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By David Bradford:
Unfettered By The Dams
In the summer of 1973, I ran trot lines on the Tennessee River with my uncle Hal.
In the dawn, we motored out of Roseberry Creek in a flat-bottomed aluminum boat to check hooks we had set with blood balls the night before. When we reached the first of the Clorox bottles that suspended the baited lines, I throttled down the outboard and steered the narrow channel using the nearly silent electric trolling motor.
In the mist, we passed below the rock bluff that had been carved by Roseberry Creek during the previous millennia when its waters flowed freely into the main channel.
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