The Rockcastle is a killer river, literally. To illustrate this point, there is a pretzel shaped aluminum canoesuspended from a tree at the local canoe livery. As we embarked, Bob told the story of his first trip down the river about thirty years ago, just after the movie, ”Deliverance” premiered and hosts of paddlers had taken to the wild rivers, especially the dangerous ones. At that time, if you hiked along the Rockcastle, you might finda broken paddle, the twisted shrapnel of a canoe, or an intact bottle of Boone’s Farm Apple Wine. The river
was swollen and muddy when Bob’s group ventured into its grip, but still safe if you stayed away from the massive rocks and portaged at the two mandatory spots that were clearly marked. Other groups joined the flow, which was fairly tame for the first ten miles. At the first portage, the canoes began to stack up as novices struggled to drag their boats between rocks, under and over driftwood and through the rhododendron tangles. Many beers were consumed with the exertion and to lighten the load of the coolers. The next few rapids were exhilarating but doable, each a little more difficult. Then the signs became as imperative as the loud sounds of crashing water. The final Narrows has a monstrous roar even in calmer water. There, the sandstone cliffs have tumbled down leaving a narrow gap where the entire river is spit between massive, sandstone teeth. The surrounding rocks are so worn, that during very low water they resemble enormous mushrooms. Finding yourself caught in an eddy below one of these rocks during high water is something akin to being caught in the spinning drum of a concrete truck.Bob’s story was simple. A guy from another group was drunk and insisted he could run the narrows although his partner refused. He went anyway, and the river ate him. He was just one of an undeterminable number taken by the river since Daniel Boone chopped his trace across the headwaters.The danger of the Rockcastle like any is a matter of flow. During low flow, I have swum in the narrows, hiked it, and canoed upstream to the trickle in the gap. I once knew where to skinny dip, which rocks you could dive from, and which rock you could moon the Sierra Clubbers on their way down stream, but I had never canoed the entire stretch of river. This time we were thirty years older if not more mature, geezers packing gadgets:
digital cameras, cell phones and GPS units, but no beer. My beverage of choice was cold green tea. Jim was
the only one who hadn’t brought his gadgets, and he was a retired hardware engineer. Most of us were either
retired, ready to retire or hoping we’ll be able to retire. Several of the guys had sleek and colorful kayaks.
Ron’s and Bob’s were red and yellow, and Joe’s gleamed like a turquoise fish. Jerry brought a blue lake
canoe and a skipper’s hat to go with it, while my other paddle pal, John, had an inflatable kayak that resembled
a white cocoon as much as a boat. My boat is a seventeen-foot, heavy gage aluminum Smokercraft, so heavy I
had mounted a couple of tricycle wheels on the prow to help drag it on and off the truck. It was battered but
sturdy and stable in rapids. It would soon be dubbed ‘Old Ironsides’.
By eleven o’clock the Kentucky mist was fading into a summer haze, and the river was languid. Someone had checked the flow on a website (http://waterdata.usgs.gov/nwis/uv?03406500), and the daily cubic-feet per-second flow was measured in the two hundred nineties, about half that normal for June.
It looked like an easy float. Boulders of the Rockcastle Sandstone decorated the river, fragments of distant cliffs that may have reminded early settlers of the ruined castles in their Scots Irish homelands. The russet cliffs were now shrouded in lush forest, The Daniel Boone National Forest.We put in at Billows, the
exact point where the river is designated ‘Wild and Scenic’ and soon passed under the Route 80 bridge, the
last bridge or paved road until take out, 14 miles downstream. So we were guaranteed that after a few bends,
there would be no roar of Jake-brakes from coal trucks, no sound like internal combustion other than that of
our own intestines.
