C&O Canal Licking Creek to Tonoloway Creek (Autumn)

The summer had been a bust in terms of walking the trail. An abnormal amount of rain meant the trail was frequently flooded and, worse, the standing water in the canal was a breeding ground for mosquitoes. Walking the trail during the summer was grueling: Near Dam Number 4, I clamored to make my way up a mud-covered incline, only to slide half way down. The mud had the musky odor of the river, and I kept Imagining about the likely causes of those rancid smells. The mosquitoes were so thick that, at times, I was running to avoid their bites. Once, I stopped to take a photograph of a gold finch and three mosquitoes lit on my right arm.

Because flooding had forced the NPSA to close parts of the trail, and the mosquitoes so bad in the area around the Dam Four area, I decided to postpone walks in that section and return to the towpath upstream of Williamsport. I reasoned that the canal was further away from the river in that area, therefore there would be less swampy ground and, hence, fewer mosquitoes. The fault in my logic of course, was that there were still sections of the canal with standing water that was prime breeding territory. The towpath in this section, however, is higher and there was a decreased chance of flooding. Autumn would bring a return to cool weather, walking would be more pleasant, and I would make my way to Big Pool and Hancock.

My plan only partially worked, because the rain and warm weather continued. 

In late September, I thought the heat, rain and humidity had subsided enough to make a walk on the towpath appealing. I parked at a parking lot for the Western Maryland Rail Trail, a concrete path that runs from Fort Frederick to Hancock and closely parallels the canal and towpath most of the way. The first challenge of the day was to find parking because the lot was full. I was not going to be deterred because it felt as if that for the first time in three weeks, I did not have to consider the possibility of rain while taking a walk. Many of the people on the rail trail felt the same way. Cyclists greeted me enthusiastically, expressing relief in hushed tones that a pleasant day has finally occurred. 

To access the C&O I needed walk for almost a mile on the rail trail. Just as I was leaving the parking lot to get on the trail, a man stopped short with his bike and I nearly walked into his back tire. “Dagnabbit!” he exclaimed. At first, I thought I had committed an offense. He looked at his wife, and then the source of his frustration: a flat tire. In a conspiratorial tone, he continued, “I wonder if someone let the air out!”  I was bemused that he thought anyone cared enough to play such a prank on him. I briefly considered what it must be like to live with someone who believed the world. I kept walking but took pity on his wife, who I could tell was going to hear about the incident, whatever the cause, for the rest of the day. 

The red-eyed figurine that sits at the entrance to the towpath
in Big Pool

After nine-tenths of a mile on the rail trail, Ernstville Road provides access to towpath. The small road runs along a couple of homes, several with lawn ornaments and political signs that led me to believe that some local residents do not really enjoy walkers coming close to their homes. I felt my suspicions were correct when I observed that someone had stuck a figurine, with oddly painted red eyes, on a fence post at the entrance to the trail.

On the drive I listened to an Irish radio program that briefly recounted the life of Nick Drake, a troubled artist who never knew success in his lifetime. The haunting music and lyrics to “Northern Sky,” along with the story of his struggles with depression and his subsequent suicide, created a melancholy mood for a walk. The pain that people feel, their inability to cope with the demands of life, or even their struggles with reality, stand in juxtaposition to the life I enjoy. Walking on the trail, enjoying wildlife and solitude, is evidence that I am lucky. I can explore and contemplate; it is not a luxury that everyone has. 

I watched turtles suddenly jump into the stagnant water of the canal when they sensed me coming near. Several had been sunning themselves on the numerous trees and branches that have fallen into the remains of the canal. I was amazed at how many turtles were diving for cover. It is difficult to believe that within this small body of water so many creatures lurk below the surface. There is a hidden aquatic world, obscured by murky green water. I notice the matted grass along the path as well, suggesting that many deer bed themselves here during the night. Walking through this area in October, there are several corncobs on the path. Deer have snatched a meal from the cornfield that is now brown. When I walk this way again in December, prints of deer hoofs are aplenty on the path. Yet, it is unlikely that I will see any deer at this time of day. It is the unseen world of the towpath, one that many people never glimpse, let alone see.

The Tuscarora Trail at MM117

The Tuscarora Trail, a 252-mile side hiking trail of the Appalachian Trail, intersects with the towpath near MM117. The Tuscarora runs from Pennsylvania, through Maryland and West Virginia, to Shenandoah National Park in Virginia. It was created in the 1960s when it looked as if the Appalachian Trail was in danger of being encroached upon by development. At first, the Tuscarora was proposed as a new route for the AT, further west than its current path, to save the wilderness trail for future generations. After the threat to the AT subsided, the Tuscarora has been created as an alternative, standalone trail. 

I decided to take a quick look at the trail, which is quite close to the interstate. Just about a hundred feet from the C&O was a remote dead-end road that I reckoned could serve as parking for access during my next walk. When I returned home that night, I deduced how to return to the remote road with my car but ii was a road with no name according to Google. A week later, when I returned with Angie, I found the turnoff to the road from US 40 at the foot of the bridge that crosses Licking Creek. A single street sign indicated that the name of the road was Mile Marker Lane. 

Mystery cemetery on Mile Marker Lane

One mystery solved, but another discovered: About halfway down the half-mile road, a cemetery is wedge between the road and the Western Maryland Rail Trail with no indication of name or upkeep. Once again, I consulted the internet to find a history or story behind cemetery, but my searches suggested that it was a mystery cemetery, literally so listed by Google. What in photographs looks like a quiet, remote, and perhaps abandoned, cemetery is, in reality, a noisy strip of land, commemorating a handful of people, facing the constant barrage of cars and trucks passing on the interstate. What small community was destroyed, which was vibrant enough to build this cemetery but small enough to make way for the interstate? 

On the way home, I stopped by Ernst Country Market for a quick snack that would serve as an ersatz lunch. The line at the deli counter was very long, and I opted for a small container of pimento cheese and crackers to hold me over for the trip home. The topic everyone was discussing in the market was the high water on the Potomac and surrounding streams. As I was driving from Big Pool to the market on Maryland Route 56, small rivulets of water were draining across the road. A man in shorts and a t-shirt was discussing the level of the Potomac with a Mennonite man and his wife, both traditionally dressed, saying that the logjam along with a lot of trash and debris was causing problems on the Potomac in Williamsport. The Mennonite couple politely listed to the story but did not seem as interested as the man conveying it.

