Cheektowaga Historic Rail Trail (Cheektowaga, NY)

Cheektowaga Rail Trail near Interstate I-90

Cheektowaga Rail Trail is a 2.2-mile asphalt trail paralleling an active Norfolk Southern rail line in the center of a major suburb of Buffalo. Walking on the trail one feels Isolated in an industrial landscape, but redwing blackbirds calling reminds me that nature is never far away. The trail offers view of the backyards of working-class houses, a few with aboveground swimming pools and waiting for warmer weather. I momentarily returned to a pastime of my youth, scanning boxcars to find interesting and obscure names, like the Kansas City Southern de México. It is the unseen movement of goods and materials by rail that is fascinating.

It is one of those gray days when calendar feels like a joke. The temperature is barely above freezing, 34°F, and all along the walk I could hear freezing rain hitting dead leaves.  The walk felt much more like November than mid-April. At one point I thought to myself that I wished it would warm up but then, I reasoned, the precipitation would not be frozen, and I would be cold and wet. Other than a few hardy souls walking their dogs, I saw no one else on the trail.

I found it a little disconcerting that a quarter of a mile into my walk, a posted sign suggested that walks should be safe and walk with a friend. It is the first time I have ever seen such a sign on a rail trail, although I realize the potential danger for some walkers. Nonetheless, there were parts of the trail that were remote and potentially perilous. 

Abandoned House at 16 Strawn Avenue

As my hands warmed up, the walk became much more tolerable. The path goes beneath the I-90 and Harlem Road, bother of which carry a great deal of traffic. After a mile-and-three-quarters, the trail begins to move away from the railroad yard and wedged between the trail and trains is a junkyard with thousands of vehicles. As the asphalt path is only separated this vast junkyard by a dirty, polluted creek and a few scrub bushes. Trash and car parts littered the far side of the creek. I watch as several people roamed the abandoned cars, many of which looked like they were melting into a pool of rusted metal. Do sites like this ever recover? Is this a place, at some point in the future, where trees will grow, and birds and animals inhabit? It is difficult to imagine that. At the end of the trail, which spills into Strawn Avenue, an abandon house tells of better times. 

junkyard

On my return trip the frozen precipitation was hitting me in the face. Although it stings sometimes, there is something invigorating about the sensation. The precipitation was heavier, but it was difficult to properly name: rain, snow or freezing rain. My fleece jacket was covered with small piece of ice, but I was not cold. I saw a man working outside in the Erie County Water Authority compound in a high viz jacket. He watched me walk, he gave an appreciative wave that I returned. 

Signs along rail trails usually provide interesting information that is relevant to the trail or area. The area known as Cheektowaga, “land of crabapples” in the Seneca language, incorporated the former village of Forks, where the railyard was currently located. A sign at the trailhead offered a bizarre story from the town’s local history. Within in sight of the trailhead is the remnants of the largest coal trestle ever built in the United States, built in the 1880s. A fire destroyed the trestle in the 1920s, but more salaciously, a love triangle was rumored to be at the heart of its demise. The wife of the owner of the trestle had fallen in love with one of his employees. According to legend the lovers schemed to kill the husband by removing pins that held his office above structure. The resulting collapse killed the owner but ruptured the gas pipes that killed the lovers as well. The sign reports that, “the bodies were never recovered and many tales of strange happenings at the sight of the trestle have continued to circulate over the years.”

Evangelical Church Home of Forks, NY

One can imagine that the area was once a busy area, filled with workers taking goods and materials to and from the railroad lines. Today, a few buildings and remnants of those industrial times are left. Primarily there are two major thoroughfares that run through the area without much reason to stop. An abandoned brick building caught my eye as I was having a look around. On the backslide, well hidden from the view of most, painted on the brick reveals that it was once the Evangelical Church Home of Forks, New York. Many of the people there will have spent their final years watching as the town and world they knew slowly disappeared. Their stories and memories have vanished as well.

Clouse Road

Early April brings warmer weather on the CVRT; it is a time for the reemergence of life. Baby goats not much bigger than Pip have appeared at Ott Road near Clouse. A very pregnant cat comes to greet me while I am walking. Rather than being timid, she rolls over and demands that I scratch the back of her head. I suspect that she things I might have a little food for her as well. As I go to continue my walk, she tries to keep up with me. I gently explain, “You’re a good girl but you’re not going home with me.” I outpace her and she cannot keep up. Nevertheless, she is waiting for me on my return trip desirous of a couple more scratches behind the ears.

As I am walking, I watch a Mennonite girl, approximately five years-old pulling a cardboard box with a rope attached as if it were a wagon. I try not to stare, just glancing as I pass. She made big circles, laughing with great joy at her own imagination, as her busy father avoids her path on his way back to the barn. Much like with my own cats, there is great pleasure in an unattended box, it lets our imagination take over.

