River of Consciousness

Written by Derrick Miess

57 years old

Western Pennsylvania

Pennsylvania is a state of rivers. The Delaware serves as an eastern border, the Susquehanna dominates the center and the mighty Ohio is given birth in our southwest. Many years ago when I was an avid canoeist, one of the Ohio’s parent tributaries, the Allegheny, was my river of choice.

I had paddled the river with friends, my son, my brother and my wife on different excursions. These journeys were enjoyable floats filled with banter, questions and laughter. Much laughter. But of course being a solitary, contemplative soul I “floated” the idea of a two day solo paddle to my wife. She is always indulgent towards me, and with some apprehension, said go.

The paddle I planned had me putting in at Franklin, paddling several river miles to what an old hand drawn map referred to as the Patterson islands and pulling out the next day at the point where Sandy Creek empties into the river. Nothing epic about it, just alone with my thoughts. Solitude.

As my wife and kids helped load the canoe the kids were uncharacteristically quiet. The gear was meager, multiple trips had eliminated so much of what was thought to be of use. My wife told me when I returned that the children had cried as I paddled away, in their young minds there was still a very real possibility that one could float off the edge of the earth. You still can, only euphemistically.

The stretch of the Allegheny to the Pattersons was a pleasant one. Shallows would force you to the right bank and accelerate and toss you some. Not in the whitewater sense, but in a gentle way that if steered properly by a lone paddler almost seems graceful. These narrows are interrupted by slow, deep pools with no discernible current, where if you are particularly observant you will notice that every paddle stroke creates a mini whirlpool as you pull it back. The pools give you time to take in the grandeur of the river valley which for me never lost its power.

The Patterson Islands are not hard to find. Paddling around a slight bend an arrow points right to them. The steep forested hillsides of the valley rise on both sides, and the sky visible between them is an inverted triangle pointing to islands. There are three, sometimes four individual islands that make good camping. The early spring release of melt water from the Kinzua Dam up north submerges the islands for weeks in the spring. This creates two schools of thought when planning a trip. If you go early the islands will be cleansed of any unfortunate things left behind, or buried the previous year. There is also ample firewood that flows down the river at its wildest and gets caught in the island trees. If you go later, you always find that Patterson campers never fail to improve the site while there. Lumber and more is collected from the wall of the upriver debris pile and fashioned into stools, shelving and small tables which are left intact to be improved upon by the next group. Some years in got pretty elaborate.

I liked to bring along a simple metal grille work that I hustled to balance on rocks in the fire ring to cook. Dinner finished, the tent would be set up and canoe brought up on land. There may or may not have been an adult beverage consumed listening to the river run by the shallows that run river right. The site was perfect for my solo trip.

I have a compiled list of top ten places to enjoy a hot cup of coffee at dawn. The experience on the Pattersons ranks third behind Little Round Top and a lifeguard seat in Cape May, NJ. In the early morning the rush through the shallows combines with the dawn chorus of birds and a dense fog that settles in the valley most nights that won’t lift until the sun is up for an hour or two.

Grab your first cup of percolated camp coffee and sit your groggy body down. Let the environment fill you. I often pass this time imagining Native Americans canoeing by, or hundreds of French bateaux who were informing them that La Belle Rivere now belonged to an unseen King. Maybe a young British Captain named George Washington struggling up river to tell these Tribes that the French were wrong, that their unseen King held dominion over them. Unwieldy barges piled to capacity with alarmingly leaky barrels of crude oil being floated to Pittsburgh, leaving a remarkable rainbow sheen on the water, a harbinger of horrors yet to come.

I break from my reverie and start to break camp. The second leg of this journey is much shorter. I double check to make sure I have left a clean site for the next visitors. I leave the cooking grille in the crook of a tree, an offering.

  The most striking thing about this short paddle without distraction is that I really notice how clear the somewhat shallow water truly is. Details of river stones, a fresh water clam and an occasional fish. The industries of oil and logging polluted this river for so many years, but these operations are gone. The upper Allegheny is clean to the naked eye, but I imagine some heavy metals and whatnot remain. The river is able to sweep its grime downriver endlessly. Downriver. Where it becomes someone else’s issue.

As I pull out at my destination my wife, children and vehicle are waiting. I did not paddle off of the end of the earth after all. When kids are young, Dads are superhuman.

I have not paddled for about twenty years because I have grown old and large. My son purchased a large top sit kayak. Perhaps he will do the solo trip someday and me and my grandsons will wave goodbye to him. The boys may cry. But my son is superhuman now.