Polio Creek

Polio Creek

Written and Illustrated by William Nealy

A Carolina Paddler Reprint

Editor’s Note: This writing by William Nealy appeared in the book, First Descents, published by Menasha Ridge Press in 1989. Edited by Cameron O’Connor and John Lazenby.  

William Nealy was one of the most beloved and colorful personalities of the paddling world. His cartoon river maps literally put him on the map. From there he went on to write ten books about adventure sports, balancing humor and ribaldry with dead-on technique. William’s insights into the behavior of water (and paddlers), both above and below surface,  still ring true. His book, KAYAK, remains one of the most effective guides available for learning whitewater paddling. William was…. until he wasn’t,”One of the coolest guys in the world.”

∞ Us kids called it Polio Creek, as in “You better stay out of that ditch or you’ll get polio.” It drained the eastern slopes of Red Mountain, the southernost extent of the Appalachian foothills in Alabama’s central piedmont. It ran through my backyard in Homewood, one of Birmingham’s many bedroom communities. Before World War I Polio Creek had been a meandering brook with gentle curves and gentler gradient. By 1950 it had been engineered, channelized and civilized, walled on both banks eight feet high, first with sandstone, later with concrete.

Polio Creek was a crack in suburbia, a kid Ho Chi Minh Trail, the forbidden zone. Within the sheer cool walls a youngster could walk for miles without once falling under an adult’s reptilian gaze. Here and there were tunnels connecting other neighborhoods to the creek, tunnels big enough to walk upright in and, on occasion, big enough to run like hell into when being pursued by adults or worse, teenagers. Naturally we were forbidden to play in the creek by the mom and dad units. “Typhoid!” “Rats!” “Snakes!” and obviously, “Polio!” Practically the worst things that could happen to one of us would be to slip and fall into Polio Creek. It was a long sad walk home, dripping with the incontrovertible evidence of a sure whipping offense. Despite the hazards, I lived in Polio Creek.

Once or twice a year a flash flood would pump Polio Creek up eight or ten feet, turning it into a watery freight train whipping through Homewood faster than you could pedal a bike, light speed to a kid. We would be herded into the house and our parents would stand looking out kitchen windows at the astonishing sight, smoking cigarettes and silently praying the furnace didn’t get flooded. To the grown-ups the creek had  become a limbless Godzilla, a bull snake unleashed on Homewood, slithering between the houses, hissing and throbbing. Sometimes a section of the retaining wall would get peeled off by the force of the current and entire backyards would be lost, scoured down to the old steambed. Dolls, basketballs, tires, jugs, paint cans, lumber, lawn furniture, shrubs and other suburban flotsam would begin the long journey south to the Gulf of Mexico on the crest of the flood. For years I had been contemplating just such a journey for myself.

I had a boat: a one-kid plastic rowboat-looking affair from K-Mart that also served as a wading pool, turtle pond or sled, as circumstances dictated. Conditions had to be just right to run Polio Creek: daylight, mild weather, sufficient water and absence of adult supervision. One blustery spring day in 1965 everything came together. It had rained all day and from my sixth-grade classroom I could see parents arriving early to pick up their children, headlights on in the afternoon darkness–a good omen.

My friend Tommy and I rode our bikes home in the rain. Rainwater was gushing out of storm drains and when we got to the bridge we saw that Polio Creek was high and going higher. We made a plan; I would float the creek and Tommy would stay ahead of me on his Schwin Typhoon, checking my progress at each successive bridge. Since this was merely a run-through and not the actual Gulf of Mexico expedition, equipment and supplies were kept at a minimum. A boat, a paddle and a paddler. I was only going a few blocks.

With Tommy stationed at the first bridge on my home street, I carried my boat upstream through backyards to where a smaller creek fed into Polio Creek through a break in the wall. Moving in a brisk but stealthy manner (a kid carrying a boat anywhere near a flooded creek was fair game for any nosey grown-up), I got into position on the feeder creek and slid down, out of sight.  I got into the boat and paddled up to the break in the wall. Polio Creek shot past the breach with a low sucking moan, and as I cleared the wall I was snatched downstream. This was like some demented new ride at the state fair–a Mad Mouse with no brakes and no end, an insane machine. I was falling down a shaft with walls of concrete, water and air.

The first rapid was a 90-degree bend to the right with a huge sewage tank protruding from the left wall at the middle of the the bend. The entire flow was slamming straight into the tank and folding over itself in its rush to run right. Despite a frantic stroke or two I was heading straight into a wall of very angry-looking water. Something grabbed the boat, stood it practically on end and shoved me right at the instant before I hit the tank. I was bailing with my hands; water had surged over the transom into the boat as I was tossed to the right. A huge shadow flew over me and someone yelled my name. I looked up toward the sound and saw I had just streaked under the first bridge. I could see Tommy pony-express mounting his Typhoon, heading for bridge number two.

