Winter Thaw

I took this picture at the farmer's pond, just below the reservoir dam. The ice is beginning to melt.

Rain Run

Dire warnings of an overnight snowstorm failed to materialize, and we awoke today to above freezing temperatures and sunny skies. By noon the thermometer had risen into the 40s, and I was looking forward to the first group long run of the New Concord Runners, a group of faculty who trained together to run the Columbus half-marathon last spring, and hope to repeat. But the press of tests, assignments, meetings and grading that often consumes the last week before spring break had people bailing out, and by two oclock, it looked like the group run was off. On cue the clouds covered the sky and the rain began to come down. It was still in the mid 40s, so I decided to go for a solo run about town nonetheless. It was nice to forgo the winter tights, the longsleeve technical shirt, the fleece, knit cap and gloves I don on cold weather runs, and swap them for shorts, a shortsleeve shirt, a light windbreaker and a ball cap to keep the rain off my glasses.

I set out through my own neighborhood, then wound my way across campus. The rain was light. I was reminded once again that a light rain is a much less pleasant experience when viewed from the dry side of a picture window than it is to be in the midst of it, inhaling the clean, moist air. On campus large swatches of grass were now uncovered, and squirrels raced frantically across the ground, searching for nuts buried last fall. A large flock of ducks had reappeared at the College lake, and were giddy with delight to find a small opening in the ice. Some circled the pond offering celebratory quacks; others congregated on the edge of the ice, awaiting their turn to float and paddle. Thinking about my kayak, propped up on sawhorses in the basement, I was a bit jealous, as I suspect I am still at least a few weeks away from getting back on the water.

I ran past the dorms to the north end of town, completed a lap around Lake Sturtevant, offering a greeting to Dave as I passed his marker. I ran around the schools complex, normally quiet on a Sunday afternoon, but buzzing with activity today, apparently hosting a middle school basketball tournament. Then through the east side neighborhoods: Sunrise Acres, a postwar neighborhood of ranch homes and colonials originally built to house faculty, and Meadowwood, the upscale neighborhood of McMansions where doctors, lawyers, bankers, and of course, football and baseball coaches live. I then crossed Main Street and ran through our old neighborhood on Maple Avenue, a street primarily with much older, modest working class homes.

By the time I crossed Liberty street, I had been running for about forty minutes, and the plan was for a forty-five minute easy run. But five steps past Liberty, something told me to turn around, and head over the rickety wooden railroad bridge south of town, and take on the big double hill that leads up toward the freeway. When the urge to keep going appears, it seems foolish not to take advantage of it. Its appearance is relatively rare. I was feeling really good--not glancing at my watch and counting the seconds until I could stop, but really embracing the run. I flew up the first hill, with little effort until I had reached its crest. When I hit the second hill--steeper and twice as long as the first--it seemed equally effortless the first three-quarters of the way, and by then the sight of the top was enough to pull me to the top. As I headed back into town, along a route that was mostly a gradual decline, I got that feeling all runners crave--that moment when heart and lungs and arms and legs are in such perfect sync you feel like you could keep running forever. I didn't want this run to end.

When I got back to town, I decided to savor this one by running the length of Main Street and back. I ran past Shegog's grocery story and the Dairy Duchess. The rain had stopped, and a cool white vapor was rising from the remaining piles of melting snow. I ran past John Glenn's boyhood home, John's barbershop, the Friendship Inn Bed and Breakfast, the funeral home, the post office, and the William Rainey Harper Log Cabin. The aroma of pizza hung thick in the air, emitted from the three Main Street pizza parlors busy baking up pies for hungry students, returning to campus from a weekend visiting friends or family, and anxious to put off dorm food for just one more meal. I ran past the town veteran's memorial, the Village Hall, the laundromat, the bank, and Johnson's diner. Past the hardware store and the old Johnny Appleseed Inn. Past original National Road homes whose front doors opened practically right into the street. I kept running east until I got to the speed limit signs at the edge of town which told travelers they could now speed up. Then I turned around and ran back the length of Main Street again.

I love this village. I love its vintage feel. Its lack of pretension. Its ordinary everyday American-ness. And there's nothing like a glorious post-rain run to remind me how lucky I am to live here.

