This Hidden Gem Is Called Georgia's 'Little Amazon' With 120+ Endangered Species—and It's Just 1.5 Hours From Savannah

The river rolled beneath us as sheets of rain lashed down. I sat in the stern of our canoe with my friend Madeline in the bow. My dad, Joel, followed in his long red sea kayak. We sped past drooping branches that bobbed as the current tried to tug them downstream.

I couldn’t help but laugh. I had traveled to Georgia to see how wild the Altamaha River still was. Now, on day four of our six-day source-to-sea paddle, the river was showing its might.

About an hour and a half south of Savannah, paddlers can find a forgotten gem. Nicknamed Georgia’s "Little Amazon," the 137-mile Altamaha River meanders through hardwood forests and old-growth cypress swamps, past river-cut cliffs, and along cordgrass marshlands before emptying into the Atlantic. Undammed, crossed by roads just five times, and home to more than 120 endangered species, The Nature Conservancy calls this river one of the 75 “Last Great Places” in the world.

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Joel while out kayaking.

The best way to enjoy the Altamaha is by boat. In 2010, the Georgia River Network launched the Altamaha River Canoe Trail. Today, this trail stretches the length of the river and offers 29 access points.

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We started our trip with a night at a primitive campsite at Towns Bluff Park. A guide at Three Rivers Outdoors helped us shuttle our car down to the takeout in Darien before seeing us on our way at the put-in at Hinson’s Landing. Three Rivers offers everything from shuttles for 10-day trips to kayak rentals to two-hour guided excursions.

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Setting up for the night at Woodland Camp.

I’d spent a year researching the Altamaha, reading tales of winding, difficult-to-navigate tributaries, dense swamplands, strong currents and tides, big catfish, and enormous alligators.

The trip didn’t disappoint. On our first night, we set up camp on a wide beach at one of the river’s many dispersed camping areas. I picked dewberries while Madeline fished the shoreline, pulling a large redbreast sunfish and smallmouth bass from the water.

For dinner, we feasted on fried fish, pasta, and berries. We lounged on the soft sand, watching the sun sink as snow-white egrets strolled through the shallow waters, their long strides offering flashes of their bright yellow feet.

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A snowy Egret along the river bank.

During the next few days, we fell into a pattern. We rose early and paddled hard, watching solitary sandpipers run along the misty shores as ospreys eyed us from their nests atop dead trees.

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We spent our lunches relaxing on the Altamaha’s sandbars, casting lines and darting into the water for a quick swim, watchful for the outline of an alligator moving through the depths.

In the afternoons, silvery mullet leapt out of the dark water next to our boats. On one memorable occasion, one bounced off my dad’s kayak deck with a loud thump.

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A Barred Owl seen in the trees surrounding the river.

Each night, we listened to barred owls echoing their familiar song, “who, who, who cooks for you,” as they soared between Spanish moss-covered branches.

Our largest alligator sighting came on the afternoon of our third day. “Madeline, Madeline, Madeline!” I nervously chanted as what I had taken to be a log began charging down the bank beside us. It broke through the tangled willows and plunged into the water, its massive form making waves that lapped against the canoe. Madeline grinned back at me. “What did you expect me to do?” she said.

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We spent our last night on the river at Altamaha Regional Park. After another round of torrential thunderstorms, a hot shower and a cup of coffee never felt so good.

The next morning found us in the park’s store, which hosts a tasty diner tucked into the back corner behind shelves of fishing tackle and camo shirts. Over a breakfast of waffles with local sorghum syrup, fried eggs, crisp hash browns, grits, and sausage, local anglers told us we had to check out Rifle Cut.

This narrow, mile-long canal offers relief from the currents and tides at the mouth of the river. It’s adorned with bright wildflowers, tiny scuttling crabs, and shorebirds. Though beautiful, it has a dark history. The canal was hand-dug by enslaved people in the 1820s to shorten the route to the timber mill in Darien.

After coasting through the cut, the river pulled us back out into a ferocious mix of wind, current, and tide as we entered Darien.

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We’d caught our first glimpse of another group of paddlers on the river before making the last bend. Now, straight ahead of us, they were in trouble. Caught in the strange mix of current and tide, they had flipped their canoe. Without life jackets on, they clung to the capsized canoe, and we hurried to help.

My dad swooped in to tow one on the back of his kayak. With the help of another kayaker, we were able to get the other man and their canoe to a nearby muddy bank opposite and just upstream of the takeout.

The trip ended with Madeline and me in separate boats. I took one man in their canoe, while Madeline and my dad coaxed a nervous, exhausted man into the bow of ours. He perched on the balls of his feet and clung to the gunwales, making the gear-laden canoe shudder in the swirling water. Somehow, Madeline made it across with him.

The Altamaha was an adventure to the very end.

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