Drifting into Darien: A Personal and Natural History of the Altamaha River

The First Day

The First Day McRae’s Landing is a cleared patch of underbrush in the floodplain of the Ocmulgee River, deep south Georgia, rural and abandoned. The landing is approached by a dirt road that is littered, weedy, and eroded. My husband and I arrive early on a Saturday morning in May, having traveled through the remote poverty of Telfair County, trying not to dwell on the events of the previous week. Fog lifts slowly off the wide, fat body of the river. The water is the color of Confederate coats. Out on the gray-blueness, a log goes floating away. We have come bearing crosses, invisible but heavy, and if the river could pocket them, then that would be good. A few travel trailers are set up in what look like semipermanent camps at the public landing, and two men work near one of the trailers , hoisting a motor from a truck. I roll down my window. “Howdy! Y’all seen any canoers this morning?” Raven wants me to do the talking at times a southern accent might prove useful. The men ratchet themselves from under the hood of the truck and rest their wrists on the fenders. “No,” one says. He’s a thin man with short dark hair. “A couple of guys drove down yesterday late.” That’s how he talks: yesterday late. “They asked if this was Murdock McRae’s Landing. We said we’d always known it as McRae’s Landing.” The other guy, thicker with cropped auburn hair, speaks up. “Apparently Murdock McRae was a man lived in these parts a couple hundred years ago.” “Those boys said they’d be back this morning.” “We’re in the right place then,” I said. 4 total immersion “Rod Brewer,” the man says. “Sorry about these hands.” He holds up his grimy palms and grimaces. “Not a problem,” I say. “Glad to meet you. Looks like your work is cut out for you.” “It’s always something,” he says. The vernacular down here is pretty cryptic. “And sometimes a lot at once.” “You got that right.” He looks toward the boats on our truck. “What are them called?” “Kayaks.” “So you’re going out?” “Planning on it,” I say. “How far y’all going?” Mr. Brewer asks. “All the way to Darien, we hope.” “That’s a long way.” “A week,” Raven speaks up. “One hundred forty-five miles.” Mr. Brewer gazes toward the river, shining in the first rays of the sun, and a gleam strikes his dark eyes. “I’ve always wanted to do that,” he says. “Us too,” I say. “How many of you are making the trip?” “Ten or twelve?” I shrug. “Well, I guess we best get unloaded.” Exactly at 8:00 a.m. a trailer chattering with loose boats rumbles up the road. I don’t recognize anyone. Then another truck drives up and Dr. Presley is in it, with Crawfish and Charlie. “Hello, hello,” calls Dr. Presley. He asks how we are and we say fine, quick-like. “Let’s get launched,” Dr. Presley says. “We can talk on the current.” People begin to drag boats to the riverbank and pack gear, calling back and forth. They check and double-check lists. Mr. Brewer has forsaken his mechanicking. “You think our truck will be safe parked at the landing for a week?” I ask him. 5 the first day “Don’t see why not,” he says pleasantly. “I’ve practically lived here for three years, and nothing I own has ever been bothered.” “You stay down here all the time?” “Practically. I even hooked up my satellite.” • I know this river story has already been written. Over and over it has been told: an assemblage of people, usually men, load boats with food and fishing equipment and booze, and they step unsteadily into those boats and point their prows downstream. People see them off, and people are waiting for them at their destinations, and the people waiting will hear stories of what happened and witness the emotions on the faces of the adventurers, but those who were not transported by water will never know what really transpired. This is just another camping-on-a-river story. But we are different. This story includes women. I’m with my husband and a few friends and a few strangers. I’m on my favorite river in the entire world of...