‘WEAK IF YOU DON’T’

Logan jumpin' @ 'The Sinks'

          Used to be, if you wanted to throw down a challenge to one of your buddies to try some crazy or dangerous stunt, you ‘dared’ ‘em to do it. If’n that didn’t work, you’ might even ‘double-dog dare’ ‘em to push the issue a bit farther. And lemme tell you… that was usually enough to prod most guys into tryin’ about anything to prove they weren’t ‘chicken’ or scared.

Nowadays, though, some of the young folks from up around the mountains of west Polk County, Tennessee, have come up with one even better. It’s called ‘Weak If You Don’t’, and to them, it’s the ultimate challenge.

Nicole about jump off of the Gee Creek Falls

          Started back around 8-years ago amongst a small group of friends, it’s caught on and most of the locals around there are familiar with the phrase. And then – not to be outdone by the boys - their girlfriends, who jump off of waterfalls and bridges right alongside of ‘em, came up with a sayin’ of their own that both compliments as well as finishes the original… it’s ‘Crazy If You Do’.

With the challenge also comes a chance at a badge of honor, of sorts. Prove yourself enough times to the ‘inner core’ of that bunch, and you just might get yourself a decal to stick on the back window of your truck or to the side of your kayak. Make no mistake, though, not just anybody gets a sticker. Only a privileged few are allowed them.

Nolan & Nicole swimmin' Devil Shoals

Now, ‘back-in-the-day’ – when I was a much younger man – I, along with a handful of my friends, used to jump off of waterfalls and bridges and pull all kinds of other crazy stunts as we reveled in our in youthful bravado just as the Polk County kids are doin’, now. Only, sometime since then, a funny thing happened… somewhere along the line, I realized that I wasn’t quite as indestructible as I once thought I was. In other words, I got old and wised up. Well… at least, I thought I had.

Jumpin' off the Reliance train trestle

Then, a quarter of a century later, I suddenly lost my ever-lovin’ mind and found myself feelin’ the need to ‘prove myself’ all over again. Only this time, it wasn’t to my peers, but to my youngest daughter’s boyfriend and his cronies. Here were all these 20-year-olds, jumpin’ off of waterfalls and railroad trestles just for the thrill of it, and I’m suddenly bein’ invited to participate with them. Well, now, what else could I have done? Take a pass on it? Let ‘em think I was too old to ‘hang’ with ‘em? I don’t think so. Twice their age I might be, but my pride was still that of a man just out of my teens. So, last year – my 45^th on this earth – I began the quest to obtain a much-coveted ‘Weak If You Don’t’ decal.

Rock climbin' @ The Bluffs

Now, I’m here to tell you. Them young folks don’t do nothin’ halfway. Everyone of ‘em’s a durned adrenaline junky. Why, in the past year and a half, I’ve seen ‘em jump off the top of 20’-high Gee Creek Falls into the small pool below, with the creek at flood stage, wearin’ only a bright red cape and a pair of Chacos; swim ‘Devil Shoals’, a 100-yard long stretch of Class III rapids on the Hiwassee River; jump from the railroad trestles on both the Hiwassee and the Conasauga Rivers; run the Ocoee River, a Class V whitewater river, in a 3-man ‘Mini-Me’ inflatable raft; and even rock-climb ‘The Bluffs’, 3,000-feet above the scenic Hiwassee River gorge… barefooted. It’s amazin’ what these young daredevils sometimes come up with. And here I was goin’ to try to ‘hang’ with ‘em. What was I thinkin’?

Raftin' the Ocoee in a 'Mini-Me'

          Well, it started durin’ a trip to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. While everyone else was jumpin’ off of the usual 25’-high rock at ‘The Sinks’, a popular swimmin’ hole on the Little River, and with a bit of proddin’ by Logan, my daughter’s boyfriend… Ol’ Bury here leaped off the much higher (40’) cliff side, effectively showin’ up a pool full of other much younger guys. Some of which climbed up there, and then backed back down; scared to try it. Then, less than a month later, havin’ just swam the infamous Devil Shoals with the kids, I stepped off the railroad trestle there at Reliance, Tennessee, plungin’ into the ice-cold depths of the Hiwassee, as a group of friends my own age looked on. After that, however, I was pretty much over the whole ‘relivin’ my young & dumb days’ thing.

