Indian Creek trip report
Yesterday Lewis Rue and I explored Indian Creek in the Mulberry Valley. From Lewis' cabin near the confluence of Indian Creek and the Big Mulberry (which was running about 10 feet), we tossed a couple of sit-on-top kayaks in the truck and headed up the road to Little Mulberry. Topping out on Cadillac Hill, so named for a rusting, bullet-filled heap beside the road, we parked on a mist-shrouded ridge dividing Indian Creek and Lick Branch−both a thousand feet below in elevation.
The terrain was wet and steep when we began dragging boats down to the Indian Creek headwaters. Our rope was employed more than once to lower past outcrops of sandstone and limestone surrounded by vegetation and ribbons of water. Boats were accidentally dropped a few times during the slippery descent, sledding unmanned to a stop against a fallen log or boulder a hundred feet below.
Eventually we reached a point 600 feet lower than the ridge, a place where several rivulets join together. From here we hopped in our boats and paddled down an unnamed gorge to the east fork of Indian Creek. Along the way we encountered several Class III drops and lots of boulders and trees growing mid-stream.
We pulled over a few times to drag around log jams and at one point stopped short of a waterfall. Lowering around the drop, which had a shelf landing and log hazard at the bottom, we proceeded to the confluence with upper Indian Creek.
Reaching the right fork of Indian Creek about five miles above Lewis' cabin, we found the stream brown and surging. Our Torrent sit-on-tops proved aptly named as they carried us down the roar of continuous Class II and III waves. Hillsides of old growth oak, beech, and sycamore raced past on both sides, and redbuds and dogwoods made appearances near rocky places along the way.
We stopped at the junction of Indian Creek's right and left forks, taking time to admire ruins of the old Baker farm. This pioneer family homesteaded the south-facing ridge between forks in the mid-1800s. Painstakingly-built walls of stone surround the area and span hundreds of feet along both sides of the creek. Even in abandonment it remains a handsome farm.
On the ridge above an undercut bluff is the lost town of Cobb. A trail snakes up the mountain from the Baker place to what once was the Cobb schoolhouse. Although hard to believe, this forest was once a neighborhood! It's easy to imagine pioneer grandmothers telling stories of Goldilocks and Red Riding Hood to their grandchildren with a certain emphasis lost today.
In the 1980s Indian Creek was studied by the Forest Service for possible Wilderness designation. It did not attain Wilderness status, although I can't imagine a more pristine location for protection.
At 5 p.m. Lewis and I decided to get back to our river-running before dark. The joined forks increased the river's volume to a point of being pushy. Rapids remained in the Class III range, but occasional log jams−which had previously been easy to avoid−now became serious. We ran a number of impressive rapids and made several stops to portage around logs.
After four miles we began arriving at Lewis' stomping grounds. He hollered several times, making some sort of announcement. I couldn't hear what he was saying over the river's roar, so I paddled within a boat length and shouted, "What?!"
"That was the carving rock we just passed!" he said. The old rock with pioneer markings is one of Lewis' favorite spots. He hikes to it from the cabin several times each year to show friends. It was deep underwater.
On river left we sailed past Shop Branch, which looks to be runnable on its own. On river right Lewis' favorite swimming ledge had become an undercut hazard to avoid. At last we arrived at the farm and paddled nearly to Lewis' porch. We were both surprised it had taken more than 20 years for either of us to take a boat down this jewel. Hopefully we'll do it again soon.
