"I have to remind myself that some birds aren't meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up does rejoice. But still, the place you live in is that much more grey."
~Morgan Freeman, Shawshank Redemption~
Life #2............The Epic Worthlessness that is Man. When I was younger, my philosophy on growing up was "if I wait long enough, immaturity will eventually become the spirit of youth." That's where the Epic Worthlessness that is Man fits best..........in the never growing up category. And as an adult, there are certain lifestyles one can partake in that fit well in allowing a man to never grow up. It allows a man to hold onto the spirit of adventure that only burns bright when we are young...........kayaking is one of those lifestyles.
Marcelle and I had an occupational situation which allowed for half my time in Western North Carolina to be spent alone, giving me the opportunity to do what I do best when I am companion-less and free....................wander. And as I have stated before, I had one of the best backyards imaginable to wander through for years. My solo adventures that concluded this year with a stint on The Island, followed by some rather foolish endeavors in West By God, began many years ago in the form of endless roaming through the WNC forests, solo paddles on the Class III classics (I sucked at kayaking back then), and a never ending thirst to experience the mountains of the great Balsam Range and Hot Springs and its surrounding peaks. I also spent plenty of time wandering the hidden Unicoi Range lining the Nolichucky Rivah, which is very remote for that area. I hiked the Toxaway Rivah at low water (Class V+ hike), became extremely lost in the Jocassee for two days, and scouted hidden cricks that I longed to one day run (Tanasee in Pisgah fellas. Check it out. It looked sick when I hiked it and it is still almost never run. Daniel undersells it in the following link............Tanasee Creek AW Link) I snow hiked the highest peaks of the Balsams area, above Graveyard Fields, searching for the deepest forest trails I could find, crunching through waste deep drifts past Shining Rock and Cold Mountain. I explored hidden waterfalls, discovered epic panoramic views of the Pink Beds, Balsams and Green Rivah Gorge from outcroppings I bush pushed my way to and hiked the dark evergreen forests of Dupont, long before The Hunger Games ever came to town. These were the escapades my heart told me to pursue, and the solo aspect of the journeys are what defined my character. These were all unique adventures that I now cherish and consider myself lucky to have had the opportunity to experience ...................so why do I call myself "The Epic Worthlessness that is Man"? It is simple. Nothing I just listed means jack shit in modern day society. In fact, it is all nothing more than a complete waste of time in the eyes of the modern day man (which would be a woman).
“Man is the cruelest animal.”
~Nietzsche~
The nomadic character traits that I cherished about myself were constantly fueled by the mountains and explorations of WNC. The environment was ideal for those character traits. The town of Hot Springs was my home away from home, and The Shack was the place I frequently found myself while in the hills surrounding the French Broad. The Shack was an exquisite illustration of everything a guide cabin should be. It was a three bedroom, one story house across the street and down the mountain from the USA Raft outpost. There were always six guides there, all living in co-ed bliss. It was hidden well, deep in the forest where custys never knew of its existence............which was a VERY good thing. The shack was a pile of shit, and the activities that we all partook in while there would not have been suitable for the eyes of the general public.........ironically those times usually involved Moonshine, guns, or that magical little weed we have heard so much about recently in the news. There were holes in the floor, leaks in the roof, and constant erosion problems from the fact it was built on the side of a mountain. Despite all these character flaws, it had just that..................character. Leave it to a handfull of guides and kayakers to take that rotting piece of rubble and turn it into a cozy mountainside cabin ideal for extensive safety talks, continuous consumption of Tennessee Moonshine, and a general sense of rivah guide apathy. It contained a wood stove, a warm den with lots of couch space, and a true sense of community...........it was even decorated with pretty pink curtains. There was a screen porch on the back next to a babbling mountain stream. For many summers, a fellow guide named Jed (not Tennessee Jed) lived on that porch, content to fall asleep to the sounds of pattering rain on the tin roof, winds whipping through the forest, and a gurgling stream just outside. I loved The Shack. It was a quiet escape from the outside world, and for rivah guides, it would always be a friendly home.
"This kayaker species certainly has its idiosyncrasies, but what becomes evident very quickly is that they are also some of the most passionate people alive. They have reverent relationships with the natural places on our planet, and that passion for life and nature is only magnified in their relationships with people around them. In a world focused on material success and social standing, these free-spirited beings live life fully in the present moment."