Sun and Stars

We had a few days of above freezing temperatures this week. Long enough to melt the ice off the roads, but still leave most of the ground covered in ice-encrusted snow. Today it never climbed above freezing, but was sunny and clear. For the last week it has been either run on the treadmill or don't run at all. Yesterday's six miles treadmill run was only bearable because I had a podcast of "This American Life" on my MP3 player. The brand name of the treadmill I use at the College gym is STAR TRAC. If you read the words backwards they spell CART RATS, which I am sure is a sick joke played by the machine's makers. I certainly feel like a rat running on a cart when I'm using it. But with sunny skies and dry roads, it was time to head out for my first run on the roads in over a week. The two mile run out to the reservoir was exhilarating. Once there, I walked down the still-icy path to the water to have a look and catch my breath. The brief thaw had turned the surface of the lake from snowy to glassy. The discarded Christmas trees still lay on the ice, like stiff dead sailors solemnly awaiting a burial at sea.

I walked back out to the road, and was drawn to the sounds of running, gurgling water spilling down a rill. I stood and watched and listened. Although the temperature was still in the 20s, the sun had warmed the earth enough to begin a steady melt. Given the amount of snow and ice still on the ground, I expect this rill will be flowing into Fox Creek for a long time. It was nice to walk, and I had trouble getting myself back into the run. I jogged a few steps. The sound of water was immediately overwhelmed by the sound of my feet pounding into gravel, the sounds of my labored breathing, the "svvt svvt svvt" sound of my nylon windbreaker moving with each lumbering step. I stopped and walked again. The quiet of a country walk, the increased sensory awareness it brings was so appealling at that moment. Was I just being lazy? The half-marathon is only eight weeks away, and I have a long way to go to get ready for that distance. At that moment, running was an obligation, a discipline. Walking was a vice. Still, "The Ancient Egyptians"--a song celebrating the virtues of walking was playing in my head:

Well the Ancient Egyptians, and the other Africans
The Mayans, the Incas, and all the Polynesians.
All around the world, a long long time ago,
People would walk, where ever they had to go.
They didn't have car keys, and they didn't have roads --
They didn't have those ugly convenience stores, or Texacos
In fact, all around the world, a long long time ago,
people would walk, where ever they had to go.
Well now it's the 1990's, and the gasoline does flow,
but I still try and walk most of the places I have to go
But sometimes my friends will stop and say,
"Hey Frank! There's a bus or a cab over there...
Why don't we go ahead and get in it?"
But I say no, no, no, and didn't you know,
you get to know things better when they go by slow.

I allowed myself the indulgence of a five minute walk, then picked up my pace and ran the rest of the way back to town.

***********

Tonight Katie, Liam and I went to Zanesville to see the new movie, "The Astronaut Farmer" about a guy who decides to build a rocket in his backyard, and launch himself into space. On the drive back, Liam asked if we could drive out to the reservoir, away from the light pollution, and gaze at the stars for a few minutes. We did. Even with a bright half moon in the sky, it was a good night for star-gazing. I stood on the ice-encrusted snow, but every time I craned my neck back to gaze, I increased the weight on my heels just enough to send them crunching through the glassy shell. In fact, anytime any of us took a step, the night air echoed with cracking and crunching. It was a beautiful night, but not a silent one, and very cold. "Had enough stars yet?" I asked Liam. "Sure" was his reply. "Bless you" was Katie's, who wanted to assure him that our backyard hot tub was a much more pleasant spot for star gazing on a cold, cold night.

On the drive back, I scanned the shoulder of the road for the site of a dead Turkey Vulture I had seen earlier on my run. I spotted it, and shined the brights on it to show it to Katie and Liam. "I've gotta get out here with the camera and take a picture of that," I say. "You sure have strange interests,” was Katie’s reply..

New Concord's George Bailey

Yesterday we received a few more inches of unexpected snow. Katie and I took the dogs for a walk through the Hollow to Lake Sturtevant. Here is a picture of the "Lake" in the snow:


The Beckett House nursing home is on the hill in the background. When it is not covered in snow, a smooth asphalt path leads down from the nursing home to the handicapped accessible dock, and also loops around the "lake." East Muskingum Junior High is off to the right hand of the picture, beyond the trees.

Lake Sturtevant more rightly deserves to be called a pond than a lake. It is named after Dave Sturtevant, a longtime professor of Asian History who was a native of Zanesville, and a veteran of WWII. After returning from the Pacific theatre, he joined many other returning soldiers who took advantage of the GI Bill to get an education. After completing his B.A. at Muskingum, he went on to earn a Ph.D at Stanford University in Asian History, with a special focus on the Phillipines. Then he returned to Muskingum to teach, and taught here for about forty years. When I arrived at Muskingum College in the Fall of 1997, Dave was retired, but still around, and he kept an office in the History department suite. Once a year he taught a class on the Pacific theater during WWII. Because he had been retired for several years, few students knew him, so the class drew small enrollments, but all of the students who took Dr. Sturtevant's Pacific War class raved about it. They were especially enthralled by his retelling of his own war stories.

