Monongahela Sunday May 15, 2022 Air 73°F/ 23°C River 61°F/ 17°C
A robin, a sandpiper, and several grackles sounds like the opening of a bad joke. But here they walk along the collection of debris the river pushes against the side of the marina. Not the logs and branches, but the plastic bottles, bags, and water toys. There is so much more I cannot see hiding in that pile. I am sure the slow decaying of human leftovers makes no sound and still takes its toll on the birds, on the top of the debris, and the water the kayaker rides on.
Rainwater from last night that I thought I cleaned up before I got in the kayak is pooling in front of my seat, and now, of course, my legs are wet all the way up to my knees. Not that I ever expect to stay dry while paddling. I try to keep dryer when I get in to keep my body temperature consistent.
I stop paddling and look over my shoulder, searching for the couple I met at the launch. I’ve lost both Nina and Joe. I don’t see them; they are still somewhere on the other side of the marina. One of the best parts of kayaking for me is the people I meet. It was her first time on the river, and he had been a couple of times before on the Allegheny. I give them a brief rundown of what’s up river: the eagles, and the bend where it gets quieter.
He says, “I don’t think we’ll make it that far.”
Her bright eyes dim a little. I am done with prep and ready to go. He is not ready yet. I would have paddled out with them and continued when they were prepared to quit. If they wanted company. I should have told them how the current usually lessens after the Hot Metal bridge. But I was focused on sound, quiet, nature quiet. The Mon turns, and Rt 356 goes its own way, taking all of the metal growlers east with it. It‘s my favorite spot, looking for the peacefulness often missing throughout my week. Working with demanding customers on highly detailed projects makes you long for peace.
Passing under the Hot Metal bridge, I see calmer water ahead, though I can still see the current rippling over the surface. A green heron dives toward the water and back into the trees. Is it his call, I hear? I say to him, “I am so glad to see you here.”
He is only the second one I have seen, but the first on the Mon river. I need to believe the diversity of birds has to be a good thing. Over the years there were plenty I did not recognize by name. I know them to see them.
A large, great blue heron takes off, hearing the paddle pull through the water, my arms rubbing the side of my PFD, personal floatation device or lifejacket. He knew I was coming long before I could get close. The wind should carry some of the sounds away. Traffic hums on the other side where he is heading. What do the fish hear as the paddle hits the water and drags through? Each droplet falls back through the air to plop on the surface. Is there a sound from the small eddies passing the stern? Water slaps the haul, a reactive sound.
Almost at the point in the river where the hum of traffic falls away. The water has finally changed from a muddy red-brown poop color to a cloudy dull pea green. A group of four vultures soar above the practice football field. It sounds as though the team is practicing. Almost at the bend, the paddling is easier going.
On crossing the middle, I collect a floating green soda bottle and one piece of polystyrene foam; it looks like a floating rock tumbled and beaten rounder by whatever it has crashed into. I find foam often. It makes a soft squeak as I push it under one of the deck bungees. Mostly today is about sound. Pigeons coo or maybe mourning doves; there are no structures on this part of the river. I wish I knew more of the sounds and songs of the other birds, because other than the honking of the geese, I can’t connect the birds I see to the songs I hear. When I see them, they are not making any noise at all. I want to put the clear chirping, twittering, twilling, and peeping to the individuals who make them. And right now, a lone goose seems to be calling for company or just because it can.
Small yellow birds with dark wings flit through the trees over the first grounded barge. I see Hot Metal bridge and a tiny brownish-gray, light gray on the bottom bird lands on the outstretched fallen tree in front of me.
Here, at last, it is Sunday quiet. Traffic is down to a discreet snore, the birds, and the current are still prominent. I am heading upriver, and probably when I turn around, the wind will be blowing upriver; that’s just the nature of the Monongahela.
A swallowtail flutters by on shore, river right a group of three deer watch me watch them and turn to go uphill. One limps a back leg giving trouble. Their red-brown coats contrast against the green foliage. Sandpipers strut through the breeze on the side of the old barge piers.
I come up to the grounded barge with tiny eddies swirling towards me. I always wonder what causes those when it’s not just my paddle making the water move. Sunlight shines through the trees reflecting on the water like mist that isn’t there.
A silver and orange Coast Guard cutter powers through leaving a rolling wake. Its passing crashes against the shore and bounces back as it washes back over my deck. Sometimes you can ride the wake when you are prepared. I have not figured out the formula yet.
A fuzzy yellow gosling walks past its parent standing in front of an old rusted metal rocking chair and the Carload Express train rumbles as though it is rushing to go somewhere. A log floats down the center of the river on its own time. Sound bounces from the other side as the train lows like cows. Something must be on the tracks because it blasts the horn over and over again. When I Paddle in Blue, I feel the vibrations from the train through the water. An inchworm hangs from a tree dangling by one thread.
I hear a turtle flop into the water and think, rats, I missed him, but there is still one mud-covered turtle sitting there, and as I turn around to look at him, I see a soft-shell turtle stretched out in the crook of the fallen tree enjoying the hot sun. She is the biggest one I have seen, and the turtles let me look. I smile at them.
My sitting rock is surrounded by water at my usual stop a little downriver from the Glenwood bridge. Its the rock I sit on to have my snack or feed the minnows, and often I use it to gauge the height of the river. It’s good to get out and stretch my legs. Down here layers of thick mud contain raccoon prints. Across the river, a man stands apart with his happy panting dog, and some new construction project seems to have started. I am glad it’s Sunday, the yellow diggers sleep, and the dog is not barking as sound carries well over the water.
A muskrat swims under the roots of a tree, and my heart jumps for joy. And there is a second one. I wish my hearing was better so I would know they were coming. The current is running pretty good.
A deer chuffs, I can’t see him, but he can clearly see me, hear me, or smell me. The eagle lands in a tree. I even manage to get his photo and as he takes off. I know I have a goofy grin on my face.
Four seagulls float in the middle of the river just hanging out, and a groundhog yells at me for scaring him; it is young. The boaters are out, and the sun is high. The speaker roaring by in a pontoon boat, making its slow wake. Everyone must enjoy their loud rock music. I hope they will pass fast.
Coming back up to the Hot Metal bridge, a groom leads his bride over the walking bridge, and the couple poses for their pictures. The white fabric stands out against the blue sky and black steel. I imagine her sighing as I pass under the bridge. Possibly having photobombed one of their shoots.