Trailer: Best of High Country Adventures

The Best of The First season of High Country Adventures is available now on DVD. The DVD features over 2 hours of action adventure sports video from the High Country. There will be a couple of options for purchasing the DVD - widescreen vs. 4:3; with or without the High Country Adventures Season 1 Soundtrack; Online or at a variety of local retailers.

Here's the trailer with some of the action that is included on the disc. Also included are special features like the Blowing Rock Boulders Segment...

Yours for only... $20.00

Roscoe, Weather Channel Hero

One of the biggest snow events in the last 10 years swept through Boone on December 18. The storm dropped more than 20 inches of snow across the High Country.

I went out and shot some video of the snow falling, and of course, Roscoe rolling in it. I got a great shot of Roscoe howling and decided to send it into the Weather Channel to see if they would air it on the television.

After hearing no response from the WC, I went to bed and forgot all about it. In the morning, after peaking through the window at the massive drifts and deep snow mounds, I turned on the Weather Channel and watched the Local on the Eights. Immediately after the local forecast, Roscoe took center screen howling his best, most wolf-like howl he could muster as the snow came down in fluffy clumps. I was pretty excited to say the least.

Here's the video of the segment on the Weather Channel.



Here's the long video of Roscoe playing in the snow.

Backyard Boulders

Blowing Rock Boulders

DVD Premier Party at the Boone Saloon

Wednesday, December 9, 2009 --

Lookout for a few new short films premiering at the Boone Saloon on Wednesday. Our first ever High Country Adventures Premier Party is going down and we'll have some new videos to show off. Look out for some killer new footage from T.C. Webb, maybe a new Mike Stam video, and some footage of the Backyard Boulders shot by yours truly, Eric Crews. It should be a good time as Skip Sinanian has informed me there are a few new draft beers that will be unveiled for the premier so come on out and sample some of the new libations and check out some cool footage set to good music.

See you there!

The Obscurists

In the spring of 2009 High Country Video Productions shot and edited a short film called The Obscurists. The film shows what bouldering in the High Country is all about. It isn't about how hard you rate the problem, or how popular the problem is on rockclimbing.com, or how many ascents the problem has. Bouldering in the High Country is all about going out and finding new boulder problems that you've never climbed before. The only thing that really matters is going out and pushing yourself to climb harder on new boulders and to keep pushing yourself to get better, stronger, and more solid by pushing the limits of what you've experienced just a little further into the unknown.

Here's The Obscurists, a film about bouldering in the High Country.

New River Reflections

By Robert Eric Crews

The morning sun is bright and warm in the cloudless blue sky. The dogwood trees in the forest are bursting with white blooms as ducks stomp around the green grass between the pond and the river. Meanwhile, the river is brimming with hungry trout who gorge themselves on the recent hatch. High pressure is dominating the region and there is no sign that the blue skies will be going away anytime soon. I do what feels right: pack my gear, load up the canoe, and head north to the New River.

