging. He gave me Riverkeeper, Brian Fannon’s cell number and explained that Brian is off for a few days handling some business, but that they had discussed my voicemail and he would not mind me giving him a call. Brian was equally welcoming, discussing possibilities and connecting me to a local family who proved to offer the most gracious gift of the trip. I was struck by the contrast of my own pre-trip rapid fire logistical tendencies, and the inquisitive and kind responses I received from the Riverkeeper paddling family. So, armed with the phone number of a potential willing landowner, I stood at the beginning of the Tailwater portion of the most ubiquitous river around these parts…canoe loaded…sleep deprived…and grumpy. As is often the case in life, there were unknowns at the start. I had left a message with the owner of tonight’s potential camping spot, but felt like I would certainly not call again, so as not to bother him more than once. I uncharacteristically attempted three futile “selfies,” by the boat ramp, confirming that I should never wear a vest of any kind…then erased all three photos, prayed for safety and closeness to our Maker, and jumped in the canoe.
Every single time that I shove off in a canoe, it is a sublime experience. I have yet to tire of the sensation of paddle leveraging against ground to break free of friction, Royalex hull scraping sand and gravel, acknowledging the weight of paddler and cargo…then…silent buoyancy…frictionless glide…and we’re off! That same magic was in effect on this morning, as a final shove transitioned this person from one reality into another. A few strokes of the paddle and a right hand dipped into the water let me know clearly that the Wilkes County portion of the Yadkin would require accurate attention and deliver much in return. It was cold and fast…running at 2300cfs and 4.21ft (Elkin gauge) on this early October day…air temperature in the 40’s. Dappled sun and shade made for a welcome dichotomy of foggy chill and a sunned warmed back. As the boat rounded the left hand turn at the local tractor dealership I was occupied with strainers and busy current…there was already the familiar feel of having landed in a video game where the world slides by and you direct the boat’s path based on mainly choices in lateral movement. I enjoy sinking into that zone, and would stay there for much of the trip, but on this morning I was snapped out of it by movement on the periphery. A river otter, in full mastery of the pushy current, swam for several seconds, just a foot from the canoe. She completed three submerge and surface cycles, and looked back at the boat once, but apparently found the craft slow and uninteresting compared to her agility. This upper section of the river was fast and miles clicked by quickly. In addition to the curious otter, I noted municipal intake pumps, the spot where our family camps for Merlefest (in the VFW field), two cows, the first of many herons, and much industry…all before Smoot Park.
I truly enjoyed passing under bridges, as there were usually some decent rapids, particularly the 421 bridge, nearest 268 which had spawned this idea and very much delivers on fun. Carrying three days worth of needed items in our family’s 1994 17ft Mohawk Nova “family station wagon” canoe, those class I (maybe II) rapids demand attention when you approach them in person…not as much in a “threat of danger” way, as much as in a “my Walmart vest is awfully dry and comfortable right now” sort of way.
There were 22 miles between the “put in” and my first night’s stop. It was notable that there were very few places to take out of the river during this stretch. I wonder if the higher water levels were concealing some beaches or walkable banks…but I saw no ideal ones, prior to the two large islands before the Roaring River, that I remember. I expected a takeout at Smoot Park, but only saw an elevated river overlook. The pace of the river was quick enough that these 22 miles were covered in six hours with no extraordinary paddling efforts and some unsuccessful fishing thrown in. It was satisfying to paddle up into the Reddies and Roaring Rivers along the way. Also along the way, I received a phone call from an unfamiliar Winston-Salem number…on the other end was a thoughtful gentleman who was currently in South Carolina, but whom had taken time to call back about the possibility of my camping on his land near Ronda, NC. This hospitable person not only gave the OK for a stay at “The Rocks,” but also a connection to his nephew (who was onsite) and again reminded me of the sense of community associated with the paddling scene. I needed this reminder…I am a solitary person at heart…a fact based in a mix of preference and anxiety…but I am genuinely endeared to the folks with whom I have spoken, in an attempt to paddle these sections of river. My remote host for the night and his nephew further confirmed this feeling as they encouraged me to reach out if there is any trouble or need, and also gave me phone numbers of folks who could help further along the way if need be. If their gestures of kindness endeared me…the rarity and beauty of their land consumed me.
