West Irvine to Drowning Creek
By Gortimer T. Spotts
We’d agreed to rally at dawn and attack the river before the unseasonably scalding June sun had a chance to fully preheat the western hemisphere. But a very small window is the dawn. I awoke at noon and hustled to Mayer Manor on the north side of Lex, well, just north of center, to rendezvous with the General and Northrupp, who were both convalescing with the Mayer family on a kind of sympathetic and extended maternity leave. General Dallas, bare-chested and unshaven, greeted me at the kitchen door holding baby Josie just like a nursing mother, a delicate white towel draped over the shoulder, a corncob pipe clenched in the jaw, unlit. “Good morning, young Gortimer. We’re just wrapping up the morning feed.” And just then Northrupp appeared at the foot of the stairs with two loaded dry bags and two collapsible coolers slung over his arm. “Ah, Gorty, you’re early. Think we’re all ready.” With quiet goodbyes to the semi-roused parents, we made our break, the General plugging baby Josie back into her vintage General Electric Slumbersling and turning the dial to eleven, heavy drool mode.
The drive to Irvine
The drive to Irvine took longer than it should have due to the fragile condition of the borrowed Isuzu Rodeo, which seemed to be operating exclusively on escape velocity, that strange phenomenon whereby certain organisms and mechanisms seem just to elude death the older they get, beating the odds the rest of us organisms and mechanisms are doomed to fail against. Northrupp massaged it ever onward, and we reached West Irvine by 2 p.m. just as the clouds that were threatening rain dissipated to the south. At the gas station nearest the 52 bridge, we stocked up on last minute essentials, an extra jug of water and two heat-lamp corndogs. “Better eat ‘em quick or these dogs will want something in return,” Northrupp muttered as we loaded back into the Rodeo.
Within twenty minutes, we were on the water, shuffling and restowing gear, checking trim and draft, just off the state ramp, a mile or so down stream from the mouth of Station Camp Creek, where the ancient “Warrior’s Path” crossed the river and where in 1750 a very self-satisfied Doc Walker made camp, having recently named the Cumberland Gap the Cumberland Gap.
“Boys, we don’t have time for sightseeing around here. Too much river to cover today. Better get underway.” And with that, General Dallas set off like a torpedo, his long, thin Old Town Dirigo slicing the water with but a shimmer of wake. “I’ll see you at Cubbard Rock,” he called as he shrunk into the developing summer haze.
Coca from Patoka
“If we’re going to keep the General in our sights, we’d better chew some of these. I picked ‘em up on a layover in Bolivia last week.” Northrupp gently sidled his canoe up to mine, extending the opened end of a brown paper bag in my direction. “What’s this?” I asked as I reached in and grabbed a handful of little waxy leaves. “Coca from Patoka,” Northrupp grinned, his lower lip and jaw already stuffed green. Within minutes, we were grinding away at the river, small scale Vikings with newfound chemical vigor.
Between Locks 12 and 10, the Kentucky River threads three distinct geographical regions, the Cumberland Plateau, the Knobs, and the Bluegrass, with the Pottsville Escarpment cutting through at a southwest to northeast angle. But these different regions don’t announce themselves; from the surface of the river, they seem to dance and mingle, a knob to the north, rolling savanna to the south, a long narrow ridge appearing in the next bend, followed by tree-lined, pasture bottomland, and so on and so forth. Each new bend seemed to offer a new type of terrain. The river has autonomy; the land to either side just seems to form and reform its identity like a deep green condensation, and in the condensation we glimpsed the acts of man played out in theater of the absurd.
Case in point: the Southeast Coal Company’s processing operation above Cubbard Rock, near the hamlet of Calloway Crossing. Northrupp and I cleared the ever so slight mile-long dogleg bend downstream from White Oak Creek and between the four of our nearsighted eyes, spied the General in riverine stasis, his tie-die colored Old Town cloaked muddy by the intensity of his concentration, his gaze fixed on what appeared to us (a half mile upstream behind him) to be the leading ledge of Cubbard Rock. “What the hell is that thing?” General seemed to ask the sky. “It’s…it’s…shitting yellow water into the river…”
Yes it is, came a voice from nowhere. “Yes it is what?” General turned ever so slightly in his yak. Yes it is shitting yellow water into the river, and it has been for many, many years. You can’t wash coal without fouling the water table for good. That’s the nature of unnatural things.
“Northrupp, is that you?” The deep blue storm front that had dissipated at our put-in reinserted itself with a light spattering. Northrupp and I had just come upon the General, we two in an elevated and tad bit giddy state but determined like seasoned water mules. “No, that definitely wasn’t me, General.” Northrupp interrupted. “It wasn’t me either.” I added.
“There’s something else paddling with us, boys. It’s giving me signals, information.” The General was pale-faced, serious. “This is some serious-bad fouled earth we’re looking at. I’m hearing the ghost of waters-past.” Cubbard Rock presented itself beneath the remains of a massive water intake and tipple.
