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