A quick “eddy out” river left, upon sight of “The Rocks,” landed me on a steep bank with cattle trails. I followed the paths up to gargantuan Sycamores that were clearly hundreds of years old, draped in a gorgeous throw of epiphytic life. Moss was inches deep on top of the bark and as my gaze followed the trunks into the sky I was overjoyed to see that their silhouettes were contrasted by a backlit canopy of turning fall leaves. The mid-afternoon sun was perfect and there was much gratitude for time well-made and a 2pm arrival. What a place to spend an afternoon and evening! After tying up the canoe and walking further on, the hammock was strung up underneath another of the old Sycamores. This one stood right next to the river and overlooked a field, several hundred yards long. I would later fall asleep, face sticking out of the hammock’s zipper, gazing down the length of that darkening field, as coyotes let loose a dusky chorus. It would be the most sound night of sleep in many nights. But before that, there were camp matters to tend to, fields to walk, and there was supper to prepare. I continued my streak of unsuccessful fishing, but received a culinary gift from this place in the form of a small Lion’s Mane mushroom, which got cooked up with the sausage and Ramen. Paddling a 17 foot canoe allows room for all kinds of frivolities, including a cast iron frying pan…it gave good service on this night. There was plenty of wood to be collected without much need for axe swinging. The fire was warm and my belly was full. A much-anticipated call to the family left me again trying to put into words the joy and wonder surrounding me. A swig of bourbon, a beer, and a thankful prayer closed out a day that will be revisited often in memory.
During the early morning it was clear that fog was having its way with these surroundings. The air was thick and wet and smelled so very clean. I slept ‘til 4am…felt good and rested, then slept for three more hours. Morning was a revelation. Sun was barely making its way through the foggy layer, but enough so that the newly turned foliage was bathed in filtered light. I knew as soon as foot was set to ground that there would be no hurrying from this place. On the morning walk I found more fungi…dinner plate sized Dryad’s Saddle, other Hericium, Oysters…this river proved to be a mycological paradise each day. Coffee was made and enjoyed…camp was packed…and the last thing to occur was the now traditional “good morning gummi bear” photo…sent to my daughters back home. He struck a fine pose on a mossy branch and the background was filled with evidence of one family’s love of place. It was his most noble photo yet. My nine-year-old eats this up and my thirteen-year-old is not yet too old to appreciate the Daddy connection it brings…plus I can text it directly to her, which is handy. I took and sent a few more photos to the hosting family and thanked them again for this jewel of a spot.
A couple strokes of the paddle combined with decisive current whipped the canoe around easily and another day was launched. This day would include Elkin, Burch Station, and a landing downriver at Yadkin Shores.
Ronda to Elkin only took two hours and the paddling was very user friendly…in fact, the canoe mostly performed a pilotless slow spin, floating down river while I fished. Someone convinced me that buzz bait is a thing that actually catches fish, so a line was cast toward any place that had a fishy feeling as I optimistically pulled the giant rattling rubber frog across the river…expectant of a strike. After two hours the expectancy had quelled, and I had arrived at Elkin’s Crater Park landing…fishless. I proudly pulled into the dock and tied up. I love this town. Time is spent here for work and pleasure and it is filled with good people who want you to be here. There was great joy in arriving by river. This is a town to visit and spend money in…Elkin should do well and last long…the trail scene is over the top wonderful and the people are genuinely hospitable. I locked and tied up the canoe and left most all of my personal items in it, as I made a beeline for Angry Troll Brewing. It was nice to be wearing two days of camping smells and a big straw hat as I strolled across the tracks with beer and wings on the brain. Thankfully, the weather was cool enough to warrant a light jacket, and a giant Nalgene was the only item in hand, in order to get a full water bottle refill without using a pump filter. Now granted, I was not looking exactly pedestrian at this point, but I thought I was pulling off close enough to normal. Judging by the looks of the lunch crowd, I was in error. A trip to the bathroom revealed a face with soot streaks from the previous two nights of campfires and some seriously creative hair. I cared little…adjusted the best I could and headed for the bar. My indigent look garnered a free beer voucher from a kind bar mate…then wings and salad were had as well. It was delicious. I appreciated the food and drink and football watching happening there, but much more appreciated the quiet that awaited me once I rejoined the canoe, which sat patient and ready. A shove off, and the trip was down river again, passing an RV park with spectators and many industrial sounds and sights between Elkin and Burch Station. It was a good paddle, and nice to mark the confluence of the first home tributary, the Mitchell River. Burch Station to Yadkin Shores felt like the longest section of the trip, although it was not. This portion of the Yadkin still offered many worthwhile sights, but the beer and wings had me ready to finish the day’s travels. I paddled up to Yadkin Shores Canoe Access with visions of a placid early fall evening dancing in my head.