A new bridge for the proposed expressway, I-66 has been planned to cross the river near Route 80. The bridge might spoil the scenery from below, but the unseen consequences may be more insidious. As the construction expressway and the development around it progresses, more run-off, flooding and silt will occur.Besides actual rainfall, population, developement and deforestation play important parts if flooding.The highest recorded yearly flow of the Rockcastle was in 1979 at 50,100. More floods and yearly high flows
occured on the Rockcastle and Cumberland during the decade of the seventies when unregulated strip mines
peaked along with spikes of lumber production and baby boomers were taking to the rivers to the tune of
dueling banjoes. The highest production of Kentucky lumber by far occured in 1909 with 860.7 board feet, but
recently increased timber harvests of 100 year old forests at the same time as energy prices make mountain top
coal removal proftable, predict more flooding of Appalachian rivers. A graph of flood occurrence in the
Rockcastle area shows a steady increase over a recent ten-year period of damaging floods.
The Rockcastle River has cut into the western escarpment of the incised plateau that is the Daniel BooneNational Forest. It is located south of the Red River Gorge, and north of Big South Fork of the Cumberland, both also known for adventurous paddling. It flows into the main fork of the Cumberland, which below the famous falls also offers challenging waters. The sandstone was once a vast delta to a long gone sea during theerosion of ancestral Appalachians. Layers of coal record periods of primeval swamps similar to those near the present day New Orleans, except dragonflies had a two-foot wingspan and amphibians were the size of alligators. Ashes return to ashes, dust to dust, river to river. Peering into the green shade along the banks, I saw no predatory eyes staring back. Feeder streams trickle from box canyons, arched overhangs and ephemeral waterfalls that in a moment of sunlight catch dancing rainbows. The forest is now home to rattlesnakes, wildcats and the occasional black bear. Teaberry, ginseng and morel mushrooms live below the cliffs, as do lady slipper, jack-in-the-pulpit and trillium. Elephant ear magnolia, tulip polar and hemlock, reach for the sky sometimes hiding the pink and rusty cliffs. Shy maidenhair ferns dance quietly in their shadows. In these woods you might glimpse a velvet ant or a humming bird moth or the rare red-cockaded woodpecker. You might hear the drum and giggle of a pileated woodpecker or at night,the ululations of a saw-whet owl.Now the snicker of riffles accompanied a pounding of cobblestones against the hull of our boat. The kayaks and the plastic canoe skimmed right over them, but we were stuck. We wiggled and dug into the sand until freed but were soon stuck again. I quickly got used to wet feet. The low water had provided us with wide expanses of slow current punctuated by crunches over rocks that resembled petrified boxing gloves. My partner, Jim, in the front of the boat, found it hard to hear me shouting over the sound of water, so he nodded his head when I yelled paddle right but kept going straight. Not that it mattered much. With the low water and our lower keel, it was virtually impossible to miss the rocks. Also, I was given to staring at scenery and snapping photos during smooth stretches when I should have been steering. When we crashed into the next shoals, we hopped out and drug the canoe. Jim slipped on the tricky rocks, and I noticed he was wearing sneakers. I wore a sacrificial pair of hiking boots for just such occasions, and for bank-side copperheads. It would not be relaxing to suffer a sprained ankle or snakebite on a 14-mile trip. There are no early exits. We stopped at one of the shoals for a break. The kayakers let us catch up. We were taking on a bit of water from loose rivets that I hadn’t caulked recently. Fortunately one of the kayakers, Ron, had brought a hand powered bilge pump. On the shore, pearly quartz pebbles and the opalescent shells of mollusks glinted among the dark cobbles and chunks of coal. Endangered muscles such as the elktoe, combshell, Cumberland bean, papershell and fluted kidney shell hide in these waters, as do rare fish such as black sidedace and olive darters. The purity of the river can be judged by their presence. Upstream from our put in, the scars of strip mines remain thirty years after the affliction. With rising prices of coal, new strip mines are being introduced in the headwaters of the Rockcastle, far above the designated section of Wild and Scenic River, but silt and coal dust flows downstream. It seemed to my eyes that the great rocks are a little duller than thirty years ago.