The towpath in October

One would expect that by early October that the temperature would have subsided, and the leaves would have begun to fall. But this October, the trail remained remarkably green. Mosquitoes remained an irritant, especially at places where here was significant standing water, which, because of the excessive rain, was everywhere. Music from the Sleep Creek HarFest, on the West Virginia side of the Potomac, carried quite well across the water and offered noisy competition to the traffic of the interstate. If peace, quiet, and the gentle sound of nature were the goal, this was neither the place nor the time. 

Around the Licking Creek area, Interstate 70 is very close. The interstate parallels the canal for the next seven miles or so, until just before both reach Hancock. It can be deafening loud as a steady stream of trucks and cars pass. Most are in excess of the 70-mile-per-hour speed limit. Yet, at the same time, there is a sense of isolation. On two walks in early December in this area, both over seven miles long, I did not see a single person on the trail. With the leaves gone from the trees, I could stand and count cars go by. Despite my relative closeness, all the vehicles were completely oblivious to me. Radios, audiobooks, conversations in the car, or phone calls kept each person from paying any attention to those of us who may be near. Pedestrians are not supposed to be anywhere near the highway and, therefore, no one sees us unless we are right on the road. The interstate is a major east-west artery that runs from Baltimore to Cove City, Utah, a total of 2,150 miles. I stand and watch the cars and trucks go by for a few minutes. I suspect that many of the car are taking people on distance journeys for the holidays. The trucks are carrying goods from one part of the country to another, just as the canal had once done in the 19th century. The population of the United States in 1830, about the time of the beginning of the operation of the canal was 12.8 million people. Today, it is well in excess of 325 million. Watching the stream of cars go by, I feel both crowded and in solitude. 

I think about the tradeoff walking on this section of the trail. Are the health benefits of walking being canceled out by the amount of air pollution I am consuming by walking this close to the interstate? I try not to think about all the carcinogens that I am breathing in. In high school, one day after practice, I was waiting for a city bus. A woman who I would have classified as “kooky,” struck up a conversation with me. In my mind’s eye, she wore a white sundress, and a rain coat, despite it being a sunny afternoon. She utilized an umbrella and discussed some of her pet theories as we waited for our respective buses. I do not remember the specifics of the conversation, but what I vividly recall is when a through bus went by, in mid-sentence, she ran around the corner at 4th and Winkler until the bus had passed. I must have had a surprise on my face when she returned because she immediately started explaining that she was getting away from the exhaust of the bus. Her impulses were probably correct, but her methods likely flawed. The incident was a source of merriment at the dinner table that night. All these years later, that little episode has stayed with me. I thought of her again, standing there on the trail, but knew it was pointless to run and hide behind one of the big sycamore trees. There is no escape from the invisible, odorless pollution I am ingesting.

I enjoy the tactile sound of frozen mud crunching beneath my boots. I am not sure why, but there is something satisfying about the sound and feeling. I am reminded that John Clare, the 19th century peasant poet from Helpston, England and wrote extensively about nature, used the local dialect word crumping in this poetry, which simply refers to the sound a foot makes while walking on fresh snow.

A thin layer of ice developed on the near side of Little Pool the week before Christmas. The sun, hanging low in the sky, had yet to melt the ice because of the long shadows provided by the trees. I stopped and watched an otter just beyond the ice fish for about five minutes. I watched him repeatedly dive headfirst under the water, so that its sleek dark body was briefly visible above the waterline. His dark silky fur, and muscular body, reminded me of Pip doing a somersault onto the carpet so that I can pet his belly. The otter watches me but does not see me as a threat. He successfully caught at least four fish as I watched, and he watched me as he ate his breakfast. 

Near the Visitor’s Center in Hancock, I startled a blue heron and a squirrel within a minute of each other. I feel bad when I do this. My intention is not to disturb the animals, but inevitably I do. Because I was walking on a Tuesday, during the latter days of December, I am positive that fewer people have been hiking though this section in recent weeks. I anthropomorphize the local wildlife, thinking to myself, they must be asking, “Why can’t humans hike on the weekends and leave us be during the week?” 

On Boxing Day, while others were shopping and returning presents, I finished the section of the towpath between Licking Creek and Tonoloway Creek. Despite work, weather, commitments, and flooding all conspiring to prevent me from more frequent walks on the C&O, I have a sense that I am now committed to walking the entire towpath. But my route will be circuitous. I am on the doorstep of Hancock, the northern most point of the canal. The towpath becomes more remote as it moves further west. I have another 60-odd miles to get to Cumberland, and about another 80 miles to complete downstream. 

Eating in Pittsburgh

Ham and Cheese Sandwich, fries included, at Primanti

Travelling to Pittsburgh usually means either hockey or a Dickens Fellowship meeting, sometimes both. After a hockey game, a late-night meal usually constitutes one of a handful of local eateries but most frequently Primanti Bros., where sandwiches come with grilled meat, cheese, vinegar coleslaw, tomatoes, and fries between the slices of bread. Legend has it that the sandwich was invented for steel workers in the Strip District of Pittsburgh, so they could be easily purchased and consumed during a short lunch break.

Sunday morning is an iconic time to have breakfast. It is often a time when families and friends gather and share a morning meal as a celebration of the weekend and a day of leisure and distraction. Conversations at Eggs N’at in Moon Township revolved around the Steelers, their late afternoon game against New England, and the indeterminate prospects for the playoffs. Andrew and I waited for about twenty minutes for a table in the small restaurant that crammed seven tables and a counter that seats eight people into a confined space. Nonetheless, no one seemed to mind the wait. Album covers from the 1970s and 1980s, such Duran Duran’s Seven and the ragged Tiger and U2’s War, decorate the walls. Culinary delights such as rum raisin French toast, breakfast pizzas, and specialty pancakes, tempt even the most fatigued diner.

