My Travels by Canoe

By William V. McNaull

The story begins with the author as a child getting an unwitting education in the ways of moving water by playing in the creek that flowed by his boyhood home. The McNaull residence was located between a railroad embankment and a highway which were confining borders for a kid growing up. Finally aging and being permitted beyond these barriers lead to the discovery of canoeing.
The first trials and errors of boating and a slow advance to different types of canoe trips are covered in the text. Then a birthday gift of a Pennsylvania stream map changed the authors canoe plans to give them some direction, and a goal to complete all of the canoeable waterways in the state was formed. At first the aim to do all of the creeks was not too seriously taken, but as the blue lines on the map were filled in, this indicated that it could be achieved. The pursuit of a lot of little creeks and unrecorded ones finally led to completion of the goal over thirty-three years of paddling.
The struggle to complete the most difficult creek was a high point in the game, and a ten yard escape from going over a thirty foot waterfall was an event the author would never forget. The adventures of the course taken on tide waters, in swamps, through industrial zones, of hazards encountered, wildlife, and severe weather conditions are spread throughout the writing.
Memories of the twenty-two canoes and kayaks used and of the large ships that his canoe had been up close to on the Delaware River and Lake Erie are mentioned for the record. The voyagers, who traveled with the author on unknown creeks and on week-long river journeys, brought life to the activities of the day. Some of the many interesting people met along the highway of water are included in the writings.
In the end the author reviews some of the good and bad practices of canoe sport with the hopes of improving establishment thinking throughout the canoe-kayak fraternity.
-William V. McNaull

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 7, 2005
• ISBN: 9781477172971

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Copyright © 2005 by William V. McNaull.

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Contents

Acknowledgements

Foreword

1: Kids Work

2: That First Canoe

3: Better Paddling Places

4: Venture Forth

5: The Shuttle

6: Weekend Campers

7: The Canoe Club

8: Week Long Journeys

9: The Way

10: Headwater Beginnings

11: More Headwaters

12: Boats Remembered

13: Whitewater!

14: Pennsylvania’s Toughest Creek… s

15: Ice!!

16: The Last Small Places

17: Best Remembrance of the Paddling Kind

18: Hazards, Infrastructure, History

19: Seeking the Journeys End

20: Canoe Sport—My Observations

21: First Recorded Waterways

Dedication

These writings are dedicated to my wife, Isabella, who gave me support on my quest and kept me going on this book. She understood that some inner force was pulling me to the other end of the state to complete new creeks. Although not a camper, she got into canoe camping to encourage the kids and for family support in outdoor activities. She helped soothe the fears of other paddlers’ wives about the long journeys we were taking. Time and time again she watched me, without complaint, buy and sell canoes often after one or two years use, only to conclude that it must be one mans restlessness towards purpose. Izzie helped to keep the wheels turning in the canoe clubs. She assisted me on research trips to the other end of the state for the mere pittance of stopping at garage sales, or swap meets, but she never drove off without me. On my last miles to completion, she was there in a four inch snow storm in April to see me make it. Also, she kept me from throwing the computer out into the backyard during my frustrations learning how to use it to put this text together.

To you Babe, with love

– Hubby

Acknowledgements

THERE ARE MANY people who helped me put this book together in one way or another. Their research, grammar assistance, encouragement, advice, and just simply going along on my trips were much appreciated. I want to thank Bob Yerger, Jim Hartman, and Larry Clauser for volunteering for very early morning photo shoots to make the book’s front cover. Special thanks go to Raymond Stopper of West Chester, PA. Ray’s book, Teaching English, How to . . . , helped me over some of the bumpy text. To Ann and Ted, a big thank you for giving of your time to proof read all of that paper. Your help was much appreciated. Thank you, Will, for giving me the book, Elements of Style. I guess I had none before that. Thank you, Jim, for fine tuning my brain towards this machine called a computer. I hope I didn’t drive you to drink too much beer. I am grateful to you, Kelly, for refusing to do any more typing, even for money, forcing me to learn the ten finger method. A smile of thanks to my granddaughter, Chas, who made my head turn by saying, Let the woman speak, during the beginning of the computer fiasco. Where do five year olds get those lines anyway? To my grandson, Brandon, who accompanied me on a long river trip; his statement, This is fun, made my week. To my great granddaughter, Madison, you are the first of the next generation of our family. Take the lead canoe.

– William V. McNaull

Foreword

THEY TRAVEL IN small pointy boats. These were among the first written words of canoe use in Pennsylvania, recorded by a French priest when he saw Native Americans on the Allegheny River in the early 1700s. I wanted to use that quote as the title for the book, combined with a black and white photo, so that the scene would appear timeless. When the photos were taken of a Schuylkill River sunrise the brilliant color won out over black and white in the selection process, so my travels would prevail over any attempt to age the scene by use of a wooden canoe and a paddler in a Viking style hat.

