Mountains to the Sea

All night long, the rain pattered on the roof of our cabin in Black Mountain, NC. It was gentle and quieting and the seven other dads and our eight daughters dozed peacefully in their bunks. I checked my watch—2:30 am—and scrunched lower in my sleeping bag.

Pop had a favorite expression he used when he was particularly satisfied with life: “It ain’t bad livin’.” As I drifted back to sleep that night, wondering idly what three days of steady rain would have done to the river levels and our upcoming white-water rafting expedition, I heard Pop distinctly. “It ain’t bad livin’, Dar,” he said.

At that moment, I had to agree.

The Y-Guides program is a nation-wide program for dads and their sons and/or daughters. Based loosely on Native American culture, “tribes” of 6-10 dads and their kids are created.

The program has been around for decades; I was in it with my dad. There are solemn ceremonies where you pick your Native American name, earn feathers, bang the tribal drum. The program for 6-8 yos is relatively tame; the real fun begins once you graduate to the Trailblazers program.

So on this outing, me and the 15 other members of the Pouncing Puma tribe slept in blissful ignorance. In just a few hours, we were going white-water rafting on the French Broad river—the same one that became a torrent of biblical proportions recently during Hurricane Helene.

We ate breakfast, then boarded one of the buses that were carrying tribes several thousand feet higher to the entry point.

As the buses made hair-pin turns and the air brakes squealed in protest, a staff member of the YMCA stood up in front.

“OK, dads,” he said loudly. “We’re going to watch a short safety video. I need you to please watch it and pay attention.” He pointed to the ceiling of the bus where video screens were located by every other seat. The dads looked at each other with satisfaction as our girls snickered and talked about boys. This is gonna be great.

For the next 15 minutes, we learned about the many ways you could lose your life while whitewater rafting. Falling out of the raft and striking your head; drowning; and everybody’s favorite, foot entrapment, where your foot got lodged between underwater rocks, you couldn’t move, and the river essentially water-boarded you to death.

After the video, clipboards and legal forms were passed around to be signed, releasing the YMCA from all liability. The dads looked around in unease: Are we sure we want to do this?

At the entry point, we met our guide, Mark, one of the most placid, Zen-like people I’d ever encountered. The three days of rain had turned the normally tranquil French Broad river into a raging deluge.

As Mark calmly addressed our group, the river thundered behind him; white spray erupted from boulders in mid-stream. All I could think of was foot entrapment and how were they gonna get me loose for the funeral? Judging by their expressions, the other dads were having similar thoughts. We boarded our rafts; I made sure I picked the one with Mark.

The first mile or two was beautiful. The river widened and we gently floated along, enjoying the spring mountains of western North Carolina.

Everything had the light green tint of mid-spring, new leaves coming out after a season of rest. The mountain laurel and rhododendrons were in bloom and the pink and white blossoms ran from the summits down to the river’s edge.

The sun came out and warmed us; not far from us was the highest peak in the eastern continental United States, Mount Mitchell. At 6,683 ft (2,037 meters), it presided over the Appalachian mountains and the eastern continental divide. We were surrounded by craggy summits almost as high. It was beautiful, inspiring.

Fifteen minutes later, Mark tightened his life preserver and adjusted his helmet. I looked ahead to where he was looking and gulped. The rived narrowed again and I could see massive boulders and more white spray. Mark raised his voice just a bit and calmly told everyone to get ready.

I wasn’t sure what to expect, but a feeling of absolute helplessness gripped me. For the next two miles or so, I wouldn’t say we floated; it was more like going over a slightly flatter version of Niagara Falls. I was glad I was in the raft with Mark. He expertly used his oar to move us through raging passages between boulders, over falls, keeping us pointing forward. I saw other tribe members with less experienced guides swirling round and round in whirlpools behind boulders.

After a break for lunch…to let the kids jump off some two-story boulders into the river and the obligatory pictures…we resumed. The second half seemed even rougher than the first. I was horrified to see a raft with some of our tribe members capsize; their bobbing heads went over a waterfall. I hoped they remembered their foot entrapment lesson.

Thankfully, all 16 members of the Pouncing Puma tribe survived. We went back to Camp Rockmont and as we packed up, we regaled each other with war stories. We left feeling tired, fortunate…and complete, somehow. Sorta like Tom Cruise in “Jerry Maguire.”

It was only a three-hour trip from the highlands of the Appalachians to the Piedmont region of Raleigh where we live. Kari and I swung in, grabbed our beach gear, and 15 minutes later our family was heading down I-40 towards Carolina Beach, NC. From our home, it’s a two hour trip.

Fortunately for me, it was a rising low tide and a nice day with offshore winds. I couldn’t wait. As soon as we we lugged in the groceries, I grabbed my board and was soon out in the line-up, conversing with some surf buddies.

After several hours, the tides had risen so that no rideable waves were breaking. I didn’t care. I was happy to sit in the now-empty lineup as the western skies turned from golden to rose and consider all that had happened in the previous 24 hours: Camping; a hair-raising ride; a five-hour dash from the mountains to the sea; catching waves; and now watching the moon come up the eastern sky.

Someday I hope to hike from the Appalachians to the Atlantic on North Carolina’s Mountain to the Sea Trail.

But until then, I’ll be contented to wander around mountain streams and fish; or surf or simply sit on the beach under an umbrella with a cold one.

And realize it ain’t bad livin’.

© My little corner of the world 2024

Photos all by the author with the exception of the spring mountains… that one’s from Bing images.