Roddy Road Covered Bridge

Located outside Thurmont, Maryland, the original bridge was built in 1856; however, it was damaged by an oversize truck in 2016. The bridge was deconstructed, and it was determined that the timbers were insufficient for reuse. Instead, a replica bridge built on the same parameters was erected in 2017. The bridge crosses Roddy Creek approximately half a mile from US Route 15.

C&O Canal Towpath: Winter (105-116)

Dam Number 5 (MM 106.6)

It was mid-January, although it was a very pleasant 56-degrees, most of the Potomac remained frozen.

A photograph of the dam just before sunset. The young woman in the photo is on her phone as a boyfriend is fishing below. The dam was an important site during the civil war, especially since the river was the dividing line between the union and the confederacy.

Just before arriving at the 107-mile maker, the path is narrow as if makes its way around a large rock formation. The edge of the water is close, and the rock face high.

I came across a couple who were walking a pair of Burmese mountain dogs. Although the humans were hesitant, both dogs wanted to greet me. As I usually do, I offered the back of my hand, fingers slightly curled to prevent any temptation of tasting my fingers. The lumbering docile giants a perfunctory sniff and then licked my knuckles. The canines were deferential, and the episode reminded me of when people kissed the Pope’s rings. A few minutes later, I came across a couple who, I had the impression, did not take many walks. Given that it was very warm for January, the man greeted me and said, “It’s a good day for a walk, isn’t it?” I was wearing my Penguins hat, and decided to channel Badger Bob Johnson, “It’s a great day for a walk,” I replied.

The trees are bereft of leaves. This offers a clearer view of how fallen and leaning trees have become intertwined with one another. They create complex sculptures that are fascinating to examine.

I photographed this deer at Camp Spring Run, a small creek that runs into the Potomac near mile marker 108. I was walking along the path and saw five wild turkeys and two deer. Before I could turn on my camera and focus, the turkeys began to scatter, which spooked the other deer. But the young buck in the photograph was confused and just looked around, seemingly in confusion, while the other six animals ran into the woods.

The remnants of Charles Mills, dating to 1790. The mill closed after the 1924 flood, which ended commercial activity on the canal. A woman who was walking a border collie commented, “It’s impressive, isn’t it?”

A couple of pileated woodpeckers flitted among the trees overhead; however, they rarely want to be immortalized in photographs.

Several abandoned and semi-abandoned structures dot the towpath. A small cabin, of dubious structural integrity, stands across the canal from the towpath at mile marker 109.  I espied it while walking alone; photographing it from a distance, though multiple trees and bushes, which was not satisfying. I explored the dry canal, looking for an easy way to cross it, with the lowest possible risk factor. It was about ninety minutes before sunset. A wrong step, or an unforeseen injury, could have meant a night alone in the woods. Yet, the allure to explore was strong. I managed to find a relatively easy way down to the canal and across its bed, navigating the undergrowth, much of which, with particularly sharp thorns. I scaled the wall on the far side of the canal, about four feet high with a sharp incline to conquer afterward. My jeans were muddy, but I was none the worse for wear.

Carefully I crept to the cabin, because buried beneath the leaves was a fair amount of undetermined debris. Upon closer inspection, it was apparent that the cabin was listing to the right and rear. Seemingly unsteady, I knew better than to even place a single foot inside. Peaking in through the front door, signs of occupancy were still evident. Wallpaper, adorned with faded roses, still covered about half of a wall. A painted blue wooden door, fading from exposure to the elements, retain metal hooks used to hang coats. It is small artifacts that reminds us that people, actual human beings, once habituated in this structure. It was not a great edifice, but it was someone’s home. Did they love this domicile? Were they proud of this modest residence? I consider the structure’s age, but I do not have the background or expertise to make such a judgment. Was it a witness to the end of commercial traffic on the canal in the 1920s? Walking around the perimeter of cabin, a woodpecker was so close and noisy, that at first I believed it was harvesting a meal within the structure. It took no notice of me but continued to pound away pine tree that hung over the cabin. Directly below the woodpecker’s skinny tree, a disconnected drainpipe dangled, probably as a result of the collapse of the foundation.

Completing my circumnavigation, I peeked into a bedroom window, askew from the ravages of abandonment. The remains of a mattress and blanket were scatted across the collapsed wooden floor, although my identification was based upon frame of the mattress rather than the shreds of cotton stuffing. Looking into this bedroom made me even more melancholy: It had not been very long since this structure had occupants. The living conditions for the last residents were likely not optimal.