We passed a house-sized boulder with a worried look on its face. The cliffs began to crowd in closer squeezing the river and making it run deeper and faster. The riffles gave way to obstacles that could be steered around, but there was always a hidden peak lurking below the surface. Old Ironsides liked it. She was proving her meddle. We had suffered some good-natured derision for our many scrapes in the riffles. Now Jerry found his lake canoe, less steady, overturned in a tricky rapid, but ours cruised through unfazed by the usual bumps and grinds. The river had beguiled us into complacency with its gentle current. I had taken off my life vest in the noon sun and sat on it. But each bend produced a louder roar and tougher challenge. Jerry’s canoe spilled a couple of more times, but we were too busy to notice. After seeing no one else on the water for about ten miles, we came upon a beach party. A group of twenty-somethings who had hauled canoes ashore were sunning, swimming and camping. We asked if the rapids just ahead were the Beech Narrows. They said no. It looked tough but was pretty easy. The water took
you where it wanted to go. 
The next one had plenty of noise and plenty of white water in the air. There water splashed around a prominent rock, but the kayaks got through. We followed. “Back paddle!” I screamed. Jim nodded.Wham! The rock didn’t give. Water blasted into the canoe. We were stunned, but the canoe moved as if of its own instinct into the current. We made it through whooping with delight, but our canoe had taken a considerable amount of water. We pulled near the shore upstream from another big rock at right angles to the stream so I could get a picture of Jerry’s attempt. He was nearing the whitewater when something happened. Apparently we leaned forward just a little and the accumulated water rushed to that side of the boat. Then the swift water under our keel catapulted us. The next thing I knew, I was surfacing about fifty feet downstream. My paddle was in one hand, my hat in the other. My life jacket floated just out of reach. The air in my jeans had buoyed me up. There was no swimming to be done. The water had its way with me. Bob and the other kayakers helped me to the rocks. Somehow Jim had made it out. They even saved my lunch box and the camera still in its Pelican case. “Where’s the canoe?” I asked. “It’s still stuck to the rock.” I rock hopped upstream but was on the wrong side. With my life jacket on, I swam to the other side and climbed the rock. The canoe had spun 270 degrees on its axis and was now locked onto the rock with a death grip, its seats facing the rock. I was able to reach it with my feet and tried to pry it off hoping it wouldn’t grab me by the ankle. It didn’t budge. I put my full weight on it and hopped up and down while holding to the rock. It moved a little. After a few more tries, it slid into the current and was gone.
The kayakers rescued it for me, and we were soon moving along, more sober for having felt the full grip of the river. I would not take off my life jacket for the rest of the trip. I had hoped we might be able to forge through the narrows without the grueling portages, but those hopes were severely dampened.
When we reached the Beech Narrows, the Kayakers suggested we portage. A ten-foot loop of webbing helped us pull the boat up the steep bank. With the webbing strapped to my chest, I was able to pull it like a mule over sandy spots, while Jim who carried gear, helped me over rocks. The trail led well above the river so we were soon more drenched in sweat than river water. Threading our way through rocks and timber and rhododendron tentacles, we finally launched into the wild green waters. Soon but not soon enough, we reached a pool and a mighty percussion that signaled the Big Narrows, the river’s final fling of freedom before it reached the backwaters of the Lake Cumberland. The kayaks circled awaiting a consensus on what to do. It was nearing dusk. Portage signs had long since been washed away, and Bob was uncertain as to where the trail began. He climbed up the left bank to scout it out, but was unable to find an easy way up to what appeared to be the trail. The choice was an almost vertical silt bank or a lesser grade choked with downed timber. While we discussed logistics, someone noticed John was having a problem. He lay in his inflatable kayak passively. I asked him how he was doing and he mumbled something like, “Not good.” He was not quite comatose. After a bit more discussion, the kayakers decided to run the narrows and get help. There was no cell phone reception, and not even any place to land a helicopter within a half-mile. There were no other options besides prayer. Jim, Bob and I would stay with John. Jerry gave me his flashlight, saying he planned to rope his canoe through the narrows and go with the kayakers. Bob had another look at the portage trail. Jim and I