ROLLIN’ DOWN THE OHIO Eighty Five Miles by Canoe on the Ohio River


| Story and Photos by Charles Scott |


Day One: Wheeling, WV to Clarington, OH From a parking lot in Wheeling WV, I rolled my canoe on portage wheels through the busy city streets to the Ohio River. Morning commuters slowed in surprise and waved me ahead. I was setting out on an eighty-five mile paddle downstream to Marietta, Ohio. I’ve long been drawn to the waters of the Ohio River and


dreamed of canoeing it south, following the voyages of countless settlers who traveled its course in search of a new life in the West. Mist rose from the quiet water as I launched just below the


Wheeling Suspension Bridge, the first span across the Ohio River. Built in1849, it was part of the National Road that connected Baltimore to St. Louis. The bridge made a lovely backdrop to the start of my journey, with its squat, stone towers and intricate spiderweb of cables supporting the graceful arch of the roadway. Below Wheeling, heavy industry crowded the shore. The


smoky roar and the acrid stench of refining operations, mainte- nance yards and chemical plants filled the air. I passed a marine junk yard where the crushed remains of a stern-wheel steamboat lay in a jumbled heap, the bent paddlewheel all that remained from a bygone era. Along the shore towboat crews were busy painting, welding and repairing their vessels, and some waved to me as I slipped past in the early morning light. Te surrounding hills, shrouded in mist, rose dramatically


from the shore before they disappeared into the low overcast. Te current carried me south at a leisurely pace and the river made numerous turns, even flowing north at one point. Barge traffic was heavy and I stayed close to the riverside as


the massive, steel forms swept by. Although a group of barges is referred to as a tow, the barges themselves are actually pushed by a squat, square-shaped tug, called a towboat. Te towboats range from diminutive 20-foot “babies” up to the immense “big boys” measuring 200 feet and towering four decks high, their wheel- houses bristling with the latest navigation, communication and radar technology. The towboat’s two mighty diesel engines throw out dangerous stern waves that look like class 4 rapids. All towboats have limited maneuverability and it is imperative to give them wide berth. Tows passed me measuring 105 feet wide by 975 feet long,


and made up of fifteen barges. Rusty and battle scarred, the barges loomed high above my little canoe, and threw out a steep wake that continued to bounce off the shore long before finally dying away. Barge crews in yellow hardhats and red life jackets scurried about like colorful ants, tightening the heavy cables that


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tied the enormous flotilla together. Mid-morning, I rounded a narrow bend just as a towboat was


threading it’s thousand-foot tow up against the swirling current. With a thunderous roar the engines strained to push the massive bulk around the corner, and black exhaust billowed from the stack. I could see the silhouette of the captain in the wheelhouse carefully judging the maneuver, and marveled at his ability to guide these huge raſts around the river’s tight turns. For a time, traffic slowed and I had the wide river all to my-


self, the only sound the dip and splash of my paddle. Suddenly, I heard a low rumble from behind. I whirled around to see the rusty lead barges of a massive tow, quickly gaining on me, the bow wave surging beneath. (Trottled back, and one thousand feet behind, the towboat’s engines were hard to hear.) Since I was favoring the leſt side of the river I was not in danger, but aſter that, I constantly glanced behind. My neck ached from looking over my shoulder. As I got farther from Wheeling, the riverbanks became more


forested and the skies cleared. Ahead lay a wondrous vista of steeply wooded, green hills set against the azure sky, the calm river reflecting a perfect mirror image. The Ohio River Valley has a rich and captivating history.


Indigenous peoples lived her for millennia, leaving behind a network of extensive burial mounds and evidence of an advanced agrarian culture. George Washington surveyed the banks of the Ohio in 1770, inspecting the property he’d acquired for his ser- vice during the French and Indian War. Louis and Clark floated the Ohio in 1803 on their way to explore the newly acquired lands of the Louisiana Purchase. I pushed hard the first day and covered 27 miles in 10 hours.


Switching between a canoe paddle and my homemade kayak paddle was a lifesaver. Tis allowed me to rest various muscles while I carried on. Sometimes I driſted with the current, but mostly, I paddled. I had miles to go. My 16-foot canoe weighs 70 pounds—heavy, but it’s part of


the family. Dad bought it fiſty years ago, and I have fond memo- ries of winter paddles in it with my Mom. I have a smaller home- built wooden canoe, but it doesn’t have the carrying capacity for a multi-day voyage. (See SCA, May/June 2022) I stopped at the city dock in Clairington, Ohio, sweaty and


hungry from the long day. First order of business was to find a place to camp. Near the dock an abandoned rail-bridge founda- tion stood beside a little creek that ran down from the western hills, and this made a perfect, secluded place to spend the night. I slept soundly despite the nearby noise of the highway that closely


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