Sharing the Black

Sharing the Black

a Carolina Paddler Article

Text and Photography by Alton Chewning

∞ I’ve known Paul Ferguson now for a couple of years and some change.  We get along and enjoy each other’s company.  When I first met Paul, he was going through some health challenges and at times felt isolated from his old acquaintances. Seemed like they weren’t getting in touch with him as much. Not calling. The Covid period didn’t help. Paul lives alone. He avoided the Corona virus by staying put and not rubbing shoulders much. Still the walls of his comfortable home could feel confining at times.

When we met, I had just taken up editing a journal for the Carolina Canoe Club, something called the Carolina Paddler. Paul was an obvious choice for an article or two. Aside from a long professional career with IBM, Paul was an avid paddler, having logged many miles in Canada, Europe, and the U.S. This pastime became an avocation for Paul, leading him to write two definitive guidebooks on the rivers of the Carolinas:  Paddling Eastern North Carolina and Canoe Kayak South Carolina. These guidebooks became the training manuals for many new enthusiasts wondering what to paddle and how. Veteran boaters admired their thoroughness.

After writing several articles about Paul and posting some of his writings, I felt like I knew him well. However, there was one gap in our experience. I had never paddled with him.

On several occasions we thought a trip would happen but for whatever reason they didn’t. Paul hasn’t paddled as much in the last few years, only once in 2024, a group outing on the Black River. A prior commitment to the CCC’s annual event, Week of Rivers, kept me from attending that trip.

Paul has paddled hundreds of rivers, and North Carolina’s Black River is his favorite. The Black is a beguiling river, particularly the section known as the Three Sisters. The Black changes from a small, sinuous stream to become the watery basis of a swamp forest. The main channel narrows and winds through acres of submerged woods, sometimes doubling back on itself.  In dry times, the water is so low crossing the swamp becomes part slog, part wishful paddling. Getting lost is common.

 

This wet and fertile ground is the home to many species of plants and animals but the one that gets the most attention is the Bald Cypress (Taxodium distichum). Based on dendrochronological studies started in the 1980’s, scientists learned the oldest tree in the Three Sisters, named Methuselah, dated to 354 CE. Years later, older specimens were identified. One known as BLK227, is thought to be 2600 years old, perhaps more. Older trees may yet exist in the swamp.

Paul was attracted to the Black by its remoteness, its unusual terrain, and the lessons to be learned from anything living as long as these old trees.  He wrote an essay, “Searching for Methuselah,” detailing his quest for the oldest tree and the newer oldest trees discovered later. In his essay, Paul says the search gives a purpose to his travels, a chance to find something new about something old.  An elusive goal for a person who still wants to learn more about life.

The Black was an obvious choice for a first paddle with Paul. I didn’t want to force it though. When Paul suggested in February he would like to paddle the Black, we began making plans. A date was set in mid-March.

I had paddled the Black once eight or nine years ago. A childhood friend and I stumbled our way through a low water traverse of the swamp, often confused about the best channel to take.  At times we had no idea which way was downriver, the water was so still. In a two-person canoe, the snag-filled swamp was tough going. Regardless, it was a memorable experience, and I was eager to go back.

Paul hadn’t paddled the Black lately and I didn’t know the route. It made sense to go with someone else. Paul had met Garett Rasmussen on the previous trip and liked him. We asked Garett to lead us.  So, it would be just the three of us paddling. Maybe Garett would bring a friend.

A couple of weeks later, Garett suggested we go a different date, April 5.  The weather would be warmer, trees greened out, the water perhaps higher.  We agreed to shift the date.

Paul is an inveterate canoeist. He’s paddled wilderness rivers, doing Class III-IV runs with an open canoe. I’m a kayaker, an okay Class III guy, but certainly not a capable canoeist. We would paddle solo, in vessels of our own tastes.

Paul offered to drive his Ford Econoline van. The big van is the fourth Econoline he’s used chasing rivers. Two were worn out and one tee boned by a drunk driver. With each upgrade, he transfers the bed and shelving from the old cargo bay into the new van. This latest edition is equipped with mahogany crossbars with predrilled holes for rope ties. I’m a strap guy, not knowing knots.  We had to adapt a bit to get our long boats onto his roof and secured but it only took a minute to learn new ways.

