Canoes to Pavement: A Perspective

There was more to this river than the sensuous views in rural Georgia…

We paddled with minimal effort. At one point, my canoe partner at the stern said, “You can slow down if you want,” but I was in flow, a space where excitement and curiosity meet comfort and peace. I felt at home. Our canoe seemed to glide through the water while paddlers identified various forms of wildlife and vegetation—blue heron, water willow, cliff swallows, river weed (podostemum), yellow bellied sliders. 

There were four canoes and one kayak. We all shared a moment of awe as we witnessed a tiny brown head push sideways against the current, making its way to the full-bodied riparian bank on our right. We had to be about 25 feet away until its black nose dove down and a huge “slap-splash” sequence followed. That was the first time I’d seen a beaver. 

Our crew slowed down once we’d found what looked like an archipelago of flowering water willow with boulders and other raised forms of geography interspersed throughout. A few of us decided to pull into the brush and explore on foot. Our bow was greeted by placid bumble bees and eastern tiger swallowtails pollinating the dainty purple and white flowers that just began to bloom. 

Water willow (justicia americana) interspersed in patches throughout the river, with trees in the background. Photo by Lauren Wiggins.

We were in Thomaston, Georgia and the stormwater infrastructure guru whom I rode with brought her fly fishing gear. She sloshed through the river's current sideways, just like that beaver we’d seen earlier, seeming equal parts bashful and determined.

Miraculously, upon her very first cast, we heard, “I think I got something.” There was a slight undertone of disbelief in her voice. She then said, “It has to be hooked on a rock or something,” but a few tugs of the reel revealed a huge Shoal Bass!

Many cheers and photo-ops later, she gently released the catch back into the current. 

Five paddlers cooling off in the river, talking, while Katherine wades off in the distance fly fishing.

There were parts of the Flint River that sped up—where the rapids were mildly intimidating, but tamable. The flow was reminiscent of the increased volumes of water rushing down a gutter, or off of a curb cut into the drainage system after a typical Georgia thunderstorm.

Our canoe was always at the head of the pack, with my partner at the stern being the most experienced paddler of us all. There were moments where the boat would boof downstream, over a boulder, and we’d rhythmically paddle with the current. “Let’s eddy out,” she’d say before professionally sweep stroking into an about face to watch others make it down the rapids safely. 

Being on the river was undoubtedly expanding my appreciation for the Flint, not to mention my mental bird’s eye view of its meandering banks.

I read Hannah Palmer’s book over five years ago, but I’m sure we can all agree that Emerson’s words on the wilderness, or Baldwin’s words on being Black in Europe hit your soul differently once you actually experience what they’re writing about. As a matter of fact, you begin to write your own story while tying threads with theirs, which is exactly what was happening in Thomaston, and soon at the headwaters.

Ending our tour at the river’s source in East Point, Georgia.

Less than five days later, we were in East Point, just south of Atlanta, about 80 miles north of the Flint's canoe launch. This time we gathered for our tour in a parking lot near “Magnesia Springs,” the natural springs at the upper most headwaters of the Flint River. Flow from the stream has been piped since the 1940s, but we could spot the approximate location of the spring marked by a white East Point water tower rising above the industrial development.

Our first stop was on Elm Street, south of where the Flint headwaters emerge from pipes to flow across seven acres of floodplain owned by MARTA. Standing atop the roadway culvert that shuttles the headwaters under Elm Street, Hannah gave us an orientation to the history of the surrounding area and (what I like to call) a mysterious spring. To me, it was an iceberg beneath the ocean that I could not visualize because it was piped underground or hidden by fencing. 

I hopped down into the face of the cavern, moving through shrubbery and spider webs, yearning to know more, to see where it all began, and what exactly was flowing into those drainage pipes. A stormwater infrastructure professional who focuses on sediment and erosion followed me, but we still could not see exactly where it all started, as much of it was blocked  off by MARTA fencing that is slated to come down once the property is sold to College Park for a public greenspace. Needless to say, we were both disheartened after hoping to investigate past the cavern and its bordering riparian zones, but we were also delighted by the prospect of it soon being opened for nature preservation and community access.

The next stop was North Loop Road at the Delta Flight Museum. We could see the tarmac and parked planes that lay adjacent to the underwhelming fluvial landform. I wondered why the volume was so low and what aspects of development might be impeding its ability to thrive. The level of impervious surfaces, and unmanaged natural growth were a key, but still…

How did the world’s busiest airport end up on top of one of our state’s longest rivers?

Hannah eloquently broke down the Flint history timeline: farmers settled Muscogee land, then developers turned their swampy fields into a racetrack. Soon after came the first installment of runways.

The Forest Parkway Bridge, an overpass right outside of the airport’s boundaries, was our next stop. It was quite peaceful. I met a young man interested in talking about career history and aspirations as Black professionals in natural resources. He helped me recall that my passion is not only found in regenerating our ecosystem, but more so speaking up, and working for the living beings who are most vulnerable to its unbalance. Whether it's the beaver bobbing its head against the current downstream, or the legacies of oppression affecting people who may live near the Flint headwaters today, in my view, every entity deserves to thrive upon the Flint.

Hannah shared the difficulty that came with actually getting a sign that says “Flint River.” As she pointed to the sign above the river that had finally been installed, a thunderous cheer commenced.

I began to connect the dots between the deep love and investment in this river, and yet, I still couldn’t help but ask myself, “Who is this river for?” 

There is cause for celebration since the headwaters will soon become a community park within a fully restored stream bank. There is also room for pause, in knowing that there is a history of new infrastructure developments lending themselves to green gentrification, and the many forms of displacement as a result. The impact of community development projects are not always equally felt.

Though these thoughts continued, we found ourselves at the final site of our headwaters tour near an old grist mill that was hidden by the dense forest. Looking toward the forest as Hannah spoke, I envisioned a relic of the Civil War and thought about variations of the people in that era. On the other side of the bridge, I witnessed the rushing river that grew in volume and velocity compared to the initial sites, and I thought of the Indigenous people who came before the notions of any type of colonization. 

Today I wonder if those of us invested in ecological restoration, community-led design, and the patience and respect that comes with it will uncover the river’s full story. Who used it for sustenance? What spirits did it cleanse, what forms of industry did it power? What systems did people upon its banks perpetuate? How was it honored then, and how will we honor it now? Some aspects of our time on the headwaters tour gave us a hint of the cultural narratives being shaped then and now.

As we uncover the full story of the river, I hope each of us can find a path toward leading the charge for holistic, inclusive approaches to the revitalization of this area.

Even among spurts of newness in geography, flora, and fauna, the Flint hoisted a remnant of familiarity. There was more to this river than the sensuous views in rural Georgia, and there will be more uncovered from people’s stories and archives in metro Atlanta. Upon canoeing and walking along the river’s banks, I heard the Flint asking for consideration of the realities that might have been, the elements that remain, and what could be in the future. 

Lauren Wiggins recently completed a summer internship with the Atlanta Regional Commission. She is a forward-thinking urban ecologist at Yale currently studying the nexus between ecosystem conservation, equitable development, and sustainable design.

Lauren Wiggins