OTHER TRIPS:
Grand River
July 20-22, 2007
This wasn’t a through trip, but I did more paddling than I have on some of our winter trips. And a few summer trips I can think of.
I had an ulterior motive in traveling to Ashtabula County, but I’m not at liberty to discuss that at the moment. Mission accomplished on that count.
In desperate need of a retreat, I planned to paddle solo and camp alone. I had hoped to put in upstream of Grand River Canoe Livery, camp there and press on for Harpersfield the next day.
But, I couldn’t persuade Bob Three-Spirits, the livery owner, to put me in upstream. Too shallow. Too many obstructions. He probably was right. We bushwhacked that section last summer, when the water was higher, and it was a lot of work.
Not that I’m adverse to work. But I’m not drawn to it, either. Especially when it’s 80 or 90 degrees out.
I put on the river at the livery about 11 a.m. Saturday. Bob told me to call him when I got to Harpersfield and he’d pick me up.
As I made my way downstream, first through the narrower section then through the wider and more civilized stretch, I noticed there was no current. I paddled alone until I got past the Sweitzer Road Bridge. From there I was joined by a persistent headwind that stayed with me all the way to Harpersfield. I was itching for a workout and I got it.
It was a 4- or 5-hour trip. I decided, since there was no current, I’d make it an 8- 10-hour trip and paddle back to the livery. I called Bob when I got to Harpersfield and told him not to bother picking me up, that I’d be back around 8.
I figured it would be much easier paddling upstream with the wind at my back. But the wind overstayed its welcome, shifting just as I started to paddle back upstream.
Once again, I was paddling into the wind. I began to question my decision. I wasn’t concerned about getting back after dark, but I didn’t want Bob to worry about me.
I was concerned that I might have ended up going to the hospital to have the paddle surgically removed from my hands at the end of the trip. Over the years, I’ve become conditioned to paddling long distances without stopping. It’s not as hard on the muscles as it is on the joints, particularly the hands.
Luckily, the wind had died down after I covered a couple miles.
I pulled into the livery at exactly 8 p.m. My punctuality was a combination of precise calculation and dumb luck. I would have been happy to get there while there was still enough daylight to see the bow of my canoe.
I already had my camp set up. I started a fire and put a pork chop on the grill.
Bob approached and asked permission to come into the camp.
This is his way. Even though it’s his land, he asks permission to enter the camp.
This is how my friends Ricky and Joe came to know him. They were paddling the Grand River many years ago and pulled out at the very spot where I had set my camp set up. They didn’t know whose land it was. It seemed isolated enough and had all the elements of a good river campsite: easy landing, level ground for tents and plenty of deadfall around for firewood.
Bob approached and asked permission to enter their campsite. They talked for a while and one of them finally asked, “Whose land is this?”
“Mine,” Bob told them.
I felt bad that I didn’t have any extra food to offer Bob. I would have gladly traded the pork chop for anything with carbohydrates. I desperately needed them after that paddle. And that was the one thing lacking in my food cache.
He did bring a bottle of Crown Royal.
As my pork chops cooked, we sat around the campfire telling stories, including one about how he came by the Crown Royal.
A guy who once worked at his livery called and asked if he and some friends could go canoeing. Bob told him he could canoe for free, but he would have to charge half-price for his friends. Bob gave him another option; bring along a bottle of Crown Royal in lieu of payment.
And so they did. A very large bottle. About $50 worth by Bob’s estimate.
I’m not much of a whiskey drinker. I nursed about three shots, maybe four, while Bob drank his share.
We sat around telling stories till about midnight. Bob headed off into the darkness.
I sat around the campfire a little while longer, made my way to my tent and slept till 8.
I made breakfast, bathed in the river and meditated, Cherokee style, lying naked in the water. I remained naked for the rest of the morning.
“Premorial” Day Weekend Trip
May 4-6, 2007
After months of trying, I managed to schedule three days for a trip from Charles Mill Dam to Mohawk Dam.
It ended up being a solo trip. Which was fine with me. The tourists hadn’t arrived in earnest, so I had the river to myself. Except for a group of guys with what appeared to be livery canoes. They were camped past Cavallo Saturday night.
I put in at 10:35 a.m. Friday at Charles Mill and saw a Baltimore oriole shortly after launching. It would be a recurring theme throughout the weekend. I saw one first thing after putting on Saturday morning and, on Sunday morning, I watched a pair primping in a maple tree above me as I enjoyed a leisurely breakfast on the big island past Cavallo. Which is one of the few we haven’t named. Which is probably just as well. Names like Chicken Head, Trash and Goose Shit aren’t very flattering. Each has a story behind it, of course.
Black Fork was mostly clear of logjams. There was total blockage at one spot between the dam and State Route 603. (We had to portage that one on the New Year’s Eve Float with the Mohican Waters Paddle Club.)
