CRUISE OF THE AURORA
CHAPTER IV.
IN WHICH WE HAVE AN ENCOUNTER WITH THE
INDIANS.
THE amount of water is daily increasing, thus
lessening our fears for the safety of our canoe
bottoms and doing away with the probability of a
carry. The intricacies of the channel have now become
a matter of much study; first the channel will shoot
to the center of the river, and then as suddenly
double back on itself to the opposite shore. All its
windings must be followed or we go aground, and an
enforced wetting of feet follows. Islands are now
becoming numerous, and often we find ourselves on the
wrong side and are compelled to get overboard and
track back in order to make the main channel, down
which we often rush not more than two boats' lengths
apart. It frequently happens that the foremost canoe
may not make the necessary sharp turn to right or
left, and consequently goes aground; then the
companion boat comes down with a rush, and things are
for a moment or two in a rather mixed up
condition.
Again the sound of falling waters is borne to our
ears, and in a moment more we go shooting down the
incline, with a knock on the starboard bilge and then
one on the port side, followed by a rolling stone
under the canoe bottom which feels as though it had
come through her planking. We round to for the night's
camp, and soon the fire for frying our bacon and
boiling water for our coffee is blazing brightly,
while we are preparing our couches for the night's
rest, which we have honestly earned. Since starting on
the cruise I have devised and made of ordinary
unbleached sheeting, a little shelter tent. One of the
painters is stretched from mainmast to mizzen as a
ridge, the little tent is drawn over it and fastened
to small screws beneath the gunwale of the canoe. This
tent, although of such light fabric, did not leak a
drop during the entire cruise. A thunder storm broke
upon us with flashes and crashes that were terrifying,
and did away with the possibility of sleeping.
Nevertheless, I, at least, was comfortable, snugly
rapped in my blankets, while the canoe tent covered
her entire length and breadth, thus protecting from
wet or injury not only the crew but the cargo. No
bright sun greets us on the morrow, but a steady
downpour of rain, accompanied by a strong wind. Do we
get wet? Oh, no; we don our oilskin suits, and with
sou'wester covering the head and rubbers the feet, we
defy the rain and the mud. We cut two poles and pitch
our large fly near to the canoes, and build a little
fire at the leeward end just within the shelter of the
tent. The building of the fire is facilitated by the
use of some small slivers of fat pine, a stock of
which we have never been without since starting.
All Snug in a Gale.
With the fire at the leeward end of the tent,
a draft is made and all smoke carried off, leaving us
to enjoy the comforts of a roomy tent, as we are
seated on the camp chests taken from the canoes. Let
the rain pour, we are comfortable; everything is under
cover, we have even picked up enough drift boards and
slabs to partially floor our house. Barnacle sings a
"shanty," "Rolling down from old Mohea." He is good at
that; his life of twenty years on the ocean has
perfected him in the art of shanty singing and yarn
spinning. What with singing, story telling, bringing
up the log to date, etc., the morning is comfortably,
even pleasantly passed, and noon is upon us ere we are
aware of it. There is usually a change in a storm
between eleven and two o'clock. "Between eleven and
two it will tell you what it will do," is the old
saying. By the time our mid-day meal was finished the
rain had ceased and old Sol was sending his rays
through the cracks in the clouds. As the rain has been
heavy, the chances are very favorable for a rise in
the river, so we concluded to pack up and look for a
camp on higher ground. There is no tracking to do now,
but a push off into the current and away we go on
water which is from ten to twenty inches deep.
We have not passed the region of rifts yet, for
there is one less than a quarter of a mile ahead of
us, and now we are at its head. It is more of a fall
than we anticipated. One can see for a long distance
down hill and then lose sight of the river as it
passes around the base of the mountain. We have now
run into a spur of the Allegheny range, and dark
evergreen-covered summits can be seen for long
distances in all directions. Ha! what is this coming
up the river, through the very swiftest part of the
rift? A canoe, beyond all doubt. A nearer view
discloses a craft of the aboriginal type -- a pine
dugout of no mean model, with fine lines and an
exceedingly smooth skin. It is poled up the swift
current by an Indian. I hail him. No reply comes from
his firmly-closed lips, but instead a look of
curiosity overspreads his countenance as he holds his
canoe fore and aft the current. I venture another
question. Still no reply. I can hardly believe he does
not understand me. I whistle to a small dog seated in
the bow of his canoe, evidently as much interested in
the strange craft before him as his silent master.