~Ashley Woodring~
It was in The Shack on a rainy spring evening following a long, wet day of training, that I quietly witnessed the perfection of a "paddling community" and the whitewater lifestyle that bonds us all. On this day, the core guide group returned to The Shack seeking warmth, dryness, and comfort, as well as the afternoon safety session needed to re-cap the days events on a high water French Broad. Our head instructor was a local legend named Glenn. Glenn fit the profile of a rugged old guide who had spent many summers pushin' rubber through the rivahs of WNC and beyond. He had a short, grey ponytail, leathery tan skin that was weathered from his sixty years of life, and a never ending smile and chipper attitude that made anyone around him elated. Glenn was also a genius rivah instructor and had a remarkable way of looking at swift water problems with a unique perspective that no one else could envision. I learned more from Glenn in one week of training than I have my entire career running whitewater..............most importantly, I have never met anyone in the last decade that loved what they did more than Glenn. He truly represented everything that whitewater should be.
We stoked the fire as the rain poured down outside The Shack, and the light faded into night, laughing at the never ending rivah stories that spilled from the mouths of veteran guides, and enjoying our hidden little existence deep in the hills of Madison County. After the safety meeting had finished, activities started to flourish in The Shack. Myself and a fellow guide had undertaken a fierce game of chess that we had been planning throughout the day. (and by planning I mean talking shit) The girls of the house had offered to make dinner for everyone and were in the kitchen working diligently. Another guide sat on the couch with his girlfriend, strumming his banjo while softly singing bluegrass. Two more guides were glued to the TV, transfixed on the classic paddle porn "Southern Fried Creekin" as it played silently on the 20 year old television with an original Nintendo resting on top (and you better believe there were some epic battles of Mike Tyson's Punch-Out.) Another guide lay in the hammock that had been strung across the room, comfortably reading a guidebook about classic WNC whitewater. You could not have asked for a more cozy, friendly, or comforting setting.
My attention broke away from the intense game of chess that was at hand so that I could refill the beers for myself and the rest of the room. I went to the kitchen fridge, stocked up, and when I returned, Glenn stopped me in the doorway. He gazed out into the room, observing the peaceful sight. Then he looked at me and said, "Do you see this. Remember this moment Justin. This is why we paddle. This is why we love this life..........because of moments like these. In all my years of paddling I have learned to always cherish the simple moments like this one." I stood there for a moment, thinking about what he just said. It was a small, insignificant moment in time, but for some reason I will always remember it. Glenn was right. That moment was as close to perfection as a paddler could get ...............exhausted from a day of big water, warm and cozy deep in the mountains, surrounded by friends and fellow paddlers, quietly listening to the rain and bluegrass, hopeful that the cricks would rise. It was perfect.
"The song of the river ends not at her banks, but in the hearts of those who have loved her."
~Buffalo Joe~
"This kayaker species certainly has its idiosyncrasies, but what becomes evident very quickly is that they are also some of the most passionate people alive. They have reverent relationships with the natural places on our planet, and that passion for life and nature is only magnified in their relationships with people around them. In a world focused on material success and social standing, these free-spirited beings live life fully in the present moment."
~Ashley Woodring~
It was in The Shack on a rainy spring evening following a long, wet day of training, that I quietly witnessed the perfection of a "paddling community" and the whitewater lifestyle that bonds us all. On this day, the core guide group returned to The Shack seeking warmth, dryness, and comfort, as well as the afternoon safety session needed to re-cap the days events on a high water French Broad. Our head instructor was a local legend named Glenn. Glenn fit the profile of a rugged old guide who had spent many summers pushin' rubber through the rivahs of WNC and beyond. He had a short, grey ponytail, leathery tan skin that was weathered from his sixty years of life, and a never ending smile and chipper attitude that made anyone around him elated. Glenn was also a genius rivah instructor and had a remarkable way of looking at swift water problems with a unique perspective that no one else could envision. I learned more from Glenn in one week of training than I have my entire career running whitewater..............most importantly, I have never met anyone in the last decade that loved what they did more than Glenn. He truly represented everything that whitewater should be.