towed John over to that side of the river. The steep bank made it impossible for the three of us to pull John to level ground even if we could strap him in the kayak, and the log jam was worse. We towed him back to the rocky beach. The shadows of dusk were congealing. I knew that John had weathered these spells before. They were not diabetic or cardiac or epileptic. John considered them more a nuisance than a medical emergency, but the many specialists he consulted could not pin it down. So we couldn’t be sure, and we didn’t want to wait until it was worse. Bob offered to swim along side him and stabilize him through the narrows, but we both knew that would be crazy. The suggestion seemed to stir John some. He tried to mumble that he would be okay soon. He did begin to revive. As soon as he had any strength he began to shed the skin of his kayak. He seemed to have already assessed the situation and was determined to walk out. As we pulled our boats out of the water, John began to trudge uphill, zombie-like into the looming darkness. He, at least, had brought his own flashlight. Bob had Jerry’s, and we struggled to catch up to John. The cliff-side trail was fifty or sixty feet above the river, not a good option for dragging a canoe but easy enough for hiking. John and I both knew the trail years ago, and I had followed it to the narrows with my wife the preceding summer. We would have enjoyed the mile and a half hike under other circumstances. We paused periodically to yell for our presumed rescuers. It wouldn’t do to leave them out there searching for us.What we didn’t know was that they had turned back from their attempt at the Narrows, and Jerry could not find a footing to rope his canoe through the narrows because of the big rocks. They had hauled their boats ashore about a thousand feet from us, but we couldn’t hear each other for the roar. It had gotten dark fast, and their only light was a cell phone. Walking single file, they endured various abuses by tricky rocks and tangled briars before reaching a leafy spot where they resolved to spend the night. They sang Rolling Stones songs to the applause of the water, hoping no rattlesnakes would join their party. We completed our night hike without major incident and crossed the campground bridge to find Krebbs who had arranged to meet and transport us to our vehicles. We expected to see the smiling faces of the other paddlers, but Krebbs was alone. Bob thought they might have tried the trail on that side of the river, but we soon found that trail ended in a muddy creek bank. So we returned to our previous trail. Having left John at the van, I now had a light. As we neared the sound of rapids, I went down hill to find a lower trail. I tried to work my way upstream through the dark rhododendron maze, when I heard faint shouts. Bob had found them. We were soon on the trail again, but it was a happy trail this time. It was well after midnight before we got to our cabin.“Our wives won’t be amused by this,” said someone. It was supposed to be a one-day trip. We called home as soon as we could get reception then collapsed into bunks.
Bob woke us at dawn, anxious to get his kayak. After another vigorous mile and half hike, we helped Jerry pullhis canoe and the other kayaks through the rhododendron jungle, too far downstream to get to the portage. We then got Bob and John’s kayaks and my canoe across the river and up the steep bank for a half-mile portage followed by a mile of flat water with a head wind. We all agreed it had been a great trip. 
Bee Rock
Epilog A year later things had changed on the Rockcastle. A series of caverns below Wolf Creek Dam had caused the engineers to lower Lake Cumberland by about forty feet. This action opened tributaries such as the Rockcastle to as much as ten miles of free flow previously inundated for fifty years. I called the canoe livery, but they didn't know anyone who had paddled it since the dam was built. The temptation was too great. We would put in at Bee Rock where we had taken out the year before and float ten miles to where the river originally met Cumberland. We discussed the possibility of a deadly rapid that might lurk downstream. Google Earth and Joe’s National Geographic GPS cd only showed lake water. A delegation of vultures waited at the riverside. I was equally concerned that it would be a ten-mile canoe drag through shallow water. The water flow was only 270 CFS, even lower than last time. I was willing to wade, but I’d forgotten my boots. This time Jerry replaced Jim in Old Ironsides, not wanting to subject his lake canoe to another scratch and dent session. John also had other things to do, but Krebbs joined Joe, Ron and Bob in the kayak navy. I had done some elaborate caulking of Old Ironsides, inside and out, so we were good to go. Our canoe slipped through the first shoals nudging only a few rocks then over rapids that dropped several feet. It