At first, there might not appear to be much similarity between the rather small Scioto River, which flows through central Ohio to the Ohio River, and the massive St. Lawrence River that rushes between Canada and the United States before emptying into the Atlantic Ocean. But at different times, journeys on these rivers brought adventure as well as the opportunity to bond with someone special. Since it occurred first (by at least 60 years), I’ll devote this posting to the Scioto River trip.
Rising in western Ohio and meandering south before emptying into the Ohio River, the Scioto River has been many things to many people over the years – a source of food and transportation for Native American tribes, an avenue of escape for runaway slaves, and now a place of recreation for boaters and anglers.
My dad and I have recreation in mind as we carry our canoe to the edge of the Scioto. We are a few miles north of Powell, not far from the Columbus Zoo. About two hours ago at daybreak, Dad took our Chevy station wagon, which has a canoe carrier, to a parking lot on the riverbank about two miles north of downtown. That’s where we will end our journey on this August day, but only after paddling some 14 miles. It isn’t going to be easy, but dad likes a challenge. I do too – up to a point.
Water bugs skitter away as Dad and I place the canoe into the river. I climb into the olive green vessel carefully, one hand holding a paddle, the other steadying my body as I move toward the bow. Soon we are underway beneath an almost cloudless sky. At 8:00 am, the sun is fairly gentle, but it will become less so as the day wears on.
We paddle along, taking in the beauty that nature provides. Lush green trees along the bank hover over brown cattails poking up at the water’s edge. Dragonflies buzz around us as crows fly above, piercing the air with their discordant cries. An unseen waterfall lends its melody to this symphony of outdoor sounds. Pieces of wood drift by our canoe, but up ahead there is something in the water that doesn’t look like wood.
“Dad,” I say hesitantly, “I think there’s a snake coming toward us.”
“Take your paddle out and keep your hands inside the canoe until it passes,” he advises.
I wait for the creature to pass, wondering if it might be a cottonmouth or some other venomous species.
The “creature” turns out to be a long skinny stick, and I feel a little foolish. For a moment, Dad stays silent. Then he says, “You did the right thing. It looked like a snake to me, too.”
Our journey continues under a sun that becomes increasingly harsh. Its heat eventually forces us to take refuge under the branches of some trees along the bank. We sip water from our canteens and bite into sandwiches. Refreshed, we resume our river voyage. For almost an hour, we paddle undisturbed. The summer heat makes us sweat profusely, but some relief comes with a gentle breeze that softens the sun’s iron hand. Then, a mile or so from our end point, an ominous noise catches our attention.
“That sounds like rapids up ahead,” I say, trying to hide my worry.
This time I’m right and before long the canoe’s speed increases noticeably. The water hitting the rocks creates a threatening, unrelenting din, but we can’t be concerned with that. All our attention has to be focused on keeping the canoe from striking the slabs of stone that stick out of the foam like jagged black teeth. We mostly succeed, but near the end of the rapids, an unseen rock hits the side of our vessel, knocking it almost 90 degrees to the right. The jolt makes me clutch my orange life vest.
“Keep paddling!” Dad commands. “We’re not out of this yet.”
More paddling, more sweating and the canoe finally reaches calmer water. We push on for about another half hour. Aching muscles and a blister or two turn this trip into a struggle. Eventually, we reach a point where the banks on either side fall away so much, it seems we are canoeing across a lake rather than a river. Ahead of me, I see the Lincoln-Leveque Tower jutting into the sky. Something much closer also catches my eye.
“Dad, there’s your car!” The blue Chevy station wagon with the canoe holder on its top sits about 50 feet behind a clearing on the bank. But the car isn’t as close as it appears, and another 15 minutes pass before we are on (more or less) dry land, our feet wet and muddy from hauling the canoe ashore.
Later, we drive up Route 33, heading for our home in Upper Arlington. Dad tuns his head toward me.
“Would you like to try that again sometime?” he asks.
“I don’t think so,” I answer, but different words echo through the back of my mind: “Sure, bring it on!”