"How much will you take for the dog?" I
ask.
"Ten dollars; want to buy him?"
The prospect of a sale opens his lips. But he
evidently sees by my manner that I have not ten
dollars to throw away on a worthless cur, and throwing
his weight into his push, goes on up stream, now and
then making a thrust at a fish with his pole at one
end of which, I now discover, he has a spear. Three
miles further on we came across a group of Indians
practicing at a mark with a rifle, and I am reminded
of times gone by, as a bullet sings uncomfortably near
me as it flies to its distant mark across the river.
Soon I am surrounded by a horde of "Corn Planter"
Indians, curious to inspect the little boat. They
express much astonishment when told that this is a
canoe, and say, "Funny can-o."
We See a Bear.
These were the descendants of the Seneca
Gy-aut-wa-chia, the Corn Planter, principal chief of
the Six Nations from the Revolution to 1836, when he
died at the age of about one hundred years.
The day being now far advanced, a camp was made at
the mouth of Bear Creek, and we decided to make an
early start on the morrow that we might reach Warren
before dark. No tent was pitched; we rolled ourselves
in our blankets, and with feet to the fire, were soon
oblivious of all surroundings. A bright, crisp air
kisses my cheeks and tingles the end of my nose as I
kick aside the blankets in the morning, just at the
crack o' day, and discover that the rain of yesterday
and the previous night has added at least two inches
to the height of the river. This is encouraging; every
inch helps. Before the sun had gilded the summit of
the mountains we were five miles below our last
night's bivouac. Barnacle spies something moving below
us, and we rest on our paddles to watch it, as we
drift silently down. It has a young one by its side.
It is a bear, beyond doubt, as we can now see it
traveling on all fours, as it roots among the grasses
and weeds along the bank of the stream for its morning
meal. The young one meanwhile is standing on its
haunches, and seems to be gnawing something which it
holds in its paws. As we have nothing heavier than a
.32-caliber revolver, in the shape of shooting-irons,
we decide not to attack bruin, but putting all our
strength into our strokes, to come upon her suddenly
and witness her terrified retreat. With a yell we
approach her. Now we are within a hundred yards of
her. She does not flee, but slowly turning her head,
gives us one glance and then resumes her grubbing. Our
bear proved to be an Indian woman digging roots to be
used for medicinal purposes, and the cub is a small
boy eating the skin off some herb plant.
A moment more and our thoughts are diverted from
land to water, as our boats are drawn at a lively pace
through a narrow channel close under the high,
rock-bound bank on our left, while at the right there
is a low island fringed with willows, whose boughs
almost touch the water. Down we go as though through a
mill race, when the channel suddenly shoots across to
the island, and before one can think I am swept under
the overhanging branches, when off goes my hat and
then a loose hatch, and unable longer to use the
paddle, owing to the low branches, I find my canoe
brought up with a bang against a log. Barnacle sees
this, and profiting by my experience goes flying past
free from all obstructions, and a moment more I see
him sweep around a bend and he is lost to view. Five
minutes are spent in recovering the hat and hatch, and
I am off after Barnacle. There he is, just around the
bend, but what on earth is he doing? Tracking as sure
as he's alive, for he has missed an abrupt turn in the
channel and is on a bar. It is now my turn to profit
by his experience.
I keep to the left and am swept along at racehorse
speed. Whew! Look at the boulders, their black heads
showing above the surface in all directions.
Down the Rapids.
