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.