Chapter 2: The O&E Towpath Trail
It felt incredible to be on a trail again, especially one so long, over 100 miles. As soon as I got on it I took a needed break, as I'd probably crossed five freeways and dozens of railroad tracks between the coast and the trailhead. Those are my favorite breaks of all, the ones when I first get on a bike trail, because I can let my guard down a bit. No more traffic or navigation for a while, and the excitement of the unknown, like the first day of school. I grew up on rail trails and took them for granted as a child. On Cape Cod there was one at the end of the driveway, when we moved to Western Mass., there was another at the end of the block. I never knew how good I had it until I moved to Southeast Michigan. They weren't everywhere. There were hardly any. Anywhere. So to see all the recent change, all these nascent trails transform into regional arteries, to hear talk and see plans for a trail that takes you across the country, its not nearly all that I dreamed, because I have a greedy imagination, but much more than I thought I'd ever see.
The O&E is a gem. Within minutes, even though the trail starts in the middle of an industrial zone, you're in a lush canopy along the Cuyahoga, and the songs of birds and crickets supplant the city's dreadful cacophony. It's a very rich, biologically robust area, despite years of unchecked pollution, reminiscent of the Calumet area of Lake Michigan, south of Chicago. Nature's implacable:quick to reclaim anything abandoned in areas like these. Just across from a defunct melting bunker, I spotted the largest tree I ever saw east of the Mississippi. A towering cottonwood, its limbs still intact, each one a massive dreadnaught.
Cleveland was famous for its pollution. When the Cuyahoga caught fire, it helped spur a national environmental movement. It's hard to believe as you travel up it the sycamore-lined river that anyone could ever let it get so bad. Every few minutes, I'd see a dogwood in full bloom. Sure, I saw probably hundreds around town and in the arboretum, but to see them on the bank of the river is something very different and memorable, like the difference between seeing an animal at the zoo and in her natural habitat.
I kept expecting to see "Welcome to the Cuyahoga Valley National Park", because it's just south of Cleveland, but I never did, but I knew I must be in it, because over the course of just a few miles, I saw at least the fifty--may even a hundred--of the largest eastern sycamores I ever saw. I'd never been in a sycamore forest before and I was enchanted. You can tell how much light penetrates their dainty foliage, even though their stubborn leaves were barley sprouted. A sycamore's shade is never total, like a maple or a pine, beams of light always dance through. And just like all trees, but sycamores in particular, because the way their bark flakes off, which leave blotchy patterns, when they get old, their trunks become unique.
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No matter how much joy those trees brought, I couldn't help but think of their western counterpart. The sycamores out west are dying in huge numbers. In Southern California, they're one of the most numerous and definitely largest tree. So much habitat and urban shade, gone, or soon will be. Years of severe drought weakened them too much. Now they're all infected with a nasty fungus. Last fall, when visited Sycamore Canyon SP, near LA, I gave my favorite one hug, because I knew it wouldn't be there next time I was.
The O&E Towpath has what's left of the old canal next to it. Much if the time, there's still water in those overgrown channels, perfect for frogs and turtles. Massive carp too. They'd come to the surface to feed; were the trail in Florida, one might mistake them for baby alligators. It also explained why so many were fishing a canal full of rotting felled trees and thick green slime, rather than the comparatively clean river on the other side. There were dozens near every trailhead. I'm not really too keen on those sorts in general--the Jerry Springer, trailer trash, Trump lovers that make up the vast bulk of those who fish. I didn't want to see any catch a single one. Glad I didn't.
Sometimes the media or others paint a negative picture of a place and it sticks. All I knew about Akron was it was a dump that somehow managed to produce two of the greatest basketball players ever: Lebron James and Steph Curry. That, and there was a University. Wrong, so very wrong.
To get into Akron was a climb, with a large number of locks. When I got to the top I'd realized I entered a new watershed. No longer Lake Erie, but the Mississippi. The Mississippi watershed has long boggled my mind, almost like pondering infinity. Such a huge chunk of the nation drains somehow into that one river. To be so far away, in Northeast Ohio, so far from Southern Louisiana, and to think the rainfall travels all that way--amazing, but unfortunate, because as it winds by innumerable farms, plus all the cities and towns, it becomes more and more saturated with vehicle runoff and fertilizer, until finally it becomes a toxic stew and part of the great dead zone in the Gulf of Mexico.
Though Akron is know for it's rubber manufacturing, and no doubt parts are very befouled, I was taken aback by the charm of the place, mostly on account of the artwork displays that lined the trail. The trestle close to town had a collection wonderfully powerful photos, which in the artist, Shane Wynn's words, was "A collection of empowered women in the Akron community set against backdrops of underutilized places in the city". Soon after I saw the most beautiful mural one could see of two children of mixed race squatting down, as though they're playing in sand, kaleidoscopes behind each of them. There were a series of giant, whimsical turquoise chairs, and a brutalist sculpture at the end of a pond, with a tiny aqua picnic table on top.
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I used to rate the quality of the day by the caliber of birds I saw. Though I was only half serious, the other half of me was, and still is. Going by that criterion, both days on the trail were perfect. Every few minutes I saw indigo buntings, orioles, goldfinches, cardinals, and bluebirds. Since my camera was busted, I didn't try to photograph any. It would have been pointless. Without a decent zoom lens, no way to get close enough.
