Day 17: Someplace to Be
Even though the day dawned rather cold, to the point where there was a skiff of ice in a water bottle outside the tent, I skipped coffee and breakfast to get an early start. I was to meet Reverend Jim Dietrich, an old friend, for lunch in Foxburg, and on the map, it looked like a lot of paddling by noon. I had to pick my way for an hour or so, as the mist was fairly thick, but I was soon moving along nicely.
I got in a little bind about half a mile above Emlenton, in a good patch of rapids. The water was up over two feet, and I got quartered into it, and hammered with three good waves in a row. Next thing I knew, I had lost almost everything from the front of the hull. Lucky for me, there was an eddy right below, and I was able to turn around and paddle back to where the gear was floating. I managed to grab it one thing at a time, and toss it up onto the skirt. It did mean a half hour on the shore getting the water out, refolding and packing, and getting back onto the kayak. I was very lucky the tent didn’t quite fall off. It would have sunk like a rock, causing problems I didn’t want to think about.
Even with the minor setback, I made Foxburg a little before noon. What I hadn’t taken into account, was the fact that the river I needed to travel that particular day, was almost string straight, so it looked further than it really was. One of the more unique animal experiences I enjoyed happened about a quarter mile above the Foxburg bridge. I noticed something swimming across the river from my left, in front of me. It was weird looking, in that it seemed to be a small head, followed by a large part of its body trailing behind, floating completely on top of the water. As I got closer, it turned the other way, and soon I could see what it was. It was a gray squirrel, and its tail must be completely waterproof. It not only won’t stay under the water, it lays on top of it, and the poor guy wasn’t covering much ground OR water. I followed him to shore, to get a good look that it wasn’t some obscure animal I never heard of. He got out, shook himself like a dog, and scampered up the bank into the brush.
After racing a construction barge through the buoys in the center of the river, I tied up below the Foxburg Inn, where I assumed lunch would be shared. I’d never asked Reverend Jim Dietrich exactly where we’d meet, but I thought I’d take a chance and try it. I felt pretty self-conscious given my appearance, but I was hungry enough to overlook it if the folks at the Inn would. Jim showed up a few minutes later, and we sat outside, talked, ate, and talked some more.
The Foxburg Inn is part of a four business venture created by a wealthy doctor who had purchased a huge estate at the top of the hill, about a mile above the river. There is a stately mansion included in the estate, and the doctor’s renovating it, and giving public tours. He thought the riverfront could use a boost, so he had the Inn, a hotel and restaurant beside it, and gift and wine shops behind it, built. The food was good, and the place in general is worth the trip, just to see it.
After we got caught up and I’d filled Jim in with some trip details, he offered to drive me to the top of the hill, so I could call Bev on his cell. I agreed, knowing it would make her day go easier, knowing I was on schedule and okay. Jim is a dear friend, the former minister of the church I attended in the 1970s. He was there when my Mom died in ’91, and we had a few lifetime memories from the old days, like taking carloads of kids from the church to play in softball tournaments. He is one of the more understanding and giving men I’ve ever known, and I’m honored to be counted as a friend of his. I’ve been to his new church, built recently after the old one burned to the ground, and we plan to attend there, at the Pisgah Presbyterian, in Corsica, when we spend our summers in the Brookville area.
A quick photo of us with his recently acquired ‘hot’ car, a PT Cruiser complete with flames on the side, and it was back in the water by 2 p.m. I couldn’t find what I wanted in West Monterey for camping, so I pushed on to East Brady, arriving about 6. it was the municipal boat launch, and there was lots of grassy and shady area to pick from. I left the boat at the edge of the water, while I hunted up a couple local folks to ask a few questions. If you’re thinking I just wanted to avoid another Salamanca, you are exactly right.
Two quick Q&A sessions, and I was satisfied I was okay, so I set up camp. It turned out to be a great place, with a portable john not too far away. I hurriedly hung wet gear, cooked dinner, and settled in for the night. There was a large streetlight nearby, so I sat outside awhile, using it to read maps and take notes. It was pretty quiet, and falling asleep wasn’t difficult.
Next morning, Day 18, I could quickly see I didn’t need to hurry to get going. It was some of the thickest fog I’d seen, and it kept me there until twenty after 9. I noticed the water getting a heavy feel to it, like I wasn’t moving much of it per stroke, which told me I must be getting close to Lock #9.
My First Lockthrough
My first glimpse of Lock 9 made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. I hadn’t heard any horror stories, and William Heyer, the Lockmaster with whom I’d made contact the year before, assured me if I got to a lock between 7 and 3, I’d be locked through. There are eight locks, numbered 2 through 9. Nine is the uppermost, and it, along with 5, 6, 7, and 8, are only operational on weekends, Friday afternoons, and Monday mornings. He said he’d have someone there to get me through, and as I looked at the terrain alongside the approach, I hoped so. Going around wouldn’t be much fun.
