March 2008

Our Sunday afternoon walk took us down to the shoals–my own personal water park.

My family first discovered the shoals when I was about five. We had started building my parents house. It was summer and it was stinking hot. Our house was just a concrete slab with cinder walls slowly going up. Air conditioner was still a long ways off. Many hot afternoons were spent playing in these waters.

On the far side of the creek, the current was faster. There was a groove cut in the rock that made a splendid water slide. A mountain laurel branch hung low over the water at the bottom of the slide. You had to lay back to slide under it or risk getting a face full of branches and leaves.

I had a deep fear of this rock when I was a kid–or rather what might be lurking under the rock. That was the “deep end” of the pool beneath the shoals. It was probably 2 1/2 or 3 feet deep at its deepest, and I was sure an alligator lived under that rock.

I’m sure the idea was originally planted by my brother. My fear of that rock continued on long after I knew that alligators didn’t live in North Georgia. Then I was certain that there would be a copperhead or a water moccasin laying in wait for me there should I venture into the deep end of the pool.

The water is only a couple of inches deep there now, but that rock still seems menacing. I’m sure I would still avoid splashing near it if I were to swim in the shoals now.

Down stream, the neighbors had built a zip line across the creek using a cable and some old bicycle handlebars. When the spring rains came, the normally quiet, placid creek would turn into a raging, rolling monster. We would have our annual wake-boarding event taking advantage of the high waters and fast current. We tied an old ski rope off to one of the trees along the banks and take turns wake-boarding in the rushing waters. It was quite a thrill, but if you ever fell off, you might have to walk a mile down stream to retrieve the wake-board.

Every good water park has souvenirs that you can take home with you, and ours was no exception.  Rather than overpriced plastic and funny hats, we had to go hunt for our souvenirs, but they were free.

Heavy rains would churn up bits of broken pottery, remains of the time when the Cherokee Indians camped along the banks of Rock Creek every summer.

My brother, Jesse, was the one who had a natural talent for finding Indian pottery.  He would be wading along picking up rocks and skipping them when he would say, “look at this piece of pottery.”  The secret to finding pottery is not to look for it.

At the end of the day, we would stuff our pockets with pottery and rocks and hike the mile or so back up to our house (building site).  Years later, we have buckets of quartz rocks picked up on hikes down to the shoals, and quite a bit of pottery reminding us of summer afternoons in Rock Creek.

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