A few years ago, Edgar Peck found himself deep in the heart of the Smoky Mountains, in one of the most beautiful places he had ever been, unable to feel any sense of peace.
His kayak parked on dry land not far away, Peck and some friends assembled on the banks of Upper Big Creek, a tributary of the Pigeon River. They commiserated over how they would maneuver through a boulder-strewn channel of churning whitewater known as Action Alley, a series of Class IV and V rapids mighty enough to toss them around like socks in a dryer.
On previous trips to the Upper Big, Peck had sized up Action Alley and decided to walk around it. But on this trip, Peck felt as if he were ready to make the split-second decisions and precise movements needed to prevent him from being flipped upside down or pinned against a rock.
Emboldened by the encouragement of his kayaking buddies, Peck surveyed Action Alley, his heart slamming against the walls of his chest, and put his boat in a pool of calm water above the rapid.
As he does before every big rapid, Peck splashed his face with water three times and visualized the strokes and turns the run required. He pushed off — focused and confident and a little scared.
Thirty seconds later, the run finished, a feeling of triumph rushed over Peck. He had challenged nature in a game of chess and emerged unscathed.
"You don't get that good feeling of accomplishing something if there's no consequence," said Peck, who lives in Kernersville. "People like that adrenaline rush. They really want to challenge themselves. Can I do this?"
Peck, a former Marine who teaches kayaking at Appalachian State University, finds himself asking that question a lot in the winter and spring months, the peak season for steep-creeking.
Steep-creeking is a type of whitewater paddling that involves navigating around rock gardens and boulders on tucked-away creeks or rivers that drop more than 100 feet a mile. Depending on the creek, the water may be merely swift or downright violent, stirring up frothy cauldrons that can chew up boats and swallow ill-prepared or overconfident kayakers.
When the leaves are stripped bare from the trees and the vegetation dies back in the Appalachian Mountains, kayakers across North Carolina keep a hawkish watch on weather-related websites in anticipation of rain.
Once precipitation falls, they throw their boats atop their cars or in their trucks and high-tail it to swollen creeks like storm chasers racing after tornadoes.
Creeking season usually winds down by early May as rain-sucking vegetation begins to blanket the surrounding terrain, making creeks unnavigable.
But the recent spate of rain has extended the season, giving people more time to play in Wilson Creek and the Watauga River, two bodies of water that hold a magnetic appeal for kayakers all over the Southeast.
"I'm addicted to this sport," said Eric Stuart of High Point. "You know how you hear about surfers being addicted to surfing? I'm a lot like them."
Jockeying kayaks
Stuart tries to go creeking once a week, which is no small feat given that the closest creek is Wilson Creek, a good 2½ hours away in western Caldwell County.
On weekends, the narrow two-lane road that parallels the creek can turn into a highway, with kayak-topped vehicles jockeying for a place to park. Even on weekdays, after a rain, swarms of kayakers will put their boats in the creek up until nightfall, said Joe Sloan, who runs HAAC's Store, a small general store that sits along the creek.
"When you get a rain, people get the itch," Sloan said. "They know they can jump in here and know it's going to be good."
Once here, kayakers will often make several runs down a 3.5-mile stretch of the creek, dropping down waterfalls and sliding down rocks.
On a Wednesday evening in mid-April, Jeff Cole of Boise, Idaho, was gearing up for his first trip down Wilson Creek. "I'm pretty psyched," he said.
Cole made a special trip to North Carolina to kayak several waterways including the Nantahala and the Watauga.
While Wilson Creek and the Watauga are the most popular and reliable runs for kayakers in the Triad, North Carolina is home to a number of stellar creek runs, including the internationally renowned Green Narrows, a harrowing 2.9-mile stretch of the Green River near Hendersonville that drops as much as 422 feet per mile in one section.
American Whitewater, the main organizing body for paddlers, calls the Narrows the "holy grail for whitewater enthusiasts."
Unlike many weather-dependent steep creeks such as Wilson Creek, the Green River is dam-controlled and can be run all year.
"People move to Asheville from all over the world to live near that run," said Stuart, who works at Get: Outdoors in Greensboro, one of the largest kayak retailers in the Southeast.
Kayakers also will head into the far reaches of the state to paddle sections of other creeks that may be run-able just a few days each year, such as the Upper Big.
Appeal of the remote
In many cases, the "put-in," or starting point, requires a strenuous hike. Many of the creeks surge through steep gorges, essentially forcing kayakers to paddle their way out.
That feeling of remoteness is what attracts Stuart to creeking.
"For me, a little bit of it is the adrenaline and overcoming something that scares you," he said. "But it's really about the places you end up going. We go to places you can't get to by any other means, and we see it in a way where you get a real scope of where you're at."
A year ago, Stuart and Peck kayaked the Twisting Falls portion of the Elk River, a tributary of the Watauga near Banner Elk that can only be run during creek season.
"It was straight out of Jurassic Park, with 40- and 50-foot waterfalls and places where you were walled in. It had that whole untouched-by-man feel," Stuart said.
Besides being highly skilled paddlers, most people who creek have taken swift-water rescue courses and paddle with ropes, helmets, an extra paddle and all sorts of safety equipment stashed in their boats.
Misreading a "line," or route, can have disastrous and potentially deadly consequences.
Surprisingly, for such an extreme sport, there is little bravado among paddlers.
"There's this unwritten rule that if you have to walk around a rapid that no one is going to say anything to you," Peck said. "No one is going to say, 'You chicken?' No one is going to force you to do anything that could get you killed."
Stuart knew when to call it a day during that run on the Elk River, a trip that involved scrambling down and over wet rocks and lowering his kayak with ropes to bypass an unnavigable stretch of the river.
With a 35-foot waterfall in front of him, Stuart couldn't muster the energy and spirit needed to tackle such a hair-raising drop.
"At that point in the day, I'd had enough adrenaline," he said. "I'm happy to save that for another time."
But beyond the beauty and the adrenaline rush, people who steep-creek love it for the joy it brings.
Not long ago at Wilson Creek, as Peck and some of his students slipped into their dry suits for an evening run, an exuberant whoop! penetrated the low roar of the creek, echoing through the gorge.
Peck flashed a knowing grin.
"See," Peck said to Clay Lucas, one of his students. "I told you you'd hear someone holler."
In short order, Peck, Lucas and a few others lugged their kayaks down a slope, dropping them into a quiet pool of water that eased them down river and into the fast water.
Soon, they were hollering, too.
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