Luckily, it was decided that the ol’ man… that’s me… sufficiently proved himself, and I’m proud to say, I got my sticker. As a matter of fact, not only did I get one for my truck, but for Christmas, Logan and Nicole decorated the bow of my sit-on-top ‘yak with ‘Weak If You Don’t’ on one side and ‘Crazy If You Do’ on the other.

Now, that that’s done… thank God… I can politely ‘pass’ on any future feats I’m invited to join ‘em in attemptin’, ‘cause, hey… I’ve got the sticker. And that’s proof enough that this ol’ boy ain’t skeered.

Well… at least, until one of them dang young’uns tosses out that most dreaded of challenges… ‘WEAK IF YOU DON’T’.

‘NO MAN NEEDS BE REMINDED OF HIS PAST FAILURES’

            There ain’t a man alive what hasn’t done somethin’ that he’s ashamed of or better yet, not very proud of. Maybe it was somethin’ big or maybe somethin’ small; maybe everybody knew of it or maybe it was he alone that knew of it. Regardless, though, it was a failure to him, and he most likely took it very personal. It caused angst in his life and to some degree diminished his self-worth, and getting’ past it prob’ly took a bit of doin’. Yet, having accepted his responsibility for and learning from his mistake, he need not dwell on it any longer. For undoubtedly, he’ll do his durnedest from now on to try to make better choices and do what’s right.

Integrity is a quality that every man worth his salt aspires to have. It encompasses many of the best and most admirable traits in a man: honesty, uprightness, trustworthiness, fairness, loyalty, and the courage to keep one’s word and one’s promises, regardless of the consequences. In short, a person’s level of integrity is what determines the kind of man he truly is. Integrity is a man’s moral compass, helpin’ to guide him how best to handle situations that arise each and every day as he goes through life. Yet, keep in mind, men are human… and as such, we sometimes fail miserably. After havin’ recognized their failure or mistake for what it was - a regrettable, yet brief, lapse in judgment - most men try their damnedest to get back on the right path, ‘cause like I said… a man’s level of integrity is what defines him.
            Now, don’t think this ol’ man is preachin’, ‘cause I’m a sinner and backslider as well as anyone when it comes to tryin’ to live a life of integrity; but I do at least try. I’ve learned the hard way that living with integrity is way easier than living a deceitful life. Living with integrity brings wholeness and peace. Your conscience can rest easy, and you can look yourself in the mirror with pride.

With all that said… I suggest that you stop and think from now on before you speak in regards to what’s in a man’s past. No man wants nor needs be reminded of his past failures or mistakes, no matter how innocently nor in jest a comment may be. Doing so is akin to throwing that man’s low point, his failure up in his face; effectively reminding him of a time when he was lesser than the man he desires to be. And really, who would wish to treat any man so, to set him back, at least emotionally if not physically? It should be in all of us to build up our fellow man, not tear him down.

“Remember that failure is an event, not a person.”

- Zig Ziglar, motivational speaker

‘A REAL LOAD OF BULL’

During the bull-ridin' event at the Missouri State Fair’s rodeo this past Saturday, one of the rodeo clowns was wearing a President Obama mask when the announcer asked the enthusiastic spectators if anyone would like to see “Obama run down by a bull”. And, of course, the audience responded enthusiastically.

Well, wouldn’t you know it? Out of more than 8,000 spectators there, one took offense and felt the need to post a photo of the clown in the Obama mask on his Facebook page. Not long after, it found it’s way onto the Progressive blog site showmeprogress.com, and the political-correctness crowd was immediately fired-up. The offended spectator stated online that he felt “a sense of fear” from the “level of enthusiasm" from the crowd that filled the fair's grandstand. Likening it all to “some kind of Klan rally you'd see on TV", he described it as “cruel” and “disturbing”, stating that he’s “still sick to his stomach over it”. He even went as far as to call it “blatantly racist”.

             And ever since photos and video of the performance were posted online, it seems like anybody that’s got a soap box to stand on feels the sudden need to act all offended and tore up over the comical acts of a couple of rodeo clowns tryin’ to put on a good show.
            Numerous Missouri officials have since denounced the performance, citing the “obvious disrespect and ridicule directed at the president” and what they perceived as the suggestion of violence toward Obama; in the form of an encounter with a bull.