It was easily lined over. One advantage “beer boats” (canoes) have over kayaks. (So there!)
The trillium were out in force, dotting hillsides along the banks with white flowers. There was good current and, with minimal paddling, I made it to the confluence of Rocky Fork before 12:30 p.m.
I stopped for lunch at 2:20 p.m. at Greentown, upstream of Perrysville. Canned smoked herring, a Cliff Bar and jewel weed primary leaves. They were at their peak and I snacked on them all weekend.
It took 20 minutes to paddle through Perrysville. Between State Route 95 and Bridge Street I saw two big snapping turtles, one with a shell a foot-and-a-half from front to back.
I made it to Loudonville around 4 p.m. and set up camp on Moxie and Becky Augustine’s property on river left, which is outside the village limits. Moxie died this spring, and Becky gave me her blessings to camp on the land.
I had arranged to meet with friends for dinner at the Pizza Hut on State Route 3. They were mountain biking at Mohican-Memorial State Forest and had finished about the same time I was settling into my campsite. We hooked up by cell phone and they were already there and had ordered. I ferried across the river, ditched my canoe in the weeds, hiked through the woods and joined them at Pizza Hut.
In the morning, I made a shrine to Moxie, spelling his name in stones at the base of a tree. I finished breakfast before the rain started and got on the river by 9:30. It rained all morning, but not too hard. I pressed on, getting to Mohican Wilderness before noon and to Brinkhaven by 2 p.m.
I saw an eagles’ nest between Hunter Road and Cavallo. I thought I had seen an eagle when approaching the spot. But it disappeared until I was past the nest. I looked back to see it land on a branch behind me and it sat there watching as I drifted downstream.
I arrived at Cavallo island at 4:15 p.m. and set up camp.
Stars began to come out as it got dark and I saw fireflies at the top of the canopy and about halfway down. Unusual for this time of year.
It was a pleasant float from the island to Mohawk. Except for 20-30 mph winds. By conservative estimate. It made for a good workout, but lousy fishing.
Can’t wait for the Memorial Day weekend trip. Not expecting much in the way of turnout, but I don’t care. As long as I’m on the river.
Canoeing with The Ohio Hysterical Canoe Route Association
March 23-25
I hooked up with some folks from the Ohio Historical Canoe Route Association who wanted to try the Mohican River, particularly the part of the newly designated scenic stretch that starts at Clear Fork Gorge.
Eight of us met Friday night at Mohican Wilderness between Greer and Loudonville, set up camp and got down to some serious eating. By mid morning Sunday, we were done eating and those of us who could move, set out to do Clear Fork Gorge.
Only three of us had survived the “Mohican Wilderness gorge,” which included a Rueben casserole, crab legs and Tony's leg of lamb. So, for us, the 770 cfs release at Pleasant Hill Dam and wave trains pushing 7 mph were a piece of cake.
I had scouted the river earlier that week and it was at three feet on the Pleasant Hill Dam gauge. The river was clear of major obstructions from the covered bridge down, but I recommended it only to those capable of handling Class II rapids.
The river had dropped during the week, but the Corps of Engineers opened the dam Sunday morning. I'm guessing from the USGS Web site, it had reached close to 3.5 feet on the gauge by the time we put on. It's a good thing too; there was a big tree all the way across the river just before the confluence with the Black Fork. If it had been any lower, we wouldn't have been able to slip over it.
Paddlers beware! That tree might still be there. (The stretch approaching it is long and open, however, so there should be plenty of time to pull off and portage.)
A few words about the Ohio Historical Canoe Route Association
The group was formed in 1983 to retrace historical canoe routes. For example, they might start on the Cuyahoga River and paddle upstream to the Tuscarawas, floating downstream on the Muskingum watershed to Marietta. (I am told that Native Americans generally didn't paddle streams in these parts because they were too shallow. They poled them.)
I first heard about OHCRA about 20 years ago. I was intrigued with the idea of retracing the canoe routes, but found it hard to imagine anyone could paddle of pole all that distance upstream.
This weekend I found out how they did it. They would paddle sections a weekend at a time, then do bigger stretches going downstream.
I had contacted someone in the group back then, but I was told they weren't very active at the time. However, they seemed to have survived and now do different rivers around the state and elsewhere on a regular basis.
They set up a base camp on Friday night and paddle different stretches Saturday and Sunday. Not my cup of tea, really. I prefer to put on at point A, disappear from civilization for two or three days, and end up at point B (ideally just as it’s getting dark, if not later).
But, their way does offer an opportunity to try different rivers, come out and paddle for a day two and put on three or four pounds!
I plan to hook up with them from time to time. And, of course, they have a standing invitation to come back to the Mohican anytime for a quick paddle or a weekend excursion. I’ll supply the crab legs.
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