The River
When I was a boy my family owned a pair of river boats. The Merlin was a thirteen-foot sloop that was my father's pride and joy. Her deck was a pale turquoise (if that is a color) and her hull was bright white. She was quick and agile in his able hands. The DoxBox, on the other hand, was a blunt instrument of a boat. A small cabin cruiser with a barge design, it had no pointed bow to cut the waves. Picture in your mind the Landrovers used in Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom that aired back in 1960’s through the 1980’s. Boxy and crude, but very durable. We had the river version of that. I remember how we would crash into oncoming waves from other boats, especially when we were up and planing; we would literally bang over them. Writing about these two boats I feel it necessary to refer to the well-made and nimble Merlin as a “she” while the loud and bulky DoxBox absolutely was an “it.”
The DoxBox was our vehicle of escape during the hot summer weekends and the Allegheny River was our road out of town. Downstream to the south was the busyness of Pittsburgh. Eventually the confluence of the Allegheny with the Monongahela formed the Ohio a “The Point” downtown. I don’t remember Dad ever going so far downriver. The city and the traffic is what he was escaping. Lock # 2, which was down by Highland Park, was as far south as I can remember us venturing.
The lower seventy miles of the Allegheny had a total of eight locks that accounted for the rise and fall between Pittsburgh and East Brady. These eight dams that make the river navigable were put in back in the 1920’s and 30’s. We shared the river with the constant stream of barges loaded with gravel, sand, or coal. They looked so far away when I was a kid with their diesel engines humming and their props churning up the green summer’s water. In my 20’s I returned to this childhood stomping ground. It was hard for me to believe how narrow the river was. The barges were smaller. The bridges lower. I wonder what the river looked like before the locks were constructed. Were the rapids long and stretched? Were there waterfalls? Did the families of the towns that chose the river’s banks of our modern maps have Native American predecessors?
We got to know those riverbanks from the weekends of cruising and sailing. My favorite focus was fishing. I spent hours with my line in the water at the ends of our dock. I don’t think I caught anything other than catfish. I remember my dad building up my hopes of actually catching a muskie as they were reported to inhabit the northern end of the river. They definitely were in the reservoir above the Kinzua Dam. That was a world away as the northern part of the river lacked the depth our DoxBox required. But all I ever caught upriver were more catfish…brown bullheads. Their smooth dark brown skin was more like a great salamander than a fish. To a ten-year old, it was the next best thing to Heaven catching them in tiny coves on the backside of tiny islands. The timeless Zebco 202 combo was the standard river rod n' reel for ten year-olds. Mine was used a lot during those summer months.
It was a big deal the weekend my dad and I did a sleepover trip up river. We weren’t much for family vacations, so this was special. Out of this came my first real tall tale about the fish “I almost caught!” Before my dad awoke, when the steam was still on the glassy water, I hooked a four-inch sunfish, which was exciting in and of itself in that it wasn’t a brown bullhead. My imagination kicked in as I lifted the little panfish from the sleeping water…what if a muskie was tracking it all the way to the boat only to explode from the beneath as I lifted the panfish. What if?
Even thought the DoxBox's draft was very shallow because of its barge design, we could only go as far as East Brady. Hitting a rock would be catastrophic to our plywood-hulled DoxBox. Summer water levels were seldom high. I remember my sister and I being posted with our feet hanging over the bow to peer into the clear shallow water. Our job was to make sure that our river journey didn't end in catastrophe. But honestly, I can’t remember ever calling back to Dad, “Veer left...port, umm...starboard!” Maybe our job was just to feel important.
When I was eleven, soon to be twelve, we moved from the Allegheny and our friends north of Pittsburgh. The DoxBox found a resting place on Scotty Doud’s property. Scotty and my father were friends; they did “guy things” together like riding dirt bikes and cutting wood. From there the DoxBox never left in one piece. It sat for years, rotting away, season by season. But the Merlin came with us. The eastern part of Pennsylvania has its fair share of lakes and reservoirs. So, before retiring the her to the lower corner of our yard, my father was able to enjoy a few last seasons of whitecaps and the pull of a full sail. He eventually took up flying. After his passing, a local who was passing by noticed her. He turned out to be an enthusiast. Knocking on my door, he asked about her. I offered her to him for free seeing his interest in restoring her and getting her back to the water. He insisted on giving me something for her; I took his fifty dollars.
I have never been back to East Brady. My memories of the river have been greatly enhanced by the enticements of Google Earth. Technology has enabled me to revisit the winding ribbon of olive green that snakes past the small towns and under bridges. I love the 30,000 ft. view of things. To zoom in from beyond the clouds and recognize the very bridges we passed under and the coves we actually fished is an unprecedented treat for me. But my memories are framed by some sort of melancholy. I think it is about wishing to be ten years old again and about the simplicity of those summers on the Allegheny.
— R.R.Watt