During his forty years at Muskingum, Dave had been a leader of the faculty, but had a reputation as a firebrand and a hell-raiser. But when I got to know Dave, he was devoting most of his energy to making New Concord a better place. He spearheaded an organization called ReNew which worked to enhance the village in many ways. They restored the S-bridge on the outskirts of town, worked for the revitalization of main street by pushing through stricter regulations on signs, buried most of the powerlines, and raised money from private donors to install old fashioned street lights.

During my first few summers at Muskingum College I spent many days in my office working on a variety of projects, and most days it was just Dave and I in the office. Dave was a bit crusty, and it took him a little while to warm up to the new kid. But he spent his days pouring over maps and spreadsheets, and working the phones, trying to sell his vision for a better New Concord to assorted constituencies. ReNew had come up with a plan for additional enhancements to the village, including a network of walking paths and the construction of a new pond and park north of the village. Occassionally he'd pop his head into my office to tell me an off-color joke, or invite me into his office to show off his map, which outlined his vision for New Concord. Dave's gruff exterior melted away when he was showing this off. Suddenly he was a delighted little kid. And he was pretty darn good at getting other people excited about his vision, too. The first phase of trails, the new pond and park, all came together because of Dave's ability to get the Village, the School District, the College, and the Beckett House nursing home to kick in. Some residents of Beckett House can see the pond from their own rooms. In the warmer months, residents of Beckett House are often wheeled down to the lake to enjoy the view. The pond also abuts the school campuses, so science classes of all levels are able to use the pond as a learning laboratory. And a trail through the Hollow connects it to the campus and mainstreet, making it a nice destination for an evening walk or jog.

Dave died shortly after the completion of the pond, and the village decided to name it Lake Sturtevant in his honor. A plaque along the trail which circles it offers a brief biography. I try to make a trip around Sturtevant lake a part of my evening runs at least once a week, and every time I jog by the plaque, I say out loud "Good evening, Dave." I consider Dave Sturtevant to be New Concord's George Bailey. When Dave left this earth, he left behind a better New Concord than the one he first arrived in almost a half century earlier. I never told Dave he reminded me of George Bailey. I suspect he would have responded with a groan or a harumph. He certainly didn't sound or look like George Bailey. He had too much of the gruff old soldier in him for that. But he'll always be New Concord's George Bailey to me.

Thoreauvian Living: New School v. Old School

The February 16th edition of the New York Times reports on a new craze among boomer professionals to "think small" and go minimalist when building vacation homes on their wilderness properties. (Click on the title of this entry for a link to the article.) There's even a "Small House Society" dedicated to promoting the virtues of living in tiny quarters. Companies like Tumbleweed Tiny Homes of California and Alchemy Architects of Minnesota offer luxury homes in tiny packages. So, how do these New School Thoreauvians compare to the original? Here's a few stats:

Old School (1845) Reclaimed and self-constructed by H. D. Thoreau:
Size: 10' x 15'
Materials: Shanty boards, refuse shingles, two second hand windows and glass, a thousand old bricks, two casks of lime, hair, mantle tree iron, nails, hinges, screws.
Total Materials Cost: $26.72 1/2
Transportation: $1.40 - "I carried a good part on my back"
Total Cost delivered: $28.12 1/2
Furnishings: "My furniture, part of which I made myself, and the rest cost me nothing of which I have not rendered an account, consisted of a bed, a table, a desk, three chairs, a looking-glass three inches in diameter, a pair of tongs and andirons, a kettle, a skillet, and a frying-pan, a dipper, a wash-bowl, two knives and forks, three plates, one cup, one spoon, a jug for oil, a jug for molasses, and a japanned lamp.

New School (2007) Factory Built by Tumbleweed Tiny Homes:
Size: 7' x 13', plus loft.
Materials: studs, metal or cedar siding, metal or cedar roof, wood stoop, up to ten windows.
Features: retractile table and vanity, a desk, 100 cubic feet of storage, a cathedral ceiling, a tankless water heater, a shower, toilet, stainless steel counter, refrigerator, sink, a Dickinson stainless steel fireplace, a double burner, and a vented sleeping loft for two. Other features include knotty pine interior wall finish, fir flooring, 15Rs wall and floor insulation, and 8’ x 12&rsquo.
Transportation: $4.00 per miles from Sebastopol, CA to New Concord, OH (2607 mi.)-- $10,428
Price: $34,980
Total cost with delivery: $45,408
Furniture: Whatever you want to buy and can fit in. Ikea would be a good place to start.

