Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [50]
Standing in my loft, staring at Rosalia, with Abbie pressed to my chest and the taste of her tears on my lips, Abbie taught me to breathe again.
Oh, and with Rosalia’s permission, I graduated.
16
JUNE 2, AFTERNOON
South of the Bare Bottom, the river makes a head-fake east and then darts back south again. She does this until the St. Marys Bluff road. The level of the water allowed me sporadic moments of paddling. Other times I stepped out, walked along the bank or in the water and slid the canoe through the shallows.
Midafternoon, I stopped to adjust the straps on my shoulders, looked down and a pine snake had coiled about five feet away. Pine snakes are long—like five or six feet—skinny, light brown in color and make an awful hissing noise if you hack them off. I had, so he was hissing at the top of his lungs. Abbie asked, “What’s that noise?”
I studied the ground around me and realized he wasn’t hissing at me. At my feet, maybe twelve inches from the toes sticking up out of my Tevas swam three pygmy rattlers. Usually less than a foot long, pygmy rattlers gnaw on you more than strike but they’re no less venomous. Give them enough time and they’ll chew on your toes, turning your foot a bunch of weird colors. Antivenin works but it’d mean a trip to the hospital and it wouldn’t be fun or pretty.
Abbie’s not too fond of snakes. I don’t like snakes either, but if you’re going to travel this river, especially this far up, you better get used to them. Normally, I’d shoot them, because the only kind of snake I like is a dead snake, but I didn’t want to risk the noise. I splashed the three at my feet and they skittered across the top of the water. Then I splashed the pine snake. He made a U-turn and slithered up the bank and into a tree. That’s one of my least favorite visuals—a snake going away. Snakes and disease have much in common—they are far better at sneaking up on you than you are on them.
RIVER BLUFF ROAD parallels the river for a mile or so. It’s the first river frontage road we’d come to and it’s on the Georgia side where the bluff is noticeably higher. Most homes are old farmhouses with tin roofs and porches that run the length of the house. Nearly every house has a row of dog kennels and a garage nearly as big as the house. We passed beneath a stolen Winston Cup Series banner that stretched across the river behind a house whose yard was lined with a dozen or so stripped and rusting parts-cars sitting on blocks in various forms of disarray and dysfunction. Sun-faded plastic chairs were scattered across the lawns and three plastic pools sat above ground bulging at the seams. The sign above the door read, PROTECTED BY SMITH AND WESSON.
RVs complement most large garages. Mangy, collarless dogs roam free. Most sleep in the middle of the road and snap at the bumper of the rural mail carrier as he drives by. Pink flamingos are a common yard decoration, as are bald tires, old bass boats, burning trash piles and SEE ROCK CITY mailboxes and birdhouses.
Down here, everybody goes to church. And while there are many buildings, they all fall under one banner. It’s one of the largest denominations in the world—it’s called the First Holy Congregation of NASCAR. Most worship outdoors. During rainouts, they wear ponchos or poke arm holes in the sides of black plastic can liners. It’s a come-as-you-are, pretty free-flowing place. A lot of hand waving, screaming and cheering with two hundred and fifty thousand of their closest friends. To say these people are evangelical would be an understatement. Their hats, T-shirts and jackets outline the tenets of their faith. The flags hanging off their garages identify their particular arm of the church while their bumper stickers give the name of their favorite pastor. Services can run several hours, which is why most folks bring coolers with food and refreshment. Some attendees even camp out in the parking lots on Saturday waiting for the doors to open. Most services conclude with a combination communion and baptism. Surrounded by his deacons and