C&O Canal: Synders Landing to Dam Number 4 (February-March)

The beginning of the winter semester drastically changes my work and walking habits. But I had planned to make use of Saturdays to connect Sharpsburg and Williamsport. Waking on the morning of Groundhog Day, after a week of bitter cold and occasionally winter weather, the temperature was 3°F. I had tasks to accomplish before I could even consider a walk. By late morning my commitments were complete, but the cold weather and lethargy pointed toward hibernation. I do not find walking in cold weather particularly onerous, but the trick is getting motivated to start. Thinking I should take advantage of the limited sunshine while I could, I dragged myself to the car. My car radio was set to the classic alternative rock station, and before I left my neighborhood, “Roam,” by the B-52s was playing. It is an upbeat song that encourages the listener to explore the world. Although I was prone to inactivity, the message on the radio suggested I do otherwise. 

About an inch of snow covered the ground, and I am the first human to traverse the trail since the snow fell twenty-four hours previously. I am not sure why this thrills me, but it has something to do with my propensity to explore. The tracks of birds, squirrels, dogs, and deer are obvious and indicate that I am not alone. After recognizing deer tracks, I purposely watch the tree line. I did not hear a thing, but from my peripheral vision I espied something leaping over shrubbery on the other side of the canal. It was a whitetail deer, closely followed by three companions, travelling parallel to me about 40 yards away. I was amazed that I could not hear them springing through the trees and would have seen them, unless I had been looking. Yet, they were acutely aware of me. I fumbled to get my camera from my coat pocket, but the slowing of my pace, eventually coming to a complete stop, heightened the sense of danger for the four animals. Instantaneously, each turned directly away from me to put as much distance as possible between us, leaping large thickets in a single, silent bound. 

Snowfall in urban areas covers blemishes, such as the trash that has accumulated along the side of the highway, or muddy patches of the ground. Those who live only indoors are anesthetized to the everyday pollution of our society. By contrast, walking on a snow-covered towpath highlights that we humans as not alone. The snow highlights nuances of trees and hills; we can see that even if there are no other humans around, several other animals are.  It is definitive evidence that this is not solely an anthropogenic world.

A week later, I returned to Taylors Landing to walk downstream to MM79 where I had finished the previous Saturday. In the intervening week the snow had melted, and the temperature had risen to the 50s. People were getting out and completing chores that had been left undone during the long cold snap. It was my first time at Taylors Landing, a popular stretch of the towpath where a local ice cream shop is only open during the summer months. Located on along Taylors Landing Road, which is a one-and-three-quarter mile dead-end road emanating from the residential district of Sharpsburg, I parked at the boat ramp. It is a beautiful road traversing several shaded streams and nice houses. Yet it is disconcerting how many confederate flags, both battle and national, are along the road. Growing up in Louisville, everyday rising a bus to my high school, we passed a monument to fallen confederate soldiers on the edge of the university’s campus. It has since been dismantled. Although I probably did not fully recognize the implications at the time, this was obviously a provocation for many residents in the neighborhood, prominently displayed near an urban campus. I ruminate on the message being sent to those of us using the towpath.

A boat trailer washed ashore 

The past six months have been wetter than usual and, more specifically, the last few weeks with additional snow and rain, the Potomac has breached its banks on several occasions, In the opening chapters of Our Mutual Friend, my currently pleasure reading, Dickens outlines the lives of those who make a living salvaging the debris of the Thames. Gaffer Hexam patrols the great river, looking for the bodies of people who have committed suicide or have been the victim of skullduggery. Before turning over the bodies to the authorities, a quick check of their pockets to retrieve money or other valuables is his main source of income. Scouring the river for other items, that can be used or sold, supplements his income. During the winter months the Potomac has deposited several balls, bags, bottles, and other items, including in one instance, a park bench, along the shore. At MM80, I wondered away from the towpath down to the river’s edge. Navigating the piles of debris, I inventoried several plastic chairs, including one that was stuck in a tree twenty-five feet high, and two boat trailers that had washed ashore. Walking among the plastic bottles, cups, and cans intermixed with tree limbs and logs, there was an eerie silence. The lone sound was a piece of sheet metal, partially buried in detritus, banging against a tree truck whenever the wind blew.  

Mid-February brings the first birthday of our kittens. As fluffballs when they arrived, Lucie, Pip, and Coco had no difficulties capturing our hearts. I encounter plenty of dogs along the towpath but have yet to meet any cats. It is common to meet cats while in urban areas; however, in more rural areas cats tend to be barn cats or feral, neither of which is particularly conducive to greetings. Nevertheless, my three kittens have never been for from my mind. After returning home from a walk on the towpath my hiking boots elicit great fascination. I often think about Pip trotting along side me walking on the trail but quickly realize that he would never be able to focus long enough to walk even a quarter of a mile.

While they are never on the trail. They are often with me when I am writing my notes or journals. If I am typing on my computer, I sometimes have Coco resting her head on my wrist and forearm. If I move too quickly, or disturb her too much, she gives a little squeak in disapprobation. I can sit and gaze at her for several minutes and study her white mitten paws, her little white moustache and whiskers, set against her dark fur that always looks disheveled. She purrs contentedly as she droops her head and right paw over my hand that guides my mouse. In movement of my hand produces a slight contraction of her paw; I feel her claws gently press against my skin gently asking me to let her cuddle a few minutes more.