Some subjects in the writings are covered by attribution in parentheses, should others want to see more on them. In other matters, my human side shows. I grew up to like the challenge of decision in whitewater and exploring. My expressions on subjects recorded in canoeist’s manuals are given to show my reasoning for differing with some of it. If I had followed written words on some of what to do when swimming in whitewater, I might not have been here to write the story. I try to avoid writing opinion, but I let it fly in some matters. I hope the reader can pass over it as a grain of expression.

This book is not a guide manual. Places mentioned herein could have changed with the next heavy rain storm. This is not an instruction book on how to paddle. There are plenty of good books out there on where and how in this sport. Any explanation of my style is given to show what worked best for me and to encourage others to keep an open mind, after you have learned the basics, to try other techniques.

Anyone who paddled a canoe, even briefly, or ever wondered where the flowing waters go, and outdoor people in general will find this to be a story of lifelong ventures in little pointy boats. Veteran canoeists will find interest in my thinking, assessment and running of rapids they may have encountered. In conclusion, I hope that the book will leave you with a heightened awareness of one of our most important natural treasures; our waterways.

Clear waters, clear sunsets.

William V. McNaull

1

The doing of little actions leads

to our capability of bigger things.

Kids Work

UPON SITTING DOWN to write, I am contemplating how I ever got started on this path in life. It is clear to me that this all had its beginnings in my childhood when I played in the creek which ran by my house. I was not allowed to venture beyond the man made obstacles which bordered our property. On the south side, the creek entered my domain through a long tunnel under an embankment which supports the Pennsylvania Railroad. On the north side, the creek exits by a culvert under Lancaster Pike.

Many days, in my early years, were spent playing in this fascinating piece of liquid motion. Often, I would look into these tunnels and see the small piece of daylight at the far end, always wondering what lay beyond the forbidding darkness of these borders. From the time that school closed for the summer, until it opened again in September, kids in the rural suburbs had to make their own fun things to do. We lived too far apart to get together. This was a privilege reserved for teenagers who rode bicycles on the roads. I knew that some day I would be doing that too, but for the time being the biggest attraction was the creek.

So, play in it I did. Construction of stone pile dams and maintaining them was a constant job, especially after heavy rains. Above and below the pools of the two dams, were riffles through which I could run my model boats. Having them pass close by a rock, and turn into the slack water just downstream of it, without flipping over or wrecking was a game in itself. Obstacle courses could easily be constructed by placing rocks along the flowing water. Once in a while a boat got away, and a foot race ensued to catch it before it was lost to the dark culvert of Lancaster Pike. After catching it, a long pause to look at the daylight at the far end of the culvert always followed. It sure was a dark, dark tunnel. One could see, or imagine all kinds of objects on the water’s surface inside there. After staring long enough, you could almost see things move, but on second thought, no I guess not. It was just an odd shaped rock.

Upstream at the railroad tunnel, the water dropped off of the cement base works, which supported the sides of this massive structure. Over the years and many heavy rains, this vertical falls with a drop of two feet deepened to four feet with a deep pool beneath it. This presented a different set of challenges to the floating of model boats. Often, boats would get carried into the roller at the bottom of the falls and flip endlessly. Slack water eddies on both sides of the main flow were good for having the boats turn and head back into the falls. An eddy is a current of water moving contrary to the mainstream. The water circles back to fill in a void created by the fast forward flow of the stream. I could approach the top of the falls on the creek left, and by staying close to the huge cut stone works which formed the sides of the tunnel, I could stand just inside it. It was a good position from which to start the boats over the brink to all kinds of imagined catastrophe. Again, I would look a long time at the light at the far end and wonder what lay beyond. The term creek left or right is determined by traveling with the direction of water flow.

At some point in this water play, I discovered that I was not alone here. One day, while standing on the bank, a huge fish came out from under it into the center of the pool. With great excitement, I ran to get Dad. He was skeptical, but came out for a look anyway. Upon seeing the big trout, he was more surprised than I was. It was generally believed that fish would not be this far up a very small creek, since the water is not deep enough except where there are pools. This one had made it up as far as the falls and that natural obstacle would be the limits of its travels.

There were plenty of minnows here too, so the water quality was believed to be good. From this day on I would softly walk up to look for the trout. If after a short wait it did not appear, it was my turn to use the fall’s area.

Other critters inhabited this creek setting. One summer day, I was busy piling rocks on the upper dam when I happened to look at the gravel beneath the undercut bank. A big black snake was lying there sunning itself. I could not get out of there fast enough. Dad said the snake had been around for a long time. It was there because of the abundance of rats and mice, which are its food source. I had heard conversations about the rats, but never saw any. They are a constant problem near water and Dad was trying a lot of methods to keep their numbers down.

This huge reptile was a welcome, but scary creature. From then on, I always checked the banks very well by rapping a long stick along the undercut areas to be certain that it was not around when I wanted to use the creek. All went well, until one day the snake made a fatal mistake. It was reluctant to move away from a pile of earth Dad was using to fill holes. It was either waiting for a meal or had gotten too comfortable being around us. Dad thought it may have gotten a half poisoned rat and was not feeling well enough to move away. So, it lost its head to Dad’s shovel. He said there were other snakes here to take its place. This was news to me, as I had not seen any others. This particular snake lived on the east bank by the falls. I had not set foot over there in two years. I did little looking around, but my eyes always focused on that area. With the demise of the big one, I became more observant, expecting to see another one that had taken over its territory. It is amazing what creatures you see if you take the time to look for them. There were other snakes, rats, and mice. No snake would replace the first one in my eyes. Throughout life, it became the one by which I would compare all others encountered along the creeks in Pennsylvania.

