Cedar, P-Nut and Fred

 

 Stranded on an island with no way to reach the rest of the world except via kayak, uncertain how to make repairs and food choices shrinking, I can only ask why I do this.  I could be at home with no cares, no worries.  

  "Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

<Dylan Thomas>

"The hardest part of coping with all the changes we encounter throughout our lives is learning to divorce from the present as it relates to the past.  If you long for the things of youth then you will lose your way.  Just realize that you can carve out a space for yourself and just lay low, letting the turmoil pass.  Enjoy what's left and to hell with the mess around you"  <P. G. MaGuire

I was going to be stranded for at least a few days.  The regulations say that when camping (mooring) you must move at least one river mile every two weeks.  Stranded as I was, my only option for moving would be to call for a tow back to home port, an almost all-day enterprise, else I would technically be in violation.  I doubt that should I overstay my docking I would be in serious trouble since I have found most TWRA officials to be reasonable, but I do like to stay as legal as I can.

So what to do?  I sourced my parts with my internet connection and placed orders.  I have been extremely lucky when I have found myself in dire straights.  When I was on the Natchez Trace Trail with a broken trailer axel and a hurricane approaching the Gulf Shores forcing closure of the Trace, I managed with friends and internet orders/Tractor Supply/local Ace Hardware to make repairs and escape before I would be forced to abandon my rig and evacuate.  This may sound like something insignificant, but the fact that all these many and variable things came together just in the nick of time and actually managed to fit and function is a small miracle.  Similar things have happened before like the time I was stranded in Missouri and sourced bolts from a picnic table (I owe you one -- or two) to make repairs to a broken alternator mount on my camper truck, allowing me to make it home before the worst of the Fauchi Flu closings took effect.  These things combine to teach me what I consider a truth of life:  Never expect the worst.  Instead expect the best.  What's to lose?  I really think that your attitude in adversity has some influence on how the challenge will end.

While stranded I paddled over to Loyston Point.  Here's some info about old Loyston:

My bucket tomatoes thrived.  Unfortunately they failed to bear fruit.  I suspect that my constant moving when I finally got underway again confused any potential pollinator bees and I had only pretty plants with colorful and aromatic blooms.

Sweet pepper plants did not fare so well either:

 Catfish and drum seemed to like me.  I like then too.  Canned food got a bit old after a few days.

 I broke out a can of pickled eggs thinking that they might make a good exception to fish and beans.  They are indeed colorful, but not being a devoted fan of sour rubber, they are not really one of my favorite foods.

Not much to do while waiting on parts.  I finally mustered enough make-do tools to remove the old steering cable and do some maintenance in anticipation of the new parts.  I pass over this in just a few words, but it was not a quick nor easy repair.  I pried and hammered and cussed more than a few times before I was even ready to install the new cable and steering wheel (they came as a complete rig).

"What would you do for a Klondike Bar?"

((((the paddle for icecream and the trailer back with parts and friend sam visit and rescue)))))

The repairs prove it's a lot of work doing nothing.  Part of the adventure -- proof of life.  inexperienced boatman got educated by high waters and point dockin

(expand thought: countries that survive must be like surviving people.  Young are energetic, curious, submissive to authority.  Prime life is for expansion, dominance and mastership.  Age brings wosdom and acceptance and a smiling acceptance -- hopefully with strength like the hornets nest.)  

"If not for the courage of the fearless crew"', the Freebird would be lost (or something)

One of my biggest surprises as I tied up at different spots along the banks were all the different types of soils I found.  I am not a geologist by any definition of the word, and I cannot correctly identify the different soils I find; but I recognize their differences.  This would not be especially remarkable or even noticeable if I did not take into account that the lake level is the same throughout, meaning that I was not finding different soils at different altitudes.  Different altitude distribution could be attributed to erosion and would be less surprising.  Since all these different soils, most times less than a mile apart, were so diverse, it caught my attention.  Correctly or not, I draw the conclusion that the land must have been smashed together during the formation and "wrinkled" up against the Cumberland range, buckling the different layers in random fashion.  Or something else!?

Here are some images copied from the University of Tennessee collection:

I blasted off again toward the "Loyston Sea", a very wide portion of Norris Lake.  It is shallow in many parts with several islands.  It is bottom land once home to the settlement named for the Loy family, thus Loy's Town (Loyston).  The whole 'town' was taken and flooded when the gates of Norris were closed.