Next bend, 90 degrees left, trying to stay to the inside of the turn. Into the wall instead, nearly vertical, then whipped left just before impact. Bailing frantically now, like those cartoons where Sylvester the cat suddenly has 50 arms….My predicament is dawning on me. First it is a trickle, then a torrent of realization; I am going to drown today. Probably in the next few minutes. The walls are smooth, unbroken. Unless I can somehow stand up in the boat, I can’t reach the top of the wall.  The water’s too deep to stand in and too fast to tread. Ninety-degree bend to the right, stayed inside the turn and only shipped a little water this time. Long curve to the left. The creek is still rising… I can see windows, back porches now. Great. If I don’t drown I’m going to get caught. Bridge number two is coming up to meet me…it’s like sitting in a bathtub of cold water and having the world roll over me. Tommy rides onto the bridge, drops his bike and runs to the upstream rail. He’s crying now. The bridge has a center piling with a tree and some boards stuck to it. The right side would be better because there’s a curve to the right just below and that would put me inside the curve. I take the left side, which looks safer, and I’m into the curve before Tommy can run to the other side of the bridge. Boat spinning. I hit the wall this time and I’m full of water. Got to bail.

Third bridge, no sign of Tommy. Water still rising and it will be a squeeze to make it under this bridge…less than two feet. For one second I consider grabbing the bridge and climbing up on it.

Then I’m scrunched into the bottom of the boat, flying into the penumbra of the bridge. I’m clear, on a long straightway; ahead is bridge number four. Just below this bridge is a steel waterpipe about a foot in diameter that crosses the creek about six feet above the creek bed. I’ve fished from it. Now it is right at the surface, splitting the flow horizontally like a planer. A huge boil just below where the flows reunite throws steam and froth into the air. It is the end of the world. I remember a concrete storm drainpipe on the right wall just above the bridge. That is how we climb in and out the creek here when the creek is running a trickle. It’s about halfway up the wall. Right now only the top of the pipe is visible, a six-inch ledge curving into the brown water. I’ve got to grab the pipe, roll out of the boat and climb out. There is silence and I’m looking down a dark tunnel at the top edge of a pipe and the black underside of the bridge. Nothing else exists  but that little piece of concrete. I’m there…. drop paddle… grab pipe…. roll out of the boat. I swing below the pipe, planing on the surface, water tearing at my jeans. Lost a shoe, then the other. I hear a crunch as the boat is bisected by the pipe. I can’t bring myself to look downstream.

I get a leg in the pipe, then a foot on top and a hand on top of the wall. I bring my head up slowly… no fire trucks… no Tommy. The coast is clear. I cross to the far side of the bridge. Boat gone. Just brown boiling water. I hope Tommy shows up soon…. we’ve got to prepare a good story in case we’re interrogated later on tonight. Went wading, slipped and lost shoes. Some other kids swiped boat and sent it down creek, etc.

I see my mom’s VW headed toward me, coming fast. There’s my mom… There’s Tommy. Holy crap.

∞∞∞∞∞∞

Editor’s note: In case you don’t know, the “kids Ho Chi Minh trail” mentioned early in the story refers to Vietnam, where the US was fighting the North Vietnamese and Viet Cong in 1965. The Ho Chi Minh trail was a secret jungle path used by VC militia and North Vietnamese regular army to ferry fighters and equipment into South Vietnam.

About William Nealy, from First Descents (1989):

William (never Bill) Nealy is the master cartoon artist at Menasha Ridge Press and the author of numerous whitewater books, including KAYAK. He lives in Hillsborough, North Carolina. When not on the river, he can usually be found lurking in the state’s north-central Piedmont region.

About William Nealy, from Carolina Paddler (2026):

William laughed off most of the recognition he received, even though he enjoyed it. He called himself an impostor, presenting an image to the world that didn’t square with his true self. Regardless of his self deprecation, Nealy brought joy and excitement to many paddlers and other “fun hogs.” Nealy was inducted posthumously into the International Whitewater Hall of Fame in 2007. The recognition speech called him, “The Whitewater Poet Laureate.”

Bonus Nealy Anecdote:  Paul Ferguson says he only paddled with William Nealy one time.  Paul and Gary Cousino decided to paddle New Hope Creek one day when the flood conditions rivaled Polio Creek in the story above.  While they were getting ready to launch, William showed up.  Nealy lived nearby and never missed an opportunity to hit New Hope when intense rain would make it paddle-worthy and adrenaline inducing.

Nealy suggested they team up for the run and off they went.  Paul says New Hope, normally a slow, winding, scenic stream through Duke Forest, was fat, fast and sprawling out of its banks.  The paddlers were skirting the edges of the creek, paddling on flooded footpaths throught the woods, dodging standing trees as they flew by.  They realized this might be unwise when they had to veer past playground equipment, picnic tables and other “suburban flotsam”.

Finally, William found a place for them to eddy out and shared the news the Big Drop rapid was just ahead and they probably shouldn’t try it.  He volunteered to hike out for his vehicle and shuttle them back to their cars.

Paul said his only paddle with William was certainly a memorable one.  Apparently William had not lost his taste for runaway creeks.

Carolina Paddler thanks Menasha Ridge Press and Adventure Keen for the permission to use this article.

“Polio Creek” appeared in the wonderful collection, First Descents– In Search of Wild Rivers, edited by Cameron O’Connor and John Lazenby, published by Menasha Ridge Press, in Birmingham, Alabama in 1989. 

First Descents is no longer in publication but can be found at many book resellers and if acquired, will be treasured for many years.