Before Lake Life, There was River Life

✍️ By Judy Hurley Colston

Long before Lake Wedowee became a destination, our family lived a full and beautiful life along the river. And long before folks ever knew about “lake life,” we had river life—and it was something special. 🌿

🏡 The Homestead on the Hill

If you’ve ever made your way down Crescent Crest Drive (County Road 2403), you’ve passed a subdivision called Lakeside Preserve Lane. Once upon a time, on that rise, my great-great-grandparents Levi Webb Hurley and Nancy Henson Hurley had their homestead. After them, my great-grandparents, James Critenden Hurley and Martha Lenora Kirby Hurley, made their home there too. They raised 8 children in that house—my Papaw, Archie C. Hurley, was the fourth born.

Before the Great Depression, our family owned about 700 acres in that area. But like so many, we lost most of it during hard times—when merchants had to advance seed and fertilizer, and the boll weevil took its toll on the crops.

My Papaw’s mother, Martha, ran a post office right out of their home. They called it “Ice.” Mail arrived on their front porch by horse and buggy, crossing the ford in the river or, if the water was up, by the footbridge. She even helped folks fill out their Sears Roebuck order forms. Papaw remembered getting dishes packed tightly in barrels, like little treasures coming home. 📦

💭 Papaw’s Vision for the Future

Later on, my Papaw and Mamaw bought 75 acres at the end of County Road 2403, close to his old home place. He had a vision for that land—a place for his grandchildren to play and experience a little of the life he grew up knowing. Back then, hardly anyone had heard of Wedowee. Years ago, I told Kelly Caldwell that she put it on the map with Lake Wedowee Life magazine. 🗺️

Papaw’s cabin was simple—no electricity, no running water. One of my favorite chores was drawing up a bucket from the well and keeping it clean on the way up. At night, we played checkers by kerosene lamps and listened to Whippoorwills outside the porch. Life was slower back then, but rich in its own way.

🌞 Summer Days on the River

Summertime was pure magic. My two brothers, my cousins, and I spent our days on the river with Papaw and Mamaw. Papaw had an old wooden bateau, no motor, just him and a stout pole with a hook on the end. He’d pole that boat upstream—Mamaw keeping watch in the back to make sure none of us fell out. No life jackets back then!

He set baskets in the river, baited with onions and other stinky things, catching Channel Cats and Yellow Cats that Mamaw fried up for supper. 🍽️ Sometimes we’d check his cane poles for fish the next morning, racing to spot the catch first.

There was an island in the middle of the river we named Gilligan’s Island. Papaw would let us play there after he’d run his pole through the grass to check for snakes. We had strict instructions not to leave, or we’d risk being washed downriver. 😅

🌲 Running Wild and Free

When we weren’t in the river, we were running wild through the woods—playing in the creeks, damming them up, hunting quartz rocks around a big boulder that’s underwater now. It was a simple, free childhood. There weren’t many neighbors nearby, except for the Taylors. Mr. Taylor often helped Papaw bush hog the fields.

The narrow dirt roads leading to Papaw’s place turned to mud in the rain, and our car often got stuck. As we got older, we rode mini bikes and motorcycles out to Goat Rock—now Flat Rock—back when there was nothing there but cactus and nature.

Daddy hunted rabbits with his beagle hounds. One time, a copperhead bit one of his dogs, and he rushed it to the Wedowee hospital. They saved its life. Sometimes, Daddy hunted in the snow, and I went along. We dried our wet socks by the coal stove afterward.

Along the river were old gravel pits. When they filled with water, my dad and uncles seined for fish—Buffalo fish bigger than a grown man! I wonder if they’re still lying at the bottom of the lake.

Every summer, Uncle Howard and Aunt Charlotte hosted river float-downs with family and their staff. We’d launch at Lonnie White Bridge and float all day, stopping to explore an old Indian cave along the bluff where eagles nested. Today, it’s where the rope swing hangs. 🦅

🌊 When the River Became a Lake

I was about 23 when they started clearing the land for Lake Wedowee. They tore down our cabin, cut the walnut and mimosa trees, and scraped the land bare. It broke our hearts. 💔 But watching the lake fill was something to see. The water met the land in a smooth, clean line—no rip-rap, no docks, no boats. Just water and earth.

One night, a terrible storm caught my brother and a friend out in a fishing boat after dark. There were no lights to guide them home. We prayed hard for them. Somehow, they made it back. We still say it was the power of prayer.