Different people played a part in my life by the stream as well. One fall day, while getting ready for school, a man came walking up the creek. I watched the stranger, carefully picking his footing as he went, bent over forward to steady his step. He had a string of traps over his shoulder, and a large sack or bag on his hip. This bag had a shoulder strap which was across his chest, similar to the ones that paper boys carry. This stranger, who came and went in the gray predawn hours, like a shadow, heightened my interest in the world beyond the tunnels. Questions went through my head although I was too shy to speak to him even if I was allowed to talk to strangers. How far downstream does he go? Where does he start setting his traps? How are they set? What does he catch? What does he do about snakes?

Mom says this fellow goes downstream in the dark and I see him on his return trip. The trapper mostly catches muskrats, which I wasn’t aware that any lived by this creek. I did notice that the trapper paused silent and still by the pool at the falls, before disappearing into the railroad tunnel, as silently as he came. He must know the big trout is in the pool, or perhaps he is resting his thoughts on the beauty of the spot. He looks like Daniel Boone or pictures I have seen of the frontiersman. His modern day rubber boots were the one exception to his appearance.

His travels of the stream were more extensive than mine, and I am developing the desire to explore the land beyond the tunnels. Several mornings I got up very early to watch for the trapper, but I missed seeing him pass through. One Saturday my early wait paid off, and I saw the gray shadow emerge from the tunnel at the falls. I ran downstairs to watch through the garage window as he passed by. He walked slowly, carefully picking his steps, looking at the banks for signs of animal activity I suppose. He stopped briefly beneath the window. He turned and looked up at me, and I at him, with no expression exchanged other than a nod of the head. He swung the string of traps down off of his shoulder as he bent to go under our wooden foot bridge, and continued on his way. He was tall, thin, and clean shaven. This mysterious trapper is much younger than I thought when I first saw him from a distance in the low morning light. I could see myself as a trapper some day. It seemed like a logical extension of my growing up from playing in the creek as a kid. What better way to explore?

The previously mentioned garage was not an original part of our house when it was first built. It was added on about three years later to give Dad needed workspace for his dog grooming business. A wall had to be built along the west side of the creek to provide a secure foundation for the structure. Grandfather came over from Scotland to assist in its construction. My uncles also helped with this immense project, but Grandfather was clearly the brains that laid this wall out, since he had the experience of working with stone for a living. We first met when my uncles brought him out from Philadelphia. He looked a little like my Dad, but more like my Uncle Charlie, and Uncle Jim. He had a strong Scottish accent when he spoke, but to me it was the English language spoken at its best. I was curious about this person who was another generation of our family. The kids in school often mentioned visiting with their grandparents. Clearly, this was a pleasant experience, which I never could share because mine were all back in the old country. So, Grandfather’s arrival had been anxiously anticipated for many weeks.

Finally the day of beginning on the wall construction had arrived. Cement had to be mixed and rocks gathered from the creek. Since I was only a nine year old kid, I was on the rock picking detail. It seemed like it took forever for this foundation to get up to creek level, but each day for two solid weeks, we worked on it I never realized that a creek bed could contain so many rocks. My dams had to be dismantled to lower the water level and most of those rocks went into the first stage of the wall.

I hated to see those dams go. They were my prized construction projects. Others would be built, I assured myself. My Dad would reject a lot of rocks that I brought to the site for various reasons, but Grandfather would say, Give it here. Every rock was good, and a place was found for it. Every rock provided was met with one word, Good. He would carry it to a spot along the rising wall, and it would fit perfectly. His hands would caress the shape of the stone, while bringing it to my attention. Explaining how it would fit, it was set in, resting securely against the surfaces of two others. It was hard work, but Grandfather treated me like a qualified worker, not just a kid. As an adult looking back, I realized that he was teaching me a skill. This was the way man learned before book reading took place. This was an apprenticeship, if one continued to follow it. I think I learned more about stones and building things in two weeks than I thought was possible. I knew then that I would be able to build even better dams than before.

I remember one day, it seemed like all of the best rocks were gone from the creek bed as the wall had risen. He and I were standing, looking into the Lancaster Pike culvert. I pointed out that there were some nice ones in there if I were allowed to go in and get them. He gave me a grin, looked back towards the house, raised an eyebrow, and we entered the tunnel. He said, We’d better be careful in here. To venture according to him seemed to be ok, so long as one is careful. Often times, years later, I would remember this philosophy on a break during a solo run with my canoe. The two weeks went by, the base of the wall was up, and it was time for Grandfather to go home to the old country. As life would be, I never saw him again. He left a lasting impression on me in our experiences in the creek. Forty two years later, I was building a dry stack stone wall along my property line, and memories of Grandfather came back to me. I had purchased a book to do this, but part way through it, my knowledge as a kid, working on the family wall came into focus. Most of the rocks in that creek project were rounded, but some angular or slab-like ones appeared occasionally. Different areas have different types of rock. We have to work with what we have, was the master builder’s statement at the time. Years later, in whitewater canoeing, that would prove to be true. The rock strata of the area played a big part in the nature of the rapids one was attempting to run.