I’ve enjoyed going with Paul to events the Club held and seeing him with his old friends. He had reluctantly agreed to do a talk for another club and ultimately enjoyed himself. The CCC held a “lifetime achievement” tribute for Paul and another member, Bob Brueckner. It was a celebration of their contributions to building the club and supporting conservation issues. Bob and Paul were the only Presidents of the CCC to serve four terms.

This trip to the Black would be a more intimate excursion, just a small group paddling a remote and seldom visited natural treasure.

We arrived at Henry’s Landing near Ivanhoe. The area is a sandy place shy on humans but favorable to blueberries. After paying our small launch fee by stuffing cash into a slot in Henry’s mailbox, we headed down the long driveway to the water. The site seemed considerably more developed than my last visit and gosh, there were a lot of vehicles. We finally stopped near the ramp and stared at the dozens of gaily colored watercraft.  Bunches of people chatted and checked gear and adjusted their wardrobe. We would not have the Black River to ourselves on this day.

I knew one or two familiar faces but no more. Garett soon found us and introductions were made. Garett is easy to like, strong and assertive but not pushy. Recently retired from the electrical business, Garett was keeping his muscles toned and his tan deepened by doing lots of paddling and camping.  His wife-beater showed taut, tattooed biceps. His face was thin, with a strong chin and alert eyes. He wore round eyeglasses, like John Lennon. The overall impression was a New England professor with an outdoor bent.

Groups started pushing off and soon we were on the river. Our group of seven or eight gradually formed, winnowed from the floating crowds around us. Paul is precise in packing his boat. I, too, have my ways so it would take us a bit longer to get on the water.  Soon we were underway with our small group bringing up the distant rear of the Black flotilla.

Everyone was considerate to Paul and me, helping with boats and giving introductions. Paul was not the senior member of the group. Omer, age 92, held that distinction. Omer also proved to be a speed demon. Paddling a kayak, Omer set a fast and unrelenting pace with little truck for conversation once initial courtesies were covered. He seemed to accelerate as the day went on.

Paul also has a steady, deliberate rhythm in his paddling. Paul’s sixteen-foot canoe, much higher on the water and susceptible to wind, led to his only complaint on the day, “Too much wind.” He used a traditional single blade paddle, albeit a wide one. Sitting tall and erect, Paul steadfastly paddled his right side, using J-strokes to maintain a straight course.

I was in a fast boat, a low, 13 ft. sit-inside kayak but my pace was inconsistent – go fast and piddle around. Paul joked at my Greenland style wooden paddle, “What’s that for? I guess it’s good for poling off the bottom.”

We paddled for a couple of miles before reaching the swamp forest. The clue for the approaching Sisters is a low sand cliff on the left side of the river, the Squalling Bluff. Most of the left bank is owned by the Cone family. The Three Sisters swamp and some of the surrounding right bank property is owned and managed by the Nature Conservancy.  For now, the swamp forest seemed secure from commercial incursion.

A few families own land along the right bank before the swamp and just after it.  Some camping and launching accesses are available from them.  A few hardy souls spend the night in the swamp. Depending on water level and personal appreciation of snakes and insects, this can mean using a tent, hammock, or boat as a sleeping accommodation.

We stopped for a while to have lunch. Paul and I elected to stay in our boats, rather than risking bugs. Snakes, alligators and bears are benign, but chiggers are to be feared.

Resuming our pace, we duck in and out of the swampland, sometimes leaving the narrow channel to cut through the swamp and avoiding an oxbow. We soon see a group ahead clustered around several large but weathered cypresses.

Many of the larger cypresses have been topped out in hurricanes, leaving them with a shortened trunk and paltry limbs. Over a couple of millennium unfortunate blows occasionally occur. The oldest trees are not the prettiest, possessing a more battered beauty. They are strong and resilient but carry the scars of storms and age.

Many of the trees decapitated by hurricanes grow new tops and limbs. These leafy phoenixes can be quite beautiful and uplifting. They have taken a beating but are back on their feet.

We continue to descend, sometimes holding to the channel as it broadens and sometimes trying to catch up with Omer. We occasionally dived back into the trees, taking another cut-through in the swamp. It was play, a game. Can you lose your way?  Can you gracefully back your boat out of the dead end? Can you ride up on a log and shuffle your boat over? Is the clearing this way or over yonder?  That must be the channel over where those people in multi-colored boats are zipping along.

