Every year in June...

...a voice calls from a river in Scottsville, Virginia. Beckoning us to play upon its water. The fish bite if the water is clear. The green rolling hills comfort your disposition like a blanket on your mother's featherbed. Cool mountain water meanders through the valley below Charlottesville headed for the quick rapids of Richmond. Coal trains pound out tracks cut into hillsides.  Blowing steam whistles blast deep into the early light of dawn.

Fog lifts off the shifting water, early in the morning, just after sunrise. Days begin with birds singing, crows cawing, and water lapping at the river stone island.  

Fires still smoldering from the late night before, await to be stoked and relit to heat breakfast skillets. The popping sound of frying bacon and snapping kindling awake dreary eyed campers emerging from their polyester cocoons.   Coolers moan like old rocking chairs, as they open to allow river runners to grab a cold water or Gatorade. Sifting through melted ice for some liquid to soothe their dry mouths. Blank stares and distant memories of 6 hours prior hang heavy the air around that morning campfire. Some sing away their morning blues, hoping to sound like the birds heard at dawn. Instead, sounding more obnoxious than the crows that caw. Attitude adjustment usually does not rise until after the dishes are done, tents are rolled, and canoes are restocked. Even then, it takes at least three paddles to drift away from the morning funk. Not soon after, a top is popped and so begins another float down the spectacular James.

Smooth flat rocks submerge out of the water surface begging for a boat to scratch its belly. Fish jump and play around these islands. Dashing in and out of the river grass. Tempting one to cast a line.  These rock formations make for a wonderful lawn chair to bask, in the sun, or soak in the translucent brown tinted liquid air conditioning. The conversations that develop at these river bars are deeper than most. Connecting to each other in a more natural way like clouds to sky and winds to rustling leaves on a tree. 

The uniform of the river runner is simple.  Hat, sunglasses, shorts, and river shoes (mandatory).  Shirts (optional) and ponchos are in reach (emergency). This simplicity of garb and compactness of gear, produces a feeling of vulnerability and comradery. We are all children of the river valley but feel like guests on parental land. 

Once the island camp destination is reached, bags are thrown. Orders are given. Priorities made known. Shelter is raised and coolers are circled. Those ambitious, will seek fuel for the evening fire. Lots of it. More than that. Tear down a cabin if you have to. Competitive instincts engage. Who can bring the biggest log? Who can make the best dinner? Who hid away the greatest libation? Laughing into the night. Until your only sights are the golden glow of faces across a burnt down fire, the brilliance of a thousand stars, and the snoring of a drunken Clod.

In the spring of 1993, eight Appalachian State students set out for a river trip down the James. Planning a run from Bent Creek to Bremo Bluff, VA in one week of Fall Break. Instead of hitting the beaches of Florida, we chose camping on the rocky shores of a river in middle Virginia.  We sought adventure. What we found was serenity.  

Since this trip, many of us have continued the tradition down the James. We have tried the New River and the French Broad. We have tried other sections of the James. Yet we continue to find ourselves year after year in the same section, down the same waters, on the same islands, relieving ourselves on the same rocks, with an attempt to mimic that original quest. May it never end.

- Pete Kindem April 28, 2016

2016 James River trip was a spectacular weekend.  Started off with an incredible dinner compliments of Peggy and the space engineered Horseshoe Flats Steam Smoker.  1 brisket, 3 chickens, 1 rack of ribs, sausage and cabbage, and smoked beans.  Surprise visit from Mick, Cairns, and Gonella with cookie cake hand decorated with stick figure canoers.  Campground wiffle ball game including a pipeline worker from Minnesota and the new Campground Hefe.

Day 2: One long sunny day on the river leading to a beautiful sunset campground.  Tired boaters bask in the sun and in the sand seeking to retire early.  The night blasts with tent filling sounds of trains pounding track, crashing into each other and whistling their call.  High muddy mountain water propelling this trek to a record finish time.

Boat 1: Hoke/Goswick, Boat 2: P.Kindem/J.Salvatore, Boat 3: Clodfelter/N. Salvatore, Boat 4: Fisher. Boat 5: T. Kindem/J.P. Kindem

2017 James River Trip June 2-4 was considered year number 26 in our foggy estimation.  As we continue this escape to nature every year, our minds become more ceremonial of the history of this event.  However our memory becomes much more faded at the actual specifics and details of what we remember.  Providing more reason to recap each year forward with a summarization of events.