After some Democrat lawmakers suggested there should be financial consequences for the fair, the State Fair officials jumped on the band wagon, as well; lettin’ it be known that they were checkin’ into takin’ action against the Missouri Rodeo Cowboy Association, the contractor responsible for Saturday's event, and then the Fair officials went and slapped a lifetime ban on a rodeo clown involved.

In 1994, a bull attacked a dummy wearing a

  George H.W. Bush mask without the world coming to an end,

 anybody being fired, or any press outrage.

Heck, even the rodeo announcer bailed on his compadre - the rodeo clown, announcin’ that he was quittin’ the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association in protest since the clown has yet to be banned from its membership. Yeah, right. I’m sure it ain’t got nothin’ to do with his tryin’ to hang on to his full-time job as superintendent of the Booneville School District, which announced Monday that they themselves are hirin’ an investigator to look into whether HE – the announcer, was involved in any "inappropriate conduct" during Saturday's bull riding event.

So far, and not surprisingly so, the only ones to publicly take up for the much-maligned clown have been his peers from the Missouri Rodeo Cowboy Association memberhip, several of which were at Saturday's event. They stated that there was nothin’ offensive or unusual about their friend’s actions, pointin’ out that rodeo clowns have long performed such acts, often imitatin’ sittin’ presidents. According to the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association, it's not unheard of for a rodeo clown, depending on how he reads his audience, to play politics.

Any president comes in for a fair amount of public mockery, and what happened at the Missouri State Fair doesn’t seem any worse than that other presidents have had to endure. That’s just part of the job… it’s pretty much a given, so thin-skinned people need not apply.

          Now… with all of that said… I want to make one simple, yet astute observation. Regardless of what all that political-correctness crowd might think – no matter if they’re the Governor, a State Fair official, or some big time news network reporter – they ALL have totally missed the REAL story here.

In the offended spectator’s own words, “everbody screamed” and “just went wild” as the announcer talked about having the bull run down the clown with the Obama mask.

Huh! “Everbody screamed” and “just went wild”… think about that… that was HIS description of the crowd’s reaction. Speaks volumes of how that crowd must really feel about the president. Kinda hard to blame THAT on a couple of cowboy clowns pokin’ fun while dodgin’ Brahma bulls.

‘A FLOAT-FISHIN’ ADVENTURE… COMPLIMENTS OF GOOGLE EARTH’

            Well… this tale rightly got its start with me a playin’ on the computer on that dag-blasted GOOGLE EARTH. That’s where I got to lookin’ at and a wonderin’ about that stretch of the Conasauga River what winds its way back and forth across the Tennessee-Georgia border a couple of times as it comes outta the mountains.

            Now, to my way of thinkin’, I could just see all the fish through there that were just awaitin’ to be caught by a couple of adventurous paddlers. Now, never mind that that there stretch of river was way back in the mountains, surrounded by nothin’ but National Forest lands; no roads, no houses, no nothin’ anywhere near, just the fish, the snakes, the squirrels, and maybe a bear or two. Now… surely you can see the kind of spell that durned GOOGLE EARTH threw on me, a modern-day adventurer.

'The Falls' rapid

After a few weeks of searchin’ the Internet about that section of the river, with nothin’ but a few vague whitewater kayakin’ references and nothin’ on the fishin’ back in there, as well as, pourin’ over topo maps and satellite photos, I determined that the only way to really know what was back there was to push off in a ‘yak and find out for myself.

Well, now, Keith was all about float/fishin’ the river when I texted him askin’ if he wanted to go on the followin’ Friday; although, somehow or another, he missed the ‘where’ of the intended trip. We were halfway to the put-in when he asked what section we were floatin’, and you shoulda seen the look on his face when I told him. Now, Keith’s a trooper, and even though he’d just spent the last several hours on-shift at the fire department fightin’ a commercial structure fire, he grinned and said, “I’m in.”

'The Falls'

We put-in just below the Taylor’s Branch Rapids; me on my ‘Weak If You Don’t’ sit-on-top and Keith jammed inside an old sit-inside ‘yak. For somebody that’d never been in a ‘yak before, Keith took to it pretty darn quick, and after the first couple of hundred yards or so, he was a pro.

            Good thing, too, ‘cause right after that we come to the roughest rapid on the river, the one folks call ‘The Falls’. It’s a long, tricky-to-navigate Class III rapid with a 3-foot drop at the very end that, ready or not, you gotta plunge right through. Like I said, it was rough, and we’ve got a busted paddle blade to prove it.