While playing in the fall’s pool one day, I looked up and saw a human figure at the other end of the tunnel. I hollered and the loud noise of the tunnel echo caused this kid to leap. He hollered back and waved. It was Tommy, a kid that I knew from school, with a few friends from the nearby housing development on that side of the railroad. We met in mid-tunnel, like two different tribesmen meeting at the frontier of their known world. I went through to their side, and they came through to the falls. None of us were allowed beyond this railroad barrier. Now that I know that friends can reach the tunnel from where they live, it seems logical to get parental approval to head in that direction on the creek. Permission is hard to get because Mom is afraid I’ll take the dry foot route over the railroad tracks instead. Pleading does no good, but all things come with time I am told. Time can be miserably long in the life of a kid. Summer goes by and school is open again.

The leaves are falling, and a neat thing to do killing time is to drop them from the foot bridge and watch how far they get before hanging up on a rock. If the leaf fell just right, it could make it all the way to the Lancaster Pike culvert. Some leaves would circle in an eddy. The water would carry whatever fell into its mainstream so long as it floated, and dry leaves were good for that. Years later, I came across some writings about a canoe, and the one line, like a yellow leaf of autumn, brought back memories of kids play. With all of this association with the creek, I was unwittingly getting an education on water flow patterns, which would make it easier for me to move a canoe upon the liquid motion years later.

Getting off of the school bus one day, I noticed heavy construction equipment in our backyard. The railroad workers were here to repair the falls area of the tunnel. Over the years the pool had gotten deeper and the water’s action was causing the tunnel’s foundation to be undermined, as more and more stone fell away with each new flood. The pool was filled in completely and a sluiceway was built to carry the water around the repairs. Under this, they poured a cement ramp from a point about one foot below the lip of the falls, to a point out about twenty feet to where the normal creek level was. The sides were walled in along the length of the ramp, and the area looked very different when they were finished.

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The tunnel through the railroad embankment.

The bank which was home to the big snake was gone. Also, gone was the large trout, which I had been trying to catch for some time. Dad said he thought the workers got it, as there was a lot of excitement out there one day, but he did not get to see it. Probably no one had a fishing license, so the fish went directly to the ice chest for fear of losing it. A big change had taken place here. The natural setting is gone and the best of industrial works have replaced it.

The water eventually dug out a pool at the bottom of the new ramp, which is roughly a thirty degree slope from the point where the water drops off of the breastworks. This arrangement provided a very different type of water motion than that which used to pour over the falls. The flow would accelerate down the slope, moving towards the center from both sides, and then fly off of the bottom into a large standing wave. Eddies along both sides were faster and eventually another pool was created by the force of the water’s action. Running model boats here gave me more summertime pleasure and an education on fast currents and eddies.

Another neat thing about living along a creek was observing its changing water levels. In mid-summer there would just be a trickle of water running through. It was a wonder that a creek this size could support any life, but it did. Eventually, another trout appeared in the new pool. There were minnows and most rocks during dry season seemed to have crayfish under them. When a heavy thunderstorm passed through, the mild little creek would turn into a raging torrent. It was exciting to stand on the banks and watch all kinds of debris pass through; everything from sand box toys to railroad ties. My sister and I were not allowed to stand on the foot bridges because it was not known if they could withstand the battering of the flood waters. They always held up as the years went by and we watched the angry brown water fly under them. The amount of power in big volume water is amazing. We were taught to respect that at an early age. We were told that if we ever fell in there, It would be the end of us. At its deepest level, the water rose to within half a foot from the top of the Lancaster Pike culvert, so it was obvious that there was very little room to breathe if you were able to stay afloat.

Next year comes and good old summer time arrives with school letting out. This year, it was permissible for me to go visit my friends beyond the railroad tunnel. I had been stretching that off limits zone for a year by now anyway, but to get the official ok, meant that one could travel endlessly in that direction. Upstream travel yielded many new experiences. A friend named Bobby, who lived in that area was eager to show me the territory closer to his home. There were only four houses along the upper reaches of the creek. Above that, it flowed down a narrow wooded valley along a road from the town of Malvern. The headwaters had their beginnings in a small seep just north of the town. Two houses were along the road at this point, and all other land through the valley was undeveloped area. We used the road to get to town. To get there was to arrive at civilization, in our young eyes. We would cash in all of the discarded soda bottles we had collected for the two cents per bottle refund. After the business transaction, a straight line to the corner store to buy candy limited the amount of money we had to carry around.

