Twelve years ago today, during the Atlanta flood of 2009, Caroline Smith went looking for a great photo, and Tanya and Colin Barry went looking for adventure. This story is part of our "Hell and High Water" series, focusing on creative responses to climate change across the South.
Words by Julie Chantal Thompson | Photo by Caroline Smith
September 21, 2021
A tin drum — that’s how the rain sounded as it fell sideways over Atlanta that September in 2009. The percussion offered a soothing soundtrack as Caroline Smith slept in her apartment in Poncey-Highland. Her three-legged cat lay motionless on the floor nearby. Neither was in a hurry to rise.
When Caroline awoke, she knew it was a Monday but had no idea what time it was. Thick blackout curtains draped over the room’s sole window obscured all light. After six days of consecutive downpours, Caroline longed for the outdoors. Instead, she settled at her desk and scrolled social media. Photographs of flooding around the city appeared on her Twitter feed. Midtown was underwater.
The rain poured until around 5:50 p.m. When it dissipated, Caroline seized her opportunity. As she headed toward her Jeep parked around the corner, she noticed her neighbor, Anna-Marie Sparkle, wearing braided pigtails and shin-high galoshes.
“Hey! Let’s go for an adventure!” Caroline said. Anna-Marie climbed into the passenger seat while Caroline took the wheel, stowing her Canon 5D Mark II in a black satchel. Caroline had moved to Atlanta in 2006 to attend Georgia State University’s law school, but she feverishly devoted herself to photography. She had even landed a part-time gig shooting photos at a nightclub using the name C. Diesel, an alias that suited the 5-foot-3-inch, motorcycle-riding 31-year-old who hand-painted red flames on her white Jeep.
The Great Flood of 2009 was the follow-up to a three-year drought. The rains started on Tuesday, September 15. They fell over watersheds, filling them to record crest levels. Marshes formed where, two years earlier, environmental officials had banned sprinklers to conserve water in the northern half of the state. Ponds engulfed interstates. South of Interstate 20, buckets of rain all but washed away a section of Post Road. The underlying earth caved in a mudslide of red clay and crumbled asphalt.
Flying a helicopter over the city that day, here’s what you would have seen: abandoned vehicles along Interstate 75; road signs peeping over drowned residential districts; submerged neighborhood grids in Cobb, Douglas, and other counties. The Chattahoochee River swallowed the rides at Six Flags Over Georgia — the Great American Scream Machine roller coaster looked like a plastic trinket in a dirty fish tank.
At 5 p.m., Colin Barry, a transplant from upstate New York, inched along Interstate 85 South in his GMC Jimmy. His windows fogged as he reached the final stretch of his route from Norcross back to Cabbagetown, the quaint Appalachian-style neighborhood where he and his wife had lived for the past year. Past the light at DeKalb Avenue, Colin ground to a halt. Vehicles reversed and turned around at a lineup approaching Krog Street Tunnel, an artery connecting three neighborhoods.
The dingy tunnel, notorious for poor drainage, had exceeded its usual flood level, collecting over 2 feet of water. Colin blasted through, just as police set up blockades along the entrance.
Tanya Barry stood in the kitchen when her husband burst in. “Tanya! Krog flooded. Come on, let’s go get the canoe!”
Colin had hauled the 17-foot vessel from his dad’s place in northern Michigan during a snowstorm. It now collected leaves in the couple’s Atlanta backyard, untouched for a year. Splashing through polluted floodwater was not the way Tanya had envisioned spending her evening after a long day at work, but she heard the urgency in Colin’s voice. If there was ever a time to use the old canoe, it was now.
By the time the Barrys reached the tunnel, Caroline and Anna-Marie’s joyride was well underway. Their intended destination: Midtown. They took the scenic route and headed southwest.
Noticing activity in Krog Tunnel, Caroline took a right and parked along an empty street.
She swapped her sneakers for Anna-Marie’s cocoa-colored waders and slung her camera bag over her shoulder. Stale water traced Caroline’s thighs as she stepped into the tunnel minutes later. Built in 1912, the structure lies under the CSX train tracks. Aerosol cans line walls constantly marked and updated with colorful tags, street art, and occasional profanity.
Before her eyes, a couple in their mid-20s glided on an urban river like patrons at a dystopian theme park. They hardly seemed to notice her as they navigated past graffiti-covered pillars.
About eight times, the camera blinked. Without looking, Caroline knew the last shot sealed the trip’s success.