Eggs N'at on a Sunday morning 

There is an easy conversation between the staff and patrons at Eggs N’at. In typical Pittsburgh fashion, we are greeted with, “Yinz want some coffee?” I observed the other patrons as we wait for our food; most were wearing black and gold, several were consulting their phone for updates of one kind or another. The general din of conversation was interrupted when one of the servers hung up her phone and began complaining about the caller on the other line. He started the conversation, she said, with “Hey, Lady, what kind of pancakes you got?” A story repeated for emphasis, which elicited bemusement both times.

Thinking about Montreal

Montreal is a hip town, where even a house band in the local brew pub sounds cool while singing, “A Few of My Favorite Things” in French. Although it is a wonderful city in the summer, it is more appropriate to explore Vieux Montreal with a chill in the air and a bracing wind. It puts us in the moment; I am aware of my surroundings and the warmth each building potentially provides. I made my way to a local brew pub, where the beer was rated as excellent and the ambiance was inviting.

Sitting near the bar at a high-top table, I watch people enjoy the evening, good beer, and interesting food. Between my poor French and the loud background noise, I could only understand about ten percent of the conversations around me, but I can deduce what is going on. Two young men at the table next to me discuss their frustration at work; while a couple behind me are on a date, peppering each other a series of questions.

It is the second week in November and the late fall is making its impact felt as a light and persistent rain changes over to snow shortly after sundown. With sunset at 4:30 in the afternoon, a 7:30 dinner feels like a late-night supper. I enjoyed my light dinner and the drafted beer so much, a few nights later I cajoled Kevan into accepting a Saturday dinner invitation at the Bistro-Brasserie Les Soeurs Grises. I had a pint of the Appât-Si-Noir before we had dinner and duck carpaccio as an appetizer. As we chatted, I noted the television behind the bar each had different hockey games. People would occasionally steal a glance to keep themselves updated on the games that mattered.

When I returned to the hotel after dinner, I rode the elevator with two guys, dressed in complete fan attire, who just came from the Canadiens game. I asked about the game, and they recounted with great detail the exploits and highlights of the game. I mentioned I had been to the game Thursday night and I spent the rest of the elevator ride recounting my experiences.

It has been fourteen years since I attended my last baseball game at Olympic stadium. Yet, there is a deep imprint the Expos has left on the city. Youppi, the team mascot transferred to the Canadiens and you can by a costume at the team store. Also available are Expos T-shirts, jerseys and baseball cards. One might even imagine that the team never left, and was never having trouble drawing any fans to the games.

​

Old Guy Hockey

While waiting for colleagues in a hotel lobby in Montreal, I overheard a man and woman conversing with his aunt and cousin. They discussed being snowbirds in Florida and lamented that they could not drive down two years prior because of a major house expense, specifically finding a major crack in the foundation. They decided it was better, and more financially prudent, not to go Florida that year. Peter rationalized that while they would not be able to escape the snow and cold, he could rejoin his hockey team in an over 65-year-old league. He told the three women gathered around him that he had forgotten how much he enjoyed playing hockey, and the following year, he declined going south again so that he could play yet another hockey season. He was looking forward to doing the same again this coming year.

When the four were saying their goodbyes, and I was still waiting for colleagues, I volunteered to take the photograph so that I could have a chance to meet the senior hockey player. Peter told me he was 71 and had two teammates in their 80s. After we took photos I asked if he would mine a photo with me so that I could send my buddy a photo. The love of hockey gave us a mechanism through which we could meet, have a chat, shake hands, share photos and stories, and have a photo taken we could share with our own community. It was a way for us to overcome our initial reluctance, very prevalent in adult males, to talk to each other and make friends – even if only temporarily. His cousin told me that I had made his day; of course, he made mine as well. A story to share with my friends at a game in the future.

​

A Rainy Florida Evening

We were riding in the back of the minivan together. A chance to have a little chat, to ask her questions, to show that I think about her and care. It is short ride from the restaurant to their house. Before we pull out of the parking lot, she turns her back to me at a 45-degree angle, puts her earphones in, and stares out the window. There will be no conversation this evening. I will not force the situation; I know she feel awkward talking to her uncle and I understand how that feels. Nevertheless, as I watch the back of her head, with the occasional flashes of her face reflected in the window when we pass beneath streetlights, she continues to look passively at the never-ending rows of strip malls, and an 11-year-old cuts me to the quick. 

Random

The smallest things can make me contemplate the randomness of life while I am walking. I espied a black walnut, stuck between the branches and the trunk of a small sapling. I think about the odds of a walnut dropping from a tree above, in a way that would be just right so that it would get caught on a rather small tree. Given how many trees there are in Pennsylvania, it is probably not so odd that this type of thing would happen at some point. But I wonder about the odds of me seeing this; of it happening so close to a trail where people might observe the phenomenon. I always wonder why so few deer while walking; and, I never see any foxes. A difference of ten minutes, earlier or later, might change what animals, people or other things I might see and experience during my walks. Often it is just random what we observe, and who we meet, in life. Of course, someone might have placed that walnut in the tree too. Then, it is not random.

Wanted to ride your bicycle?

Walking on the trail, a rather large man, seemingly too big for his modest sized bicycle, approached.  He was wearing a tie-dyed t-shirt and used a rolled up bandana as a headband. I caught his eye as we neared one another and, since he was wearing earbuds, I gave him a polite nod rather than verbalizing a greeting. He returned a two-finger salute to me. Although the salute was unique, generally it was the kind of encounter that is usually quickly forgotten. Until, when I am sure he thought I was out of earshot, he startled me with an emphatic, "Hey!" After a slight pause, continuing to warble,  slightly off-key, "Another one down, another one bites the dust."

Frackville, PA

Holy Ascension Russian Orthodox Church, Frackville, PA

Anthracite coal was once a dominant source of employment and life in Frackville, is a small borough in Schuylkill County, Pennsylvania. Arriving into town from the interstate, on Lehigh Avenue, the primary thoroughfare through town, the only thing that appears to shine is the domes of the Holy Ascension Russian Orthodox Church, constructed in 1915, can be seen far in the distance. Otherwise, the commercial buildings, are seemingly covered in a thin layer of coal dust and grime. Driving requires a navigating a series of potholes that one fears could do real damage to a vehicle. 

