Where gushing streams and creeks first meet to form the Chattooga River, there's a wild, winding stretch that's become a favorite refuge for fishermen seeking solitude.
There's no easy way to reach the 21-mile stretch, as the Cherokee Indians who settled the area and the whites who followed suit never built a path along its banks. Outside noise is blocked by giant boulders sheltering the river, and tree canopies towering overhead cool the surging waters, making them a breeding ground for trout.
But the source of the Upper Chattooga's peace is rooted in more than its remote location. Since 1976, the U.S. Forest Service has banned all boats along the stretch, which runs through North Carolina, South Carolina and Georgia.
Anglers have reason to fear their serenity could soon be shattered. Whitewater groups filed a federal lawsuit in May seeking to force the federal government to permanently remove the ban and allow canoes, kayaks and rafts to return to the upper portions of the Chattooga.
The same placid shoals that draw fisherman to the headwaters make it a choice training ground for novice kayakers, they say. Plus, the occasional daring rapid makes it a ready challenge for paddlers seeking a new adventure.
"We're trying to get back to equal access for wilderness users," said Mark Singleton, director of American Whitewater, a plaintiff in the lawsuit. "The Forest Service never did the kind of scientific data collection necessary to close the river to boating. In the words of our lawyers, it was arbitrary and capricious."
A generation ago, anglers could fish the cool waters along the entire Chattooga without worry of being disturbed by passing kayaks, rafts and canoes. But thanks to a surging interest in outdoor adventures over the last few decades - and the Chattooga's role as the backdrop in the 1974 movie "Deliverance" - rafts full of shrieking people at every twist and turn have become a constant presence along the bottom portions of the river.
The anglers who have since moved say the upstream section is one of their last tranquil sanctuaries.
"It's not the best fishing ground," conceded Doug Adams, a 71-year-old who has fished the area since 1955. "You don't find the best trout there. Or the biggest. But you won't find a prettier place."
The lawsuit has divided the outdoors community at the same time as the Forest Service is considering other uses for the river. Bureaucratic meetings that once drew a handful of hardcore outdoorsmen are now crammed with fishermen and paddlers who want to have their say on the river's future.
In a cramped gym in Highlands, N.C., last month, forest rangers tried to broker at least a temporary agreement between folks from both sides unsettled by the lawsuit, which forest rangers said they couldn't discuss because it is ongoing litigation.
But as soon as the rangers finished speaking, few in the audience had a problem tackling the issue. Small circles of arguments quickly erupted between the two camps, pitting veteran fishermen against young rafters.
"God gave us the right for serenity," Mary Moore, a white-haired angler, said as she jabbed her thumb into her chest.
"Why don't we have the same right?" Jon Clark, a 24-year-old kayak instructor, shot back.
As the squabble grew louder and the finger-pointing more intense, Andy Holland, a fisherman from Seneca, S.C., walked out in disgust. "It's not about us," he muttered on his way out. "It's about fish."
Further downstream, where the Chattooga ping-pongs its way through a treacherous tangle of rocks, there's a spot where relaxed anglers and hardened raft guides on a rare day off can still meet in peace.
At Bull Sluice, a rapid so notorious that even its rocks have earned themselves a nickname, dozens of rafts float by fishermen on days when the water rises high and the sun shines brightly.
A few feet from Big Georgia, a massive slab that overlooks the border with South Carolina, 21-year-old raft guide Jeff Rogers paints a more hopeful picture of the two sides.
"We have a mutual respect for fishers," Rogers said as he watched a group of teens tempt fate by tiptoeing across the rapids. "We try not to raise hell around them."
A hop away, Skip Dickens, a balding angler who first started fishing the area in 1975, steadied his balance atop a particularly large slab as he pondered the river's future.
After a long pause, he shrugged.
"I don't see why we both can't use it."Associated Press via St. Paul Pioneer Press
