The Curious Sojourner: June on the C&O Canal Towpath

The return to the towpath, after three months of staying close to home because of the pandemic, was a difficult decision. But because I was in the most remote area of the C&O Canal, and I would minimize the interaction with other people, I decided to have some exploration during this COVID summer. What I did not realize was that the trail was so remote that it proved difficult to access.

Exiting I-68, I had difficulty believing my GPS, which said that Bonds Landing was twelve miles away, but it would take 42 minutes to arrive. I was sure it could not be that long, and that it would correct itself as I got closer. If anything, the GPS was optimistic. What I did not realize was traveling though Green Ridge State Forest would be on narrow gravel roads, fording three steams on Carroll and Kasecamp roads, and dodging potholes that were capable of swallowing small cars. As nerve wracking as it was to drive, it was a fascinating journey with an old cemetery, stunning vistas, deer, and mosquitoes.

The towpath was lush, and the undergrowth full. Within five minutes of beginning my walk I nearly stepped on an eastern ratsnake sunning itself. It is a reminder, early on, that I have not been on the trail in three months. This is not the same as walking in the neighborhood. Whenever I see a ratsnake, at first glance, I think it is a tree branch that has fallen across the path. But the curvature is a giveaway. It is the largest and most common snake in Maryland. Although it is nonpoisonous, its bite can be quite painful.

I have been reading Peter Wohlleben’s seminal book, The Hidden Livers of Trees, in which he argues that our concept of life, communication, and cooperation is so deeply rooted in our own experience, it is difficult to conceive how other living things might experience the same things. We cannot adequately communicate with trees to determine if they contemplate experiences and relationships, thus we do not know if they have experiences like animals. But his description of how communities of trees share resources, help one another, and have knowledge to heal themselves certainly forces me consider trees differently. Walking along the edge of the canal, one becomes conscience of the number of trees that have succumbed. Often, you can find dead trees leaning against neighbors. It is almost as if the neighbors are cradling their dead neighbors in their comrade's repose. Looking at the remains of one tree resting against two neighbors, I was reminded of the Pennsylvania Railroad War Memorial at 30th Street Station in Philadelphia. The bronze statue, which honors those railroad workers who died during the Second World War, depicts the Archangel St. Michael supporting a lifeless body is a moving tribute. Perhaps trees do not grieve, but a long examination of nature can remind us of how we are part of something larger than ourselves.

As I finished the month, there is a sense of excitement because I am less than twenty miles from the upstream terminus of the towpath at Cumberland, Maryland. Yet, it is sad that this portion of the journey is coming to an end. During the four trips to the towpath this month, I have encountered few other walkers, except for some near the aqueducts. It makes walking during the pandemic more socially responsible. But like many other things during a pandemic, it is an experience with minimal human interaction. This lack of interaction is not good for our mental health. It is tiring, but the regenerative powers of nature are still present.