When we walked the creek, we got to know what everybody had in their backyards. When a heavy storm would flood the creek a lot of items that floated by had come from a good distance upstream. One day while venturing we came to a back yard with a sandbox. Mary, one of the girls who went to school with us lived here. She and her girl friend were playing in the sandbox. Her dad had built the box on the lower elevation by the water. This thing was definitely going to disappear in a heavy flood. Bobby and I being juvenile engineers knew that. We wondered why he built it there considering the time it took to build. We joined them, and after a while, Bobby who was a few years older than the rest of us, exhibited his natural senior leader’s ability. He said we could skinny dip since the water was deep enough there. He started to take off his clothes, and the girls and I were quick to follow. Our swim was brief, but I do remember that Mary looked better to me than I had ever thought of her before. My thinking was short lived as we were interrupted by Mary’s mother hollering on the porch, as her dad was coming out the door.

Bobby and I grabbed our clothes, and ran down the creek to the woods. He was smart enough to have kept his sneakers on, but I was in bare feet. Damn that Bobby anyway! I think I got a couple of gray hairs in the escape, as well as a cut on my foot from broken glass. That was the last time that I ever went barefoot in a creek. Many years later, my son, Jim got a nail in his foot through his sneaker. The experience brought back memories of what that feels like. My mom said she thought that I knew better than to walk in the creek in bare feet. I told her I would never do that again; she could count on it!

My adventures in new territory with Bobby were not curtailed, as I feared they would. Mary’s parents never phoned mine. My adventuresome friend and I got along pretty well. He was going to show me a neat place that others were not aware of. There was a strong spring that ran out of the basement of an old house. The door on that level had been gone for a few years. This spring apparently ran out beneath the door when it was in place. This was originally a farm house with the remains of a large barn nearby. It was a big farm in its day but the barn had burned down years ago in an electrical fire. Mr. McAllister, the old man who still lived in the house, abandoned electricity altogether because of this. As he aged, the unused farm grew into a wooded jungle of vines and brush. Honeysuckle climbed up the trees and the walls of the house. The front yard being unkempt was over taken by brush, giving the place the appearance of an abandoned house, which I thought it was.

Bobby used this wet area outside the basement to catch minnows for fishing bait. It was the one place that they were in great abundance. To look at this narrow, wet run, you would not expect to find much there. We had a good time catching frogs there too. We went up and into the basement to see the spring water coming out of the ground. While we were talking he motioned for me to speak softly, because Mr. McAllister lived in the house and we don’t want him to hear us. I laughed, and said he was kidding me. Just then, someone could be heard walking across the floor above us. We looked at each other with wide open eyes, and then fled full speed out through the door less opening. At least this time I had my sneakers on. At a safe distance near the creek, we stopped to catch our breath. He got a laugh at my fright, after which I gave him a good shove for not clueing me in on what to expect. This led to my being thrown into the creek.

We would part company, enemies for a few weeks. Looking back on these times, I realized that we always fled by way of the creek when we thought we were about to get caught for our deeds. The creek had steep banks, high weeds with briars, and was mostly wooded, so this covered our escape very well. Time would pass, and we would get together again. There were not that many kids my age around within walking distance, so one could not be too choosey about picking his pals. History tells us that ancient man used the water as an escape route from man-eating beasts. I wonder if we still follow the creek by nature, or for convenience. The creek, in our case, was the closest cover which would allow us to take our time leaving the area.

Summer camp would be coming up again this year. I would be going to Camp Horseshoe, which is a Boy Scout camp southwest of Oxford, Pennsylvania. I had passed swimming class at a church camp last year and was looking forward to it. At camp, I watched some scouts take canoes out onto the Octoraro Creek. The canoe is such a graceful craft when moving on the water, and I wanted to try it. The counselor told me that to use the canoes one had to be first class rank. I was only second class, so my chances of getting near a canoe were not good. This was my first good look at canoes in use. Perhaps next year I’ll get to use them.

After the exciting experience in Mr. McAllister’s basement the word chicken could make a person do things beyond their normal range of daring and it became a challenge to go in there and hunker down around the spring quietly. The hunker position, as opposed to sitting, kneeling, or lying down in a slightly sloped wet place, worked best with comfort. This is done by standing facing the water, then lowering the upper body to let the back of the thighs and buttocks rest on the back of the calves of your legs. The insides of the elbows would rest over the tops of your knees. Bobby and I would take a break by the spring in this way. This was the only place that we felt that it was safe to drink the water, if we did not want to go all the way home. We knew better than to drink from the creek. Small diameter pipes sticking out of the banks in different places clearly meant that there was more in this creek than water. The spring became a place of temporary respite from our activities. Hunkering down to drink and look at the multi colored pebbles in the clear water, glistening in the afternoon sun that was filtering in the west side opening, refreshed us. We would leave as silently as we had come along the watery seep to the woods.