The bracing alternate scene involved two shirtless twenty somethings, BLASTING rap music out of their blue tooth speaker and swinging from the thick rope that hung out over the river. Their acrobatics and exuberance were a sight to behold. I paddled up, climbed out axe in hand, and split their speaker open like a dry poplar log…they turned tail with speed after this…I only jest…it turns out that either Troy or Matt (I forget which) had hung up his fishing line on the bottom of the river and when I offered to assist, we became fast friends. They hung around for another 30 minutes, then headed down the road, leaving a decent hammock spot right in front of the rope swing. I set up camp as a parade of folks entered and exited the scene. It was a characteristically varied mix of folks, likely similar to many other isolated rural parks around here…there were people who came to meet and leave…people who came to fish with kids…those who came to meet and drink and linger…others who crawled in and out of cars…and the park’s most noticeable feature (other than the gorgeous fields of tobacco) was a DEEP mud pit in which was stuck a Toyota Camry. I guess front wheel drive only gets you so far… I was privy to the exciting extraction effort later in the evening (a real highlight!) Things settled down not long after and the dark park emptied…I was again alone, contented by the river, with only the company of two feral kittens who would come to grow on me. They were soon named “Thunder” and “Twinkletoes”. The three of us sat by a roaring fire for a couple of hours as they argued over sardines and I emptied the remainder of a small bottle of bourbon. Swaddled into the hammock as the two feline friends celebrated their seafood windfall beneath me with purrs and curling figure eight repetitions, I was just about to drift off for the night when another truck drove into the access park and two more strangers climbed out… but I was tired and intended to sleep…so I did…admittedly the axe slept with me, but the sleep was solid and without interruption.
Day three of on the beautiful Yadkin River dawned with a knowledge that it would bring the end of this trip. That final stretch feeling was associated with memories of a day’s drive home from a long weekend at the beach, with its looming sense of distance to cover and a re-shouldering of responsibility upon arrival. My associations were incorrect altogether though, as this proved to be a wonder-filled day. But not before good morning gummi bear made his next appearance…this time, boldly positioned in the eye of the well-used rope swing, as if he was about to let loose with acrobatics to rival that of even Troy or Matt…he looked confident on the rope, and judging by the response from home they noticed his newfound sense of bravado.
Leaving the 601 bridge was bittersweet. The cats spent the morning with me and while I had purposefully avoided mentioning them to my girls at home, there was little doubt that within the next couple of days, two daughters would set their feet on this silty soil, and implore the starving kittens to come and have a good home with us. A crusading nine-year-old ensured that this vision came true and the kittens now reside in Lewisville, with woods to roam and an insulated shelter.
They were the only two creatures present to bid me “bon voyage” on this morning but it was a fine send off, knowing that their bellies were full and there was hope for better days. The river itself starts to feel wider and slower as it borders Yadkin County, but the paddling on this morning was superb. It was a stretch so quiet that even infrequent paddle strokes feel intrusive. The canoe passed silently underneath a treetop inhabited by either a juvenile Bald Eagle or a Golden Eagle (the size of the bird was difficult to determine)…and simultaneously a lone cow lowed softly in a pasture on river right. This immediately brought to mind a favorite song that had escaped my memory for over a decade…Merle Travis and Tex Ann sang “Our Little Home in the Country” in 1946 (it is worth a listen)…”Cattle..lowin’..in the lane…beneath those fields of waving grain…the meadowlark sings it’s sweet refrain…at our little home in the country.” Thankfully it was stuck in my head for the rest of the day…it was also shamelessly bellowed toward each riverbank for much of this morning. The Eagle resting high overhead was not the first one of the trip but it did trigger thoughts of the different responses a paddler receives from wildlife on the river. Great Blue Herons are the guides, right?…loping downriver just far enough to show the way, but seldom allowing the paddler to catch up to them. Kingfishers act surprised each time you approach (even though you have approached ten times previous)…skittering away, just to land several trees down and do it all again the next time. Ducks seem the most paranoid…hunting and other predators have obviously affected their generational DNA and they are not about to pretend that you might be harmless. The repeated panicked flush of birds is enough to give a paddler a complex…we must be absolutely terrifying to them. But the Eagle…the Eagle is different than all of these. It operates with a confidence that leaves room for zero acknowledgement of paddlers…there is no reaction. Eagles do as they will, and we are only gawking spectators. And a gleeful spectator I was, as the boat rounded the last big left-hand bend before the Rockford Bridge. It had taken only an hour and a quarter to go from Yadkin Shores to Rockford. A portion of this same passage was made a couple of years ago after paddling the navigable length of the beautiful Fisher River, the mouth of which I had recently floated past. On that trip, a Bald Eagle sat in the exact same soft bend of a horizontal branch in which it sat on this day. What a surprise to see such consistency from a truly wild thing. It dropped from the low tree and flew downriver, making appearances for the next several miles. Rockford is a lovely portion of river. I chose river left and was rewarded with a tight passage beneath the bridge, with significant rapids and the kind of clean, cool, ebullient water that makes one feel like each breath is healing medicine. The following portion, the 11.8 miles between Rockford and the Shoals at East Bend, offered much in the way of sightseeing. This section (and many previous) gives the paddler views of how property owners choose to enjoy the interaction between land and moving water.
