Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [30]
Part two of the river runs from Stokes Bridge to Trader’s Ferry—forty-four miles. Here she widens, offers stretches of paddle-ability, and runs nearly the entire length with bleached white beaches. Because she is constantly eroding her banks and floor, the ancient trees that line her inevitably fall inward. First they lean, almost bowing as she passes by, then they cross like swords in a military-dress procession, then they topple as she undercuts their roots in her way to the limestone. She ranges from a foot deep to maybe ten in a few of the deeper spots. Beneath her surface is an intricate and invisible spiderweb of branches, or arms, that pull at boats and those who wish to float her. Beyond the branches, tucked into the shadows, are white-tail deer, black bear, feral hogs, quail, turkey and horseflies with an attitude. It is also here that people have begun to populate her banks, built homes on stilts, swim in her shade, bask in her coolness, swing from ropes hung high in her towering arms, ride zip lines and litter her with beer cans, bobbers and bathing suits. From copper bronze, her color has darkened to that of iced tea. Depending upon the sun, maybe weak coffee. But don’t let the color fool you. Black does not equal bad. Or evil. Her sandy bottom filters her every hundred feet. Like everything on the river, appearances can be deceiving.
Leg three runs from Trader’s Ferry to the Coastal Highway, or Highway 17—a distance of thirty-six miles. From the railroad trestle at 17, the ocean is only another eighteen miles downstream, which means that tides begin to affect her. Her flow will actually reverse every six hours. Like a flushing toilet, she empties quickly and fills slowly. Her banks widen to some two to four hundred yards across. She brims with otter, beaver, water moccasins and alligators. Some ten feet in length, their heads nearly three feet long. Boat ramps, fish camps and long since rotted docks have replaced sandy beaches. Her banks now roll down into the water with pine trees and palmetto bushes making a nearly impenetrable wall. Approaching the bank is like petting a porcupine—you must pick your way in. And not quickly. Residents have sunk pilings into the bank, poured and fortified concrete walls and built getaways where they sit on the porch, sip mint juleps and listen as the river rolls by. Below, she has opened herself to recreation—motor boats haul skiers, fishermen, poachers or wildlife officers and Jet Skis buzz like hornets. Beneath them all, she has morphed once again. Here she hides her secrets and flows Starbucks black.
The final leg runs from the bridge at Highway 17, past the town of St. Marys to the Cumberland Sound where she empties into the Atlantic. Here she might reach a mile wide, maybe wider, and some forty feet deep—deep enough for the submarines at King’s Bay. Her brackish water has turned cloudy brown, stinging with salt and running with dolphins, sharks, redfish and trout. Her pluff mud banks crawl with fiddler crabs, razor-edged oysters and sporadic piles of English cobblestone once used as ballast. Here, her pace quickens, swirling undertows—water tornadoes that spin beneath the surface—can pull ducks below the surface, and while she winds and meanders, don’t let her crooked self fool you—her speed is deceiving.
While her landscape changes with every mile, so does her rhythm. Her cadence. And she will not let you get in a hurry. At first she slows you, allowing little more than a crawl. Once she has nursed you, she opens, allowing you to stand and walk. When she finds you willing, she grants you