It was another six weeks before I could get back on the trail. Weather, work and travel plans, prevented a quick return. A severe wind storm in the interim had a dramatic effect in the region. Several trees, partially aided by saturated ground, had toppled over across the region. Flags ripped at a horse farm near the trail had been ripped in half by the wind. As I began my walk from Taylors Landing, the stillness of the Potomac was punctuated the noisy sounds of tree removal in the winter’s aftermath. Nevertheless, many people fishing along the banks of the swollen river, and many more were in boats for an early spring fishing trip.  I am again amazed by the debris in the river. While there are several trees, limbs and plastic in the water, as they have been throughout the winter, I was flabbergasted to see an entire picnic table that had been washed away and wedged upright, partially covered by the river, against a tree at the water’s edge.

Beyond MM82, the canal is adjacent to fallow farmland. It is tranquil, away from people and automobile noises. Sweet birdsong, led by a hermitage of bluebirds, background sound provided by roosters calling from a distance, fills my ears. Only momentarily is the song disturbed by the sound of an airplane, unseen beyond the clouds, flying several miles above.  

In a few short weeks the standing water on the canal will be breeding grounds for mosquitoes. Once again, walks in the humid heat and swarms of insects will become unpleasant. It is part of my regret about the long gaps between my walks on the towpath. But for now, butterflies and turtles have reemerged as winter fades into our memories. The reappearance of turtles made me consider what they did during the winter. Obviously, given their deliberate travel mode, a quick trip to Florida like many of their avian neighbors is probably not likely.  After quick research, it turns out that snapping turtles can survive the winter months beneath the ice.

I often find myself putting my hands on great old, moss-covered trees, much like I would do with my cats. My inclination is that I both like the tactile feel of Pip, Lucie and Coco while at the same time reassuring them that we remain part of the same family. But my propensity to touch old trees has made me question my assumption. The tree is probably not being reassured by the presence of me. Perhaps I am reassuring myself as well. Is it an attempt to make a connection with another living thing?

Looking out from the mouth of Dam 4 Cave

I briefly explored Dam 4 Cave but decided to leave once I realized that two eastern phoebes were desperately trying to fly into the mouth of the cave. My presence was dissuading them; chirping abounded as I precariously navigated the rocks in the creek flowing out. After I exited, I watched the two birds who were nesting on a ledge near the entrance to the cave from a distance. A little later, as I neared Dam 4, I saw a group of eleven spelunkers leaving their cars. I inquired if they were heading to the cave and a young man replied, “Yes, sir.” (the answer made me feel old) On my return trip, most of the people were in the cave but two were arranging equipment outside. He told me that the group could travel about 1000 feet into the cave. “Enough to keep us busy,” he added. But there was no sign of the phoebes. 

Louisiana waterthrush 

As is usually the case this time of year, robins are everywhere. Their antics in the spring, looking for mates, make me laugh. Yet, I find that a long walk on the trail inevitably makes me more likely to spot birds that are a little more obscure. At one point, I watched a small brown and white bird, treading the waterline of the canal, bobbing its head up and down hunting insects and small fish. I had never identified a Louisiana waterthrush, perhaps because I had not observed closely. It is one of the birds that, because of pollution and loss of habitat, has seen a significant decline in population over the past couple of centuries. As more streams are channeled and wetlands drained, species like this find it more difficult to survive. 

As I drew near to Dam 4, more people were walking and biking the towpath. Dam 4 is a popular place to access the National Park and the towpath. I passed five humans and six dogs. Most of the dogs were mixed-breeds and ignored me; however, a King Charles spaniel sat right in front of me and insisted on licking my hand. One of the women noted, “He’s ferocious.” “I noticed,” I replied. When I passed them again, the spaniel weaved through the dogs and human to greet me again. This time, a Boston terrier followed suit and the other dogs rubbed against me as they passed. It seemed that he was, indeed, the king of the pack.

​When I reached MM84 I completed a section of the trail, linking with the start location from last spring, almost a year and a day. I walked on to Dam 4, another quarter of a mile further, because it was such a nice day. February and March had been less productive that I wanted, but still I have completed twenty percent of the trail. I would like to cover more ground, but perhaps I should be more patient. It takes me forty-five minutes to arrive at nearest point of the towpath from my house. Completing the towpath is going to take time and perseverance.

I drove into Sharpsburg for lunch at the Battleview Market and Deli, within the shadow of the field where the Battle of Antietam took place. On this particular Saturday, the deli was particularly busy with people ordering sandwiches and pizzas. I opted for premade chicken salad sandwiches on Martin’s rolls, a local favorite famously made in Chambersburg, Pennsylvania. As I ate my sandwiches, I scanned the community board with one notice offering rabbit meat for sale. I laughed as I thought about my childhood remembrances of watching cartoons where Elmer Fudd and Bugs Bunny would debate the attributes of rabbit fricassee in a fancy Hollywood restaurant. Very few Americans eat rabbit today, and one is more likely to find rabbit in rural Maryland and it is probably highly unlikely that there are many restaurants in Los Angeles that would serve rabbit in any form.