Day 1:  Preparation is much different as most of us are now in our 40s.  We all arrive to the beautiful Horseshoe Flats Campground with the sun still shining and plenty of time to enjoy a Friday early evening.  You would think an arrival prior to 10pm would allow us a pick of the prime real estate near the "put in" or close to the bathrooms.  Quite the contrary.  We openly accept our plot of land far off in the corner, a painful walk from the bathroom/shower, and not quite out of earshot of the other RVs and rookie tent campers.  Our Raleigh group, as they call us there, is respected and enjoyed by Horseshoe Flats, but treated like a crazy uncle at a wedding.  Keep them at the back table and by no means give them the microphone.  

We spend the last hours of sunlight conversing in the shade of a large oak, playing cornhole, and frisbee can smash games.  Competitive spirits rise.  We compete in all things.  Games, consumption, debate, fire building, cooler innovation, and tent size.  Rules of engagement.  Never concede victory.  At all costs, do not concede.  Even when evidence is firmly the contrary.  Even when beyond a shadow of a doubt your point has been proven false, by all means do not concede and do not let anyone gloat or celebrate in victory at your mistake.  Scream at them.  Scream loud your displeasure. Cut them off before they can utter "I told you so".  Scream things like, "I can FEEL your words!"  Action oriented, type A masculinity and fight of the dog complex in its purest form.  The square peg into a round hole by bigger hammer.  I can hear cavemen all over the world raise their arms and grunt in applause.  This is our chance to return to nature.  To follow our animal instinct.  Howl at the moon.  

OR slink off into the shadows to return to our cave and cuddle with our ultra suede, temperpedic foam, compression strap REI camp pillow.  All is quiet, cozy and comfy. Until it is time to relieve your bladder at 3am from a hammock three feet off the ground.  Upon a scrambled release, you catch your foot on the rain fly and land face first, inverted in river dust, gravel and mud.  

Evening concludes with campside dinner production and fire gazing under a million stars.  The Scottsville bridge acting as a frame to this visual work of art.  Conversations center around family changes, additions, career redirects, and ultimately trying to figure out how to navigate the rivers of young family life.  Things have indeed changed from the first 10 years of this event.  "The Rivers Own" by Chris Knight plays on a tiny speaker in the background.

Day 2:  Lazy start.  Some make a run into town for fresh coffee.  Some prepare for shuttle.  The addition of a canoe trailer and extra income to pay the Campground Hefe to cart our asses back from the "take out"prevents us from the legendary post river shuttle.  Only took us 20 years to be shown the shortcut and save 30 minutes of driving on the morning shuttle.  Some things do get better with age.

11:30 put in.  1:30 first river bar.  2:00 GORP, lunch and river bar.  4:00 river chum and chunks is released from the front of Boat 1.  Man down.  5:30 we pass enough river to place us in grasp of an easy Sunday paddle to finish on day 3.  Campsite is epic.  V section of two babbling brooks and flat land.  Set up.  River sit. Campfire. Dinner or heavy hors d'oeuvres.  Canned dinner.  Great conversations and laughter into the night.

Day 3:  Early start.  6:30 or 7am heavy amounts of bacon are being fried and vast quantities of Gatorade are being consumed.  Breakfast is served.  Riverside breakfast burritos.  All tents stir and our party returns to vertical again.  This day was different than all others before.

We gathered in the shallows of the river that morning.  Said goodbye to one of our family.  A navigational steward for each of us.  A father to a son, a man of great value and a wonderful example and friend.  We all left a part of us behind in that stream.  Part of us twisting and spiraling in the current, an ash earth toned flame shooting underneath the water surface and spreading in all directions downriver.  We said the words of the Fisherman or Anglers Prayer.

In these times of loss, it is very difficult for any of us to see what is gained.  For me, during this day, I witnessed the gift of friendship, in its ultimate form.  Papa G gave us the reinforcement and example that fellowship and brotherly love was of critical importance.  That when you are at your most vulnerable and weakened state due to loss, you have that network of brothers that will stand with you.  Grab your forearm. Help you out of the unstable river current. Pull you up. Get you standing on solid ground again. Then help shove you off the bank, when it is time to paddle.  Floating nearby within eyesight and earshot.  Sometime leading, sometimes following.  Until the we reach the "take out".

