Canoeing South Chickamauga Creek

This past Sunday, two close friends and I gave spring an overdue welcome by canoeing South Chickamauga Creek. Patrick and Stephanie love to canoe as much as I do and Patrick and I have taken a few trips together before. He and I still talk about a daylong jaunt that took us from Camp Jordan to Coolidge Park years ago. Yesterday, we were not quite as ambitious and decided we'd only explore South Chickamauga Creek. For those of you unfamiliar with the area, this waterway runs from Chickamauga to Ringgold through East Brainerd before ending at Camp Jordan in East Ridge. Our destination yesterday was the old mill in Graysville.
The trip began with naysayers overhead on the bridge stating that they hoped we'd "had our Wheaties" that morning. They snapped a few pictures of us setting out on our trip. Provisioned with some cold water, Gatorade and some trail mix we rode the gentle current of West Chickamauga Creek to where we'd begin our journey up South Chickamauga Creek. If you have never seen the place, it is a picturesque meeting of three different waterways. Our first challenge awaited us as we rounded the bend. A deceivingly strong set of rapids greeted us. The rapids appeared to gently flow over the shallow waters with only a small whitecap to make it even known. We hit them head on and they spun us around and sent us back downstream. Was this nature's way of warning of us of the forbidding waters that lay ahead?
The answer is no. On a second attempt we circumvented the rapids with ease and were on our way. To the left the bustling sounds of I-75 hummed through the air. To the right the sounds of the soccer fields competed with the flow of traffic. We were not able to pay either much heed as strong undercurrents continued to greet us. As our trip continued we found the right creek bank dotted with immaculate homes and to the left the public golf course. Not far from the abodes of the well to do, we found a shoddily made dock and campsite. A stone's throw from the dock was a tent. We questioned if this place was the doing of those living nearby or homeless people. The two people outside the tent were not dressed the part of somebody well off and they were not kids, but grown men. This leads me to believe this was a homeless camp as I don't see those living nearby setting up a campsite so close to home or along the South Chickamauga Creek for that matter. While it is a very pretty place, this section of the creek it is not known as a tourist destination or even one frequented by outdoor enthusiasts and campers. Neither of the campers paid us any heed as we passed and they were gone on our return trip.
Not too long after passing the campsite, we came upon our first landmark: a railroad trestle that crosses the creek. We admired the dedicated graffiti artist that emblazoned a pot leaf on the side of the bridge. The spray painting maestro must have been high to have created this artistic wonder as it appeared one would have to have hung on to the bridge with one hand and painted with the other. The trestle would be our first stopping point. Hoping to find a more convenient launching point for the canoe on future trips, we disembarked the canoe and had a look around. I ventured up a dirt road that just went on and on and Patrick took the other path that was well fenced and marked with No Trespassing signs. We poked around a few more minutes and admired more graffiti before setting off upstream again.
Our greatest challenge against the current lay ahead. This one spun sideways again and at one point, even with all three of us paddling, we sat stationary. Jokingly I thrashed my hips forward in my seat and to our surprise the canoe lurched forward and we were on our way again. We decided a short time later to stop again and enjoy a snack and cold drink. The frozen bottles of Gatorade I had packed had melted to the perfect consistency, offering a slushy icy mix of lemon-lime flavor. As we sat there enjoying the sounds of nature and the solitude it offered, a voice from nowhere asked from the hill above, "What river is this?" Patrick answered the attractive female golfer and we all chuckled at how it seemed we were in the middle of nowhere and all alone.
We set off again after this brief rest and it wasn't too much time later that we found that our trip upstream was over. As Patrick and I have encountered many times before, fallen trees blocked creek. He and I have lugged the canoe over such obstacles before, but we'd been on the water a while and decided this was a good turn around point. If we had to turn around someplace, this was a good one. The right bank of the creek was very pretty farm land with a trail that lined the creek. A decaying barn sat off in the distance and to add to the atmosphere, an old rope swing dangled lifelessly over the water. It had long fallen out of use as the trees that had consumed the banks around it made clear nobody had used it in a very long time.
Our long fight against the upstream current was rewarded handsomely on our return trip. We glided down the creek with ease, having to only break out the paddles occasionally and to steer the canoe when needed. The distance it took two hours to travel upstream took only 25 minutes on the return trip. We admired again the dedicated graffiti artist’s handiwork on the other side of the bridge and questioned the folly of somebody who tried to drive to the creek bank for a look around. On our way back, we saw group of people gathered around a pickup truck hopelessly spinning its wheels in the air as the front wheels were submerged in a boggy mud hole that bordered the creek. Apparently the driver had driven the length of the dirt road that ended at the creek and instead of backing back down the road thought he could turn around. Even with the truck teeter-tottering on the creek bank, the people seemed in good spirits though, drinking beer and laughing and even yelling to us "How y'all doing?" My thought was "Better than you" because the plight of the truck looked hopeless even if the assistance of the best equipped tow truck were called to the scene.

We drifted smoothly over the initial set of rapids that had given us so much trouble and our journey was over. Patrick ended the journey giving back to nature. As we removed the canoe from the water, he saw a baby turtle on the walking path and he moved it to safety. It was a great day for us all and an experience I hope we can enjoy again soon.