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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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.