Sidewalk on Lehigh Avenue

Water town at the industrial park

Deindustrialization, along with the disappearance of coal mining jobs, has not been kind to Frackville. On the edge of town, an empty industrial park sits idle. The Schuylkill Mall, also on the edge of town, adjacent to the interstate, had just been demolished, even though signs still thanked patrons for shopping. I walked through the business district of Frackville on a Thursday morning in August. Several people were out mowing their lawn before the heat of the day sets in and washing hung from clothesline along residential streets. But commercial activity in the town was limited to a service stations and small restaurant. Chinese restaurants and pizza place would offer services later. Lehigh Avenue as a hole, however, was a series of abandoned building blocks, architecture redolent of better times in need of repair, with cracked sidewalks sprouting weeds and grass. In one abandoned building a campaign sign from two years prior reads, “Veterans for Trump.” I walked by the library, tempted to wander in, to find it there were heavy fans attempting to dry the carpets. The doors of the library propped open by bound volumes of National Geographic magazines. 

St, Michael's Ukrainian Orthodox Church

The grim economic fate of the borough obscures the history and background of the community. The local churches reflect the immigrant population of the century ago, with several Orthodox congregations dotting the neighborhoods. Walking in the residential streets, one can find a mixture of well-maintained domiciles, with gardens and well-apportioned homes, with a smattering of dilapidated dwellings punctuating the few square blocks that surround the commercial district. On the other hand, brick factories, warehouses, and fraternal buildings sit empty, awaiting a new usage and return to better times. 

More photographs from Frackville.

Breakfast and Children

After the complimentary breakfast at the hotel, I was waiting for the elevator when a woman about my age came carrying a full tray of food. I offered her to enter first and asked, because she had her hands full, to push the button for her floor. She thanked me. After the door closed she stared at the control panel on the elevator and said, “I was just thinking my son is probably old enough to get his own breakfast,” I smiled, nodded my head and offered that I heard my mom’s voice in my head with saying that I should be getting her breakfast. This is not actual true, she’d would never make this request of me, but it makes for good small talk. The woman laughed and added that her son was going to be legally able to drink next week. I suspect that he was old enough to get his own breakfast.

Nice Toys

On a flight from Sydney to Hobart I shared a row with two other passengers. While I occupied the aisle seat, a Chinese student returning for university studies in Hobart occupied the middle seat and an unaccompanied boy, about eight-years old, was in the window seat. The flight attendants checked on him several times prior to takeoff, asking if he needed anything. He expressed the hope that he could have an iPad so that he could watch “shows” during the flight. During the flight, one of the attendants gently scolded him for not eating his apples because, “they are good for you.” The student kindly asked about the rather large stuffed border collie that occupied most of his legroom space. The student duly studied it very carefully, graciously commenting on how nice it was, to which the boy replied: “Every time we get toys, I always get the most expensive one. My mom says that I have expensive taste.”

Matthew Flinders and His Cat

Lucie ready for a picnic

The arrival of three kittens in our household this past spring has altered our lives: it has changed routines, conversations and, perhaps, improved our moods. While spending time with our clowder, not a day goes by without a laugh or a chuckle generated from out furry ersatz children. Lately our conversations have focused on the prospect of Lucie, Pip and Coco traveling as they get older. Will they join us on vacation? How will we arrange the car when they travel? What destinations would be feline-friendly? To that end, we have begun to introduce evening excursions around town. Upon returning, the kittens are praised for their bravery and limited vocal complaints emanating from the backseat. We assure ourselves that they will be good at traveling. 

The Statue of Trim at the State Library of New South Wales

The clowder appears to be off to a good start, but no matter how well the three do, it is doubtful that they will ever that they will ever travel even ten percent of the distances covered by Flinders’s cat. Trim is memorialized with a statue on Macquarie Street at the State Library of New South Wales in Sydney. He accompanied his human, Matthew Flinders on an exploration from Britain to Australia, and then in a survey of the continent. Flinders was the first to refer to Australia as a continent and his subsequent book and atlas were lauded.  His story is interesting as well, but a statue of a cat, among the pantheon or monuments of colonial leaders in Australia’s largest city, draws interest and imagination. 

Flinders with Trim in the background

Flinders wrote a loving tribute to his feline companion upon his death, which is recorded on a plaque at the library: “The best and most illustrious of his race. The most affectionate of friends, faithful of servants, and best of creatures. He made the tour of the globe, and a voyage to Australia, which he circumnavigated, and was ever the delightful and pleasure of his fellow voyagers.” 

Even after just a few months, we have grown completely smitten with LPC. As I write this, they are less than six months old; their curiosity knows no bounds, and they are hardly the picture of a calm demeanor and stateliness that are often associated with cats. Nevertheless, Trim is an example of why we value cats in our lives. They are good companions, wanting to share our home and time, they make us laugh, and the reciprocate our affection with theirs.

Paw prints on the railing leading to Trim's location

C&O Canal Towpath: Spring (84 – 91)

Mile Marker 84

Early spring found me beginning at mile marker 84, just downstream from Dam Number 4. It had been a particularly tiring week and the current of the Potomac, so short a distance from the dam, was very swift making a languid pace seem almost lazy. The first signs of spring were beginning to appear: bluets and dandelions had begun to poke through in grassy areas. I watched an interesting insect, with a body of brick red, matching my speed a few feet in ahead. There is an instinct among humans to view most insects as nuisances or threats. I watched for a few brief seconds before it veered away from the path. Although yet another sign of spring, since the lives of most insects are measured in days, I realize that it would not live to see the autumn. It is an odd perspective to consider; human lives, for millennia, have been calculated on the cycle of seasons. It is difficult to imagine a creature whose existence will not allow for the comparison of one season to the next.

Dam Number 4 (84.6)

Dam Number 4

Constructed in 1836, the masonry Dam Number 4 spans the Potomac creating a large pool of water upstream known as Big Slackwater, which is popular for fishing and boating. On the West Virginia side of the dam is a power plant built in the early twentieth century. The water rushing over the dam, creates the downstream inundation, and a tremendous roar making the dam heard before seen. I stood and pondered a child’s blue ball, caught in the torrent of water rushing over the dam, bobbing up and down. There seemed to be no hope of escape for it. How long would it take for its release?