The New River is by no means a focal point as it flows through the town of Boone, North Carolina. After starting as a mere trickle in Blowing Rock the New River winds through a narrow, rocky valley next to the highway for fifteen miles before ducking into the woods and running around the outskirts of Boone’s booming development. As more mountain streams pour in from the steep, rugged slopes that surround Boone the river quickly gains momentum and strength. By the time the river leaves Boone the tiny stream that left Blowing Rock has grown greatly in size. In most places during the warm months of summer the river sprawls lazily between two red clay banks about twenty feet apart and runs in riffles and swirls over the stones of the river bed.

~~~

There is little to paddling the New River. The usual risks of whitewater rapids, fast water, and swirling eddies normally associated with river running in Western North Carolina are minimized to a comfortable level. The sole difficulty is avoiding the shallows and the rock ledges that are scattered throughout the river, often just below the surface.

The New River is tranquil and easy-going offering plenty of time to observe the slow crawl of farm life in an absolutely stunning setting. The river passes through the lush green rolling hills and pastures of farm country, North Carolina where cattle graze at the river’s bank and drink from the slow-moving cold water. Donkeys and Shetland ponies take weed-eating duty along the riverbank in front of old farm houses and weathered barns.

Two miles in I am forced to portage a low-bridge. The bridge leads over the river to an old farmhouse whose chimney trails a constantly wavering stream of smoke into the blue sky. A wizened old Golden Retriever meanders down to the bridge to say hello to my dog, Rosco, and I. His face is nearly white with gray hairs that belie his age. A big truck driven by a farm hand backs onto the bridge. I am prepared to jump from the bridge with my dog, fearing that he will surely run me over as he quickly backs the massive truck onto the narrow bridge. The golden retriever makes a run for it but I hold steady and am nearly killed.

He steps from the truck as if nothing were amiss and asks in broken English if I’d caught any fish.

No, I respond. I tell him in Spanish that I am heading to Virginia and there is no time.

He uses a great deal of inflection as he asks, a la Virginia?

Si, I respond as I turn the boat parallel to the bridge so Rosco can jump aboard. I shove off and the golden retriever follows us along the bank until the pasture returns to forest.

I drift slowly and almost soundlessly through the towering forests of hardwood and conifers. Downstream a weasel stands on a rock cracking open small mussels and shellfish. As I approach he sees me and scurries back into a small hole hidden in the thick brush. There is a pile of empty shells on the rock where he sat.

A trip in a canoe is the easiest way to the heart of this scenic country. The country roads wind and curve through the towering mountains that surround the New River Valley making trips to town more of a weekly occasion than a regular occurrence for many of the residents who have made the area their home. The houses are few and far between; it is the wilderness between where the true beauty of the New River shines. Deer regularly come down to the river bank to drink. Muskrats, beaver, groundhogs, and weasels live a seemingly comfortable life in dens carved from the soft clay of the riverbanks.

The forest is full of blooming flora. The new leaves of Spring take on a verdant green hue that is unsurpassed in vibrancy. The green forest shines against the royal blue flowers, the orange blossoms of hydrangea, and the white blooms of the numerous dogwoods. Wildflowers such as the rare Pink Lady Slipper, the elusive Jack-in-the-Pulpit, the orange flame of Burning Bush, and Carolina Bluets grow in the shade of the venerable old trees and offer a nice diversion from the endless forests that line the New River's banks.

As dusk settles in over the New River Valley I find a good camp in a sandy grove of Sycamore trees near the river’s edge. The sound of the river running over a ledge offers the rich aural notes of a symphony that only a river can create. The sun slinks slowly behind the trees as I prepare a meal of rice and beans on a Coleman stove. As the rice simmers I take the time to build a fire with driftwood and read by the flickering light of the fire as my dinner cooks. There is nothing better than eating good food beneath bright stars after a long day as the fog drifts in over the river, I think to myself. The night air is cold and crisp but I am warm and cozy as I drift off to sleep on beneath a tarp with the sand as my mattress.

At sunrise the fog hangs heavy over the river, but behind the fog the sun is up there burning through the morning mist as quickly as it can. I paddle out onto the quiet river to the sound of birds in the forest singing. On the distant horizon I see blue skies beyond the veil of gray fog and the sun begins to shine down on me as I paddle.

“I was just a young lad full of adventure much like you when I walked out the door of my parent’s home in London and came to America,” the Revered Peter Parish says. “I traveled up and down the East Coast playing the banjo in a folk band. Then one day I stumbled into Carolina and it was so beautiful I knew right away I’d never leave.”