Where is the channel? I don't know, and there
is no chance to stop now and study the current, I must
go where it carries me and trust to luck to get out
safely. I catch sight of two big boulders with their
heads reared above the foaming waters at the base; I
must avoid them if possible; quick, or it will be too
late; a strong stroke to starboard is followed by a
quick back stroke to port, but it is no use, and as
the spray flies into my face, blinding me for a
moment, I am swept down the current through the
whitened water past numberless rocks of all sizes,
just missing that one and slightly, touching this,
until I come upon the two big fellows that are right
in our course. I can't avoid them both, I must strike
one or the other of them and then over I go. One hand
drops its hold on the paddle and grasps the stern
painter just as she strikes her starboard bilge on the
lower rock. I make a leap for its slimy surface as the
canoe swings broad side on, and find myself up to my
armpits in the water; the force carries my feet from
under me, and canoe and captain go down stream
together, tossed about by the savage waters and banged
against the merciless rocks until we reached the pool
at the foot of the rapid, some hundred yards below. I
climb out on a flat rock in mid pool, and looking up
the hill down which I have made such good time, see
Barnacle among the rocks, his canoe rocking and
rolling, the spray flying from her bow as she comes
down off a sea as though she were a thing of life. She
is heading directly for the rocks. I wave my hand
frantically to the left, but too late; he does not
even see me; and the next instant the Comfort is high
out, almost full length on the rock, her skipper
sitting silently viewing the situation. He knows what
to do, he has been in the same sort of a fix before.
Carefully holding the canoe with one hand, with paddle
and stern painter in the other, he steps out upon the
rock and eases his craft off, and as she swings clear,
nimbly springs aboard and in a moment is by my side.
Together we smoke our pipes as we drift quietly along
the smooth current.
As the sun hides behind the mountain we are off on
a fairly fast current, which sooner than we had
expected brings us in sight of the town. A hail from
the shore, "Are you the men as is goin' to the Gulf of
Mexico?" is answered in the affirmative; and while we
gulf-bound paddlers get overboard and haul over a bar,
our interlocutor goes townward as fast as his legs
will carry him. Over the bar, we are again in deep and
slack water, and as we leisurely paddle on, are more
than surprised to see a fleet of eight canoes, one of
which is dexterously paddled by a lady, heading
directly for us. Salutations are exchanged, and we
find ourselves guests of the Warren Canoe Club. A
short visit is made in the pretty town, and we bid
adieu to our kind entertainers.
At Tidioute, on the following day, we lay in
stores, consisting of potatoes, onions, beans,
beefsteak and sausage. Here Barnacle meets an old
shipmate, and in their reminiscences together they
sight a whale, man the boat, give chase, harpoon and
tow the monster to the ship's side, and would have set
about "cutting him in," did not the hour demand our
return to camp.
Struck Oil!
We are soon in the petroleum region; and on
the river banks, and away up on the mountain sides,
rise the skeleton frames of the oil derricks, with
their groanings and creakings, and steam and smoke. It
is in the middle of the afternoon that we pass the
village of Tionesta, with its three graceful spires
outlined against the dark green of the mountain. All
day we have been battling against a head wind that has
come in gusts so strong at times as to cause us to
miss a stroke of the paddle now and then. It is raw
and penetrating, and we gladly welcome a suitable
location for the night's camp four miles below
Tionesta. As we sit about the cheerful campfire,
sheltered from the wind by a screen constructed of our
sails, we are visited by two gentlemen, who entertain
us with tales of the days of the "oil excitement,"
when to this vast region the money seekers flocked as
to California in '49. To the "oil regions" men came
from all parts of the world, with varying amounts of
capital, and invested in oil land, oil wells,
machinery, etc. Towns sprang up in a night; hotels and
gambling saloons were built; oil exchanges
established; mercantile houses opened; theaters and
dens of vice planted. By night and day, on all sides,
was to be heard the sound of hammer and saw. The laws
of State and society were set at defiance, and riot
and bloodshed were of almost daily occurrence.
Pointing to the opposite side of the stream, one of
our visitors said: "Do you see that fine residence,
with its graveled drives, bordered by the well-kept
hedge? Do you notice the substantial outbuildings, the
general air of prosperity and comfort? The owner of
that place was poor -- poor as a man and poor as a
farmer, when the oil excitement reached this locality.
Oil was found on his farm, and lots were bought at
fabulous prices, until his entire farm was sold in
small lots and bored full of holes. He became the
possessor of an immense fortune, and now he is
enjoying it, a prudent and benevolent man. Now there
is a man on Oil Creek, who one morning found himself
elevated from following the plow to the possession of
hundreds of thousands of dollars. Before one short
year had flown by, he had squandered the entire
fortune with evil companions, in gambling dens and
profligacy. Today he is working for thirty dollars a
month."