A small parking lot is located at the dam, and the road that leads to it, appropriately named Dam Road Number 4, runs parallel to the canal and towpath for about a mile and a half. Small houses and trailers dot the road, and people are busy with their Saturday chores. Across the river, magnificent sheer cliffs line the West Virginia side.

At Weir Inlet, the canal disappears for 3.1 miles. Thus, the creation of the Slackwater, which is so calm that it allowed boats to navigate the river. The towpath continued so that mules continued the journey. But it was a difficult journey because of the high cliffs that lined both sides of the river. It is here that four teenagers join the trail about a hundred yards in front of me, from a boat ramp parking lot, walking a small chihuahua. The lone boy in the group, estimated to be about 12 or 13, was throwing rocks trying to land them into the narrow Guard Lock 4, as boys that age are wont to do.

As I approached mile marker 86, my days of restaurant work came back to me. The number 86, often used as a verb, is shorthand for something that was no longer available on the menu. Early in my foodservice career, I asked about the origins of the term, to which the replies were nothing more than blank stares, an indication of my lack of expertise and knowledge, before returning to the mad scramble of behind the scenes kitchen work in a busy restaurant. One popular theory is that the term might have originated from Chumley’s, a speakeasy in New York City, where bartenders were told to 86 the customers before a raid, meaning to have them exit the establishment at 86 Bedford Street to elude the police.

Just before arriving at the mile marker, I noticed a large piece of Styrofoam laying a few feet from the shoreline. More than likely it had washed up during the past couple of weeks of heavy rains and melting snow. I resolved, as my effort at being a good citizen and steward, to retrieve it on the return trip and dispose it properly. Measuring about four inches by four inches square, and about eighteen inches long, it was obviously not heavy but a little awkward. I felt a bit strange lugging this large piece of Styrofoam back the three-quarters of a mile to the Slackwater Boat Ramp, where restrooms, and presumably trash receptacles, were located.

Juvenile bald eagle

A juvenile eagle skimmed the river nearby. I place the piece of Styrofoam at my feet and fumbled for my camera. What would have been a great photograph, became a mediocre one of the young eagle sitting in a tree on the opposite shoreline. I picked up my piece of refuse and continued, noticing a few paces away the jetsam that had gathered near Weir Inlet: a red soccer ball, another piece of Styrofoam, two plastic water bottles, a yellow plastic canister of motor oil, and a dead catfish. I was not going to wade into the water to retrieve more material but intended that my act was a small token gesture. To my surprise the few people I did pass mentioned nary a word about my strange object. In fact, most did not even speak. Perhaps because I was seen as a strange man carrying something odd.

There were no trash cans at the boat ramp, nor would there be the parking lot at Dam Number 4. On the outward trip, a kingfisher flew overhead; I recognized it more because of sound rather than sight. Carrying my piece of Styrofoam, I again heard the distinctive cry of a kingfisher and caught a glimpse, through the trees, of a slate-blue bird flying along the canal. With some difficulty, I placed the Styrofoam under my left arm, and carried my camera in my right hand, chasing an elusive kingfisher. I watched the flight of the bird and projected a landing perch. Just as I did, I heard the rattled call and saw a bird closer than I expected. What I had assumed was one bird, but was actually at least two, leapfrogging each other along the course of the canal. Again, I sat my refuse in the middle of the path, along with my backpack, to signal my return, to set off for what turned out to be more mediocre photographs.

Returning to my car, finding no trashcans or recycling bins, I placed the piece of Styrofoam I carried for about 1.7 miles in the back of my car for the 45-mile journey back home. There was a subtle piscatory smell emanated from the back of my car as I drove home, where I would deposit the refuge in my recycling cart for a Tuesday morning pickup. For some reason, the sanitation truck did not come on its appointed day; arriving home from work Tuesday evening I noticed the recycling bin with the bulky Styrofoam still preventing the lid from closing completely. “No good deed…,” I thought. Good news, however, recycling was collected the following day.

Virginia Bluebells

In the intervening two weeks since I was last on the trail, many things have changed. After many false starts, spring appears to have finally sprung; trees are budding, there are several boaters and fishers on Slackwater, and it has become imperative to dodge cyclists on the trail. At home, we have adopted three kittens. As I walk I have daydream about Pip’s crystal blue eyes and her tiny brown paws that resemble miniature versions of bear paws. I see Lucie and Coco’s doleful faces looking at me with trepidation and trust.

Shooting Stars

For about a mile and a half, the towpath is a concrete bridge that skirts the shoreline of the Maryland side of the Potomac. My attention is drawn to the newly emerging wildflowers, rather than the birds today. I scan the rugged cliffs and hillsides along the Slackwater; it is nice and rather warm. An informational sign points out that the proximity of the cliffs and the river creates a unique space for wildflowers to prosper. After reading the sign, I looked around to notice that there were plenty of dandelions and violets, but nothing that I would consider particularly rare. Yet, within a quarter of a mile I began to observe several Virginia bluebells. I stopped to watch a bumblebee make its round of newly blooming shooting stars, a white flower with yellow core. When I was a kid, the bumblebee was an object of fear, more menacing than a honeybee. But today, understanding more about the pollination function of bees and the increasing environmental pressures on bees, I find the bumblebee fascinating.