Prather’s Neck – Majestic American Sycamore trees, their white branches standing out against the gray winter sky, are numerous in this area. The towpath, and the remnants of the canal, diverge from the Potomac at Prather’s Neck. The river makes a large loop, almost in the shape of a cursive L. The canal shaves over about one mile by cutting across this short piece of land (half a mile).

There are steps from the trail down to the remnants of a stone structure, just prior to mile marker 110. I encounter a young woman is wearing a pink fluorescent cast on her left arm, but her right is fully engaged with her phone. She sees little else but her phone and is surprised to see me.

I do not see many people along this section of the towpath. It is because it is somewhat away from more popular access points and it is the middle of January. It gives me an opportunity to reflect and contemplate. This week I received the news that the death of Allen’s brother was ruled a suicide weighs on my mind. Although I knew this to be the case, it does not lessen the blow to the family. I also had a biopsy taken from a spot on my chin. More than likely it is nothing serious; however, it is a reminder, nonetheless, that in life the clock is always running; there are no timeouts. 

There are several culverts along this section of the trail, carrying small creeks and streams beneath the canal and towpath. In some places this is quite obvious because in the gulley that was once the canal there are no trees growing because not far below the surface is a bed of stone that lined the bed of the canal. The small streams and creeks are too numerous to keep track or count.

McCoy’s Ferry (MM 110.0)

There is a campground at McCoy’s Ferry Road. It is very nice, perched adjacent to the Potomac, but in January there is no one camping. It is a very mild winter’s day, 57 degrees, but large chucks of ice are stacked along both sides of the river. A light breeze, every so often, brings very cold air off the river. Suddenly, the river has pulled away the foundation of ice and several pieces escaped into the river. The float downstream and I imagine that they will grow smaller and melt into the Potomac before very long on its journey to Washington. Although the collapse is small in scale, nothing like the collapse of a glacier off the coast of Alaska say, it makes a tremendous roar as it echoes across the narrow valley.

I continue walking to the sound of constant and continuous reports of gunfire and surmise that there must be a shooting range on the West Virginia side of the river.

Accessing the Trail: Four Locks and McCoy’s Ferry

Getting to the trail is often as interesting as the trail itself. Several narrow bridges are found along Big Pool Road (Maryland 56), between Pinesburg and Big Spring in Washington County. The bridge that crosses Little Conococheague Creek is so narrow that only one vehicle can transit the bridge at a time. Constructed in 1907, there is a stone marker in the middle of the span noting that it was built by the Nelson Construction Company of Chambersburg, Pennsylvania. Clearly well built, the bridge has survived floods and weather, yet continues to carry automobiles, for which it was likely not designed, more than a century after its construction.

Shank Road, a small lane at the western foot of the bridge, provided a convenient place to park while I took some photographs. It too held an architectural surprise. Less than a tenth of a mile from the bridge, a viaduct carries railroad tracks across both Shank Road and the creek. What is uncommon is that in their era of road safety, there is no guardrail between the road and the water. An unobservant driver could easily misjudge both the width of a car and the narrow lane, to find his/her partially submerge into this picturesque creek.

February is a challenging month to walk as it is. The weather in this area, as well as the short days, makes finding good times to walk difficult. Between battling a cold, and the nettlesome problem of plantar fasciitis, it has been over a month since I have walked the towpath. Nevertheless, early March means that the weather is still unpredictable. The recent heavy rains and high winds resulted in many branches litter the trail and, in many places, the water in the canal is higher than normal. The crystal blue sky is a sign that the trail is on the cusp of spring. Despite a 7-mile walk, I meet no one for the first two hours. Selfishly, it is a great day: solitude and quiet. In the coming months there will be an increase in the number of cyclists and I will have to pay closer attention to where I am walking. But for now, I can wander and stare into the treetops without the fear of being run down.

An online guide for cycling the towpath suggests that this portion is the most difficult because of the large gravel and ungraded sections. It is an area that develops deep ruts, and erosion creates potholes. Perhaps this is why I find it so appealing. I spy a couple of red-bellied woodpeckers scrambling to hide in a hole within a sycamore tree. I remain still and watch for a few minutes, but I resist the impulse to take any photographs even though woodpeckers are my favorite type of birds. I take some time to observe the comings and goings of these busy birds. The sound of woodpeckers tapping on a tree, especially if it is hollow and the deep thud reverberates through the trees and beckons me to pay attention. I do not always know where to look, and for me that is part of the fun. It is a search, more complicated than a word search, less static than Waldo; a puzzle to consider and figure out. I continue to walk, realizing that I am upsetting their routine. The woodpeckers, sparrows and robins must pay close attention to me. I am a potential threat that must be observed. Just as cyclists can interrupt my ruminations, I upset the routine of our avian friends.

