When I was ten years old, my dad and I embarked on a wild canoe trip down Staunton River. Little did we know, we were about to get caught in a thunderous spectacle that would have even Zeus shaking in his boots. Over time, I’ve nostalgically referred to this day as The Canoe Ride from Hell.
Our itinerary had us putting in at Long Island with our destination Brookneal. An eleven mile route we’d paddled a half dozen times before, Long Island to Brookneal features a scenic river segment with Class II and III rapids that “should not be attempted by novice canoeists,” according to the Virginia Department of Wildlife Resources.
But we were no novices, nor were we ordinary canoeists. We were scanoeists. Our craft of choice: the 15′ Coleman Scanoe (1989 model).
And what is a canoe you ask?
It’s a hybrid canoe. A cross between a traditional canoe and a skiff boat with a square back stern where you can mount a trolling motor, if you so desire.
In the 1980s and 90s, the scanoe was the minotaur of water craft.
And we had one.
Now considered a relic of the past like Rave 4x Megahold Hairspray, the scanoe first appeared in 1985, manufactured under the Coleman brand and discontinued in 2001. Scout canoes, as they called today, still exist.
For the purposes of this essay, I will refer to our ride as a canoe and not a scanoe because even back then when scanoes were a thing (sorta, kinda), everyone still said with a laugh, “What the hell is a scanoe? Do you mean canoe?”
No, no. We didn’t mean canoe.
The start of our trip was pleasant. A typical float down Staunton River with my dad. The sounds of frogs and turtles along the water’s edge. The continuous pattern of trees lining the banks, passing us by. Dragonflies zipping above the water. Ripples drifting behind water snakes. The hush of the current.
But then, about two hours in, the sky began to turn.
Nowadays, it’s easy to plan your entire day around the weather. Hour by hour with the click of a button, you can see the forecast and a radar. But in 1991, we didn’t have a weather app to consult.
No phone that fit snugly in our pocket.
No device to warn us of what lay ahead.
Hell, we didn’t even have The Weather Channel in 1991.
Down in the sticks, where I grew up, basic cable TV was still years away.
Our trip, in accordance with how everyone plotted their water-bound outings back in the day, was planned around the following criteria:
- It’s 9 AM and the sky is currently blue. No clouds in sight.
- There’s water and we have a canoe.
- Last night, the WSET 13 meteorologist said the forecast for today would be “clear skies during the day with a slight chance of a late afternoon storm.
We’d be out of the water and eating MoonPies and drinking bottled Coca Colas from Old Well Grocery long before late afternoon.
No worries.
Wrong.
Within a span of five minutes, the beautiful blue hue of the sky transformed into a light shade of gray.
“Hopefully just a sprinkle,” my dad said.
And that’s how it started. A refreshing sprinkle.
Paddles in hand, we continued to glide along the river’s gentle current.
Then a low rumble.
Ten minutes later, the light shade of gray turned a menacing shade of dark gray.
Then a BOOM!
Lightning crackled across the horizon. Its thin white fingers grasped for the river as the water’s current picked up.
Ice cold rain drops pelted our exposed skin and saturated our shorts. My dad, as was the usual, was rocking light blue jean cutoff shorts.
The river then went full tilt on us. The raging rapids from hell had commenced. Our canoe bobbed and weaved like a middleweight boxer threatening to dump us into the ensuing chaos under our canoe.
We paddled like madmen.
Once sympathetic to our cause of having a relaxing day out on the water, Staunton River recast itself into a villain. Choppy currents threatened to capsize our fragile vessel, as if the river itself had conspired with the storm to foil our escape.
We fought back, digging our paddles deep into the water. Large rocks once visible above the water’s surface now slammed into the side of our canoe, nipping at our fingers as they held onto the paddle.
“Keep it straight! Keep it straight!” my dad yelled. “We have to keep it straight!”
“I can’t paddle any harder,” I said.
“Hold onto your paddle,” my dad said. “Don’t let it slip. I’m going to get us to the river bank.”
My dad reached deep within himself, that only this moment could have brought forth, and dug his paddle into the river. I mimicked him with all the strength a ten year old boy could muster.
Our desperate strokes paid off as we made it to the river bank, crashing against a thicket of overgrown brush and downed trees which temporarily lodged our boat.
Finding shelter along the riverbank
“I need you to step out gently, take this rope, and wrap it as many times as you can around that tree up there,” my dad said, pointing. “Then knot it. I’ll be right behind you. Do not drop the rope.”