We stoked the fire as the rain poured down outside The Shack, and the light faded into night, laughing at the never ending rivah stories that spilled from the mouths of veteran guides, and enjoying our hidden little existence deep in the hills of Madison County. After the safety meeting had finished, activities started to flourish in The Shack. Myself and a fellow guide had undertaken a fierce game of chess that we had been planning throughout the day. (and by planning I mean talking shit) The girls of the house had offered to make dinner for everyone and were in the kitchen working diligently. Another guide sat on the couch with his girlfriend, strumming his banjo while softly singing bluegrass. Two more guides were glued to the TV, transfixed on the classic paddle porn "Southern Fried Creekin" as it played silently on the 20 year old television with an original Nintendo resting on top (and you better believe there were some epic battles of Mike Tyson's Punch-Out.) Another guide lay in the hammock that had been strung across the room, comfortably reading a guidebook about classic WNC whitewater. You could not have asked for a more cozy, friendly, or comforting setting.
My attention broke away from the intense game of chess that was at hand so that I could refill the beers for myself and the rest of the room. I went to the kitchen fridge, stocked up, and when I returned, Glenn stopped me in the doorway. He gazed out into the room, observing the peaceful sight. Then he looked at me and said, "Do you see this. Remember this moment Justin. This is why we paddle. This is why we love this life..........because of moments like these. In all my years of paddling I have learned to always cherish the simple moments like this one." I stood there for a moment, thinking about what he just said. It was a small, insignificant moment in time, but for some reason I will always remember it. Glenn was right. That moment was as close to perfection as a paddler could get ...............exhausted from a day of big water, warm and cozy deep in the mountains, surrounded by friends and fellow paddlers, quietly listening to the rain and bluegrass, hopeful that the cricks would rise. It was perfect.
"The song of the river ends not at her banks, but in the hearts of those who have loved her."
~Buffalo Joe~
Why do I tell this story now?............................the answer is simple. The scene on that rainy evening was so authentic, and so profound. It didn't require money to create................everyone in the room was a rivah guide so we were all dirt poor or completely broke. It didn't require the luxuries of modern man..............we were deep in the mountains protected by a leaky shack drinking PBR and cooking cheap spaghetti while being warmed by a wood stove. It didn't even require us to be boating..........although Big Laurel and Brush Crick were on the rise just down the road. It only required a love for a lifestyle that for some reason is so hard to hold onto as we grow older and move on to a more complicated life. There is one thing about that scene that always resonates in my mind.....................happiness. Everyone in that room was happy, if even for just that one night.
There are a lot of young paddlers throughout RVA who are definitely not a fan of myself or The Island Chronicles..........gee, I wonder why? Sometimes I find myself writing this story more for them than for anyone else.........which is rather ironic. Scenes like the one I just described seem to be easily overlooked these days, because the world moves so damn fast now. They are also scenes that are becoming more and more rare to stumble upon, because they just don't happen as much. There are many lessons for the younger crowd of RVA to take from The Island Chronicles. One day you guys will have ownership over your own decade of whitewater history and experience, maybe more, and the pressures of 'real' life will be bearing down on you. The Island Chronicles are here to teach you what is ahead. If there is one thing about our lifestyle that is an unfortunate truth, it is that it does not mix well with modern society. We chase the rain and weather, camp out on the sides of roads, and literally simplify our existence down to transportation, food and water, skill, gear, and a boat. As the world becomes more complicated, our sport remains simple, producing generation after generation of dirt bag nomads. One day you will fall in love, get married, and have children. These are wonderful things, but they are things that require you to sacrifice something in your heart that you cherish...................the pure and simple life of a paddler. I learned that lesson far too late, and just couldn't let go in time. Because of that I lost it all.
“If a man cannot understand the beauty of life, it is probably because life never understood the beauty in him.”
~Criss Jami~
The stories from WNC are endless, and I could tell them forever. There are many people that keep reading The Island Chronicles waiting for the train wreck story that is inevitably going to reveal itself. They don't seem to care about what is being written at the moment, despite the fact they continue to read it...............I cannot stress how pathetically sad that is. These stories are the reason we do what we do and love what we love. Listen to them, and take something positive from them. No one else seems to be capable of telling them, although I know my stories are nothing more than a representation of stories that every paddler holds close to their hearts. There are lessons embedded in every story I write, and they are lessons that every paddler will one day face. Yes, I can be blunt, brutal, and just plain mean.............but that is not who I truly am, and anyone who knows me well, knows that is a fact........even the haters. That is just the style in which I present this story...............blunt, cold, and to the point. But it also contains compassion, pain, love, understanding, adventure, sympathy, sadness, and the ability to admit when I am wrong. It is exactly what we all are....................human.
“Judge a man by his questions rather than by his answers.”