On the morrow we launch and go dashing down grade,
facing a cold, drizzling rain that feels as though it
would penetrate to the very marrow, and makes the
hands ache and fingers tingle as if the paddle were a
bar of ice. But we push on. Every day is of importance
to us now. We can afford to loiter a little after we
have reached the balmy atmosphere of the South and
have left behind us the frost-laden winds of the
North. After a five hours' run, a portion of which was
through some lively but easy rapids, we sight the tall
spires and chimneys of Oil City. It had not been my
intention to stop here; the water front of a busy town
has few attractions for a stranger canoeist; but wrong
judgment caused us to follow a channel which
terminated at a bar directly opposite the center of
the city, and our introduction to its citizens was
made in bare feet, with trousers rolled to the knee,
as we hauled the canoes over the bar with its
accumulation of rubbish, which is scarcely less than
that of Salamanca.
Oil City.
I slip and narrowly escape a fall upon the
oily landing-plank below the railroad bridge, and make
my way through a crowd of curious spectators, leaving
Barnacle to tell them the story of our adventures.
After receiving congratulations and good wishes, we
strike for the opposite shore, and are almost
immediately caught in the current, now augmented by
the black and oily waters of Oil Creek.
CHAPTER V.
OIL ON THE TROUBLED WATERS.
THE increased volume of water sets at rest fears of
being compelled to portage, that most disagreeable of
all alternatives to the average canoeist. We can no
longer look over the side of our canoes and see
beneath the long grasses as they sway to and fro and
bend with the current; nor watch the fish as they hold
themselves against the swiftly flowing stream, or dart
away. All this is changed now, and the kaleidoscopic
effect is on the surface of the water, which is
covered with an unruffled layer of oil, the leakage
from hundreds of wells and tanks from the mouth far up
to the headwaters of Oil Creek, and for many miles
along the river down which we have come. It has a
beautiful effect, with the sun shining upon it, the
broken clouds, the high hills and densely wooded banks
are all reflected in the many hues of the rainbow,
while little billows of gold roll away from the bow of
the canoe as she quietly cuts her course. This effect,
pleasant to the eye as it is, has a most disagreeable
effect on the senses of smell and feeling.
The Ruins of Reno.
All creation hereabouts is coated with oil;
and soon the paddles, canoes and even the clothing of
the crews are besmeared and discolored by it. It
penetrates the canvas uppers of the rubber-soled
slippers and eats its way into the pores of one's
skin. We gather wood for the fire, but when lighted,
it sends up a heavy volume of black smoke, which,
falling through the damp atmosphere, covers all things
with a soot that tattoos face and hands until they
resemble an Indian's. We cover up the frying bacon and
baking johnnycake. Nevertheless, in spite of all
precautions, the food tastes of petroleum, as we
handle it with oil-impregnated and soot-stained
fingers.
The 13th of October dawns, with all things
enveloped in an almost impenetrable fog, and we are
forced to remain, fog-bound, in camp until 9 o'clock,
for the danger of running rapid and unknown waters at
such a time is too great to permit our launching.
Finally the fog lifts, and we are again on the waters,
and fly down a short rapid into a smooth reach, and
come upon a scene of desolation and ruin, such as has
never before met my eye. Before us is a large village
of decaying buildings with tottering chimneys,
regularly laid out streets and board walks, even the
remains of a railroad depot, but no sign of life save
one small column of smoke which issues from a rusty
stovepipe thrust through the gable end of a barnlike
building. Here, something less than twenty years ago,
the oil prospector had sunk his well and "struck oil."
