Opening the upper Chattooga River to paddling would ruin the experience of those seeking wilderness and solitude in one of the last such vestiges of the Southern Appalachians.

“It is the only river that could provide an experience with solitude because it’s unspoiled and remote,” said Buzz Williams, director of the Chattooga Conservancy. “There’s nothing like that left.”

A group of four river lovers gathered along the shore of the upper Chattooga this month to explain why they were opposed to paddling.

While everyone deserves access to America’s wild places, the right of one recreation group ends where another begins, they said. One need look no further than the lower Chattooga — where paddling is allowed — to see what would happen.

“It is a fair atmosphere, a zoo atmosphere,” said Joe Gatins, an avid hiker and environmentalist, of the lower stretch. “It’s not like this stretch where you can come out and contemplate the wilderness.”

Hikers, campers, fishermen, bird watchers and sunbathers alike can carve out a spot along the river and be fairly certain no one will invade their corner of wilderness for the day. Gatins calls it an “envelope of solitude.”

“Most of the time you do not see another sole on this stretch of river,” Gatins said.

A paddler, meanwhile, would slice through everyone’s envelope of solitude. While other recreation users use trails to access the river, paddlers turn the river into the trail.

For Doug Adams, that would totally blow his form of recreation. The act of fishing brings him closer to the river and the fish. Unlike front-country fishermen — those who walk a few hundred yards along the shore from the road and sit on a rock all day — Adams goes deep into the backcountry and spends hours stalking one fish until he can lure it with his fly. Adams said boaters coming by spook the fish and ruin his ability to commune with the river.

In Birds of the Blue Ridge Mountains, author Marcus Simpson tells readers that “heavy whitewater sports use” makes the lower Chattooga “less attractive for birding” than the upper section, where paddling is banned.

Williams said some of the most passionate conservationists he knows are paddlers.

“I’m one of them,” said Williams, who was a river guide in the 1970s and 80s. But the majority of paddlers are not a quiet or subdued bunch. Williams called it a “yahoo!” sport.

“I defy any of them to tell me the first thing they are going to do when they get to the bottom of a big rapid is yell ‘yaaa-hooo,’” Williams said.

Not all kayakers agree with American Whitewater’s demands to open the upper Chattooga. Mike Bamford, 42, a kayaker who lives in Cashiers, is against the idea.

“It’s another access organization saying we should be able to use every inch of public land,” Bamford said. “This is a problem across the country. There’s an increased demand for a limited resource, the limited resource being wilderness.”

But Bamford said paddlers really don’t need more rivers to satisfy the paddling demand.

“It’s about doing a river you haven’t done before,” Bamford said.

Those opposed to paddling on the upper Chattooga see it as a final stand to protect wilderness from special recreation interests.

“They are claiming that everybody — regardless of their vehicle of choice — is entitled to access,” Gatins said. “This is not a local or regional turf battle. It’s much bigger than that.”

Williams agrees the fight on the Chattooga mirrors a national debate over whether wilderness areas and national parks should permit whatever type of recreation suits someone’s fancy, citing the debate over snowmobiles in Yellowstone. When snowmobile users began pushing for access, claiming it was their right to have a wilderness snowmobile experience in the park, they were told their form of recreation wasn’t compatible with others. Just like snowmobilers had plenty of other places to use their snowmobiles and don’t really need the last vestige of Yellowstone, paddlers have every other river in the region at their disposal.

Williams said the National Forest Service is charged with protecting the unique attributes of the Chattooga under the Wild and Scenic River designation.

“The act says this is a special place. You must define the outstanding nature of every section of the river — you must identify the outstanding, remarkable values of each section and you must protect those values and balance those interests,” Williams said.

Mountain biking and ATV use are also off-limits along most of the upper Chattooga, but horseback riders have gained access in some areas and are negatively impacting the environment by eroding trails.

“There’s an example of a special interest group that pushed, and pushed and pushed and the forest service caving,” Williams said of the horse users.

Part of the upper Chattooga is wide, broad or deep, but parts are not much bigger than a narrow creek. Paddlers will have to get out and drag their boats around or over shallow rocky areas.

“Boaters say they stay in the water and cause no damage, but creek boating is an amphibious sport, not purely aquatic,” Bamford said.

Bamford said they would also create trails around big drops — either those avoiding them or those who hike back up to go over them again and again.

“The river corridor trails are extremely fragile during soggy periods after heavy rains. The soils do not support use during wet periods and start washing silt into Chattooga,” Bamford said.

Williams said he is also concerned with safety issues. He recalls 19 deaths on the Chattooga in a period of four years when paddling first catapulted to popularity on the river in the 1970s.

Surprise attack

Those who want the Chattooga to stay like it is — the upper stretch protected from paddlers — can’t get far without talking about the Chattooga’s turning point: the release of the movie “Deliverance.”

“That introduced the river to a wide audience that otherwise never would have known about it,” Adams said

Paddling on the Chattooga spiked from just 100 a year in 1968 to 20,000 a year in 1974, according to Adams.

“The increase was so massive it was not a remote and wild experience any more,” Gatins said.

Williams was a river guide at the time and saw the transformation first-hand. Groups of fishermen frequented favorite campsites and fishing holes where they basked in the solitude.

“One by one they all disappeared. They pulled out in disgust. Their experience has been ruined,” Williams said.

They didn’t go without a protest, however. Rafters found their rafts slit. Rocks were thrown at them from the shore as they went downriver. Shots were even fired over their rafts. Williams was guiding trips on the Chattooga at the time, and Adams was one the angry fishermen. Both shared similar recollections.

The idea of zoning the river was seen as a way to end these conflicts.

“We had a place to experience our type of enjoyment and they had theirs and that worked very well until today,” Adams said.

When the forest service initiated a study on the potential impacts of paddling on the upper Chattooga late last year, Adams, Williams, Gatins and Bamford all showed up.

“We all said ‘OK, we’ll play by the rules,’” Williams said. “All of a sudden the paddlers said ‘You’re not doing this fast enough. We are going to sue you for unrestricted access.’ They’re not playing by the rules.”

Gatins said American Whitewater has blind-sided the other recreation groups who were willing to participate in what they considered to be a fair study with a fair process so far.

“Part of what is so egregious are their tactics,” Gatins said. “They are not being reasonable at this stage. Nobody likes a bully on the block and that’s how they are acting.”

Williams said the paddlers are being selfish.

“My definition of conservation is coming to the table and saying ‘This is what I am willing to give up to protect the resource we all love,’” Williams said. “They are not doing that. They want it all.”