One day, while at the spring, Bobby motioned for silence, and pointed up. I could hear voices, but could not make out what was being said, because I am hard of hearing. We dwelled longer than usual this day. The floor above was visible because the bottoms of the joists had no ceiling nailed to them. In the other part of the basement, the floor above had rotted and sagged down into the lower level, leaving the first floor room on that end of the house unusable. Most sounds from above filtered down through this gap between the floor and the wall. Bobby finally motioned that we should leave. Down by the creek he explained that somebody was trying to talk Mr. McAllister into leaving the house for good. He would have none of it and a loud discussion ensued. I felt sorry for the old man. Nobody likes to leave their home, but his was in such bad condition, and I guess his family or friends were concerned about him. After that we looked for the big black Packard sedan at the curb before going to the spring. A more alert person might hear us down there. Mr. McAllister walked slowly with a cane, and we could hear him moving about. I often wondered if he heard us in the basement. There were no windows on the west end of the house, so unless he came out and stood on that end of his porch, he could not see us.

When the Packard was parked, we would crawl up to a point on the other side of the road to watch. Someone would go in and bring him out. This was the only time we ever got a good look at the mystery man. There were other kids in that neighborhood that we could get together with from time to time. Richard and Harry were woods runners with trails going everywhere. The creek to them was off limits. Their parents thought it was a place to drown, and they had been told to stay out of another person’s yard, which the creek ran through. I ask if it was Mary’s yard, but it wasn’t. They had tunnels through the honeysuckle vines in Mr. McAllister’s front yard. They had a game that they played with him. They would sneak up through the vines and brush along the narrow over grown walkway to the front porch. One at a time they would go up on the porch and knock on the door, and run away. Then the second one had to do it, then the third. It took the old man a long time to get to the door, so the first up had the best chance of getting off the porch without a face to face meeting.

Bobby thought it was a neat game and was quick to gather four straws for us to draw to see in what order we would knock on the door. He drew the shortest straw, which made me suspicious of his favored position, but I did not complain since I drew the second position straw. Richard and Harry had the scary places in line as third and fourth. Some complaining was done, but all decided to abide by their drawn order. Bobby used the word chicken to accomplish that. We were in place, in the brush on the front yard. The only rule was the first knocker had to be off of the porch before the second one went onto it. The following knockers could choose to wait for a long period of time or run up immediately following the first. Mr. McAllister would open the door, then close it and go about his business. One could gamble on which way to get his knock in, and get away clear. From the kneeling position, Bobby ran up. I decided to be on that porch as soon as he was off of it. Bobby knocked and fled down the steps. I knocked and turned to run. The door opened to my back, and I saw the look of horror on Rich’s face as he had prematurely stepped onto the porch, as Mr. McAllister pulled a surprisingly fast door opening. Everybody got out of that yard in a big hurry. This game did not have much appeal after that. We concluded that they had played it too often, and the old man was wise to it. Mr. McAllister got the last laugh. I am sure that we made his day.

The day came when Bobby and I would change life directions along the creek for the last time. He was sixteen now, and going to get a driver’s license. He was the adult and the rest of us were just kids. We were around a site where a new house was being built, and it seemed like he was spoiling for a fight, which he finally got from me. I should have known better than to get into a full blown altercation with him. He was taller, and had longer arms than I, but the indignities of the moment demanded some action. He bloodied me up pretty good, and one of the construction workers came out to stop it. Both of us and a few others fled in all directions, as we thought the house was empty. I stopped at the creek to wash off the mud, and clear my bloody nose. Mom was alarmed at the sight of me, and later that evening Dad marched me to Bobby’s house and matters were settled in the interest of civilization. It proved to be the last time that I associated with him, as our lives took different paths.

A few years later, I got my drivers license. This is a big step in one’s life. Time moves on, and I am dating girls. One of the things that I liked to do was take my girlfriend on a Sunday drive in a nice area. One of those places was along the Brandywine Creek, southwest of West Chester. The creek was a natural setting with gradual banks along placid waters. I am sure that many young lovers sat there over the years. As we sat taking in the day, occasionally, a canoe would come by. The tandem paddlers looked like they were enjoying themselves. It looked like a nice way to travel on a small creek. Floating on the water was taking a serious grip on me.

I decided to look around for a canoe. It would be the best boat to use for this type of travel. In my search, I stopped at Clew’s Boat Center, in Frazer. They always had them on display on a rack. The salesman, Harry Zimmerman, said that they had been renting them, but decided to get out of the rental business, because people were bringing them back from the Lehigh River damaged. The used ones were cheaper than the new ones, and one which was fifteen feet long, made by Grumman Corporation, looked to be a little bit better than some of the others. This is an aluminum boat which is light in weight, and should be maintenance free. The dealer said that it did not leak, and put it into their pool to show me. He asked if I wanted to try it out. I declined, figuring that I would make a fool of myself; a wet fool. I did not want to get the seat in my ‘56 Chevy wet either. That two door hardtop was my pride and joy. I was satisfied that this was the canoe that I wanted to use for my exploring adventures. The salesman helped me load it onto my roof rack, and away I went. That was my first hands on encounter with canoes, and it proved to be the beginning of a path of adventure greater than I ever could have imagined.

2

What is this – this new thing

that we must try?

