Much of human history has been the attempt to control water. Everything from the Spanish Armada to the gutters on your roof: the never-ending quest to make water your servant rather than your master. Water has only one goal, which is to be where it is not. Even seemingly still water is on its way back to the ocean. But ocean water, too, is restless and forever lapping at the shore, evaporating into clouds, escaping to the earth only to return again, in time, to the sea. That Great Ocean, Mother of All Life! What earthbound being is not drawn to her pulse, her power, her finality?
I put the kayak in at the place where Mayview Road crosses Chartiers Creek, near the old guard booth at the main entrance of the now-mostly-demolished Mayview Hospital. From there, I followed the gentle current most of the way into Bridgeville. In places it was shallow and fast-moving, but it was a beautiful ride. There were enormous blue herons among the sycamores; they would take flight on loud, rushing wings when they caught sight of me. The fresh smell of the water reminded me of the ponds and brooks of my childhood where my brothers and I would wade, and swim, and fish. Those little bodies of inland freshwater (and the freedom they represent) are still nearby, in terms of geography, but so far from the man I've become today. And yet, even just the fishy, vegetable smell of the water can take me back there, touching my spirit with an old, old rush of freedom. There were fishes darting beneath my little boat and a pleasant smell of creosote on the nearby railroad tracks. The sunlight was warm and bright, but the soft breeze was cool. It all combined to give me that springtime feeling of renewed youth. You know, the one that makes you say, "Hell, I could just follow this stream all the way to the ocean..."
I followed Chartiers Creek much further than I should have. The paddle back toward my car--against that seemingly "gentle" current--was not easy. In places, I had to get out and walk the kayak through the forceful current. The riverbanks smell like ramps--which we call "wild leeks" up north. They're a woodsy mix between garlic and onion, and early May is prime ramp-digging season. I paused to collect a few, then finally gave up on fighting the current. Instead, I dragged my little boat up onto the tracks and followed them back to the car. Earlier, when I was still drifting idly downstream, a small train labeled "Central Ohio Railroad" passed on the tracks. A quick Wikipedia search tells me that the Central Ohio was purchased by the Baltimore & Ohio in the late 1800s. The B & O--in turn--got swallowed up by the company we now know as "CSX Transportation." Was that little train a ghost?
The west bank of the creek is kept relatively free of development by the presence of the railroad track and a steep valley wall. I was pleased to find that the east bank is mostly wooded, too. As I was looking for a place to put my kayak into Chartiers, I came across a new discovery: There's a nice stretch of protected land along the east bank known as the Wingfield Pines Preserve, an outpost of the Allegheny Land Trust. It's mostly a place where detestable, entitled suburbanites let their dogs run off the leash, but it combines with Boyce Mayview Park to ensure a good bit of open country on the banks of this historic creek--which is otherwise so threatened by suburban sprawl.
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