“This view sucks” Northrupp said, shaking his summer mane. Renewing his coca leaf cud, he cut a fierce wake around the next sharp bend. He was right. The entire bank—the entire bend—seemed an open wound, oozing a rust-colored acidic goop accumulated under decades of coal piled house-high. This was a grand mess to last a life time and all of it right on the water’s edge. “I wonder if Southeast Coal had to pay for the mess they made?” I thought out loud. Don’t be silly, replied the ghost-voice. With a wave of disgust from the General, we pushed off in pursuit of Northrupp.
This is not the RINY-B
The next two miles clipped by in a coca-leaf blur, and at last Northrupp came into view just as the bow of his canoe disappeared into the mouth of Calloway Creek. The light spattering of rain picked up into a heavy drizzle, backed by deep rumbling to our east. “It would appear we’ve flanked the brunt of the storm, Gortimer.” The General cut his yak hard to starboard and entered the creek mouth. “Let’s wait out this little squall under the canopy here.”
Fifty or so yards in, a massive deadfall closed off navigation, and there Northrupp stood upright, his feet balanced on the gunnels of his boat, his gaze fixed on the train trestle looming overhead above the canopy. “Is this part of the old RINY-B railroad?”
“It’s the L&N. This line runs up through Winchester and north. The RINY-B would have run on the south side of the river from Richmond to Irvine.” General Dallas was shuffling through his maps, drifting slowly back toward the mouth. “Looks like the weather’s breaking, boys. Better cut a choagie if we want to make Drowning Creek by sundown.” And he was right. It was already 4:30 and we’d barely made five miles. We hit the mainstream with the General forcing a hard pace.
Up on Drowning Creek
Richardson and Shaving Machine Bend’s came and went, and just when I thought my biceps would explode, Northrupp cut hard to port and pointed in the General’s direction. “Follow his lead. Looks like he’s found the mouth of Drowning Creek.” Drowning Creek, the jagged boundary between Estill and Madison Counties, empties into the Kentucky at a 45 degree angle, all but hidden from upstream approach. The General seemed to disappear into a tangled bank. Once inside the mouth, however, the creek opened up, fifty feet wide with maples and sycamores on either side interweaving an arched canopy overhead. We eased our way up and around several large bends with broad bottomland on the Madison county side, rising to high meadow and wooded hillock, and steep, wooded palisade and outcropping on the Estill County side. At last we came upon a riffle and shoal, and General gave us the “this place and no farther” nod.
Having paddled half the Kentucky’s 254 some-odd-mile mainstream over the years with my current comrades, we had honed river camping to a fine skill. Each outing seemed a fine tuning of the balance between necessity and comfort. We unpacked our gear in neat piles according to use: tents, tarps, bedding over here, stoves, utensils, country provender over there. The only luxury I’d afforded myself was Big Black Johnson, the incredibly cheap, laminated, jet black acoustic guitar I’d acquired as final payment on an old debt—the perfect instrument for a river bivouac. Should it succumb to the elements, be needed as a paddle, life preserver, or even emergency kindling, it would be no great loss.
It was 7:30 when we entered the mouth of Drowning Creek. By 8:30 it was dark and our camp was set. Northrupp and the General foraged for firewood while I arranged a flat rock for cooking and unpacked the two single burner stoves from their dry bag. The General treated us to an amazing dinner: thick, perfectly marbled ribeyes and a medley of collard greens, kale, bok choy, borage, and green onions from his award-winning garden, flash-wilted in steak-grease delicately cut with olive oil. One large Idaho baker, sliced in thick chips and fried in the remaining grease rounded out the feast. In all, the meal was a pleasant vacation from our staple river rat mulligan stew. For desert, we set about soaking our livers in various distillations, but ever the thoughtful provider, General’s New Amsterdam Gin shots with lime wedges seemed most complimentary to the coca cuds we couldn’t seem to relinquish.
Uncle Ranck’s Tales
After a few river ballads on Johnson, we settled back around the fire like civilized gentlemen, and this trip being my turn to provide the pre-slumber reading, I unpacked the copy of George W. Ranck’s 1901 Boonesborough: Its founding, pioneer struggles, Indian experiences, Transylvania days, and revolutionary annals for post-nosh ponderance.
The General turned in his gravelly repose. “Ah, Uncle Ranck…” Northrupp stared a thousand miles into the fire. I began: “Gentlemen, fellow rafters of the sixth life of the Kentucky River, slackwater paddle-venturists, tonight I’m pleased to offer selections from Lexington’s own Mr. Ranck, esteemed member of the Filson Club. This is the sweeping account of the Henderson Company’s saga and the travails of Dan’l Boone, our colonial hero-king-pioneer-revolutionary…explorer, uh, hero.” I adjusted my reading lamp. “I’ll begin with ‘The Great Grant’, March 17th, 1775”:
“Boone, who had been commissioned by the Company to open a road to the Kentucky River, never ceased collecting woodmen in Powell’s Valley for the work, and concentrated them at Long Island, in the Holston. While arrangements for the expedition were being made, provisions for the entertainment of the Cherokees went on to the appointed conference ground, and so did the Indians and the white men, and early in March, 1775, the biggest crowd that had ever gathered in the Watauga Settlement of North Carolina was encamped about the stockaded cabins of Sycamore Shoals… The negotiators in behalf of the Company were Henderson and Boone, Nathaniel Hart and Luttrell. The most prominent representatives of the Indians were Ocanostota, the aged, crippled, and distinguished head of the Cherokees; the remarkable Attacullaculla, withered and even more aged, but still reputed the ablest of the Indian diplomatists; Savanooko, and Dragging Canoe.