My steering mechanism was giving me considerable problem as I coursed my way up the Clinch.  I had foolishly failed to properly service my boat after it had been unused for three summers.  In the beginning I had settled for just getting the steering loose enough to steer, but a left turn (port for us real mariners -Ha) was stiff and not full.  I had been struggling when turning since I left home.  A little aggravated as I tried to turn a hard left into the bank on Pilot Island, I put too much pressure on the wheel and something snapped.  I had hope to free up the snag in the cable.  Instead I snapped what later turned out to be a rusty mechanism attached to a frayed cable.  I was effectively marooned when I managed to slide up to the bank and tie up.

A very crude sketch of the steering mechanism.  A cylinder houses a sort of piston which attaches to a steering cable (left).  This piston slides in either direction according to the steering wheel while moving a control arm that rotates the motor for direction of travel.  The cylinder and piston must slide freely for effective control.  In my case, years of neglect rendered the cylinder and piston both covered and pitted with rust.  My forceful attempt to steer simply jammed the mechanism and caused the frayed cable to separate.  I became effectively shipwrecked.

(That's Freebird parked in the bushes along the bank of Pilot Island.  I snapped the picture from my kayak, my only mode of commuting to the "mainland" while awaiting repair parts.)

 

My neighbor most mornings while moored 

(Look closely above and you will see a bald eagle waiting for surface ripples indicating a fish he hopes to have for breakfast.)  

The lake level meant that most of my moorings left me sitting right amongst the trees.

One-a-them funny camera things I don't fully understand.  My shirt is not labeled backwards like an ambulance.

While I tried to repair my steering I thought I had rigged a useable substitute that would allow my journey to continue.  The lines (see below) rotated the engine more fully and more smoothly than the original system.  I just fed the ends of the lines through my back window and pulled for steering.  Worked beautifully  --  until the motor was running.  Newton's 'invention', inertia, proved to be my downfall.  It took tremendous effort to change direction when the boat was in motion and the propeller was cutting through the water.  I did manage to visit the dock at Loyston Point one time, but it was torture trying to avoid boat traffic and account for wind.  This became even more pronounced while I was at Pilot since Memorial Day was fast approaching with its onslaught of speed boats, wake boarders and a few stubborn fishermen.

I lacked many parts as well as proper tools to effectively make my repairs.  I ended up improvising while learning about the system I had to fix.  Having never disassembled these things before, it was a harsh learning experience.  Thankfully I had excellent phone service and Google along with YouTube gave me a quick education. But I was far from solving my dilemma.  I still had to somehow round up the parts, more tools and take some food.  I was catching some fish (rare occurrence for me), but even fresh fish need a little help to complete a meal.   As I waited, the holiday weekend arrived.  Friday was overcast.  Saturday and Sunday were dismal and not lake friendly for the party crowd.  I thought things would remain calm despite the predicted sunshine for the official holiday on Monday.  My thinking was that the weekend invasion of boater would give up and leave for home on Monday.  I soon got educated.

 

 

Recent memories and older times

Once when I was wandering in my camper before the shutdown I found a place called Great Valley or Grand Valley, something like that.  It is just inside Kentucky and in or near Big South Fork NRA.  I think the Sheltowee Trace hiking trail crosses in this area.  I found it on a camping app, and always looking for new places, I drove the several miles over forest roads to find one of the strangest sights I have ever seen.  

The winding road snakes through what is almost a tunnel in the trees.  Suddenly it opens up to a little creek bottom.  On both sides of the road are official camping areas.  One side is more fully developed than the other, but both pleasantly located.  Mind you, this place has the feeling of being right smack dab in the middle of nowhere.  I drove in that day to find the side near the creek full, save one camp spot.  There were rather nice motor homes and fifth wheel campers in all the other spots.  There were bicycles and tricycles and assorted children's toys, balls, jump ropes, all sorts of things.  The place looked like kids had been playing when their mommas called them all in for dinner.  I parked in the only empty spot -- camping is free, first come first served -- and set up camp.  I kept waiting for someone to come out of one of the campers.  Nobody!  I walked around expecting to see someone.  Still not a soul on site.  It was absolutely eerie.  I half way expected Rod Serling to step in, breaking the forth wall, cigarette in hand and delivering his familiar monologue.

The best explanation I have is that a long weekend was coming (Independence Day) and all the people had set up the previous weekend in order to have a prime spot.  They trusted others way more than I can muster.  I could have looted several thousands of dollars were I of the right persuasion.  I didn't touch anything not mine and left the following morning after a sweet night's sleep beside the mountain stream.

At Chuck Swan I found old graveyards.  Since they would never be flooded by the lake, TVA did not relocate the dead.  This place had the same vibes as Grand Valley, except different.  One of the cemeteries, the Bollinger plot according to the sign, is still well maintained and is decorated each Memorial Day.  It was just a few days before Memorial Day and lots of new flowers were already present.  I hope my gravel crunching footsteps did not rattle the calm and stillness.