would have been more fun in higher water. Monumental stones crowded the river, like hippos and haystacks and a pod of beached whales. They often had a layer of iron on one face. Some, like weightlifters, pressed bleached driftwood trees twenty feet above us. It was summertime, and fish were jumping. Gar, several feet long swam up to the canoe as if attracted to the shiny giant minnow. A great blue heron flew ahead of us pausing to wait on a high limb. Jerry has a strong paddle arm, almost heroic when you consider he has arthritis in his hands. In the still waters we left the kayakers behind. There was some paranoia among us about getting back before dark, despite our earlier start and the four mile shorter distance. There was much checking of GPS and watches. Bob had a waterproof GPS unit strapped to his canoe. Last year’s near disaster was an excuse to buy better gadgets. We sighted a strange omen left by the receding waters, a gasoline powered concrete saw, perched like a rusty robotic buzzard. We snagged bottom a half dozen times. Only a few times did we see anything resembling a cliff near the water. There were occasional glimpses of the rock face in the distance high above the river valley. Usually it was steep silt banks or wide meadows of lush weeds growing from old lake bottoms. These bottomlands once held cane breaks where Cherokee hunted elk and buffalo. Later in the nineteenth century, a hotel and health resort called Sublimity Springs was built near the mouth of the Rockcastle. Another two followed near Bee Rock along with a riverside road that has long since disappeared with all traces of the buildings. The only habitat sighted was a solitary tent. 
With a little more water it could have been a good ride, but I saw nothing life threatening. Several small creeks had carved canyons in the silt. One led to a series of cascades and plunge pools. It was wreathed in ferns and overhanging Rhododendrons. The sparkling yellows and reds of the polished rock was a contrast to the silt coated river boulders. There are likely mystical places to be found in the upper reaches of these creeks.
Years ago, I followed Jerry down a series of steps and a metal ladder installed by the Civilian Conservation Corps to a grove of primeval forest that had been just too hard to harvest. There were remnants of the great forest of hemlocks and tulip poplars. Occasionally, the decaying trunk of an ancient chestnut could be seen. We found the creek that led to that hideout of giants on Joe’s GPS unit, but the hike would have to wait. The tulip poplar is neither tulip nor poplar, but their yellow orange flowers fall from great heights to drift down the river like sunbursts in the spring. Pioneers reported stands nearly two hundred feet tall, some trees more than seven feet in diameter, lowest limbs eighty feet off the ground. Some still hide high above the river. Jerry found several impressions of ancient scale bark in the sandstone and a small log of rock. I spotted what looked like a large trunk impression in one of the river rocks, longer than a kayak, a possible relict from when big amphibians were at the top of the food chain.
We saw only one distant motorboat as we neared flat water about a mile from take out. The wind was even at our backs for a while, and we raised our paddles for sails. A huge angular rock like a sinking Titanic presaged the mouth of the Rockcastle. We surmised that the thing hanging from the prow of the big rock was a warning buoy for motor boaters. The rock had previously been submerged by the lake. 
We pulled our boats out to an asphalt ramp that was now above the shrunken lake. Dusk was nearing, but we didn’t feel like lingering for the sunset. There was discussion about the choice between a firehouse fish-fry or nearby hamburger joint. A truck backed down with a motorboat in tow. We asked the family what the gas powered generator and big lights were for. “Going bow fishing,” the Mom replied. Where we landed, until recently, a busy boat dock had held houseboats and cabin cruisers that plied upper Lake Cumberland. As the lake level was lowered for dam repair, the dock was moved nearer to the main channel. A spring storm showed what an unleashed Rockcastle could do. The flood broke the dock free, sending it and its boats down the Cumberland crashing into the cliff walls and destroying most of the boats. Some might blame the Corpse of Engineers for lowering the lake, but at least part of the problem came from upstream. As more and more development and surface mining creates more and quicker runoff in the headwaters, powerful flashfloods brew. With the scalping of the Appalachians by mountain top removal, floods could affect distant cities almost as much they do the hill people. The aging TVA dams that were built in response to floods partly caused by the timbering of the Appalachians may not be enough to prevent the next inundations. 