The trail between mile markers 87 and 88

Several people were out, walking and cycling. The concrete bridges are a little intimidating with cyclists because many treat the trail as a racecourse. A couple on foot, approximately my age, become quiet as we approach one another. My suspicion that their discussion is sensitive is confirmed after I pass the two I heard the woman say, “That’s not the kind of stories you tell around young kids…”

McMahon’s Mill (88.1)

McMahon's Mill 

Just upstream from the McMahon’s Mill, three young men, in their early twenties, with a girlfriend along, were using a tree at a fifteen-degree angle to swing out over the river and jump in. Someone had nailed planks to the tree so that it could be easily climbed. The three, two wearing swim trunks while the other was simply donning his Hanes boxer-briefs, were drinking Rolling Rock and taunting each other. Two cyclists had stopped to watch, and despite the attempts to engage with questions like, “Is it cold?” they were largely ignored. Instead, as I passed, the young men were conversing about techniques and methods. One had decided to climb higher so that he could jump directly from a tree branch in to the Potomac. He dropped his half drank beer to his friend, extolling him not to waste it. His friend advised, “Hold your hands out, after you jump,” presumably preventing him from hitting the bottom too hard. Seconds before he released, his friend retorted, “I know how to f***ing jump.” On my return trip, not too far from the tree where the young men were jumping, four young women, in swimsuits, were sitting on the edge of a concrete embankment, sunbathing, chatting, and simultaneously absorbed with their phones. I caught up with the three young men later, having a good time, perhaps aided by the Rolling Rock, engaged in lively banter. The young woman with them tried desperately, but unsuccessfully, to secure the attention of her boyfriend as they neared the parking lot. 

The following week, in late April, I returned to find that the rains of the previous few days, along with snow flurries, has resulted in a flooded towpath. A layer of mud covered much of the path, some of the path and concrete had been washed away, trunks and large branches had been washed ashore. I abandoned my walk after about half a mile when I discovered that water still covered a substantial portion of the trail. Instead, I opted for a walk on the surrounding backroads near McMahon’s Mill (see below).

Locks 41 and 42 (89.9)

Remnants of Lock 41

Because of travel and weather, it was mid-June before I returned to McMahon’s Mill. Despite it being several weeks later, the trail had not improved much. It was a rainy spring; the path was muddy, and water had recently covered the path. Yet, it was a little more passable that it was several weeks before. Nevertheless, a light rain, combined with the mud made footing walking difficult, slippery and slow. I calculated that if I could make it to Locks 41 and 42, where the canal resumes shortly before mile maker 89, then the path would be better. My calculation was correct; however, what I did not account for was the amount of water that laid stagnant in the canal. In some places, it reminded me of the swamps of Georgia and Northern Florida.

Downed tree (June 2018)

Shortly after gaining the high ground alongside the two locks that I found that a gate was across the path with a sign indicating the path was closed because of dangerous conditions. There was no such sign preventing people going upstream from McMahon’s Mill. I decided to press on, because at that point I was not in the restricted zone. Soon I met a group of Boy Scouts cycling the opposite way. I wondered how they would fare through the mud. No doubt, at least some of them wondered how I would fare through the swamp.  Soon, despite having some repellent on, mosquitoes were not dissuaded. As I walked through swarms of the pests, I could feel tiny collisions on my bare arms and legs. The further I walked, the more mosquitoes I found lighting on me. I saw a male Baltimore Orioles on a branch just a few feet in front of me. I slowed down to take my camera out, and instantly two mosquitoes were on my hand. To stand and gaze at anything was to be a stationary target for hordes of mosquitoes. The best thing to do was to keep moving, at a good pace, to avoid as many mosquitoes as possible. Nevertheless, an observer might have thought I was a crazy man, flailing his arms around as I moved quickly through the two miles past Locks 41 and 42. When I reached the Opequon Junction Campsite I turned around and repeated the gauntlet in the opposite direction. I had visions of having dinner that night with friends, constantly scratching a mass of mosquito bites on my arms and neck. I was about twenty-four hours too early in my calculation, the itching started the next afternoon
.

Again, the path downstream of Lock 42 was muddy, but with significantly fewer mosquitoes. I decided that perhaps for the summer season I should concentrate on a different part of the trail. I would return to the 90s when autumn arrived, and insects were less of a nuisance.

Accessing the Trail

Log cabin on Dam Number 4 Road

Dam Number 4 Road has many springhouses and rock fences along the way. In Downsville, there is a general store and old school. (road becomes Downsville Pike MD632)

Avis Mill Road, which confusingly leads to McMahon Mill, parallels the Downey Branch Creek from Dellinger Road to the river. Several bluebirds and swallows flitted around open fields of Dellinger Road

Walking along Dellinger Road, I contemplated that I could be a person of concern for many as I wandered these roads. I anticipate questions, such as “What are you doing here?” But no questions ever come. For the most part, people drive by, give me plenty of room to walk on the road, and a polite wave. I assiduously wave back, calculating that it would ease the minds of those driving by. One of my colleagues had just returned from Scotland and we had a brief conversation about the “right to roam,” a concept whereby people are legally able to trek and hike on public or private lands for exercise and leisure. This is an anathema to most Americans; the number of “no trespassing” signs posted around the path, as well as across the United States, is a sign of the emphasis on the place on property and, ostensibly, privacy. As a curious walker, I like the idea of a right to roam; however, while in Scotland it is difficult to acclimatize myself to the idea. I walk across fields wondering if someone will show up to ask me to leave, or worse call the police. 

Rock Fence on Dam Number 4 Road

Walking the Royal Canal (Part 3: Supply Canal)

The Supply Canal empties into the Royal Canal near
Harbour Road in Mullingar

At the northern tip of the arc of the canal that circles Mullingar, there is a small tributary canal that feeds the Royal Canal from Lough Owel. The Supply Canal is about half the width of the Royal Canal and originates from Lough Owel, a lake approximately 3.5 miles long and 2 miles wide. The trail is not particularly well publicized, even though it is a beautiful walk and a couple of interesting historical sites along the way.

If you let the threat of rain keep you from accomplishing your tasks, you will never get anything done in Ireland. The night before, a storm including 60-mile-per-hour winds lashed the midlands. The next morning, the winds remained brisk and dark gray clouds rushed across the sky. But it was my last day in Ireland – so I go. Debris from the high winds the night before litter the trail with leaves and branches. The storm had brought in a noticeable drop in the temperature, which was a relief to many of the locals. While many enjoy the warm weather, their houses and businesses are not built for the heat. Walking to the canal, there was the faint smell of peat burning to warm nearby houses; a smell of which I have grown fond. The canals seemed fuller and much of the pollen and debris, which had accumulated on the top of the water over the past few days, had disappeared.