I stopped to watch a round (flock) of robins frolicking in the canal bed and noticed that just a few feet from me something is burrowing just below the surface. I could hear what I presumed to be a mouse, or other rodent, gnawing on some morsel beneath the leaves and grass. Perhaps it could see me, after a few seconds the ground no longer moved, and the gnawing stopped.  I waited for a several minutes and nothing appeared. I am constantly amazed by how much we do not see during our travels and explorations. There is a whole world at our feet, and most of us are clueless to its complexity.

Fort Frederick State Park (MM 112.4)

Fort Frederick is a restored 1756 fort built during the French and Indian War. A couple of decades later, during the Revolutionary War, the fort housed British prisoners of war. From 1860, the area was owned by an African-American family who farmed the land until it was purchased by the state of Maryland in 1922. Today, as a state park, its primary focus is on eighteenth century history.

The floods of March 1936 affected much of the Northeast of the United States. A contemporary federal government report noted that the floods “constituted a major catastrophe,” resulting in erosion, bridges and roads being washed away, and transportation seriously affected. A small marker near the towpath at the park, designates the high-water mark and contains two names. I assume that they are victims, long-forgotten to most.

The CCC History Museum at Fort Federick

American Sycamore in the state park

Big Pool

As I walk, I am reminded of the bulletin board in my elementary school teaching students that, “March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.” The nineteenth century idiom was very popular when I was a kid, but today. Although mid-March, and a week from the beginning of spring, it is 40 degrees. A Nor’easter is blowing off the coast, and there had been a dusting of snow the night before. The winds, becoming gustier as I walked, reminded me that the lamb-side of March had yet to appear.

I had lunch at mile marker 113, a place sometimes called the dragon’s teeth. It is difficult to discern the purpose of the structure, but I eventually learned that it was a spillway for excess water from the canal. Before my walk I stopped in Ernst Country Market, located at the intersection of Maryland 56 and Dam Number 5 Road, to buy a lunch to take in my backpack. It is a store that takes one back in time, despite its modern décor. The deli counter has hot meals and sandwiches made to order. Near the entrance of the market, there are several bins of traditional candies. I ordered half a sub with ham and swiss, both components shaved as I waited, and a small container of chocolate covered peanuts – a treat for the coming week. Other people were picking up salads and vegetables for a Saturday afternoon at home.

The market is an intersection of different people; young and old, rural and suburban. A group of construction workers came in for lunch. One young man purchased a large bag of flavored potato chips and a two-liter bottle of highly caffeinated soda. I cringed. Of course, I said nothing. I did not even give him a second look. I was no more than background filler to his day, someone who had slightly impeded his quick trip to the store. It would have been inappropriate to comment on his choice of lunch; in fact, his lunch could have been a one-off. But I suspect not. What would my 19-year-old self said to someone warning me about my diet?

I contemplate how a simple ham and cheese sandwich can be as I watched and listed to Canada geese on Big Pool.  An elderly couple were walking a couple hundred yards ahead of me, taking their time watching birds before I stopped for lunch. On a walk of seven and a half miles, they would be the only people I would see on a gorgeous, but chilly, Saturday. I decided to give them some time and space so that the birds they sought were not spooked by me walking. Upon finishing lunch, I find the couple had not substantially moved, making very little progress. I soon overtook the couple and offered a greeting. About half an hour later, when I passed them on the return trip, they still had not made much progress, the gentleman offered a piece of exciting news. “We just saw and heard two wood ducks about half a minute ago.” I feigned excitement saying that I would watch for them but was also dubious. Had it only been thirty seconds prior, I too would have heard the ducks as well. Then again, about five minutes later I did hear the call of wood duck.

Railroad Bridge near MM 114 

The railroad bridge, near mile maker 114, was part of a short run built to link the B&O station at Cherry Run, West Virginia to the Western Maryland Railroad at Big Pool. The bridge hangs low across the path and the canal. Surprisingly, the tracks are easily accessible to the curious. While still in use, I suspect it is infrequently so. My supposition is based upon the fact that a large nest, for a bird of prey, had been constructed in the corner of girders about halfway across the bridge.  