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Soon after Akron, I got closer to a bird than I ever cared for. As I rode along, a blackbird swooped down from a tree above me and grazed me in the face. I saw it coming and moved my head to the left as it flew to my right, otherwise we would have had a severe collision. I rode on, somewhat concerned about getting an infection in the small cut I got, as bird claws are prodigious germ carriers.
I should have known that blackbird collision would portend a dramatic change in the day. I soon found myself in a belt full of QAnon Shaman wannabes. Icons with messages of God's wrath and creepy signs proclaiming Trump's greatness stood in the yards on the other side of the river. Wafts of cigarette smoke took the place of the honeysuckle sent. Old tires and buckets strewn all down the water's edge. I screamed "haha, we rigged the election and I helped, now we're coming for your guns and we're going to smash down the wall, losers!" to a few people while they sat under their Trump flags.
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Oftentimes, when I'm on tour, someone catches up to me because they're curious. Either they want to or do tour themselves, or want to know where you're riding to and from. Where you camp, if you cook, exc. "Do you mind if I ride with you for a while?" a man named Chris, who'd just caught up to me, asked. I never refuse, of course, but also try to be upbeat and gracious, to answer any and all questions with an eye toward inspiring those I chat with to get out there and tour. When I told him I started in Michigan, he said he knew, and that he heard about me. I guess I did take a ton of breaks and talked with a number of people interested in my tour, I thought, somewhat alarmed.
Chris loved Jesus. He loved spreading the word of God, in his own words. While I don't care at all for religion, and in general, could do without evangelicals all together, Chris planned on solo touring, but with his wife and daughter in a sag vehicle. "I'm hoping to do the same thing, but with my brother in-law, my sister and two nieces in the truck!" I responded. We chatted for a while about touring only. Nothing about Jesus, for I wouldn't have tolerated it. A few minutes into our ride, there was a small tent set up on the side of the trail, "I have to stop here for the poker game. My brother in-law is running it, but you would have had to start at the other end. I'll catch up." He said, so I rode off, happy to be rid of him, at least for a little while, as I begin to get an uneasy feeling being near him.
It was a festival atmosphere on the trail that day. The historic passenger train that goes along the trail finally began to operate after more than a year idle. That was it's first day. There was also a fundraiser for the trail, put together by Ernie's Bike Shop, a local institution. It was what the poker game was for. I didn't understand how the game was played. I didn't try. I saw another tent just ahead with my new friend, Chris standing in front. Shit, I said to myself, because I thought he was further ahead after I took a long break behind a canal house. I was hiding. "Oh, there you are, Mike! I'll ride with you again!" he declared, so he did. "Where are you camping tonight?" was his first question. I told him I wasn't sure because I wasn't. I almost never am. "I'd really love to have you camp on my property. It's huge, others are camping too." he told me. I politely declined, citing a need to get to at least Bolivar, where I'd have to leave the trail and head east, towards Pittsburgh, although the trail does continue further, to New Philadelphia, and still even further, to Cincinnati, which is the Ohio to Erie Trail. "I really would love it if you camped there" he said, but I was resolved not to. Then there, on the horizon, another tent. I'm saved!
I left Chris at the tent and rode with newfound strength and resolve. Though there's no way to be sure, I think that the area was a hotbed of cult activity. I was being recruited, maybe. I came across another lock house and sat behind it, curled up like the kid in the Shining screaming red room.
I creeped back on the trail after a while and continued. Chris was around, I knew it. So were his acolytes. Would they report my position? I wondered, more serious than not. Then, more trail activity, only it was firetrucks. The trail was blocked. One of the firefighters said there was a fire on the trail, so I would have to go around for a few miles. This is my chance, I thought, so I zigzagged through a series of neighborhoods and finally popped back on the trail, free of my nemesis. The fire threw him off my sent.
It wasn't to be. A few minutes later, there was Ernie's Bike Shop. There was Chris. He drove over with his wife and child. Before he intercepted me, some people from Ernie's did, curious to hear about my tour. They seemed incredulous about my chosen route to Pittsburgh, inasmuch as the hills between Bolivar and Pittsburgh were too formidable. "I'm sure it'll be hard, but it can't be too bad. It can't be worse than getting into Joshua Tree, which I did last December." I told them. They didn't seem impressed. I'd understand if it were motorists citing these concerns, but these were cyclists. I started to second guess my decision, even though I knew many others did it before me. I filled up my water and tried to abscond, but Chris wouldn't have it. He was positively desperate to get me to camp at his cult compound, and to ride with me.
"It be so great to have you there, it's only about eight miles away. Anyway I'll ride with you for a while, should you around the detour." He asked again. Some people don't take a hint, with visible reluctance, I said we could ride for a while, but I was in a rush, which was the truth. I waited and waited, but he kept tinkering, mostly with his cameras. "I want to do time lapse photography for the ride" he said after I asked why he took so long. Enough was enough, I ditched him. For good that time. I'll never know if he tried to catch me, but I rode as fast as I could. I made it to Bolivar, and camped in a construction area were new trail was being built.
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3 years ago
3 years ago