Kim Cornell had told me what to do at the lock, and where the rope would be to pull to sound a bell to the folks locking me through. I crept up to the wall, and from a couple hundred yards back, it looks like you have to almost hang over the edge of the dam to get there. The closer you get, the more you realize there’s plenty of space to get to the wall, a long ways from the spillway. I pulled the rope several times, but heard nothing. I had guessed there was a bell up there somewhere, and I’d be able to hear it. I pulled some more, and after a few minutes, decided either the guy couldn’t hear me, or there was no one there. I didn’t know I could tie up to the ladder beside the rope, and climb up to see if there was anybody home. (I don’t think they like it when you do that, but if there’s no response to the bell, well….)
Instead, being a rookie, I paddled around the back side of the wall beside the shore, and could see at some point in time, someone else had climbed up the grassy bank, probably for the same reason I was about to. I grabbed a double handful of grass, waited a moment to see if anything in it wiggled, and pulled myself up out of the boat. I tied it to a tree, and waded the knee high weeds to what looked like a road some thirty yards above. It was an access road, and I walked it to the building, and a couple loud Hellos brought a guy from upstairs. “Are you the kayaker?”, he asked, and I replied I was. He seemed to be expecting me, and told me he’d be locking me through. I told him I tried the rope with no apparent success, and he said he’d have to look at it, and I could bring the kayak around into the lock.
Nine is the only lock with its own set of ropes along the wall in the lock. You just hold on, and let your hand slide down as the water lowers. He made some conversation about the trip as I dropped lower, and in 10 minutes, I was on my way. The water was calm coming out through the gate, and I had successfully been locked through! I’d reached the lock just before noon, and reached Orr’s camp about 2. I quickly unloaded anything that might need drying, as the sun looked it might be behind the hill above the river valley by shortly after 3.
I found the sun porch to be unlocked, and decided it would be a good place to look at the river from while I cooked and ate dinner. I emptied a lot of the Ziplocs, hoping to improve the condition of some gear by drying out some condensation. Laying out the stuff on the sun porch meant it could dry all night. After dinner, I decided to go down to the dock, and try my luck. Bev had also brought canned corn, as Dick Orr had advised me it was bait of choice through that stretch of river.
Dick is a relative, probably some form of cousin, from my paternal grandmother, whose ownership of the camp had been related to me by my Aunt Ann Mumper, the family matriarch. When I contacted him, he was quick to offer the use of the camp, and after I had made a trip to see it and the land around it, I figured the flat grassy plateau just up from the water would do fine. Originally, the camp was a place I had planned to lay over a day, but after a final conversation with William Heyer, I found I couldn’t navigate locks 8 through 5 in one day, so I had to give it up to split the locks into a two day thing.
I was really relaxed, sitting on that dock, radio gently playing, Gatorade in the drink holder. Dick had told me to chum a couple handfuls of corn into the water about an hour before I wanted to fish. I’d done so, and was thinking I might get lucky. I’d been sitting there about 20 minutes, when I heard a car pull in, and then Dick’s voice calling to me from up at the camp. I stuck the rod in the drink holder, and went up to greet me latest host. Dick had brought some dinner along, and never having been one to turn down food, I joined him at the picnic table. River talk controlled the conversation, mixed in with some Orr family chat left over from the family reunion the month before.
He opened the camp for me, and I walked inside to find it had everything any camper could ask for. Running water, stove, lights, beds, and yes, believe it or not, in the middle of the living room, a bumper pool table. I told him I was going down to put the cockpit cover on the kayak, and put the fishing gear away for the night. The rod was lying on the dock, and when I started reeling in, I saw a flash in the water. I yelled for Dick, and he became my sole witness to the fact a two foot catfish had managed to hook himself. I brought him in, but I’d eaten twice in the last 2 hours, and it was dark, so I set him free.
Dick and I said goodbye, and I asked him to convey thanks to his wife Sara, and to say Hello to the boys, Ricky & Jimmy, all of whom I was looking forward to seeing, but school got in the way. I went inside, and it struck me that I had a lot of smaller loose items I hadn’t used much or at all. I laid everything out on the table, and found I could bag up 70% of it, to shove back under the hatch in the back of the boat. It also meant I had a lot less to go through when looking for the things I DID need. I settled for a sponge bath, as it was a lot more appealing than tramping down to the river in the dark. Into bed, and the radio helped me get to sleep in no time.
Eleventh Installment: Rick Barkley kayaked the Allegheny River from it's beginning near Gold, PA to it's end at Pittsburgh this summer. Solomon's words chronicled that trip from Rick's brief reports from the river. This is Rick's in depth journal of this adventure of a lifetime, presented in installments, as it is quite lengthy. I think you will find it very interesting. Editor.
The two-week rifle deer season will open the Monday after Thanksgiving and will run through Dec. 8, during which hunters may harvest either an antlered deer or an antlerless deer — provided they have the required antlerless permits or Deer Management Assistance Coupons, which are legal only on a specified property.
Posted November 23, 2007 | 05:24 PM (EST)