Accessing the trail from Ernstville Road 

Culvert between MM 114 and 115

The bark has been stripped away from a dead tree

Licking Creek Aqueduct built between 1836 and 1838

Odd Sightings Along the C&O Towpath

Part of my walking regime is to find new, and interesting, places to walk. I try, as much as possible, to vary the locations of my perambulations. Even when I repeat locations, it is in the hope of seeing new things, variations, wildlife, the evolution of a landscape. A particular walk on the C&O Canal towpath, in early December, was memorable because of the numerous odd things I encounter in the space of just a few hours.

A buzzard stands guard of an abandoned house
on Dam 5 Road

Within the first mile of my walk that Saturday afternoon, I saw a buzzard perched atop an abandoned house, two young deer trying to figure out how to simultaneously run away from me and get out of the gully that had once been the canal bed, and then, bizarrely, I came across a woman walking a goat. From a distance I thought it was a large dog, but as the two approached I realized that it was not walking like a dog. The woman had nothing more than a rope around the goat's neck for a leash and its gait, from a distance, looked more like a deer than a canine. As I approached, the goat drew back with some astonishment as it beheld me. I offered the back of my hand, like I would for a dog, as a sign of friendliness.  It took a quick sniff, nuzzled, and then began to lick my hand. I remarked that it was a nice response. The woman, who remained silent throughout the encounter, laughed heartily and resumed their conveyance.

The C&O Canal Towpath, near mile marker 106

Because of its length (184 miles), it is easy to find parts of the towpath that are relatively isolated. I might occasionally come across a few people, but generally it is quiet. The large trees growing alongside the Potomac River makes for a reflective walk. It is quiet enough that wildlife sightings are common. A lone, scrawny wild turkey wanders across the path several yards ahead of me and disappears into the underbrush. I hear woodpeckers throughout my walk; because most trees no longer have leaves, they are easier to spot and identify. Yet, because it is hunting season, every five minutes or so, the repeated report of rifles echo down a river valley.

The reclusive pileated woodpecker

I stopped and watched the river for a few minutes, and chickadees begin to fuss at me. I concoct a story in my head that they are jealous that I spend too much time photographing woodpeckers instead of birds such as themselves. Yet, the instant I have them focused in my camera, they flit away.

The sun was getting lower in the sky, and clouds were beginning to obscure the sunlight. I picked up the pace. Although the sun was not to set for another forty-five minutes, I still had a mile to go and the light was beginning to fade. In a few minutes the sun would dip behind the hills on the West Virginia side of the Potomac. I glanced over at the base of the large sycamore tree adjacent to the trail. Is that what I think it is? Indeed, it was a pair of size 8 women's panties bereft of an owner or further clues. The mind reels at how the garment came to be deposited at the foot of the massive tree, along the towpath, in a national park.

Ocean City in Neon

The Empress Motel at Ocean City

At the eastern terminus of US Route 50, in Ocean City, Maryland, several motels have retained their accoutrements of a bygone era. The remaining neon signs, which adorn the main thoroughfares, harken back to a time when most vacations along the shore were taken in station wagons and focused on long days at the beach. Although there have been several high-rise hotels constructed in recent years, the entire boardwalk is an exercise in Americana. Food stands, games, amusements, restaurants, bars and motels dot the wooden boardwalk that stretches two and one-quarter miles along the Atlantic Ocean. It is a populist place, replete with cheap souvenirs and t-shirts advertising all manner of things and beliefs.

The first hotel built in Ocean City, the Atlantic Hotel, was constructed in 1875, and within a few years trains would deliver travelers to the shore. The post-Second World War economic boom and the completion of the Bay Bridge, facilitating automobile traffic from the Washington-Baltimore metropolitan area. Generations of family began using Ocean City as an annual vacation destination and it is common to hear long-term residence of Mid-Atlantic states to refer in reverential nostalgia about their summers spent at the Maryland shore.

The Alamo Motel on US Route 50, Ocean City

As I was photographing the Alamo Motel, the owner asked if I were coming into the office, presumably to secure a room for the night. I sheepishly admitted that I was only photographing his neon sign. I asked him if he knew the age of the 20-foot sign. He had been at the hotel for twenty-six years, and knew that the hotel itself was opened in 1946, but was unsure of the age of the sign. He said that the original owner was one of the Flying Tigers and had returned to the area to open the motel. I had noticed the hotel and its sign a few years back while driving through and had made a mental note that, if I were ever in town again after dark, I would stop and photograph the sign. He seemed to appreciate my story as he finished putting out food for his 21 cats. He and his friend and he were getting ready to settle in for a chat on a very pleasant September evening. The cats were all beautiful, and I reached over to pet a calico on the head; after a brief hesitation, she warmed to me. The owner indicated that all of the cats were fat and happy. “And spoiled,” his friend added. 

