Otter Creek Gorge--The River's Anthem

by Luke Farrell

Walking along the descending snowy trail, the cold and crisp air bites right through my fleece, and the sound of rushing water from the dam and windblown branches seem to greet me. For a quarter of a mile or so, a segment of the Trail Around Middlebury runs along the shore of the western bank of Otter Creek, and as I follow the river's flow North, the current noticeably gains speed and force with every step. When I glance over my shoulder, the massive hydroelectric plant at Belden Dam stands guard against the natural flow of the river, and I feel as if the water locked above the dam is being imprisoned- kept quarantined from continuing its journey to Lake Champlain and beyond. The lucky water below the dam makes its way downstream-slowly at first- getting caught every now and then in a strong eddy or in its ice form. Small icebergs lightly sprinkle the surface. Rocks, fallen trees and strainers seem to disrupt the water's course from time to time. But the sloshing waves find a way to keep up with me as the trail veers away from the water and ascends a hill topped with white pines and white oaks. I follow faded footprints lying in breathless paths of hikes gone by, and the sound of the river plays in the background. Downstream, I know, lies the Gorge of Otter Creek.

My first encounter with the Otter Creek Gorge came in late September, at the start of the fall term. My roommate had been told that fish swam in the still waters below Belden Dam-they enjoyed swimming against the current made by the releasing of the water. Such a fact might not come as such a surprise to most fishermen, but we had been cursed with casting our lines into bare and lifeless waters-or at least fishless waters-for the previous month and a half. In fact, the number of days we had gone continuously without a bite had to have been approaching some kind of Vermont record. Our drought as fishermen had even extended back to the previous spring, when the Champlain Valley experienced its unfair share of flooding and consequently housed muddy and unfishable waters for much of the season. So although we knew that fish did swim, our ignorance as to the where we could actually witness this phenomenon had grown immense. Thus the news of Belden Dam and its discharge fostered in us a confidence not felt for a long time.

From the sound of things, I sense the Gorge is now directly next to me, and I wander off the trail in search for a glimpse or two at the source of the flooding in my ears. The trees and shrubs are frozen in the ground and find it hard to yield way even for a stealthy passerby. I clumsily forge my way through the trees, until the slope leading down to the ledge becomes too steep to try and rappel in these wintry conditions. Far below, the water merges into one passageway between the embankment walls, and the high-pitched screech it gives off at its heightened state of activity reminds me of the shriek emerging from a kettle of boiling water at the very beginning of its outcry-soft, constant, knowing, but not yet desperate. The web of tree branches intertwining in the gray and lifeless space between there and here obstructs my view of the cauldron. But I need only listen for its song to retell its own story of my memory.

Fishing below the dam in my canoe-an Old Town Appalachian river runner-I realized that the advice given to my roommate was the best advice we'd ever received. The trout were surfacing everywhere, and we were pulling them in one after another. Our fishing drought was over! We let the canoe-as well as the fish on the end of our lines-drift with the current as we laughed out loud at how nice it was to be catching fish again. But all of a sudden, the growing noise of rushing water grabbed our attention, and I ordered my roommate to help paddle the canoe over to the eastern bank of the river.

While concentrating on the fly-tying and casting dimension of fishing the river, we had not noticed how quickly we were being pulled downstream of the dam by the current. But the dam was now hidden behind the last bend, and it was evident that the still water where we had put in had grown into something wilder-something that bore its own anthem-and was not afraid to sing it loud and proud. We decided to pull ashore and scout the sound coming from downstream-as a summer raft guide, I had learned to take such precautions-hoping, first, that it might be the Otter Creek Brewery's taste-testing day on the river and, second, that it might prove to be moderately rough and exciting waters. The latter prevailed as the truth, and we climbed along the rocky shoreline until the Gorge became visible. My heart skipped a few beats. Was this churning stretch perhaps navigable? From where we stood, the narrowing and descending riverbed illustrated the reason for such rough waters. In the middle of the first stretch of the pass between the limestone and heightened walls was a large, solid class IV standing wave. It marked the entrance to the Gorge.

"Well…?" asked my roommate, bearing a pathetically easy-to-read poker face. There was possibility for only one answer.

"Well…" A forced laugh. And then another. And then there was nothing more to say. We got back into the canoe and pushed out toward the current.
I J-stroked once from my perch in the stern, then again, to keep the tip of the canoe pointing directly at the center of the standing wave. The only way we could make it through without capsizing, I knew, was to attack it with as much speed and balance as possible. Breathing quickly-or perhaps not breathing at all-we struck the wave head-on, dousing every inch of our bodies and everything else in the canoe-including the rods, which, without thinking much of it, we had lodged between the front and back thwarts. Suddenly, my roommate sat in a heightened state far above me as the front of the canoe directed itself toward the clouds above. The waves constructively collided and, if witnessed from afar, could have been mistaken for an erupting water volcano. But within a couple frozen seconds, the wave melted away and the canoe remained miraculously afloat and open side up.
"Whew!" yelled my roommate, "That was fucking nuts!" He looked back at me and we exchanged grins.

