In The Spirit Of Amordolek Analysis

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In the Spirit of Amorolek – By Canoe from the Blue Ridge to Jamestown By Richard Freeman Allan [4445 wd. Orig version] In which the author embarks upon the smallest of Albemarle Countie water-courses, only to arrive ten days hence at an historic Towne sited upon the Olde Dominion’s largest river. And encountering en route majesties and miseries of Nature, a Respectfulle Meditation on a forgotten Native son, Wyldlife plentifulle, as well as Mightie Paynes of both the back and shoulders. The crazy notion overtook me innocently enough. In February 1999, the day after a heavy rain, I had eased my 16-foot Discovery Canoe into eight-foot wide Lickinghole Creek. The launch point was barely a mile from the Appalachian Trail in…show more content…
"We heard that you were a people come from under the world, to take our world from us," replied Amorolek. As the remnant Moncacan tribe of Amherst County notes today, this prophetic statement stands as the sadly accurate description of all Native Americans’ ultimate fate. It was this native man who provided much of the data from which was compiled the famous Smith Map of 1612, the first extensive, accurate diagram of the new continent’s interior. In fact, identifying our town by it’s Monacan name, Amorolek gets credit as the one who literally first put Charlottesville on the map. Much has changed in my adopted state since way back then. The flow of its rivers has not. As I paddled, I saw that my route eastward would have been familiar to Amorolek. These were his waters. I was bisecting the large territory he charted for Smith and England nearly a decade before the Pilgrim’s reached Plymouth. I had departed my voyage exactly at the site of a Monacan encampment. And I aspired, as once did he, to reach Jamestown. So I mentally dedicated my journey to the spirit of…show more content…
All too soon headwinds ensue and I must drop sail. Then it’s a heavy pull for almost three miles, direct into gradually increasing wind. My muscles start cussin’, but there’s no turning back. The misery lasts for ninety minutes. At last I am safe under tent on Jordan Point, very tired and soon fast asleep. Rest and vitamin-I heal all wounds. I had sited my evening tent three feet from the waterline, but awoke to find myself mere inches from same. The vast eleven thousand square mile James’ drainage is still flexing her Nor’easter-nourished floodtide. I have risen at 5:30, determined to make wind-free miles on a glass-surfaced river. Perfect dawn sifted her purples and ochres behind a dynamically surging solar disk, rising in promise that this will be a good day. A promise that was kept! The full ebb tide pulled Tiger Lily down river strongly, boosted by the still upwelling James. I feel the push of myriad tiny, stream-drained valleys bestowing good energy upon my wet highway. So away-ho from Benjamin’s big bridge, bound for the first of James River’s grand plantations. I raise sail, encounter friendly tailwinds, and become a navigator. Pissing across a gunwale in a flood-driven canoe under full sail is a delicate art, a crucial and blissful release of inner into outer hydrostatic

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