One Friday in May, I got up from my desk and went over to a municipal golf course in south Atlanta for a very special event. The event had nothing to do with golf, and everything to do with rivers.
This was the launch of Atlanta to the Atlantic—a collaborative and experiential act of art-making led by artists Rachel Parish and Sarah Cameron Sunde through Atlanta’s Flux Projects.
It was a slightly giddy bunch of us river paddlers, artists, watershed advocates, and community activists who traipsed down from the Brown’s Mill Golf Course clubhouse to the easiest river access on the property, accompanying Rachel and Sarah to what they’d deemed the best place to start their source-to-sea journey, where the river is barely a creek but is at least something you can float.
Starting a long kayak tour on a tiny urban river? Yes, if that’s where its source is. And why? Because, in their words, “Atlanta to the Atlantic aims to foster awareness of the South River and its environmental health by bringing people into closer relationship with its waters that run through their neighborhoods.”
And how? From the project website:
“A durational work, their journey will take them from the South River (aka Weelaunee) to the Ocmulgee, then along the Altamaha, and finally to the Atlantic Ocean.”
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To highlight the interconnectedness of Georgia’s urban and rural communities, Parish and Sunde will invite engagement from local communities along the way. Documenting this journey through video, audio, drawing, and writing, their observations will construct a dynamic portrait of the human and natural communities that are united by this vital waterway.
The Installations: In the fall of 2025, their project will culminate with a series of temporary installations along the tributaries in three Atlanta neighborhoods. These installations (and supporting programs) will highlight the presence of the waterway, offer opportunities for recreation and reflection, and incorporate elements of the collective portrait that emerged along the journey.
With the support of Flux Projects, South River Watershed Alliance, and a whole crew of helpers and advisors, the journey is now underway. Standing on the riverbank and seeing them off, I chuckled at how much walking they’d have to do on Day 1 of the trip—on such a small river—and how very many downed trees, snags, and strainers they’d have to navigate. “Been there!” I told them, remembering long days canoeing (and walking) other small rivers elsewhere around here. “There’s gonna be more of that today!”
Scrambling up the steep riverbank after helping the kayaks down, I put my hand on an old, deflated air mattress that had been wrapped around a tree by the river’s current in flood. By some unwritten personal rule, I knew that I now had to take this exceptionally large piece of plastic trash out of the river. So I unwrapped it from the tree and dragged it up the bank to sit in a heap while we all said the rest of the goodbyes.
Finally, with the paddlers floating out of sight and clouds thickening overhead, the group of well-wishers slowly dispersed. Under a light rain I folded up the sandy, muddy air mattress the best I could and lugged it back across the fairways, up the hill to the parking lot. I drove the 15 minutes back home; changed out of my damp socks and dirty shirt; warmed up my lunch. Then I did something that surprised me: I opened my phone to see if the livestream from the camera mounted on the bow of Sarah’s kayak was working yet.
It surprised me because I’m a little bit technophobic, especially when it comes to the changing ways we experience the world around us (and, in particular, the natural environment) through ever-new technologies. And yet it delighted me as I sat down to my lunch, comfortable at the kitchen table but partly wishing I were there too, slogging through the shallows and hauling over logs. I saw things from the boat’s perspective. I could hear the birds singing, the gurgling repeated splash of paddles dipping the water, the chatter of the group as they noted game trails down to the river from the thick green forest growth all around and above them—still inside the city limits and well inside Atlanta’s perimeter highway.
There is a kindredness among the many of us who’ve done long river tours, that’s for sure. And I’m proud of the work I do in community meetings and the sterile, fluorescent-lighted halls of government to protect and restore our rivers, to bring communities back into touch with them. But the artists’ eye and ear that Sarah Cameron Sunde and Rachel Parish bring to their journey, to this river system and its people, makes for another way of knowing rivers altogether. Beyond going downriver to the Atlantic, I can’t wait to see where this project goes in the months ahead.