It is a thrill to me, seeing the structures that our fellow North Carolinians erect beside local rivers. Everything from small docks and campers, to simple dwellings and efficient cabins, or estates passed down through families…they are all there to behold. A common thread that runs through them is the necessary ingenuity employed to deal with rising, falling, and flowing water. Some have been more successful than others…likely reflecting more cycles of trial and error, or maybe for the lucky, reflecting the invaluable inheritance of the experience of previous generations. I love these riverside dwellings…and can’t help but think of my Mom , who would appreciate each of them with a wonder similar to mine.
Just after Rockford were some nice islands and bends in the river, keeping a paddler busy and engaged. Soon enough though, the water spread back out and slowed a bit. Just when I thought I might wish myself on ahead to the destination, the canoe came around a left-hand bend about a mile west of the Siloam bridge. Never has Pilot Mountain shown itself in such a timely and dramatic way. I had completely forgotten about the lovely quartzite monadnock, that is visible from nearly everywhere I go during day to day movement. Now it sat clearly ahead, framed by trees on either side of the river which flowed directly toward it.
This section of river is visible from the Pilot summit and I had noticed it many times from up there…but it had not been given a thought while paddling from Wilkesboro. What a glorious visual treat! And then the scene intensified, developing further beyond expectation…while paddling this straight half mile stretch that draws one closer and closer to home, two adult Bald Eagles circled high overhead…and beneath the Eagles, came a tiny prop plane that flew low above the river and approached from behind, sending chills up my spine as the engine roared into crescendo and then audibly faded, continuing on toward the mountain...oh, how I do love this state! The mouth of the Ararat showed itself a few minutes after I witnessed a deer crossing the river with impressive skill, and East Bend came into view just 3 hours after passing Rockford. Here begins the Pilot Mountain Section of the river, with Ivy Bluffs to your right and Bean Shoals and Pilot to your left. It is a highlight! As you leave the Shoals Access there are decisions to be quickly made. This day had been another ideal weather and water level day, the river holding at 1560cfs and 3.16 ft, just as it did yesterday. This amount of water provided passage that, up to this point, had only produced two rock scrapes on the bottom of the boat that I remembered…a scenario unheard of, compared to the scrape-fest that most of my trips come to be. Even through the shoals, the scrape count only bumped up to 5 or 6…ideal conditions. At this point you can go left and see the Bean Shoals Canal remnants as well as get close to the train that has followed the Yadkin for many miles, or go through a couple of different middle routes and land on an assortment of small islands…alternately, one can take the far-right channel and (in my opinion) have the most fun! Staying to the right sends a paddler through the tightest and most rapid route. You will pass the canoe-in camp sites for the Pilot Mountain State Park (on your right), beautiful steep riverside, and several large islands…all of your attention being required to navigate the shallow but pushy passage. This part of the river has a decidedly mountainous feel, with large boulders having tumbled down to the river…plus bluffs and clear water. It is very much fun and quite lovely. Islands continue to reveal themselves by their tapering ends, the waters on which you float, converging with other channels.
The river widens out significantly soon after this and travels on in a loooong straight stretch, approaching Donnaha. A paddler will see one final large island on this section, just before a right-hand bend and the newly constructed Donnaha Access ramp. On this fall day the park was quiet…a contrast to Summer afternoons, when hundreds of families come to cookout and swim. East Bend and the Shoals were just an hour and a half behind me, but arriving at 4pm, Donnaha was to be my terminus. I had paddled the next section (to Enon) a hundred times and while it is a great section, I wanted to avoid the well-constructed, but involved portage…so after 63.4 miles of river travel (23.7 of it today), this journey had come to an end. A quick call to my wife, and the loveliest of shuttle providers was on her way. It was enjoyable to wait there, at a familiar and quiet Donnaha, and appreciate once more the perfect early autumn weather. Soon enough my wife and I were Wilkesboro bound, in order to retrieve my car at the Tailwater put in. The drive back to Wilkesboro was now experienced in a different context…the way human powered travel will do. Three days was adequate time to sink into that meaningful space where the urgency of normal days became quiet…where sensory inputs were from gentle sources. It is always a rest for the mind, and is enhanced exponentially by such a generative ribbon of water. I leave this trip grateful for a new perspective on a most familiar river…and with a desire to understand more about the Yadkin, the people who have affected it through the years…as well as those who continue to do so.
By the way…the next morning, the Gummi Bear took time to make an appearance before school and work resumed…this time poised on an arm of a chair, by the agave plant…but I could tell by the distant gaze that he was still thinking about “The Rocks” and the rope swing…
by: Kevin Kiser