OPPOSITE (CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT)— A colorful mural pays tribute to the riverine history of Clarington, Ohio. With just enough room to fit aboard, the author set up his tent on the city dock at Marietta, Ohio. Caleb, with the Army Crops of Engineers, helped the author portage around the closed lock at Willow Island, Ohio.


along the way. In the village of St. Mary’s, WV., I stopped for a break. I sat


on the the shady porch of the Order of the Eastern Star, Lodge 31, and recharged my phone. I hope the Lodge isn’t too troubled by the increase in their electric bill. Aſter pizza, I strolled back to the canoe past historic, brick homes decorated with ornate architectural trim, their wide, welcoming porches set with wicker furniture and soſt cushions. A red-bearded fisherman and his daughter were sitting at the


boat launch when I returned. “What are you fishing for?” I asked. “Catfish, mostly” he said, baiting a big hook. “And they’s good eatin’!” Tey both smiled in anticipation. I wished them luck and paddled south into the bright aſternoon sun. Recreational boat traffic had been minimal, but around St.


Mary’s glittering bass boats shot past at what seemed like 100 mph, their occupants pinned to the seats like bugs pressed to a windshield. Few people swim in the muddy, murky waters of the Ohio, although I did see one water skier. Near Belmont, WV, I set up camp beside a DNR boat launch


in a grassy field. Tucked in behind the trees, I was completely out of sight. I took most of my gear from the canoe and leſt it locked to a fence post at the launch site. Tat evening, the growl of tanker trucks on the highway filled my ears, but I was too tired to care.


Day Four: Belmont, WV to Marietta, OH My last morning on the river dawned clear, and heavy dew soaked the tent. After coffee and oatmeal I headed down- stream. I glided past the soaring towers of a coal fired power plant at Willow Island, WV, soon to be decommissioned. Along the way I’d seen numerous coal trains and barges filled high with coal, so for now, King Coal still rules this part of the Ohio Valley. An up-bound towboat rushed past me at full speed, pushing


two barges that threw out a massive wake with a short, steep interval. With fast-moving vessels like this I knelt, riding the waves at an angle. Tis is big water, and the importance of a seaworthy craſt (and always wearing a life jacket) cannot be overstated. It also wouldn’t hurt to fit a spray deck over the boat’s bow section. I carried a bailer, and a bucket, (if things got serious) and packed my gear into three dry bags tied to the canoe. Te boat has flotation compartments fore and aſt, but I’d probably have to swim her to shore if I swamped. Te Ohio was usually calm, but rough conditions came up


quickly. Against the stronger current (mostly in the stretches below the dams) southerly winds set up a short chop and the water was filled with whitecaps. Generally the wind followed the course of the river, and when it came from behind, I set an umbrella as a downwind sailing rig. At the Willow Island Lock and Dam I radioed the lock


keeper and requested down-bound passage. “I’m sorry.” he said. “We just closed for an inspection. It’ll be eight hours.” Tere was no option, but to portage. I was unloading my


gear onto the boat ramp, when Caleb (with The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers) pulled up in his truck. “They told me


SMALL CRAFT ADVISOR


you could use a ride around,” he offered. “Just broke my collar bone—dirt bike accident,” he added sheepishly. Despite his injury Caleb was a huge help, and without him


It would have been a hard slog getting around the massive lock. We got the canoe around to the downstream side in fiſteen minutes. Caleb needed to get back to his maintenance duties, so I hauled the boat down the last hundred feet to the river myself. Te steep bank was lined in a jumble of sharp granite rocks, so I skidded the canoe down on a bed of driſtwood logs to protect the bottom. I’d just pushed back into the the river when the smiling cap-


tain of a waiting towboat waved me over. “Here’s something to drink,” he called, throwing a bottle into my canoe. “Wait a minute and I’ll get you a plate of food.” And then a miracle happened; a crewman arrived with an enormous plate heaped high with ham, potatoes, corn, mac ’n cheese and a croissant. “Here you go!” the skipper said, handing it down. “You looked like you could use a bite.” I was overwhelmed by his generosity. “Tank you! Tank you!” I called back. “Tis is my best day yet on the river!” Te food was delicious—the best meal of the entire trip. I’ve


heard tales of people’s kindness along the river, and now I had my own story to tell. As Tina Turner sang in “Proud Mary,” “People on the river are happy to give.” Under the mid-afternoon sun I arrived in Marietta. The


85 miles had taken four days and about 30 hours of paddling. First to meet me were two fierce, red-headed turkey vultures that watched warily from the close shore. Ten, three friendly mallards swam out and merrily escorted me to the town docks (and yes, I admit to giving them some treats for their guidance). I set up camp on a floating dock, my tent just able to fit


aboard. Te marina was in the heart of Marietta’s charming downtown and I explored the wide, tree-lined streets and admired historic buildings, many over two hundred years old. Tis was the first permanent U.S. settlement in the Northwest Territory and in 1787 was the farthest-west city in America. Tat evening, I enjoyed ice cream with neighbors who were taking a small powerboat down to Cairo, IL on the Mississippi River.


Day Five: Bus back to Wheeling, WV Te next morning in driving rain, seamless bus connections took me back upstream to Wheeling. At a transfer stop I met Brian, heading home aſter serving eight years in federal prison for murder. “Just got out this morning,” he smiled through a tangled, black beard. When I left my van in Wheeling, the young parking lot


attendant told me it would be safe with him. “We haven’t had a break-in for two weeks!” he assured me. I was relieved to find the windows intact and the wheels still attached. Te drive back downriver took only a couple of hours as


I retraced the route I’d just taken four days to paddle. At the dock in Marietta the canoe was waiting for me, bobbing on the river, eager to begin our next venture together. I loaded her up and we started happily for home. •SCA•


Charles Scott is a semi-retired feelance cameraman/photogra- pher based in Ann Arbor, Michigan.


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