            Once past that, the river settled out for a good ways, and we went to fishin’, pullin’ Bass out of them clear, cool waters, one right after another. Now, these weren’t your everyday, run-of-the-mill ol’ Largemouth Bass what most everybody else fishes the lower stretches of the river for. These were Redeye Coosa Bass. The same little jewels that I’d brought famed outdoor writer Wade Bourne up here to fish for, not two years past*. And, boy, let me tell ya… they were fighters, each and every one of ‘em! Those hard-fightin’ li’l river fish caught on an ultralight rod was fishin’ at its best, and I’m tellin’ ya… we wore ‘em out.

For the rest of the day, we’d work our way through the rapids, routinely hangin’ up on barely-submerged rocks, bangin’ off midstream boulders, and occasionally havin’ to walk a particularly shallow run. Sometimes I’d go into a slot wrong and get unhorsed from my boat; other times, Keith would hang on a rock, lean a bit too far over, and have his ‘yak suddenly fill with water. Yeah… it didn’t take long for us to figure out that the whitewater wasn’t as much a problem for us as was the low water conditions. A river gauge readin’ of 5’ or more would make for a much better float than the 3½‘ it showed on that day. We were still havin’ a good day, though.

As we came out of each rapid, Keith and I would fish the heck outta the runs and long pools below. Back there where they get very little to no fishing pressure whatsoever, the fish were both eager and cooperative. At times, it was almost too easy.

A nice Redeye

In between sips of Crown Royal and cussin’ all the hidden rocks we kept hangin’ up on, we were reelin’ in true trophies, one of which was a 2-lb. Redeye; that had I had the presence of mind to keep it, would’ve made a beautiful mount on my livingroom wall. Alas, though, I tossed it back without thinkin’ as I pulled five more fine fish from the same ‘hole’, while Keith was doin’ equally well in a ‘trough’ not a half dozen feet below where I was.

Oh, and the scenery was just gorgeous. Mountains rose almost straight up all around us, with rhododendron bloomin’, thickets of mountain laurel, and towerin’ Hemlocks all along the way. For quite a ways, the river ran through a sort-of walled-in section, kinda like a gorge, with the sides of the mountains rising nearly straight up from the water’s edge. It was obvious that if you had to get off the river through here, it was gonna be tough goin’, for sure. And, talk about remote… why, other than one small airplane and a high-flying Medi-vac chopper, there were no sounds of vehicles, trains, or other signs of civilization back where we were; just the incessant noise of cicadas and the constant sound of rushing water.

Deep in the mountains

By the time we finally reentered Tennessee for the second time in nearly two-miles, we were beginnin’ to get tired. All the pushin’ and a shovin’ we’d had to do to get through some of the rapids was beginnin’ to tell on us, not to mention the early mornin’ fire Keith had worked. Besides that, the sun had already started down behind the ridges, so we stowed the fishin’ rods and set to paddlin’ our way on out of the mountains.

            We paddled through rapid after rapid, around bend after bend, so ready to see some sign of our finally nearin’ Willis Springs and ‘the outside world’, once more. The closer we got, the river seemed to widen some and became a bit shallower, causin’ us to hang up even more.

            While waitin’ for Keith at the bottom of one particularly troublesome spot, I noticed somethin’ shiny bobbin’ along in the current towards me. I had to grin when I recognized what it was. Apparently, a stainless steel whiskey flask rides rather high in the water when near empty. Yep… when the whiskey runs out, it’s time to call it a day.

Just before dark, we finally found a place to take-out within easy reach the road. We were just past Minnewauga Creek, and still a good two-miles shy of our intended take-out spot. We didn’t care, though. We were tired; we were sore, and we stunk, having been on the river for a full 10-hours plus. Yet, we had accomplished what we had set out to do. We had floated the National Forest stretch of ‘our’ river, exploring the route and samplin’ the fishin’ through there. We now knew as much about it as any man, and a lot more than most. As a matter of fact, we were already talkin’ ‘bout doin’ it, again.

Only, next time… we’ll make sure the water is up.

  J

* - See the July/August 2012 issue of BASSMASTERS magazine - 'The Redeyed Princess of Northeast Georgia'