Less than a mile north of the Royal Canal, the Supply Canal crosses Castlepollard Road, a busy thoroughfare with no caution lights to warn traffic about pedestrians. A small sign indicated that there is a Famine Cemetery close at hand. About 100 meters further on, the cemetery sits on the edge of an industrial park. While you cannot see the buildings from the warehouses and factories because of the trees, the associated noise let you know that you are not in a remote area. A small stone gate, with a cross atop, indicates the location of the cemetery. Renderings of the mid-nineteenth century Great Irish Famine are common when traveling throughout Ireland; there are a number of monuments and memorials to those who died. But to see something that is tangible from that period is rare.

Entrance gate to the Famine Cemetery

Approximately one million people, of a population of about 6.5 million, starved during An Gorta Mór. Another 1.5-2 million people emigrated during the late 1840s. While, beginning in 1845, a blight largely destroyed the entire potato crop, the primary staple for most Irish peasants, the island continued to export food. Charles Trevelyan, the official in charge of the British response to the famine, did not want to provide assistance or food relief because he feared that it would adversely affect the natural order of markets. Therefore, landlords in Ireland, primarily British, could make more money selling their crops overseas than providing it to the local Irish population. As a result, peasants in Ireland were not protected against the ravages of famine and starvation. The population of Ireland dropped by fifty percent over the course of the nineteenth century.

Interior of the Famine Cemetery

County Meath was hit hard, but its situation was not as desperate as some of the counties further west. In November 1845, in the nearby town of Moate, a mass rally of 4,000 people called on the government to provide help and subsistence to help the local population. The plea had no reply. At the Mullingar Union cemetery, other than the stone gate, no contemporary markers can be observed. Two stone monuments have been placed in recent commemoration. One describes the people interred at the cemetery, “buried in piles, including some of the workhouse’s 7,000 dead.” Overgrown with grass and trees, it is difficult to imagine the number of skeletons who lie beneath the earth. What is more, it is impossible to recreate the images and smells of a dying population during the Great Hunger.

Since it was a weekday morning I had the trail, other than several animals, mostly to myself. Swallows frenetically skim the small canal, searching for the insects that invariably live near the water. A few song birds made sure to give me wide latitude. The gathering clouds made me wonder if I would reach the lake dry, or even at all.

Saint Brigid's Well

Within another half mile a sign, just past a fish farm, indicated the location of Saint Brigid’s Well (Tobar Brighde), which has been a place of worship since about 700AD. More than likely, originally it had been a place of worship of the Celtic goddess Brigid. A small well comes above ground and runs less than six feet to a stream, which, in turn, empties into the fish farm and eventually the canal. The site was Christianized and, a Stations of the Cross and small chapel were added in the mid-twentieth century.  A sign tells visitor that “Here our forefathers walking in the footprints of Brigid pondered the suffering and death of Our Saviour.” I contemplate that for a few minutes and wonder about the contemplations of those before the arrival of Christianity. What was their hopes and fears? We are likely never to know. I took shelter in the open chapel at the well for a few minutes as a light, but persistent rain shower passed. My presences in the chapel caused much consternation to a pair of swallows who had built a he top corner of the chapel. It is unbelievable that in the space of about ten minutes, the weather completely changed. Blue skies emerged, and I found myself searching the sky for the dark clouds that just a few minutes before were so threatening. The clouds had seemingly vanished.

The rail line between Levington and Cullion 

At this point, the canal went through private property. The canal path ended; but a bike path, running alongside Old Longford Road continued toward the lake. One old cedar tree, on the edge of a field, frown under the pressure of the high winds. Perhaps it is not the rain I should be worried about, I thought, but the possibility of falling limbs. Just before crossing the railroad track, where I briefly observed the Sligo train, a small road to the left, wide enough for only one car begins to parallel the canal again. About a quarter mile from the lake, a stone bridge carries the road across the canal just before it ended at the lake.

Lough Owel

Lough Owel is beautiful and is renown among anglers and birding, provided you have a vessel to set upon the water. Where the canal waters leave the lake, to enter the canal and make its way to Mullingar, is a sailing and boating club. Unlike in the States, there are no other facilities, snack outlets, or gift shops. Recreation is dependent on the individual or a group.

On the return trip, there is a sense of melancholy. It is my last day in Ireland, and Europe, for this year. In just a couple of hours I will board a bus to take me to Dublin Airport. As I walk through the small village of Cullion, whose etymology is suggestive of a contemptible fellow or rascal, where I will cross the railroad tracks and rejoin the canal for the two-mile walk back to Mullingar, I look over into a field where seemingly a million small yellow flowers are blowing in the wind, almost as if they are waving goodbye to me. Already I am thinking of the tasks I must accomplish when I return; the appointments to keep, and the meetings to attend. It is tempting to believe that if we could relocate here, life would be simpler. But I know it is not true. We would trade our current responsibilities and concerns for others. Humans are social creatures, inevitably we develop new connections and new tasks. Nevertheless, it is pleasant to walk these trails, free from our concerns for a few hours; to wander and to explore, to renew ourselves for the journeys to come. 

​

Walking the Royal Canal (Part 2)

On an overcast day, a little over a week later, I returned to Mullingar to explore more of the canal. My ambitions were high that afternoon: to walk from the center of town to a small pub, Mary Lynch’s, approximately seven-and-a-half miles toward the east. The weather was cooler, a pleasant 63°F, and the only demands on my time was the bus schedule to allow me to return to Mullingar at a reasonable time.

The previous week I had walked to where the N52 crossed over the canal and path, approximately a mile-and-a-half out of Mullingar. Thus, tried to move swiftly through the area, and it seemed to take forever to get back to N52. On my previous walk I had been concentrating on birds. This walk I became fascinated with the windflowers and the bees that roamed from flower to flower.

Quickly, it felt as if I were walking in remote areas. Probably because it was a Tuesday afternoon, I saw very few people on the trail. There were several overgrown paths leading from the trail, most were overgrown and appeared not to have been used in quite a while. In Scotland, the right to roam makes it less daunting to explore the odd and intriguing path. The idea is that as long as you are recreating, committing no harm, you can walk virtually anywhere in the wilderness. But this does not apply to Ireland. There are far fewer no trespassing signs, or signs warning to beware of dogs, then in the United States; however, there are some. I overcame my trepidation and took a side path, which was not particularly well marked, up a hill. What did I find at the top of the hill? Nothing more than a field, or perhaps it was a pasture. My curiosity was in unrewarded. Of course, how would it have been rewarded unless I had taken a look?