This river has a way of bringing you back to what is truly important.  Bringing you back to your family renewed.  Inspired to be that example for others.  To keep fishing for what is big enough to keep.

Boat 1: J.Salvatore/P. Kindem, Boat 2: Goswick/Hoke, Boat 3: Gonella/Northcutt, Boat 4: Lane/N. Salvatore. Boat 5:  S. Tanner.

2021 James River weekend:

This year can be summarized with beautiful scenery, clear water, incredible weather, and sensible decision making (well mostly).

Friday arrival has all of us pleasantly surprised. We have our usual corner spot at Horseshoe Flats. We had been warned that the campground was full and we would not be given our traditional location. This problem cleared without our input and we were all pleasantly surprised. Tents were set up, hammocks were connected to trees and trucks parked appropriately. One of the transitions made this year is the number of pickup trucks. I guess we are all hitting the age where the pickup becomes an important icon. Years past would be SUVs and cars abound with a couple pickups sprinkled in the parking lot. Another big change was the lack of competitive yard games. Beer can pole frisbee, corn hole, etc. These games were not played this year with the same passion as years past. All of us arrive before the 5:00pm hour. Yet another change. Are we learning to plan, schedule, and organize better? Hmm.

This year we have our first 50 year old participant. Marcus Clodfelter. Perhaps our experience and age are adding to the changes. Or perhaps last year’s action thriller has impacted our caution.

Or not... I see my boat partner pull out an old golf club and a bag of balls. Unfortunately, this club is a driver. I am concerned as John tees one up at the campsite. Concerned because the opposing river bank is about 250 years across. Easily reachable with a strong straight shot. Shot number one. Not straight and not strong. Shot number two. Strong. Shot number three. Straight. As competitive juices start mixing and testosterone starts brewing the shots are getting closer and closer to a group of fishing/tailgating local families on the opposite bank. One of the ladies of the group screams at us. Uses “You Pussies” somewhere in the rant. Not sure if she was telling us to knock it off or that we couldn’t reach them. Either way, not exactly the type of thing you want to say to this group if you are trying to prevent a hailstorm of Srixon. After a few more shots fall short, one hits the river bank in front of them. About 8 yards shy of making a visit to their fire pit. This creates more banter from the river basking families. Later one of our campers who shall remain nameless (Tanner) hits a shot that goes left of the opposing campsite, but into the trees behind them. This evokes a kind scream from the family patriarch of “if you don’t knock it off I am going to come over there and stick that golf club up your ass!” We subside the launch and sit back on our chairs with an occasional and random “FORE” being yelled in the dusk. I do not find this funny. Soon thereafter we are approached by Campground Management asking if we were hitting golf balls. The answer is “not anymore”. Soon thereafter the local sheriff arrives. We are never approached, but information was gathered from the campground and the families across the river. It appears that with all of our experience and age it has not brought us common sense. We are lucky that the families were kind enough to not take this further. Years past this may have gotten more out of hand. As we sit by the fire the conversations get better and better. I wish we had recorded some of the storytelling and joke telling. We always have fun with a new addition and put on a good show discussing years past and highlights of previous trips. Joe “Jack” Egan is Steven Tanner’s brother-in law and somehow thought it would be a good idea to join us. He is a perfect fit for the group. Like Pringles and Arby’s for lunch. “Fuck you Jack”! Returned with a smile.

The evening is magnificent. The sunset is amazing as orange and purple paint the clouds and sky behind the Scottsville bridge. Later the supermoon peeks out behind a distant rolling hillside and flashes its yellow and orange glory in a circle that seems to engulf the night horizon. This is capped by zillions of sparkling June bugs in the trees. Twinkling and climbing to the tops of huge hardwood canopies. Then the night sky clears, the stars unveil, and put on a light show to entertain us. Mickey and I are the last to retire. I am never up last. I just couldn’t go to bed with all of this natural wonder. I miss being outside. I miss sleeping under the stars.

Next morning is up and early. The shuttle will take place at 9:30am (much earlier than normal). We are on the river by 11:00am. Look at us, all grows up. We get on the river earlier and lighter than years past. Boats are not as weighed down as normal. Part of this due to better gear, part due to better organization, mostly due to multiple liquid defications and a vomit or two. Yes the years have impacted our morning health. We are not as resilient as once before.