The Reverend and I stand on a newly built stone stairway that leads down into the river a quarter of a mile upstream of the Elk Shoals Chapel on the New. An old, historic cabin that dates back to the early 1900s stands in a field of grass that has recently been mowed. Rev. Parish tells me that the cabin was owned by the Mash Family and is one of the oldest standing structures on the New River. The age shows in the weathered logs and cracking chinking.

The sound of the river is the only sound we hear. The sun is warm and from his tanned skin I can tell that Rev. Parish spends his share of time beneath it. He is a handsome, middle-aged man who speaks with a mild British accent that no doubt has softened in the twenty odd years he has been in America.

“My wife and I don’t have much money,” he says. “But we are surrounded by everything that money can buy. There is the forest, and the river, and so much wildlife.”

Elk Shoals Methodist Camp owns 4.2 miles of riverfront property along the New River and they use the land to provide community gatherings for mentally and physically handicapped children. The camp has received a recent surge in notoriety following the award winning documentary “Trust Me” which was filmed at Elk Shoals during the annual Interfaith Camp. The camp focuses on bringing together various religions in order to create cohesiveness and community in spite of the variances in their religious affiliations.

“I came up with the idea after 9/11,” Rev. Parish says. “The first year we had thirty-two boys of Christian, Jewish, and Islamic faiths come together at our camp. I think it has been a real success.”

The majority of the water in the river pushes downstream toward a Sycamore tree that overhangs the water near some boulders piled on top of one another. The water stacks up and creates frothy white waves as it falls over the ledges beyond the boulders. I tell Rosco to sit and he does and I angle the boat slowly into the strong current and use the paddle as a rudder and a brace as the waves crest over the bow of the boat. The water is calm and tranquil beyond the rapid and a snapping turtle suns on a rock in the middle of the river. He sees me approach and dives into the water leaving a wet imprint on the rock where he just was.

The remnants of hurricane Floyd that hit Boone in the summer of 2004 caused the river to jump its banks and terrorize the low lying areas outside of Boone with enough water to destroy most of the youth baseball fields and carry the bleachers downstream to their crumpling demise. The swelling waters of that flood ripped out many of the low water bridges as trees stacked against the aging trestles and formed walls of whitewater that surged until the barrier was broken. North of Boone, where I am paddling, the raging river deposited driftwood twenty feet up in the branches of tall trees beside the river and it looks like it could be the giant nest of a Condor.

The water is slow moving and the sun overhead is hot. I pull into a small village of houses and notice the quilt-like patterns that hang on several of the barns and houses in the area. I am tempted to stop but the dark clouds on the horizon are threatening thunder, lightning, and rain and there are many miles yet to paddle before I reach Virginia.

In the afternoon heat I make Rosco swim. It is cooler for him that way and when there are no houses he runs along through the forest on the bank beside me. I watch him as I run and am surprised to see him leap into a thicket and emerge with a huge beaver in his mouth. He shakes the beaver back and forth the way dogs often do when the kill is on their mind. I am certain that the beaver will be injured but I watch with further disbelief when the beaver frees himself and turns and catches Rosco by the nose and shakes him back and forth. Rosco howls in pain. I paddle on and he quickly catches up to me and right away gets back into the canoe.

I reach the takeout point at Mouth of Wilson as the clouds begin to darken quickly. Soon there will be rain and there is no time to linger. I tie Rosco to the boat and tell him to stay. No one will want to mess with my gear with him there, that’s certain. Across the way two young men load canoes onto an outfitter’s van and trailer. I walk over and ask them for a ride back to my truck. They are friendly and say they don’t mind at all, so I give them a hand and load the canoes with them.

We ride down the curvy roads and highways of Allegheny County and back into Ashe County in a Jeep with the windows down and the radio on. The two young men are graduating in a week. One of them asks why I wanted to paddle for so long. I asked him, The weather is perfect. There is nothing I’d rather do. We pulled up to the bridge where my truck is parked near the river’s edge. I give the driver a twenty and say, I can’t thank you enough, honestly. He says, Don’t mention it and drives off with a wave.

The rain comes down in sheets and torrents like a bucket has been spilled high overhead that never fully empties. Lightning arcs across the dark sky from cloud to cloud. Some of the lightning must hit the ground because the sound of thunder booms through the river valley and echoes off the concrete bridge upstream. It rains so hard that I am certain that if I looked up I’d drown. I load the canoe onto the truck and look out across the wide river as the rain and wind move across the water.