The trail winds down the other side of the hill, and I find myself on the shore of the broad, calm pool where the water emerging from the Gorge ultimately settles. There is no clear-cut line that denotes where the snow on the land meets the snow on the iced water; still, I trust an animal's existing footprints to show me a safe route to the spot nearest the spout of the pool, where frenzied water drains from the rapids above. Along the entire shore are tiny icebergs-floes-positioned like white lily pads. They are separate, arranged with space in between large enough for liquid water in small amounts to pass through. And I wonder about the reasons behind water taking on such a peculiar state of being. But regardless, the icebergs lay proud, reflecting, for they-like the two of us that September day-made it through the tunnel of heightened action.

We had done it…I think. Yes. Yes! And the adrenaline raced out of our mouths, pounding upon the voice boxes as it went. I looked to see if the rods had maintained position under the canoe's thwarts, and they had. But amidst our celebration, I forgot to steer us through the stretch that came after the initial standing wave. To my surprise-although a surprise it shouldn't have been-the current's velocity remained constant and the canoe was pushed into the stone embankment of the Gorge's eastern wall, halting us for a moment; immediately, water came rushing over the stern gunwales and into my lap. To get back out in the current, I knew, was the only way to keep from being pulled under. "Back left! Back left!" I yelled to my roommate. And we steered the tip of the canoe towards the western bank, perpendicular to the flow of the river. We started to move again-sluggishly due to the fact that the canoe was now half-full of water. But the overwhelmingly precarious state in which we found ourselves led to a fundamental forgetfulness, and we failed to perform the all-important lean-into-the-current step. Before we had realized our mistake, the canoe was bottom-side up and its contents were upside down and under water.

"You alright?" I managed to yell out at my roommate after my head had resurfaced.

"Ah yeah," he looked a little shocked, "I'm fine."

Emerging from the Gorge was our river-sale-a fly box here, a fly rod there, a sandal here, our composure seemingly dissipated everywhere. And standing there on the shore, playing with his dog, was my Psychology professor, who had been watching our unceremonious emergence from the Gorge.

"Hey, Professor Reiss!" I yelled. He helped us pull the canoe to the shore so we could flip it right side up and paddle around the pool in search for our missing gear. And what an unexpected surprise it must have been for him to find me there.

"I hike here all the time with my dog and I've never seen anything like that before," he told us. "I've seen a few kayaks run the Gorge-with skirts and helmets-but never a canoe. You guys are lucky-it's the damnedest thing I ever saw. The damnedest thing." And we laughed a relieved line out loud as the sounds from the river sang their constant melody.

And it's all a journey downstream, I think to myself. On the snowy shore, by the footprints that led me here, I sit and listen. And all that I hear is the hum of the unleashed madness upstream, the aged and settling water by my side, the subtle movement of the head shaking, the nibble on the inside of the lip, and the wonder of how in the world we made it this far.
The Gorge's anthem echoes ever so softly off the waves, the limestone walls, and the other obstacles obstructing it from its journey to the sky-singing in praise of itself-whether its racing through rapids, stuck in eddies, or merely sitting as an iceberg in a calm an open pool of reflection. On the shore, I hear it all, and hum along with its song. And I swear that--at this time, at this place--it's the damnedest thing I ever heard.

Entrance sign to the Belden Falls Picnic Area, where the beginning of the trail to Otter Creek Gorge begins.

A view of Belden Dam

Water as it is released downstream by the dam

Ice floes ride the surface of the pool that the Gorge drains into

The entrance to the pool downstream of the Otter Creek Gorge rapids

A glimpse of the Otter Creek Gorge from atop the steep embankments

Ice grips the shores of Otter Creek during winter

The rushing rapids through the Gorge

How to get there: three miles north of Middlebury on Route 7, turn left onto Belden Road at the same place where River Road turns off on the right. Belden Road goes under an old RR bridge, and then you'll see the Belden hydro dam along the river, along with a small parking lot. Walk upstream (i.e. back toward Middlebury) to get above the hydro plant, and you'll come to a recently built pedestrian suspension bridge over the river…dizzying but safe. Once on the far side, turn right along the stream-bank and follow the footpath marked (with yellow plastic marker) for The Gorge. Use extreme caution when you leave the trail (as you'll probably want to) to actually watch Otter Creek drop through the gorge, which peaks at about half a mile downstream from the hydro plant. The fast water eventually runs out into a broad, calm pool and when you get to that point, easiest way back is to retrace your steps.