YEARS OF LOW WATER LEVELS ARE AT HEART OF DISPUTE

About halfway between Long Island and Brookneal, massive swells of granite form a boulder garden in the middle of the Staunton River.

Rocks, some larger than semi-trucks, are rounded and shaped by millions of years exposed to the elements. Other normally submerged boulders are partially exposed because water levels are so low due to drought and reduced upstream releases from Leesville Lake dam.

Now, as Appalachian Power works to relicense its Smith Mountain project, a new permit determining how much water has to be released is nearing a final decision and those downstream feel they may finally get their fair share of water.

An August public hearing on the permit drew 2,000 people concerned that the plan could impact levels in Smith Mountain Lake and Staunton River. Those above the dam fear the new permit would lower lake levels, causing safety problems and lowering property values. Those below the dam say the plan would finally give the river its fair share of water.

To understand the concerns of those living downstream, it’s important to know the ebb and flow of the river and its rich history.

The Staunton draws its name from Lady Rebecca Staunton, the wife of former Lieutenant Governor William Gooch, who charged William Byrd II in 1728 to help survey the boundary between Virginia and North Carolina. Byrd named the southern branch of the Roanoke River, the Dan and the northern branch the Staunton, according to the Staunton River Watch’s Web site.

These days, the commonly accepted boundaries of the Staunton are from the base of Leesville Lake dam to Kerr Reservoir near Scottsburg in Halifax County.

In 1804, the Roanoke Navigation Company hired explorer Isaac Briggs to determine whether the river could be made navigable. Briggs completed the survey in 1823 and eventually dozens of bateaux channels were blasted by hand into the riverbed, which gave the wooden boats a way to move up and down river rapids, said Cole Poindexter, a native river resident and a founder of Staunton River Watch.

The Staunton/Roanoke river became a thriving commercial pathway between Albemarle Sound and the South Central Virginia tobacco trade. Specialized steamboats even operated between Brookneal and towns downstream.

Some of those bateaux channels are still visible today south of Long Island. Drill holes still are visible in boulders embedded in the middle of the channel.

The channels create a straight, easy path where the river is shallow, but filled with rapids and rocks. Water rushes through and makes the channel slightly deeper than the rest of the river.

Dry periods made navigation north of Brookneal impossible, so those moving north with the help of poles and ropes would have to wait in Brookneal for the water to rise, Poindexter said.

Throughout the 1800s, the river’s commerce scene included gristmills, ferries and fishtraps, Poindexter said.

Poindexter, who grew up on the river, remembers how motorboats pulling water skiers would line the river before the dam shut in 1965. Since then, the river has only been navigable by canoe or kayak in that area.

Now, the few sounds of civilization near the public boat ramp in Long Island disappear quickly as canoes glide through the flat and still Staunton River.

Conversations between bugs, birds and the occasional jumping fish are stirred with the occasional breeze. The river also talks, in some places whispering as the boats pass; in others roaring over expanses of rocks.

The stillness doesn’t last long — just a few hundred feet downstream, the wide river splits into six rough channels. Only the northernmost one is easily navigable — with rushing rapids that flush boats downriver with no place to slow. The land on the southern side of the channel becomes a carpet of blue in the spring from the vast population of native bluebells, Poindexter said.

Where the channel meets with others, the water slows and clears. Verdant weeds shimmer beneath and tiny snails leave curlicue trails in river mud. A bald eagle soars overhead and a muskrat swims to shore.

River willows and sycamore trees branch out over the banks, with tangled root balls barely clinging to steep banks. The grass line is several feet above the water, signs that show exactly how low the water is in September. Few houses are visible from the river, a testament to the rural nature of southern Campbell County.

But it’s the silence that’s most striking, only broken when a coal train vibrates past.

“Trains come by occasionally,” Poindexter said, “but you’re in the country now.”