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.

A back story

A little back story:

When I left home port the first time to go up Big Creek I took along an inflatable pontoon boat.  I thought this would be a good dingy and excursion boat I could use to explore while moored.  It came with oars, which I am really good at if I need to go around in circles, but I also had a small outboard I planned to use.  When I tried this boat for the first time I realized how impractical it would be to inflate it each time before use.  I tried leaving it inflated and towing it.  This too did not work well.  The only way I could imagine to store the boat when not in use was to construct a special rack, probably on the back, to hold the boat in ready condition less the motor which I could mount before use.  I decided against this because of problems I encountered with the motor.  

In order to use the motor in a practical way was to devise a new mount which might entail a bit of welding that I had neither the time nor the resources to do.  This was because the mount on the boat held the motor too high in the water.  When I angled the motor in a useable way I ended up riding with my "arse" in the water.  I am not fond of being wet every time I land somewhere to go for groceries or gas.  I abandoned the inflatable when I stopped off at home port.  I left my dingy and my first mate behind.  One by choice and the other against my will.

My solution was the kayak I already carried aboard.  I had some regrets about this change when I landed at Loyston needing boat parts and fuel.  The little kayak could only haul a limited amount of 'things' along with me.  A partial solution was to buy an inflatable float toy that I used as a towed trailer behind the kayak.  I'll get to that story and the tribulations I was soon to encounter in a future post.

The motor is mounted in these shots.  I covered it with a garbage bag, probably unnecessarily -- boat motors are expected to get wet -- right?

 

Chuck Swam WMA

Mooring at Chuck Swan Wildlife Management Area:

(An addendum:  More than 3 years since I first visited CSWMA by boat, it is yet almost impossible to learn the regulations for mooring.  I still read conflicting things online; the information I include here is still really hard to find; phone calls advertised to give advice, as well as voice mails and emails all go unanswered.)

CSWMA consists of nearly 25,000 acres taken by the Tennessee Valley Authority during the planning of Norris Lake.  It was ancestral home to many families, some of Native blood, others who had occupied the land for nearly two centuries.  Their land was taken under the eminent domain clause of the fifth amendment DESPITE THE FACT THAT HAS NEVER BEEN COVERED BY WATER.

When I tried up at CSWMA I thought I was legal.  I received advice that I may not be allowed to tie up over night.  I searched the net for any information I could find.  Finally, despite what seems to be an attempt to confuse the issue, I found some mention in an obscure article from a few years earlier.  It appears that I had docked for two nights illegally, but the next day I would be okay.  Since I wanted to stay a couple of nights longer I baited my lines and "fished" until midnight when I should be safe, then I slept soundly.

 In 1828 gold was discovered in North Georgia.  The discovery turned out to be pretty much of a dud, but the wealth seekers and the land speculators got themselves all aglow with excitement, ready to get rich.  The trouble was that the land belonged to the Cherokee Indians who had adapted to the ways of the new arrivals, becoming farmers and business people, had developed an alphabet and were by all definitions “civilized”.

Along comes Andy Jackson, a man who had lived through less peaceful times and understandably had less benevolent regards for the local tribes. (I am trying to be fair to Old Hickory in that I am sure his feelings regarding the Indians harked back to the uprisings and dastardly things done to the white settlers years before, an uprising where the old soldier first made his reputation.)  Influential speculators and a subservient Congress decided to take the land from the Indians. Jackson eagerly began the rounding up and marching along the converging routes that eventually became known as the Trail of Tears.

The communities that had claimed the ancestral lands for centuries, the Creek, Choctaw, Chickasaw, Seminole and the Cherokee were uprooted and forcibly removed to the Territory west of the Mississippi.  They were promised the land which became Oklahoma in perpetuity.

A small band of North Carolina Cherokees who had previously been granted lands (legal language is tricky -- grant means we will not steal it too) were allowed to keep their homes.  

What happened to the gold soon to be taken from the newly acquired treasure?  Alas, it turned out much like the Kelo property taken by New London, Connecticut just a few years ago (https://youtu.be/xCan-2SYmDY)

Almost a hundred years later history came to visit its repetition (or rhyme) upon the residents of the Tennessee Valley.  Ironically, many of these families had blood connection to the Cherokee and other tribes who had intermarried before the Removal Act and through the Eastern Tribe of the Cherokees who had remained behind.  And roots ran deep in the area enclosed by the coming new lakes, as evidenced by the fact that scores of graveyards remain from the earlier settlements. FDR set out to “save” the hillbillies in Appalachia, rescue them from their poverty despite the fact that there were fewer hungry people in the hills of the Tennessee Valley than could have been found in the limits of his own New York City or the “jungles” of Chicago.  Lorena Hatfield, girlfriend of the president’s wife, was assigned the task of evaluating the situation. Her arrogant and superior assessment:

“What to do with these people makes a nice little problem. Whether to move them off--and, if so, where to put them--or, on table land, for instance, where with careful and authoritative supervision they might eke out a living, leave them there and take a chance on their being absorbed in the industries that should be attracted down here by the cheap power furnished by TVA.

“There might be, I should think, the possibility of a sort of temporary supervision. Rehabilitate the present adult generation where they are. Try out orchards instead of corn on the table land, for instance. And have it understood that their children are not to inherit that land, but that it will be taken over by the Government as they die, the Government to pay the heirs for it, either with cash or land somewhere else. The idea was advanced by Grace Falke, Secretary Tugwell's assistant, who has joined me on this trip. Help the parents to get at least a fairly decent living now and do a bang-up job of public health and education on the children.”

(Sometimes when I write I hem myself into a box, a box where I feel inadequate or unable to grab the right words to continue.  This happened in the middle of this piece. I felt such strong emotions when I looked at what had occurred in the CSWMA that I was not sure I could complete my appraisal of what I saw around me.  I felt the heartbreak of the families who had been ripped from their roots and the connections they were forced to sacrifice, as did those kindred more than a century before. I did not think I could adequately write their story.  I feel no more capable now, but after a few days mentally dealing with all the changes since I left, I will do my best. Wish me luck!)

Mark Twain said that history did not repeat itself ---- but that it rhymes. And thus the cruel rhyme is visited upon the descendants of those a century before whose heartache watered The Trail of Tears.

As I walked along the quiet pathway dividing the  Chuck Swan Wild Life Management Area (CSWMA) I entered a secluded nook, a little valley of sorts, still and beautiful by its very seclusion.  Along the road was a border of daffodils in all their Spring splendor. I stopped and was overwhelmed by the tranquility and beauty surrounding me. But then reality slapped me.  I realized that these beautiful Spring blossoms were evidence of the rape that had occurred here years before. These harbingers of seasonal rebirth had once bordered a homestead for those who had loved this place as home, possibly for more than a century, were forced away as the machines of the leviathan were moved in to topple the home and all remnants of their formerly peaceful existence.  I looked more closely and I found what I knew was there, the foundation of the house and imprints of the outbuildings, all that remained, after a benevolent government made “some more enlightened improvements”. Entwined all along the roads in the CSWMA you will find these testaments of the arrogance of government and their all wise planers. Was it legal? Yes. Was it constitutional? In a distorted way, yes.  Was it right? I think it is never right to take something through force. God, save us from those who would do what is best for us.