I truly led a double life year after year while living in the hills outside Brevard. The contrasting lives were in constant battle with one another, but that battle existed within myself. I consistently balanced the domestication and dandelions with the boofs and bong hits. The Flower Pickin' Gentleman was always there to comfort Marcelle, be a functional member of society, and lead a life of perfection...........but The Epic Worthlessness that is Man was there as well. He was quietly waiting for his chance to style Boxcar Falls, stomp out another lap on the Narrows, and boof into Tennessee the Hard Way (if you are a paddler reading this you better know which rapid I am referring to, otherwise you need to stop calling yourself a paddler). My experiences living in WNC are one of the reasons I struggled to connect with the RVA paddling scene. Things in RVA are different, and they always have been. The competition that surrounds the rivah does not exist within ourselves......it exists against one another, and it always has. I do not know why, and I am passed attempting to figure it out............but whatever it is that is missing, breaks my heart and takes away from our rivah..........it takes away from our home.
Neither one of the lives I have related to you were a perfect fit for Marcelle and I, and because of that our relationship was a constant give and take............however, every once in a while we would find a small place between the two lives that we were able to hold onto, even if only for an afternoon. It was in that space that Marcelle and I were able to find true perfection, and were able to meet each other in the middle. It was in that space that we were truly in love................we just never found a way to remain there. We never found a way to forget about the outside world. I miss that space..........I always will.
“To say that one waits a lifetime for his soul mate to come around is a paradox. People eventually get sick of waiting, take a chance on someone, and by the art of commitment become soul mates, which takes a lifetime to perfect.”
~Criss Jami, Venus in Arms~
~Criss Jami~
The stories from WNC are endless, and I could tell them forever. There are many people that keep reading The Island Chronicles waiting for the train wreck story that is inevitably going to reveal itself. They don't seem to care about what is being written at the moment, despite the fact they continue to read it...............I cannot stress how pathetically sad that is. These stories are the reason we do what we do and love what we love. Listen to them, and take something positive from them. No one else seems to be capable of telling them, although I know my stories are nothing more than a representation of stories that every paddler holds close to their hearts. There are lessons embedded in every story I write, and they are lessons that every paddler will one day face. Yes, I can be blunt, brutal, and just plain mean.............but that is not who I truly am, and anyone who knows me well, knows that is a fact........even the haters. That is just the style in which I present this story...............blunt, cold, and to the point. But it also contains compassion, pain, love, understanding, adventure, sympathy, sadness, and the ability to admit when I am wrong. It is exactly what we all are....................human.
“Judge a man by his questions rather than by his answers.”
~Voltaire~
I truly led a double life year after year while living in the hills outside Brevard. The contrasting lives were in constant battle with one another, but that battle existed within myself. I consistently balanced the domestication and dandelions with the boofs and bong hits. The Flower Pickin' Gentleman was always there to comfort Marcelle, be a functional member of society, and lead a life of perfection...........but The Epic Worthlessness that is Man was there as well. He was quietly waiting for his chance to style Boxcar Falls, stomp out another lap on the Narrows, and boof into Tennessee the Hard Way (if you are a paddler reading this you better know which rapid I am referring to, otherwise you need to stop calling yourself a paddler). My experiences living in WNC are one of the reasons I struggled to connect with the RVA paddling scene. Things in RVA are different, and they always have been. The competition that surrounds the rivah does not exist within ourselves......it exists against one another, and it always has. I do not know why, and I am passed attempting to figure it out............but whatever it is that is missing, breaks my heart and takes away from our rivah..........it takes away from our home.
Neither one of the lives I have related to you were a perfect fit for Marcelle and I, and because of that our relationship was a constant give and take............however, every once in a while we would find a small place between the two lives that we were able to hold onto, even if only for an afternoon. It was in that space that Marcelle and I were able to find true perfection, and were able to meet each other in the middle. It was in that space that we were truly in love................we just never found a way to remain there. We never found a way to forget about the outside world. I miss that space..........I always will.
“To say that one waits a lifetime for his soul mate to come around is a paradox. People eventually get sick of waiting, take a chance on someone, and by the art of commitment become soul mates, which takes a lifetime to perfect.”
~Criss Jami, Venus in Arms~
See ya on the rivah...............hopefully discovering that space we never stop searching for. PEACE
To see what it is like when that space between is found, click here........The Space Between
To see what it is like when that space between is found, click here........The Space Between