That First Canoe

MUCH IS LEARNED while fooling around with a piece of new equipment. When I got the canoe home from the dealer, I had to unload it myself since nobody else was around. I found that this was a simple common sense problem to solve. The sixty-nine pound boat felt like nothing to carry, so I could develop a real liking for something this easy to manage. The ease of transporting will make it convenient to just pick up and go.

The weekend came and I was anxious to get it into the water. There was never any thought given, as to where to go. The Brandywine Creek would be the place since I knew from past experience that canoes could go there. My latest girl friend would be my co-adventurer on this trial run. I did not know it at the time, but she would later be my life long partner in marriage. Isabella Springer and I met while ice skating on a large community pond near her home. Then in the summer months she was a member of the East Whiteland Swim Club where I was a lifeguard. We had a lot in common, and she was willing to try out the canoe. She shared my first trials on the water, and was still with me to my twilight in travels. On my last run, Izzie, my son, Jim, and my granddaughter, Chaz were there to cheer me on.

I knew that I could get the canoe into the water from the gradual sloped banks we had been by many times. We would launch and paddle downstream a couple of miles, then paddle back upstream to the car. The Brandywine is Degree B water, which is slow flowing pool, about four inches to one foot deep for the most part. I did not foresee any problems in accomplishing this first trip. Down the bank it went and into the water. Up to this point, it was sixty-nine pounds of dead weight to be moved at will. When placed in the water, it came to life with its own characteristics of movement to the current. I held it by the gunwales and played it back and forth from side to side to learn what to expect. This could be trickier than expected.

I held the stern, which is the back, while my adventurous girl friend got into the bow seat. The bow is turned away from the bank, then with a quick nimble step, I am in and seated. We are floating. What a feeling! Now that we are in it, it feels more stable than I thought it would. We alternated between paddling and floating with the current. What a great way to see the countryside! Going by the meadows and wooded sections, one has a sense of travel. The distance covered, and the amount of paddling to do it, seems easy. The multi colored gravel bed passes beneath us.

The boat is kept in mid-stream to avoid brushing against the overhanging vegetation on the banks. I knew from boyhood experience what happens when floating leaves meet shoreline resistance. The best water flow is at the entrance of an inverted letter V formed on the shallow water. My past history on the creek by my house is coming back to me. Instead of floating toy boats, I have assumed the captaincy of a real boat. Great! I know I am going to like this canoeing thing.

Two miles went by quickly and we are on flat water, Degree A which is pool no movement, upstream of a dam. At that point we turned around and headed back towards the car. Paddling the backwaters of the dam was easy enough, but then we reached the flowing part, and that was work. I hadn’t given much thought to what it would be like trying to get back upstream. To make any headway, travel close to the banks was the easiest way in the Degree B slow flowing sections. Eventually at some spots, I had to get out and pull the canoe up through the swift shallows. At least I have my sneakers on. Paddling upstream was physical work. After this trip, there will be no more of that. Slowly, but surely we got back to our destination. The use of eddies and shoreline shoals made our progress a little easier. Shoals are shallow areas where the flow of the creek is usually a little slower than the mainstream. A lot was learned on this first run.

It was clear that we had to be better prepared for a possible swim if the canoe turned over. Also, we should expect to get wet to the knees in certain situations. Like the gray shadowy trapper, the canoeist needed footwear best suited for water use. Spare clothing should be kept in the car, and life preservers, now called Personal Floatation Devices, would be needed in any water deeper than this shallow creek. An additional paddle should be carried in case we broke one. I had flexed my paddle to a point where I sensed that it could break, so that could happen. I had flexed my muscles too, but it is more a sport of skill than muscle, unless you get the boat into the wrong place. One must seek to learn all that he can about the ways of water in motion, if he is ever to be a boatman of any kind.

First experiences convinced me that this was a unique craft, which was capable of going on a lot of different waterways where other types of boats could not go. For one thing, we were floating on three inches of water in gravel stream bed. I expected to be scraping bottom. Being pointed on both bow and stern, it freely moved forward without any drag which is experienced in rowboats with a squared off stern. The canoe is used with the paddler facing downstream, not backwards as in a rowboat. It can be launched from any creek side bank, without need of a boat ramp. Being only three feet wide across the beam, it can slip through narrow gaps in brush growth along small creeks. These gaps would force other types of boats to portage.

With my consuming interest in the canoe, I began to seek out other water on which to take it. Izzie shared my interest and we had many good day trips on the Brandywine, and Hopewell Lake at French Creek State Park. I began to view creeks as the best places for water travel. After several trips to lakes, creeks had more appeal because the course runs many miles across the landscape. Lakes are nice, but on heading out over open water the paddling becomes monotonous, and one loses a sense of traveling someplace until they reach a shoreline again. On the creek the shoreline is always changing, and a sense of forward motion is with the paddler.