The man sits resting against the gunwale, hands interlaced behind his head, his oar propped over the rim. For a moment, the woman navigates the vessel singlehandedly. She leans to the side, her oar extended into the darkened water. Raised light fixtures bathe everything in a warm sepia light. The effect is timeless, practically Venetian.
She posted it on Facebook at 8:01 p.m., unaware of the ripple it would create.
The photo exploded overnight. The Atlanta Journal-Constitution and other outlets promptly reached out, asking for permission to share the photo via their digital publications. Acquaintances told Caroline they’d seen it as friends’ profile pictures. One friend said she saw it while traveling in Europe.
Caroline never expected to make a living with her camera, but she did have one bucket list goal — to publish a photo in The Big Picture, The Boston Globe’s photojournalism blog.
Caroline submitted her photo to both The Big Picture and National Geographic, just in case her pipe dream didn’t pan out. Within weeks, the shot appeared on both digital publications. National Geographic shared it as its “Photo of the Day,” and The Big Picture posted it soon after. The blog’s founder, Alan Taylor, who now works for The Atlantic, went so far as to personally thank Caroline for the standout submission. It was a double shot for the rookie, and her wins were still tallying. In December, The Big Picture’s editors curated 40 of their best photo submissions for the entire year. And there, alongside the work of lifelong photographers, was Caroline’s quirky shot.
It may seem unnatural to slow the floodgates of today’s media-driven world and consider the consequence of a single photo. But let’s try for a moment.
For people in the immediate area, Caroline’s photograph was a cultural phenomenon. That November, the canoe was a highlight at Cabbagetown’s annual Chomp & Stomp Chili Cook-off and Bluegrass Festival. Each year, John Dirga, a member of the neighborhood organization, designed a shirt for the festival, and that fall’s featured a banjo-playing kidney bean and a chile pepper canoeing down a murky river past the Fulton Bag and Cotton Mill’s smokestacks. The design’s inspiration was unmistakable, and for the duration of 2009, Caroline’s photo remained a symbol of the local zeitgeist.
Months passed, and life returned to normal for Caroline. However, there remained one burning issue — the couple whose zany idea was captured on film. Caroline considered their identity a “great mystery,” until a mutual friend connected them almost a year later.
They arranged to meet on August 25, 2010, at Carroll Street Cafe in Cabbagetown. The meeting was short, and none of them remember it in detail. Caroline recalls learning that Tanya and Colin were high school sweethearts who tied the knot straight out of college. They moved to Cabbagetown as newlyweds and bought their first home. For the Barrys, it was a delight to finally meet the photographer who took their famous picture. They knew Caroline had taken the photo but were surprised to see it published in The Boston Globe. Before they parted ways, Caroline presented the couple with the photo.
On a video call from their home in Romeo, Michigan, where they now live, Colin and Tanya show me the spot in their living room where the signed photo hangs. Its gold lighting subtly complements their home’s Victorian furnishing. I ask if the photo represents their relationship in any way. The Barrys laugh and say no. That would suggest Tanya does all the work, which isn’t true.
But then, they reconsider what that September day means to them.
Tanya says the photo stands as a reminder to enjoy the time regardless of the circumstances — something her husband has taught her over the years.
“I use that as leverage now,” Colin quips.
The canoe photo, like many things from 2009, has faded into distant memory. But a recent trend suggests it isn’t forgotten.
The tunnel’s constant flooding instigated a hashtag: #KrogRiver. The flooding has become a running joke in Cabbagetown and the surrounding areas, as locals amuse themselves by floating remote-controlled boats or riding kayaks in the stale water. One adrenaline junkie catalyzed the trend when he surfed Krog River, towed behind a motorcycle. The filmed stunt became a sensation and earned a place in Cabbagetown lore.
But those who have lived in the neighborhood long enough will always compare it to the canoe photo, the serendipitous first.
As the frequency of floods and storms across the nation increases, the portrait of young lovers floating through a waterlogged city holds even more meaning. Theirs is a portrait of ghastly serenity: survivors’ bliss in the eye of a storm.
Julie Chantal Thompson is a freelance journalist, art enthusiast, and foodie based in Buford, Georgia. She studies narrative nonfiction at the University of Georgia’s Grady College of Journalism and Mass Communication. Thompson researches and writes about art, folklore, and street culture in Atlanta. She hopes her stories will encourage readers to take pause and appreciate life’s mundane moments and places.
