Riverventure Part Three

I have always had a healthy respect and admiration for our apex predators in the wild, especially those that present occasional hazards to us humans.

But as I closed in on the Coastal Plain during my cross-state canoe trip in September of 2007, I contracted an irrational case of “gator phobia.” Dozens of 14- to 16-foot specimens sunned themselves along the shorelines of the rivers and lakes, including one that quietly slid into the dark water and stalked my canoe from behind for several hundred feet.

At Santee State Park along the shore of Lake Marion, the staff was buzzing over the news of a nearby non-fatal alligator attack on a man who was swimming during a company picnic. There were newspaper clippings posted on the bulletin boards with color pictures and gruesome details that were hardly fit to print. Soon, the cold-blooded creatures occupied most of my waking thoughts.

A wary gator

When I paddled over a submerged log, it was an alligator. Momentarily, a mud turtle with its head sticking out from the water was an alligator. When there was any splash near the shoreline or a bird flew overhead and cast its shadow across the water, it was – you guessed it – an alligator. The phantom gators in my head became far worse than any real one.

With passing time and additional encounters with these creatures, however, I became more philosophical about their presence, eventually embracing them as a living metaphor for the disappearing wilderness of the great Coastal Plain. I no longer looked into their cold eyes with fear, but instead saw fear and mistrust reflected back at me. With exploding suburban sprawl and more frequent contact with humans, cohabitation would not bode well for these misunderstood creatures and I sensed they knew it.

Alligators would become the primary companion of mine from the Santee to the brackish waters of Cooper River near Charleston and I began to actually take comfort in their company. I was a visitor in their homes, after all, and they accepted me - if only as a temporary houseguest.

A cypress sunrise, Lake Marion

Crossing Lakes Marion and Moultrie was extremely taxing on me physically. From the headwaters of Marion to the locks at Pinopolis, I logged nearly sixty lake miles on these two enormous reservoirs, often into a blustery headwind and through rough, choppy waves.

Lakes Marion and Moultrie are connected by a seven-mile diversion canal, which allows water to flow from one major river system into another. Water from Lake Marion that does not get pulled through the Marion Dam and into the lower Santee River is diverted into Lake Moultrie and the Cooper River system. I took the diversion canal for my route and I was treated to a wonderful sandwich lunch at one of the several dockside restaurants.

The Pinopolis Dam backs up and impounds Lake Moultrie while offering boats a safe passage via the Pinopolis Lock, which elevates or drops seventy-five feet from lake to tide level and vice versa. Non-motorized boats were not allowed through the lock, but since the operator and owner of the lock and dam was also my primary financial sponsor, Santee Cooper, an exception was made for me.

I wish I could say it was exciting, but I found it to be a rather routine, businesslike experience. My excitement grew only when the huge swinging doors were opened and I was looking at a new river ahead of me. Once again, there was current to the water.

Self portrait, Lake Moultrie

My first night on the Cooper River found me camped atop an old, abandoned government dock on the river’s eastern bank. The dock was elevated twenty feet over the water and I needed to climb a makeshift ladder to get my gear and myself to the top deck. After a light dinner of rice and pasta, I watched the sun set over the wide, meandering river and waited for twilight to fade to dark. On the southwest horizon, I could recognize the faint lights of the Cooper River Bridge in Charleston. Overcome with emotion, I gazed in that general direction for several moments as the enormity of the past three weeks began to sink in. The finish line was in sight.

The following day, I caught a cresting tide and it pulled my craft forcefully toward the Atlantic Ocean with little or no effort needed on my part. As I approached metro Charleston later that afternoon, I began to scout out camping locations for my final night of the expedition. This would prove to be problematic.

Upriver of the I- 526 Bridge, both shorelines were restricted areas, enforced by the United States Naval Weapons Station. No stopping or slowing down was permitted so camping, obviously, was out of the question. Just downstream of the bridge, the eastern shoreline was too marshy for camping, walking, or even standing and the western side was a bustling Navy shipyard. I was less than ten miles from my final destination, but it was getting dark and the river’s shipping channel and the harbor were far too treacherous to paddle at night in my little canoe. I decided to remain awake and aboard the canoe in the safety of that general area for the night and then at first light, sprint through the harbor boat traffic and walk ashore triumphantly. That was the plan.

At 3:40 am, a large wake from a shipping barge hit my canoe broadside and capsized it, waking me from my sleep instantly. I was shocked to find myself bobbing in cold water, but I managed to hold onto the canoe and swim frantically to the shore, towing the craft behind me. I lost nearly everything in an instant. For the next three hours, I curled up in the salty marsh reeds trying to stay warm and imploring dawn to break. I was cold, wet, and utterly demoralized.

The final morning's sunrise, Charleston Harbor

Later, on a triangle of sandy shoreline beneath the storm wall along Charleston’s Battery Park, I beached my canoe one final time. It was 11:00 am when I met my family and friends, the ETV camera crew, and some local reporters. I was victorious, but beaten and wanted nothing more than to load up my tattered gear and go home. The television crew and reporters wanted some insightful sound bites, for which I was completely at a loss. Words felt cheap and none could adequately express the complex set of emotions I felt at the time.

How about some final words to let people know what it feels like to paddle 270 miles solo in a canoe across the state?

"I’m just glad that it’s over," I muttered unceremoniously.

And I was.

Copyright ©Richard Bernabe Inc. All Rights Reserved