a dream: somewhere in the wooded folds of the Appalachians, a river lies undiscovered. It's a small river, hissing over beveled ledges, hidden from view by hemlock and rhododendron. The locals know about it, the cane pole fishermen and the farmers. But not the kayakers and canoeists hailing from far-off urban sprawls.
I will discover the river and introduce it to a select group of friends. Together, we will explore the winding channel, ascribe names to the rapids, and revel in sun-dappled pools. My friends will marvel that I could find such a place, and we will promise to keep it a secret.
Fifteen years after I moved to the South, this dream almost came true.
The year before we married, Cathy and I drove to meet her parents at their family farm in Knoxville, Tennessee. A visit to the Murphy farm was a trip back in time. The Murphy ancestors had settled the land around 1800; the farmhouse we slept in was at least a century old. Most days, we would sit outside with Cathy's parents and her Tennessee relatives talking about the weather and who was taking care of the cows. But my thoughts kept drifting back to the river I'd glimpsed on the ride over.
Between Canton, North Carolina, and Newport, Tennessee, Interstate 40 follows a winding gorge through the heart of the southern Appalachian Mountains. There's a river at the bottom of that gorge, though most of the time it lies hidden beneath a thick canopy of trees.
As Cathy and I drove west that summer day, I craned my neck to see past the guardrail. Finally, a bridge loomed ahead. I lowered my window and whiffed the sulfurous odor of rotten eggs. The mountains parted to reveal a dark ribbon of water streaked with white.
I asked how long the river had been polluted.
Howard's message all but killed my hopes for the Pigeon. Yet each summer when Cathy and I traveled to Knoxville, I found myself stealing glances through the trees.
Then, a break. Under pressure from the State of Tennessee and a citizen's group called the Dead Pigeon River Council, the Environmental Protection Agency agreed to step in and impose stiffer requirements on the North Carolina mill. The agency ordered Champion to lighten its wastewater discharge to meet a monthly average of fifty color units-roughly the color of ginger ale. And Champion promised to install water recycling equipment to try to reduce the smell. Champion announced a half-billion dollars in plant improvements to be started within the year.
Meanwhile, the power company's license for the hydroelectric plant on the Pigeon came up for renewal. A new federal law required that recreational interests be considered along with power generation needs as a condition for awarding a license. Rafting outfitters in Tennessee demanded regularly scheduled releases of water, similar to what was practiced on the Nantahala.
That winter, I called a state environmental officer in Tennessee and learned that Champion had already brought some of its new systems on line. The color of the effluent was lightening and the odor was down. "But, no, nobody's running the river that I know of. Some reputations die hard," he said.
I began to see my dream taking shape, not the remote pristine river that I'd imagined, but a passable variation. There would be a period of time, maybe a year or two, when the Pigeon was clean enough to run, but not yet recognized as such by the boating public. I could be the one to rediscover the river, or, rather, my friends and I.
That spring, I argued for taking our annual canoe trip to the Pigeon. Keith hesitated on the phone.
"Why would we want to run a polluted river?" he asked.
We ended up that year canoeing the French Broad, northern neighbor to the Pigeon and none too clean in its own right. The following winter, I learned that an outfitter named Jerry Taylor had moved to the riverside town of Hartford, Tennessee, in anticipation of starting a commercial rafting business on the Pigeon. I phoned Jerry and introduced myself. Would he be willing to guide me and a group of friends down the Pigeon in May?