At moments, it seems realistic to imagine a Coharie hunter gliding along in a dug-out canoe, half seen and then disappearing. The present day Coharie live nearby but the wraiths I see through the stumps and knees are light-skinned paddlers in bright plastic boats.

 

Canvases of an aquatic plant turn the black water green. Their delicate beauty hides just below the surface, another elusive gift of the Black.  I asked around for the name. Mitch Lloyd supplied the answer:  Cape Fear Spatterdock (Nuphar sagittifolia), also known as Arrow Leaf Pond Lily.

The Spatterdock is rare, occurring infrequently in Virginia but more common in coastal blackwaters of southeastern North and South Carolina. The Arrow Leaf love acidic water and the Black is a haven for this plant. My boat glides over the tapestry of green. Green and black are the palette today. The trees are rich and verdant in their new spring leaf. Even the monoliths of cypress show green, their needles viridescent against the dark trunks, destined to turn red or cinnamon in autumn. The needles will drop, leaving the trunks bare, thus their namesake, bald cypress.

As we continue, we start to see glimpses of Haw Bluff on river right. Nearing the end of the swamp, a house or two appear signaling the return to civilization. During this last part of the trip, I hang close to Paul.  A tandem canoe with a twenty-somethings has been weaving in and out of the swamp, obviously on their own and not part of a guided group. We strike up a conversation with them. They had put in above Henry’s at Beaty’s Bridge.  We asked if they had done the Black before. One hadn’t and the other had a previous visit.

I said it was my second time, but Paul had done it dozens of times.  The stern paddler paused and stared at Paul.  “Wait a minute. Are you Paul Ferguson? I have your book. Thank you so much for writing it.” Paul gave a modest thanks. The fellow said, “No kidding. It has opened rivers to me. I’m getting the South Carolina book next. I wish I had my book here for you to sign.”

This is the way it is with Paul. If you’re around people, someone will notice him. At the take-out, Richard Atkins, a retired WRAL videographer and veteran paddler, approaches Paul. “Paul, you don’t know me….”  And he shares his thanks. The Newby’s take-out is busy and other paddlers come forward to greet Paul, happy to make his acquaintance, thankful for his work.

When this paddle was planned, I wanted to keep Paul to myself, to see the Black with him and maybe another guiding hand. After all, this was my first paddle with him. It was the Black, his revered river, a liquid darkness, with its broken and hulking trees, with its armies of cypress knees standing sentinel to their eternal masters. This place is unique and I felt a proprietary claim to the experience.

This wasn’t to be. Not today. The river was crawling with boaters. A guide who’s been leading groups for decades said this was the most people he’s seen here at one time.  The Black River was open for business, Henry’s mailbox was stuffed.

Rivers are long and groups thin out. The swamp itself is made to hide people. There were times, while dawdling over a photo, I lost sight of my group or anyone else. I promised myself to come back on some less popular day to paddle alone. Today was a different, a social experience.

Somewhere during the trip, I realize the folly of trying to keep Paul and the Black as prized possessions. They are both public treasures, to be savored and appreciated and to be shared with all those who can witness them. There is a special pleasure in seeing others’ happiness, a reflected joy.

Paul understands this. It’s a primary reason for writing his guidebooks. He wants to share the rivers of North and South Carolina. He wants people to enjoy the beauty of the rivers and the feeling of being alive with nature.  Paul realizes the Black is a gift, a gift to us.

Some places have a touch of the eternal. The Black has it. The bald cypresses have it. Yet even the ancient monoliths of the Three Sisters will one day succumb to rising saltwater or battering storms. Perhaps humans will undo them. These trees have outlived the mighty empires of Rome, China and the Incas but one day the Cypress Kingdom will fall.

Paul will not always be present. Nor will you or me. The eternal aspect of life is change. What we can do is treasure what we have now. Our lives, our friends, our families–human and animal–and the nature we have around us. We can try to be wise and grateful and to preserve what we can for the future. Perhaps the best way to save a place is to love it.

 

Needles will drop, winter will come, bald we will go. The spring promises rebirth for the cypress – new limbs – and more storms. Other vessels will pass this way, blinking cargo sharing the sun and then passing on. The Black flows on in time unmeasured.