Some History

The New Concord reservoir lies northwest of the village of New Concord, near the headwaters of Fox creek. From that relatively high ground, the water flows through pipes into a lower reservoir, just west of the village, where it can be treated and pumped to residents throughout the village. The reservoir was constructed in 1955-56, to meet the increasing demands for water which emerged in the post WWII housing boom and student population boom.

The contract for construction was awarded to Carl Hansen on April 11, 1955. The reservoir covers about ten acres of surface area, but the watershed is about 260 acres. Here is a picture of the earthen dam constructed by Hansen's crew. Here's an image of the newly-constructed basin of the reservoir before it filled with water. The drain is still visible, and the western slope, now covered in grass, is still easily indentifiable.

On the Usefulness of Trees.

The Sun came out today, so I took the dogs out to the reservoir after work. The air was cold but the sky was amazingly blue. The village work crews had been out earlier in the day. The village decided that this year, instead of mulching all of the town's discarded Christmas trees, they'd use some out at the reservoir to create bird and fish habitat. The village workers had dragged a few dozen trees out on the ice, and tied concrete blocks to each one. When the ice eventually melts, the trees will sink where they've been placed, and serve as spawning grounds and a protective habitat for the reservoir's fish. It was nice to imagine that our own Christmas tree, so recently undressed and dragged to the curb, might serve as a happy hiding ground for baby bluegill and bass a few months from now.

There is nothing quite like a blue sky on a frigid day to highlight the austere beauty of deciduous trees in winter. I think I prefer the winter tree to the summer one--when their complex structures are unveiled and highlighted from a distance. Up close, in the midst of the woods, the absence of canopy brings light and shadow onto each tree's distinctive skin, whether it be the furrowed oak or the silvery smooth Beech. But the shagbark hickory is my favorite.

A few years ago, before we cut a trail around the reservoir, I came across a gentleman hacking his way through the multiflora rose with a machete. He was looking for the largest, healthiest specimen of shagbark hickory he could find, hoping to gather some nuts to plant in his yard. I was impressed by his forethought, and his patience. Shagbark hickory is a slow growing tree, and it can be forty years old before it is producing a significant crop of nuts. But once it does, it will often continue to have large yields until it is two hundred years old. This was a man working in the interests of his grandchildren, great grandchildren, and beyond. He wasn't having much luck, which should be no surprise, as the trees typical only bear high yields of fruit about every third year.

The shagbark is commonly found in the oak-hickory forests of the region, but it is not so common to be ordinary and unnoticed. Its distinctively disshevelled bark resembles my hair during class after my morning swim, and it makes it easy for even someone with my limited botanical knowledge to identify. In Thoreau's calendar of Wild Fruits, he includes several entries on the shagbark, including these two:

December 18, 1856. Am told that they sometimes get a dozen bushels of shelled shagbarks from one tree. . .

September 1, 1859. "You must be careful not to eat too many nuts. I one winter met a young man whose face was all broken out into large pimples (or sores) who, when I inquired what was the matter, announced that he and his young wife being fond of shagbarks, he had bought a bushel of them in the fall, and they spent their winter evenings eating them--and this was the consequence."

So, if you happen to stumble across a mature shagbark during a mast year, go ahead and fill your pockets with its fruit. But don't eat too many, lest you suffer the same fate of the poor young man Thoreau encountered in 1859.

A Line From Emerson

"How does nature deify us with a few and cheap elements! Give me health and a day, and I will make the pomp of emperors ridiculous." From Nature (1836).

Thoreau, "A Winter Walk" (1843)

The public schools, and even the College, are closed once again today. I spent much of the day alone in an empty conference room, overlooking a parking lot, watching plow trucks drive back-and-forth, while I graded bluebook exams. But I did take a break to read Thoreau's essay, "A Winter Walk," which first appeared in The Dial in 1843. Much of it has the sentimentality of amateur nature writing, and lacks that contrarian and non-conformist tone he cultivated so effectively in his later writing. Clink on the title of this entry above to read the entire essay. I appreciated this short excerpt about the avenues of exploration winter opens up, as Thoreau discuss how ice gives access to places that water and vegetation deny us at other times of year:

[23] No domain of nature is quite closed to man at all times, and now we draw near to the empire of the fishes. Our feet glide swiftly over unfathomed depths, where in summer our line tempted the pout and perch, and where the stately pickerel lurked in the long corridors formed by the bulrushes. The deep, impenetrable marsh, where the heron waded and bittern squatted, is made pervious to our swift shoes, as if a thousand railroads had been made into it. With one impulse we are carried to the cabin of the muskrat, that earliest settler, and see him dart away under the transparent ice, like a furred fish, to his hole in the bank; and we glide rapidly over meadows where lately "the mower whet his scythe," through beds of frozen cranberries mixed with meadow-grass. We skate near to where the blackbird, the pewee, and the kingbird hung their nests over the water, and the hornets builded from the maple in the swamp. How many gay warblers, following the sun, have radiated from this nest of silver birch and thistle-down! On the swamp's outer edge was hung the supermarine village, where no foot penetrated. In this hollow tree the wood duck reared her brood, and slid away each day to forage in yonder fen.