As I wrapped the rope around the tree, I looked down at my dad, still in our canoe. Still in the water. His right hand gripped firmly onto the branch of the downed tree that held our boat in place. The boat shook.
“It’s knotted,” I yelled down to my dad.
Then he made his way from the canoe onto the brush and then onto the riverbank meeting in. Together, we pulled the slack of the rope until the canoe, too, was on the bank.
Huddled underneath our canoe, we sought refuge from the wrath of the storm. Lightning spread across the sky lighting up the woods all around us. Thunder roared like a chorus of angry giants.
It was both awe inspiring and, what should’ve been to me, terrifying.
“This isn’t the best place to be during a thunderstorm,” my dad said.
“Next to a river?” I asked.
“Or wet underneath a canopy of trees,” my dad said. “We’re sheltering from lightning,” my dad paused looking up at the trees all around us, “under a lightning rod… about 300 lightning rods.”
We didn’t have a choice though. My dad’s pick-up truck was parked miles away. And being that cell phones weren’t a thing back then, calling for help was out of the question. Even if it were possible, my mom was a good 15-20 miles away and would never be able to pinpoint our location in the woods off the side of Staunton River.
Pause
This is where I pause for a moment and explain the naïveté of a child and the composure of a father.
I must confess my complete childlike naïveté of the situation. While all this was taking place around me — in the water, during the storm, and then soaking wet huddled under a canoe in a forest — I wasn’t that scared.
An 18 year old version of me would’ve been terrified. A 30 year old me, the same. A current me. But the 10 year old me, I wasn’t.
I’ve told my wife this story a handful of times. As I was rehashing it today, I told her how I wasn’t as terrified as I should’ve been.
“You were with your dad,” she said. “You felt protected, safe.”
And she’s right. When I look back on this day, my dad was relatively calm amongst the, incoming pun, storm. There were urgent demands he commanded my way like:
- Keep the canoe straight so we don’t flip over (and likely drown)
- Don’t drop the rope before you secure it to the tree (otherwise, my dad may have been sent off down the river by himself, with me left behind)
But he held it together while the danger was at hand.
Unpause
Eventually, the storm began to recede, like a retreating army exhausted from its conquest. The rain tapered off. The thunder faded into the distance, moving further and further down the river.
A sliver of blue appeared in the sky.
We emerged from our makeshift shelter, lugging our canoe overhead. My dad contemplated the nearest road.
Where were we exactly?
Deciding against a trek that may lead nowhere but deeper into the woods, we returned to the riverbank.
Staunton River was flowing swiftly with its newly added depth. But to be on the safe side, we hung around the woods for another hour eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (my dad) and cheese and mustard sandwiches (me).
Then we put in and made our way to the end of our route: from Long Island to Brookneal. Because of the speed at which the water flowed, our trip was cut down by a solid 45 minutes.
“No more stopping,” my dad had said. “Let’s get the hell home.”
And we were home free now.
When we set out, we felt like adventurers. At least I did that morning. It always felt like an adventure when I’d go canoeing with my dad. Granted, nothing like this had ever happened before.
But our misadventure that day turned us into something else: survivors. Survivors of nature. Survivors of Staunton River. Survivors of the canoe ride from hell.
It’s a memory that is forever etched in me.
My dad died on May 21, 2009, after a short yet swift battle with acute myelogenous leukemia. I’ve had this story in my head for 30 years, but had never written it down save for a few sentences here and there. If you read this today, I hope you are reminded of your own dad — your protector in childhood, the man who kept you safe, absorbing your fears into his own so your naïveté could live another day.
Happy Father’s Day!
Thank you for reading.
6 replies on “The Canoe Ride from Hell: Misadventures on Staunton River”
Wonderful story. What a great memory and way to honor you dad.
Thanks for reading Taunya. It was a fun story to sit down and write after all these years locked in my brain. Take care.
Your description of river was perfect! I remember paddling like crazy to get to “take out” as the sky darkened and wind picked up. But we made it.
“We made it” is right. When you see that sky darken and the wind pick up, whew boy, that’s the phrase you want to hear soon enough when you’re on a river. Thank you for reading and leaving a comment. I appreciate it.
I know this wasn’t a hilarious adventure but you made parts of it downright funny, the beginning especially. You set a scene then took us all along for the ride.
Thanks dm. It’s somewhat of a funny story to look back on now, especially the whole huddling under our canoe leaned against the side of a tree, but, at the time, no way. Granted, I had more fear in me writing it than I did at the time while on the river. I was just a naive kid then and didn’t realize what could have happened.