Wisecracking Across America - 38. Chapter 38

Saturday, June 19, 1999

"This is why the Civil War was so hard to fight," I told Tom.

We were rambling on one of those completely overgrown roads, both at the sides and above.

"What do you mean?"

"The whole area once looked like this."

"Too bad it still doesn't."

It was pretty, if isolated---all dense trees, separating almost hidden pastures. In another place, one that almost mirrored this though was in Lower Manhattan during the Revolution, two enemy armies missed each other, passing less than a half-mile apart.

Still, I knew approximately where we were, not far outside Washington. Then the road narrowed further, to barely over a lane. But just when I thought, despite the truck, I might be able to time travel, a band of spandexed cyclers pedaled by.

I knew we'd missed a turn. But since we were tightly bordered by the Potomac on Tom's side, and suburbs beyond the trees on mine, I wasn't worried. Besides, we had a full tank of gas.

Suddenly, we crossed a small plank bridge, passed a boarded-up brick cottage, and headed straight into the river. "Stop!" I suggested.

A sign near the water read Edwards Ferry, though it seemed a long time since that had gone. The former dock was now a concrete boat launch, and a dozen parked cars gave proof it was also a good spot for fishing.

While Tom let the dog explore, I went to examine what I hoped was a detailed map, posted on a bulletin board near the bridge. Instead, I found Lock 25 of what had been the Chesapeake & Ohio Canal.

Only the steep, boulder-lined lock remained, the dirt-sided canal having been covered with neatly-mown grass at one end and overgrown trees at the other. At the bottom of the cement basin, a rectangle of dark water grew green stuff I knew would ooze if I touched it. And I bet there'd be snakes. There was a second cottage too, taller than the first, this one red brick rather than whitewashed, and roofless, though mostly shielded by trees.

I reported to Tom. He replied the dog had first splashed happily in the river's shallow edge, only to swiftly retreat, beaten back by squiggly black things. Tapdpoles? Guppies? I couldn't remember the difference. (Okay, tadpoles are baby frogs; and guppies, hobby fish.) Moments later, a young couple appeared. Either they'd been hiking, or taking advantage of the woods.

"How do we get to a larger road?" I asked.

"The 270?" The guy grinned, brushing broken leaves from his hair.

"Something a bit smaller."

He had a more accurate map, and I quickly memorized a route. Though it was barely a dotted line---in reality, probably dirt or gravel.

"It's just a few miles," I told Tom. "If we hate it, we can turn back."

The road was nearly a tunnel, the overhanging trees joining right above our heads. Again, I could picture Yanks and Rebels, and hoped I didn't get caught in the crossfire of my imagination. When the road came to an unexpected T, I told Tom, "Left," knowing we could only meet the river again. Instead, we hit Turf Country. Sod everywhere. Green and wet and growing

"Where do they sell this stuff?" Tom asked.

"I don't know. Maybe it's the government's. It can't go far." I'd worked with sod a bit, and knew that---stacked---it tends to generate heat, rapidly spoiling.

"Do you really know where we're going?" Tom soon asked, seeming less concerned than curious.

"Kind of."

I was hoping to find a working ferry, but knew there was an alternative bridge and paved roads nearby. We were still driving on small gravel, doing less than fifteen miles an hour. Though a fairly new fork-lift and piles of wooden pallets stood in the field to our left, so I wasn't worried about being lost. And just ahead I thought I saw a stop sign.

It was a stop sign, near a plywood arrow indicating White's Ferry. And that was suddenly before us, along with a car-filled parking lot, a small general store, and a barge-like boat that seemed too recently beached to have worked the old canal. Plus, there was a short line of traffic.

"We may just catch the ferry," I laughed. Though if we hadn't, it would have been back in twenty minutes. At this point, the Potomac was dollar-toss wide.

The ride cost three bucks---five, round trip, said the hand-lettered sign---and the boat carried two-dozen cars. A young, though hard-looking man in a grease monkey shirt collected the fare, in cash. On his pocket was embroidered Captain Roger.

"No credit cards here," I joked. But no new catamaran to fund either. The ride was short and smooth, with barely enough time to take pictures.

On the Virginia side, the road quickly became a four-lane highway, cutting through a new-looking subdivision of mini-mansions on well-landscaped, maybe acre-sized plots.

"Who lives here?" Tom asked.

"Probably the CIA."

Actually, doctors and lawyers, or so my D.C.-based cousin told me afterwards, he being one of them. Along with the occasional anchorman or baseball star.

"You know why people don't know each other anymore?" he'd gone on. "It's the electronic garage door openers. We go from our cars, directly to our houses. Without ever speaking to our neighbors. That's why we're not friends."

It made sense, but I don't know: in basementless California, we cram our garages for storage, then park on the street. And we still don't know our neighbors.

192 miles