“Days were consumed in the consideration of the boundaries and extent of the territory the Company desired, the price offered, and the wisdom of making such a sale, and interpreters were kept busy translating “talks” and documents and speeches. Earnest protests against the treaty were made by orators of the Cherokees, and especially by the eloquent and prophetic Dragging Canoe, but without effect, and on the 17th of March “The Great Grant” was signed, and for the merchandise then stored on ground and valued at ₤10,000 Henderson and his associates were declared owners of territory south of the Kentucky River, comprising more than half of the present state of Kentucky. The twelve hundred Indians present assented to the treaty, and, though a few of them grumbled that they had received only one shirt apiece for their share of the territory, the transaction seems to have been open and fair, and certainly they all joined at the close of the meeting in the big feast the Company had provided.”
I paused for a moment to listen to the gurgling shoal-water. Northrupp eased back onto the creek-cobble and re-fixed his stare on the fireflies’ million-strong strobe through the canopy. Just as I returned my headlamp to the text, the General spake:
“Ah, Uncle Ranck. You know, boys, my maternal grandmother was the bastard sister of George Ranck. Yes, apparently old man Ranck had a drunken tryst with a lowly maid at “The Lucky Clover” down on De Roode Street. This maid, my ancestor, hailed from the heart of Irish Town on Lexington’s lower west side. The product of this lusty liaison grew up impoverished, never once enjoying the genteel graces the wealth of her “unknown” father could have provided. Meanwhile, her half-brother, George Ranck, rose on the calm swell of age-old affluence, gaining prominence as a narrativist of history and conspirator to provincial myths.
“When Darla, my grandmother, came of age, she was hired by none other than George Ranck, her own flesh and blood yet unrevealed, to serve as house-maid and nanny. In this capacity, she learned a great deal about the settlement of Kentucky, as Uncle Ranck was given to dictating his notes with voluminous gusto to his ever-present secretary, young Nimrod Richardson. In her feather-dusting, Darla relived the tribulations of those early days.
“When I was but a sprout, she recounted verbatim the tragic demise of one Richard Calloway, companion to Boone, and heroic defender of Boonesborough. You’ll remember the creek we sheltered in earlier today, Calloway Creek? It takes its name from poor Richard.”
The General paused, the fire reflecting on his wire-rimmed spectacles. “It was the spring of 1780, and the Indians were, alas, not too happy with life. And here I’m quoting grandma Darla quoting Uncle Ranck:
“Early in March Colonel Calloway began preparations to establish his ferry, and on the eighth of the month while he, Pemberton Rawlings (or Rollins), and three negro men were building a ferryboat on Canoe Ridge, about a mile above Boonesborough, a volley of rifle shots was heard, and shortly after one of the negroes rushed, panting and terrified, into the settlement with the news that the boat-builders had been attacked by Indians. A party of riflemen, headed by Captain Holder, and including young Bland Ballard, then just commencing his career as a scout and spy, galloped to the rescue, but were too late.
“Colonel Calloway had been instantly killed, scalped, and robbed of most of his clothing. Rawlings had been shot down, tomahawked in the back of the neck, and scalped, but, though mortally wounded, was still alive, and the two negroes were prisoners, destined for savage slavery. They were heard of no more. The Indians who, almost as a matter of course, were Shawanese, and who successfully eluded pursuit, had evidently watched the movements of the boat-builders, and fired with impunity from a nearby place of concealment.
“There was sudden, crushing grief in two homes, and sorrow throughout the settlement as the stricken forms were tenderly brought in, and there was even deeper gloom soon after, for the terribly wounded Rawlings died before the setting of the sun. The gallant old leader and his brave lieutenant were buried in one grave back of the fort they had helped to defend, and where the soil they loved overlooks the beautiful river that is consecrated to the memory of the pioneers.”
General paused again to gather his thoughts and light the corncob pipe. Northrupp expelled a large coca-cud and sipped from a chilled bottle of Svetka.
“Colonel Calloway’s hair was noticeable both for its length and for its peculiar shade of gray, and when the scalp was carried by the exulting savages to their town across the Ohio it was recognized with horror and sadness by Joseph Jackson, one of Boone’s unfortunate party of salt-boilers of the Blue Licks, who was still a captive.”
“And that, my comrades,” General waved off the story as though done with it, “is the long and short of Richard Calloway’s last day on earth.” The fireflies continued their grand synaptic display while the gurgling riffle on Drowning Creek offered its hypnotic counterpoint.
“What a marvelous coincidence, my choosing to bring along Ranck and Ranck being your…illegitimate great-uncle. Simply marvelous. With friends like you, who needs popular culture?”
I waited for some reply, but the two dark forms before me had lapsed into post-paddle comatose, sawing logs befitting a godly fortress in the savage wilderness.
To be continued…
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