The Big Laurel in Western North Carolina is a steep, boulder-strewn creek. I was nervous from the moment I put my canoe in the water, doubting my ability to master such technical Class III/IV rapids.
It wasn't long before my skills were tested. As the canyon walls rose, the creek constricted into long, swirly stretches of whitewater. At the top of one particularly gnarly-looking rapid, my more experienced friend turned and said, "Follow my line. Be aggressive and avoid the hole at the bottom."
I tried. But my strokes were poorly timed and the current pulled me in the wrong direction. I was bounding straight for that endless churn of recirculating water, and it was too late to correct. My boat smacked the hole and stuck like an insect to a spiderweb. I furiously stabbed the froth, desperate to free myself.
As water poured into my boat, I knew only two things: the rapid's power and my heart's beat. On the river, there are no insecurities, deadlines or expectations - there is only the moment. This raw feeling of being alive is why I put my canoe in the water, again and again.
And I'm not alone.
We dedicate this issue of Get Out to water sports, bringing you stories from swimmers, paddleboarders and river-trippers. From fishermen who chase bass across the country to paddlers who chase whitewater across the world, our obsessions flow from the boundless steep creeks of the Southeast.
Inevitably that day on the Big Laurel, the rapid flipped me. As my friends chased my boat downriver, I swam to the creek's mossy bank, flush with crimson-colored wildflowers. I had survived my first swim of a Class IV rapid.
Sunny MontgomerySunny Montgomery
Get Out Digital Editor
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