Marlinstown Bridge

Earlier in the day, at a convenience store in Mullingar I bought a ham sandwich and a bottle of water. The elderly gentleman who sold me the sandwich, said it was a nice day. I retorted it was an excellent day for a walk. A big grin came across his face as he said, “Enjoy the walk, and God bless.” I stopped for my lunch at Marlinstown Bridge, a one-lane bridge in a remote area. Yet, a service truck crossed the bridge and a man and his dog walked by. I wandered to the other side of the bridge and found a trailhead to a wilderness path along the high bank of the canal. A few bug mansions and bee hotels had been built to help promote local biodiversity.

The path opened into a wide valley, where it ran alongside several pastures and farms. I was thinking that I had not seen many aquatic birds along the canal, other than a pair of swans on the west side of Mullingar the week before. Then, within seconds, I spied a grey heron, who did not allow me to get to close to photograph before flying off. Many of the nature signs along the canal touted the multicolored kingfisher as being native, but elusive, to the area. Although I kept looking I was disappointed by not seeing the European cousin to one of my favorite birds. In fact, the crane would be the only aquatic bird I saw during all my walk on the canal.

The N4 highway approached closely, and ran parallel to the path in this area, and it was hard not to be distracted by the noise. I saw another stone marker, which was impossible to read. I noted, however, that today in Ireland every half kilometer is denoted along roads N4 and the stone markers would probably outlast the metal signs that currently gave motorists their whereabouts.

The Downs Bridge

As I approached the Downs Bridge, the path served as a paved one-lane road used by a few houses. At one point, a bush hog mowing the grass along the edge of the road patiently waited for me to pass. I was glad he did. After I passed I heard the mower hit some glass bottles and aluminum cans, the shrapnel would have hurt I am sure. A little bit further, several trucks were repaving the asphalt on the Downs Bridge. An older worker sitting on the back of a truck greeted me. I asked him to confirm that I was the Downs Bridge, which he did. He inquired as to if I were having a good walk but the look on his supervisor's face suggested that we should keep the conversation short.

Here and there houses told stories about their occupants and the land. A white house with yellow trim caught my eye and sparked my imagination. The house had several additions and four rather large pine trees, which looked out of place in the Irish countryside, which were planted a generation ago. The back of the house, typically known as the garden, was full of flower pot and plants. An old sliding board, with faded red paint, was being consumed by grass that had not been mowed in a quite a while, indicating that the children no longer lived there. But a newer, small green table with two chairs overlooked the canal. I imagined an elderly couple taking their afternoon tea or evening drinks while watching wildlife or the cyclists pass.

A hand-cranked drawbridge

Shortly before automobile access to the path ended, I passed a bridge that had an intact hand crank drawbridge that would allow cars to traverse the bridge when down, its current state, and boats to pass when raised. I was mesmerized by this old structure and was thinking about how to describe it. I took several photographs, from different angles, to demonstrate how it worked. In my head, I was imagining a conversation with my dad, trying to explain the design to him, who would have been deeply interested.

Between the Downs and McNeads Bridges, the canal sat high above the valley floor. Several culverts allowed small rivers and streams to pass beneath. Since this section of the canal was completed by 1817, I pondered the work and planning that went into its creation. I am unclear about the conditions under which the canal was built and who did the labor. But It was a reminder that early nineteenth-century canals were a marvel of engineering. I walked between the Royal Canal's successors: to my right was the railroad tracks, which later in the nineteenth century would make the canal obsolete; to my left, the N4 highway that took the modern traveler, whether my bus or car, to destinations throughout the island.

Toward the end of my journey, I realized how glad I was that it was not sunny. Although it was not optimal for beautiful picturesque photographs, it made walking much easier. I was not prone to being too hot or having an Irish sunburn. Besides, the cloud cover did make it easier to photograph some of the wild flowers without shadows. It also made it easier to continue the journey. I arrived at Mary Lynch's pub a full hour and a half before the next bus was scheduled to arrive. I had walked a little over seven miles at that point but did not think that ninety minutes in the pub was a good idea.

A pied wagtail at Lock 25

After a few minutes, I started to slowly walk to the next bridge, another two kilometers further. After a few minutes I resumed my natural pace but was beginning to feel the toll on my feet. When I reached Lock 25 (Loc 25), I decided that it was enough of a walk. My day would end with a total of 9.8 miles.

Mary Lynch's Pub

I returned to the Mary Lynch Pub with about an hour before the bus was set to arrive. I few people were around the bar, and I ordered a celebratory Guinness to pass the time. The bartender, who said she saw me walking earlier, asked me how I enjoyed my walk. I replied that it was a nice day for walking. She gave me a detailed summary and update of the weather, noting that previous week had been too hot for many people. The pub had had several walkers and cyclists who could not cope with the extreme (for Ireland) temperatures.

Mary Lynch's Pub

The bartender told of a woman who, while cycling with her husband the previous weekend, got cramps and light-headed. Her husband gave her a "fiver" and rode his bike home to retrieve the car. An hour and a quarter later he came back. One of the women at the bar comment, "An hour? She needed more than a fiver." The bartender went on to tell me that, "High pressure will be building tomorrow night and will be turi-bill winds. It will blow itself out by Turs-day morning. Sunny weather then, but cooler." Her forecast was pretty much right.

She took care of other guests and nursed my beer. I went out to catch the route 115 bus at 17:52, five minutes early. Even though I knew the stop was near the end if the route and it highly unlikely to be on time. After walking nearly ten miles, I neither wanted to miss an on-time bus nor consider a 7-mile walk back to Mullingar. I have been riding buses in Ireland for over 15 years and feel confident about understanding the nuisances of doing so. But I have to admit, with my feet aching, watching cars zooming by coming home from work, when the bus was twenty minutes late I began to have some doubts and trepidation. But when the bus rounded a bend in the road, thirty-three minutes after its scheduled arrival time I was happy to pay my €4.30 to return to Mullingar.