The year was 1998.
The place was a bend in the Yellow River, just south of Porterdale, about 40 miles east of Atlanta.
The movie was False River, a film best viewed while intoxicated, being savaged by weasels or in the throes of a malarial fever dream.
We had just returned to work after a weekend of torrential rain and the river was high. Really, really high.
Remarkably high.
Dark shapes keep appearing along the top of the churning, rock-strewn rapids then slipping below again.
Those were turtle heads.
Snapping Turtle heads to be precise…. and they were everywhere.
Dozens of them covered the width of the Continue reading Give Me the Barrel