Our first day is mid 80’s, partly cloudy, clear water, and slow river flow. Great fishing day for those who participate. This year that is one. One fisherman. Mostly just floaters. River bars are always good and the day goes really smooth. Golf shots off a river rock provide much entertainment. We have a long day ahead. River is very slow and paddling is much needed. As we move on there is a yellow river fountain. Close your eyes and imagine the Pinehurst little putter boy falls on his back and urinates on his face from the impact of falling backwards into a canoe.

We soon make camp at our slice of heaven on this river. It is an island that is surrounded by water and has hip deep slow water pools right in front of it. Immediately we unload the canoes, set up a tent or hammock, and start gathering firewood. This year we added a second fire. Building a fire circle out of river stones on top of a flat river boulder in the middle of water. This turns out to be a fantastic idea as it adds to the dramatic effect of the sunset over the river (as seen in earlier picture).

I will attempt to describe the feeling of sitting on this riverbank at dusk. We are all sitting in our collapsable chairs river side. The heat from the sun on parts of the skin where sunscreen may have missed. Not a burn, but a warmth that confirms your day outdoors. The breeze from the river seeps through your wet swimsuit and worn river shoes, evaporating the water from your clothes and skin ever so slowly. In your line of sight is a blue, brown, green river and rock garden stretched out underneath a constantly changing orange setting sun. On the air you can smell the damp river water, grassy fields, and the smoke from cooking fire coals. This scene is spiced with birds singing in the background and a distant moan of a train with a clacking clack from the transition from one track to another. The train making its own journey down the sloping James riverbank to the sea. Water trickling over rocks in front and behind you in a stereophonic water orchestra. The conversation is light and unobtrusive to the view. You have a beer in hand and you can feel the weight of all the “day to day” issues dissipate off your back. You find yourself getting lost in the the moment, only to break the daydream to look at that setting sun again. You do not feel alone, only thankful to be here at this place, on this riverbank, in this moment.

As the sun is setting, we are burning down the other fire for dinner coals. Slabs of marinated meat and foil wrapped “all night” potatoes are being placed so carefully over coals. Much detail is being taken to find the right amount of heat, flame, and consistency. Eating outside over fire always tastes better. Perhaps it is the fire encrusted edges or the smoke smell or the surprise of not being able to see what you are chewing on. This causes you to really focus on the flavor, the juices, and the texture of the food. As we are filling our bellies and creating fuel for the night and next day. My boat partner takes two bites of his $37 ribeye. Yelling Damn it! Fuck this shit! Then end zone spikes his steak into the hottest part of the fire. Stumbling off to bed and grumbling to his sleeping bag.

I guess the serenity of this place has a different effect on each of us.

Morning is again a beautiful day. The air is cool, the breeze is mild, the water is low and slow. We eat breakfast, pack up, and hit the water. Cautiously we walk through many of the rapids. The river is low which exposes more rock and makes navigation much more technical. A few of us capsize. However, we are all right there to collect canoe cargo and reload. We pass by a large monster truck stuck on a rock outcropping, surrounded by water. To me it is a visual reminder of how quick things can turn ugly on this river, if you do not respect its quiet strength. The float on Sunday is always a good day. Anticipation of the take out. Desire for dry clothes. We found ourselves not paddling and stretching out our time on the water. As we hit the takeout landing we pack our vehicles very efficiently. The take out was more smooth than normal. Big hugs are given as we say goodbye to our river family of adventurors. Most of us have decided to make the trek back home and ergo the traditional closing meal at La Parota. Four of us decide to keep the tradition alive.

As we hit Farmville, we learn that our favorite venue is closed. We are stunned. For a moment we are disappointed. This provokes a river like adventurous spirit of “well, let’s do something new”. We drive for the Fishin’ Pig restaurant. Where the motto is “Eat like a pig and drink like a fish”. We should fit in just fine. The place is amazing and the food is outstanding. We are smitten with the game room and the overall barn like ambiance. After a fantastic meal, we leave the table and head for the crowded entry where families are anxiously awaiting their table. A loud SMACK of Clodfelter’s wallet and keys hit the floor. This is followed by a gasp, shriek, yelp, or some combination there of. As he dives quickly for the shorts around his ankles. A shanking in the foyer. God help the people in front or behind him. Clod has made the terrible decision to go commando into the restaurant.

As John collects $100 I see there is much room to grow in our “sensible decision making”.

Or is there?

Pete