Baltimore in January

US Route 1 winds its way through some of the most depressed areas of Baltimore; it is a route heavy with boarded up buildings and general urban decay. The overcast day in mid-January, when I traversed the road, was an appropriate backdrop for this trip through the center of the city. Although the temperature was in the med-30s, several elderly people sat in the front of the ubiquitous row houses, seeming companionship and distraction. One man was feeding pigeons outside his house; two women sat on a stoop, speaking animatedly to one another.

Row houses along Monroe Street in central Baltimore

There were several handmade signs along the route that pointed to a general feeling of despair. In an abandoned lot, painted in purple, one sign read, “Enough is Enough.” At a liquor store, closed during my mid-morning excursion or perhaps permanently, the word “pray” was painted below the store’s damaged sign. A little further on, in another abandoned lot, trash, almost ankle deep, strewn around a hand-painted sign, optimistically proclaimed, “Every problem has a solution.”

Yet, it must not seem so to many of the residents I imagine. Orwell observed: “It is fatal to look hungry. It makes people want to kick you.” A drug addled or mentally ill, perhaps both, man was soliciting money from cars waiting at a light near the intersection of Monroe and Mulberry, where two of the country’s most important routes, US 1 and US 40 meet. He was wearing a grey sweatshirt with a hood and dark pants, insufficient for the windy cold day that it was. Even though he was relatively young, perhaps in his thirties, he had difficulty navigating around the cars; he looked as if he was going to fall several times and placed a hand on several of the cars waiting at the light to steady himself. An ambulance, on an emergency run, came through the intersection. The cars moved to one side to allow it to pass; the man gazed at the ambulance from the middle of road with a look of incomprehension darting across his face.

It is stunning that these scenes occur along these two great highways: one that navigates the east coast, the other runs from New Jersey to Utah down the center of the country. Despite being right along the major thoroughfares, places like Baltimore are a part of the country that many of the powerful have forgotten or, perhaps, they choose to avert their gaze. Structural poverty creates a never ending cycle of misery and despair. Often it is hidden in plain sight.

August Explorations

Spence and I had a good week exploring some classic Americana sites. We had lunch at Eddie’s Diner, Wilkes Barre, Pennsylvania, that looks like a classic diner that has been remodeled, updated and has had substantial additions. In the original section, there are three booths to the right and a cashier stand with two additional booths to the left. There are 18 affixed stools along the straight counter, with a banner behind the counter noting the 25th anniversary of the diner (in 2012). The primary color scheme of the diner is a dark pink set against the stainless steel fixtures. Eddie’s Diner offered Spencer is first opportunity to try Birch Beer, which I think her enjoyed. The diner was busy and the servers knew many of the patrons by name.

The following day we made our way to Crystal Grottoes Caverns just outside Boonsboro, Maryland. The cave was discovered on 18 September 1920 when workers, excavating limestone to build Route 34, broke through and felt cool air emerging from the ground. After exploring the caverns, excavations were halted with the provision that the cave would be open to the public. The cave’s first day of business was 2 April 1922 when tourists were charged 7 cents to enter. Because no humans entered the cave until the twentieth century, many of the formations are pristine. This small roadside attraction, the only caves open to the general public in Maryland, is both fun and educational.

Just a few miles away stands the first completed memorial dedicated to George Washington on South Mountain.  Washington Monument State Park, located in Middletown, Maryland, was built by the citizens of Boonsboro on 4 July 1827. The more famous monument, the marble obelisk in Washington DC, was built between 1848 and 1884. Standing fifteen feet high at the end of the day, the Maryland monument was completed in September of that year can stood thirty feet. It has fallen into disrepair from time to time and was most recently rebuilt by the Civilian Conservation Corp in 1936.

A fellow visitor at the
Washington Monument

Holsum Bread Advertisement at Keystone Stores

The monument, which you can climb to the top of, offers a beautiful view of the valley below. Unfortunately, on the day we visited, the mountain was shrouded in clouds and fog. Every so often, the clouds would momentarily part to offer a tantalizing view of the valley below.

Our week ended with an exploration of the small borough of Pine Grove Pennsylvania. Among the interesting sites in the town was the Pine Grove Theatre, opened in 1910 and the Keystone Stores, an old grocery store that still has many of the old advertisements in its windows.