Within a week, men had flocked to the new oil region;
a surveyor had laid out a town; lots had been sold;
roads had been cut, and by day and night the work of
putting down wells went on. Buildings were erected;
families moved in; hotels, stores and a bank were
opened, and a railroad was constructed. In less than a
month the wooded point had been transformed into a
flourishing town. On all sides rose the tall derricks;
long trains of cars came laden with empty barrels and
carried them away again filled with oil. But this very
site is today one of ruin and desolation. We see only
buildings with sashless windows, doorless entrances,
their decayed piazzas supporting saplings that have
forced themselves in their vigorous growth through the
rotting timbers. The straight, broad streets are
overgrown with briars and bushes. Nothing of the
railroad remains but the caved in embankment. The
overflow of the river has undermined the depot, which
now lies a mass of ruins. All this because new oil
regions have been discovered where production can be
carried on at much less cost than here, and thither
the inhabitants of the mushroom town have flown This
is the history of Reno. It is an example of leaving a
good thing for a better.
Again we hear the musical sound of falling waters,
and prepare for the little foam-flecked waves that are
to wash our decks, and make a mild attempt to wrench
the paddle from our grasp. It is little more than a
rift and is divided by an island at the foot.
Barnacle, standing in his canoe, surveys the course
ahead of us and will take the right side of the
island, believing there is more water there, but I
prefer the left side, possibly because I am nearer
that shore; and we separate, each going his own
way.
Down a Raceway.
I leisurely paddling along pay little heed to
my surroundings. I discover that my boat is being
rapidly drawn close in shore so that the overhanging
bushes prevent me from using my paddle, and I am
conscious that I am being swept along at a rate that
is dangerous should my boat come in contact with an
obstruction. On through the overhanging branches I go
until a clear space allows me to use the paddle for a
backward stroke or two to gain time for a survey of
the course ahead; but the powerful current has me
within its grasp and I go shooting down an incline
walled on either side by logs and planks which reach
above my head. I am deafened by the roar of falling
water, and an instant more the Aurora leaps into space
and dives head first into a whirling, boiling pool,
the waters of which are forced along the deck until
they strike the Captain full in the face and against
my paddle with such force as to wrench it from my
hands, leaving me trembling with excitement and
concern at its loss. Grasping a hatch, I manage to
throw the canoe's head around in time to catch the
truant double blade as it is being whirled about by
the eddy, and in a twinkling I force the Aurora's bow
against the yielding gravel bank. Where am I? What
have I done? It requires some seconds for me to
comprehend the situation. It frequently happens on
streams of the character of the Allegheny River, that
short dams are built connecting one side of an island
with the mainland at a suitable mill site, the
overflow going down on the opposite side of the
island. At the foot of an old dam of this description
I now find myself I have been shot through the disused
raceway. Fortunate for you, Aurora, that there were no
iron spikes projecting from the sides of that narrow
passage, nor huge rocks at the mouth, or you would
have had your nose bruised to say the least of it.
Half a mile below, around a short bend, I find
Barnacle with a bright fire blazing, while he is
engaged in pitching the tent.
"Why, Doctor, have you been lost? I
was just thinking of going in search of you."
I don't tell him about the dam and raceway, I
reserve the narration of that experience until some
time when I want to amuse him.
The tent pitched, the canoes are placed beneath its
shelter, and I haul out from beneath the deck the bag
containing the vegetables; a half dozen potatoes, two
or three onions and a like number of turnips are
washed, peeled and thinly sliced, while Barnacle cuts
up the small piece of pork and drops it into the
boiling water, to which, after about ten minutes, is
added my contribution of vegetables, and when all is
well cooked we sprinkle in a handful of corn meal,
stirring the mass rapidly until it is thickened, and
our supper was steaming before us. Before it is fairly
disposed of we are forced to beat a retreat to the
shelter of the tent from the fury of a thunder shower,
which comes rolling up before we realize it. It soon
passes over our heads, booming and crashing. Stepping
out of the tent, we lift the broad slabs that we had
thrown over the fire at the storm's approach, and
discover that they have shielded the coals; and
throwing on a few pieces of dry wood taken from
beneath the shelter of the tent, we soon have a
cheerful blaze, around which we sit and smoke our
pipes, and then rolling in the warm blankets are soon
snoring away with such force that each is awakened and
charging the other with disturbing his rest.
Franklin.
It is not until ten o'clock the following
morning that the thick fog lifts sufficiently to allow
our putting off in safety, but before mid-day we have
rambled through the streets of the oil refining town
of Franklin, at the confluence of the French Creek
with the Allegheny River.
© 2000 Craig O'Donnell
May not be reproduced without my
permission.
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