The Great Coharie

Chapter one

FRIGID NIGHT ON THE RIVER

The pot-belly stove, affectionally called the “black beast” by the family, sat in one corner of the living room. It required huge amounts of wood to keep the fire burning, thereby keeping the house relatively warm in the dead of winter. The walls and ceiling were not insulated which added to the need for firewood. Central heating systems were yet unknown in this isolated area in southeastern North Carolina. Even if these systems were available, there was no money to purchase one. The year was 1952 and I would soon be age thirteen.

The river was a valuable resource when wood was required for the black beast. All the oak wood in the forest surrounding my home had been cut down over the years to feed the stove, which was our only source of warmth. Oak was the wood of choice because it burned hotter and longer than the wood from all other trees in the area. The nearest oak trees that could be cut with an axe were upriver from my home. These trees were generally small, not more than 18-20 feet tall.and were referred to as scrub oaks. This story illustrates one search for scrubs..

A cross-cut saw, about five feet long, required two people to operate. one on each end. Although highly effective for felling trees, it did not apply this winter day since my father would not be home from his job at the furniture manufacturing plant until after dark Therefore, obtaining firewood with an axe became my job.

It was a dismal, bleak winter afternoon, when I pushed

the wooden boat, my skiff, away from the bank.

I was quickly thrust into the swift current in the middle of the river and had to paddle hard to move the heavy boat forward against the current.

This was a particularly cold January afternoon. The sun was already low on the horizon, and the tall naked birch trees cast shadows along the jagged river bank. I had taken trips upstream previously in search of firewood, and noticed that the river changed in character and appearance on each trip. I felt comfortable on this river. The flowing waters had witnessed much of my young history and served most of my recreational needs. I learned how to fish on the river and taught myself how to swim in these waters.

The previous night at supper, my father gave me instructions on retrieving firewood. This entailed paddling the boat upstream in search of scrub oaks. I recalled his words: “Go straight up river and fetch a load of those scrub oaks right after school, Tunkum. Then hurry back and chop as much as you can before dark.” My father usually called me ‘Tunkum’ only when he was engaged in serious conversation. What was the origin of this term? Nobody knows.

The high sides of the cypress boat made it an ideal platform for the heavy scrub oaks I would cut. However, the weight of the scrubs would present a formidable challenge in the pressing current and swift water making it difficult to control the heavy boat. The river was unusually high, swollen by the torrents of rain that had drenched the adjacent sand hills and pine forests over the past week. The river banks were largely indistinguishable as raging flood water rushed over the marsh grass and off into the deep woods and swamp.

I paddled hard but made little progress. A large grove of scrub oaks lay about one-half mile upstream, but reaching them would be an immense challenge. I moved closer to the rivers edge where the current was a bit slower and my movement a bit faster.

I had been on this river often with my father. He taught me how to use the paddle to get the greatest thrust and move the boat forward. Today, I used all the strokes he taught me as I tried to move the boat against the rapid current. I recalled the “J” stroke which was the most effective. This stroke required me to pull back on the paddle, causing it to curve outward at the rear just when the paddle would normally come out of the water. The result was the boat moved straight ahead with the bow not shifting either left or right, which is the usual problem with paddling a boat.

Along the way I passed a number of cypress trees, several of which were standing when Christ walked the earth. These are the oldest standing trees east of the Mississippi river. They are ancient trees, whose only living American relatives are the sequoias and redwoods of California.

The cypress tree branches were heavy with shaggy Spanish moss and beds of resurrection ferns. Their ragged and broken tops attested to the many hurricanes experienced by these trees. I knew that I must be careful not to run into a cypress tree when coming down stream with the load of scrubs. They usually grow in water which makes them potential hazards to boats.

Cypress “knees” also had to be avoided to prevent capsizing the boat. These unusual woody objects grew adjacent to cypress trees and were of various heights. A single knee could easily cause my boat to turn over when only inches below the incredibly black water. They grow like fantasy towers from the mud around cypress trees. No one, not even the scientific community, knows why they exist.

On this day, most of the bald cypress knees were submerged beneath the exceptionally high water level and presented minimal threats to an unaware boater.

I approached the landing site with caution. The sand bar where I normally beached the boat had been swept away by the raging river, and all that remained was the steep bank. As I came alongside the bank, I threw a rope around an overhanging cypress tree branch and used it to secure the boat. Loading the scrubs from the high bank would be challenging.