By now we are comfortable with the handling characteristics of a canoe, and further exploration of other sections of the Brandywine is in the plans. Road maps are used to roughly calculate the mileage between bridge points. After a lot of driving around checking water conditions from bridges a new water route is taken. In 1958, we did not have creek manuals which informed boaters of the water difficulties, or mileages, so one was on his own in planning trips in new places. In time, Izzie and I had done all parts of the Brandywine which could float a canoe. The East Branch had been run from Downingtown and the West Branch from just south of Coatesville. In these times of aluminum canoes, those were thought to be the headwater points of navigation. Twenty five years later, a stream guide book to eastern Pennsylvania creeks was published, and the headwater point would be established further upstream on both branches. The new points of beginning were twelve miles further up on the East Branch, and five miles on the West Branch. There had been an evolution in canoe hull design and materials used to build them over that period of time. The new plastic boats were capable of going places that were not thought possible in the nineteen sixties. These new canoes could slide over things that used to be too hazardous to attempt with aluminum boats.

When you venture on a familiar section of stream many times, you develop an education on water levels and the way nature makes changes in creek beds. Different levels alter the way that you float the creek. Sometimes, an outing would turn into a low water wet hike. Other times, if you got onto the creek too soon after it had been at flood level, you would get a hair raising ride. Mud brown water carries you around a bend and what is there, but a freshly fallen tree with a debris jam upstream behind it! A quick exit on mud coated banks of too steep a slope has to be done, or else disaster looms. The hapless boater could be pinned against the tree by the force of the water. To make this worst, all of the snakes are out of their holes because of the inundation. They are up on top, scrambling around under your feet. God! I hate snakes! After flooding, some channels change for the better, or the worst. Going around an island can be completely different from the last time that you did it. Undercut banks fall into the water, and others look like they will on the next rain storm. Rocks and shoals are moved around. In some bad storms the creek can almost be totally different than it was before.

Most wet hikes are avoidable by checking the known shallow spots in advance. Sometimes, you decide that you can scrape through, but your partner that day is heavier than the last person that you did this section of creek with. By the time you reach your first shallows, it is too far to turn back, so you have a choice of wet hiking by towing the canoe along, or abandoning the trip and thumbing a ride back for your car. The wet hike is preferable, even though it humbles your paddling style. You get a different kind of nature lesson in exchange. Since you are poking along you get to see things you didn’t notice while paddling. You observe how the water trickles and channels to a lower level. You feel like a giant standing in a miniature rapids. Imagine, if you were three inches tall, and your canoe eight inches long, how would you run this rapids under the sole of your boot? When you get into whitewater, it will be the exact same thing, only full scale.

Image6972.TIF

On the navigable headwaters of the

Lehigh River near Gouldsboro.

You’ll notice all kinds of water creatures, and the largest number of fish are seen when they have less pool area in which to move around. A wet hike is not a total loss, but you don’t want to do that too often. Years later, while I was a scoutmaster for Geigertown Boy Scout Troop 519, I had the boys do a project for their environment badge. Each would stake out one square foot of earth, and then take it apart carefully to the depth of one foot. Everything found on that one cubic foot was to be written down and identified. Even I was surprised at what each patch of earth was yielding to the searching scouts. All of them turned in list three times longer than expected. Before they started, there was some grumbling about this project, but as they got into it, all of them, myself included enjoyed bringing up one more thing out of one small foot of earth. Every square foot of land or waterway supports many living things.

If you are wet hiking, plenty of signs of man are in the creek also. A lot of broken glass in small pieces is lying among the gravel bed. A piece of metal, old wood with nails sticking out and that most durable of discarded debris, plastic; mostly in bottle shapes are all present. You will rethink your footwear too. Some type of light weight boot with a hard sole works best, unless you want to spend all of your time watching every step that you take. You can not help but come off of the creek with more concern for the way civilization has such disregard for something as important to all of us as water.

Several dams of varying types and heights are on the Brandywine Creek. The water immediately downstream of a dam can be treacherous. Some dams are consistently clear of debris, while others seem to hold every tree that washes down. I’ll elaborate more on dams in the following chapters.

One winter, I decided to construct a sailing rig for the Grumman. I had seen this rigging on canoes, and it would be simple enough to build. I was doing carpenter work for a living at the time, and the winter months were slow. A lot of small sailboats ply the local state park lakes, but not many sailing canoes. It would be fun to cross a lake before the wind. It would be a challenge to design, build it, and have it work properly. After careful study, I decided to use a forty-five square foot lateen type sail. It would be similar to ones sold through boat dealers for small craft. This type of sail is fastened to two spars which are run up a main mast to a point eight feet above the bottom of the hull. The top spar is hung on the mast at a sixty degree angle, and the lower one is horizontal with enough clearance for a person to sit in the boat. It is the same type of sail that is used on Sailfish, and Sunfish type boats which are very popular on small lakes. A red sail was planned, but nylon cloth does not come in that color. White was purchased, and Izzie used red dye on it. The dye did not take completely, so the sail turned out pink! Different! I wondered if I could get used to it. Izzie worked hard on this thing, and I would not let her down. Pink will be our sailing colors. A lot of the sail had to be sewn by hand.

Learning to harness the wind would be a totally new experience, as neither of us had ever sailed before. Fortunately, a weekend was picked with a light breeze blowing. Hopewell