[24] In winter, nature is a cabinet of curiosities, full of dried specimens, in their natural order and position. The meadows and forests are a hortus siccus. The leaves and grasses stand perfectly pressed by the air without screw or gum, and the birds' nests are not hung on an artificial twig, but where they builded them. We go about dry-shod to inspect the summer's work in the rank swamp, and see what a growth have got the alders, the willows, and the maples; testifying to how many warm suns, and fertilizing dews and showers. See what strides their boughs took in the luxuriant summer, and anon these dormant buds will carry them onward and upward another span into the heavens.


And this description of the ice fisherman:

[26] Far over the ice, between the hemlock woods and snow-clad hills, stands the pickerel-fisher, his lines set in some retired cove, like a Finlander, with his arms thrust into the pouches of his dreadnaught; with dull, snowy, fishy thoughts, himself a finless fish, separated a few inches from his race; dumb, erect, and made to be enveloped in clouds and snows, like the pines on shore. In these wild scenes, men stand about in the scenery, or move deliberately and heavily, having sacrificed the sprightliness and vivacity of towns to the dumb sobriety of nature. He does not make the scenery less wild, more than the jays and muskrats, but stands there as a part of it, as the natives are represented in the voyages of early navigators, at Nootka Sound, and on the Northwest coast, with their furs about them, before they were tempted to loquacity by a scrap of iron. He belongs to the natural family of man, and is planted deeper in nature and has more root than the inhabitants of towns. Go to him, ask what luck, and you will learn that he too is a worshiper of the unseen.

The Salt Fork State Park book is now listed on Amazon.com. It will be published on March 12. My student co-authors are very excited. I think it is a pretty good book. We learned a lot in the process of putting together Cambridge, and were able to improve on that. One of the student co-authors was excited to see that there was a "customer review" of the Cambridge book on Amazon.com, written by somebody named "Mark Twain." She did a little detective work, looking up all reviews written by the said "Mark Twain." Seems his other reviews are on books related to Ohio History, Civil War tours, and kayaking. Hmmmm. I explained to her that if Walt Whitman could write anonymous self-reviews, then I was in good company.

http://www.amazon.com/State-Images-America-Arcadia-Publishing/dp/0738541338/sr=8-1/qid=1171491355/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1/104-4358394-1641504?ie=UTF8&s=books

Snow Day

Schools were closed today in anticipation of a big winter weather emergency. I awoke to only a few inches of snow, but the radio promised that a "wintry mix" would arrive later in the day. I spent the morning working at home, and by noon the College announced it was cancelling all afternoon and evening classes, and sending employees home. Liam and I had lunch and then took a walk out to the reservoir. The snow had turned to a very intermittent sleet, and left a crunchy crust on top of this mornings' powder. We took a shortcut through some backyards and made our way down to Shadyside drive, where this bull was occupying his usual spot. He spends his days exposed to the elements, across the road from the barn, where his girlfriends enjoyed the comforts of shelter. But snow, sleet and rain don't seem to phase this bull much. Nor did my camera's flash. I can't figure out if that stony expression indicates that he's bored, indifferent, or mad.

Just as we arrived at the reservoir, the intermittent sleet turned to steady rain. Then one of the ice fishermen I had met the other day showed up to try his luck. He had recently been laid off work, he explained, and would rather be out here, even in this weather, then home watching Judge Judy on TV. Liam was curious to see how ice fishing worked, so we followed him out on the ice to watch him set up. He dragged a small sled. A ten gallon bucket held most of his gear and also served as his seat. After drilling a few holes and scooping out the slush, he pulled out his fish finder device, a tin of maggots he used for bait, and a small pole with fine filament line. As soon as he dropped the sensor into the hole, the screen showed two lines, one of which, he told us, was a fish. We all stared at the screen while he bobbed the line up and down, trying to get the digital fish to bite. Not much luck. He generously explained to Liam what was on the screen. It just looked like lines to me, and I couldn't make any sense of it. When I asked Liam later if he could understand how to read the scream, he looked at me as if I were an idiot and said "Of course. It's pretty simple, Dad."

The ice fisherman had on a Gore-Tex suit, while Liam and I were in gear much less waterproof. We were soon thoroughly drenched, and had a significant walk back to town. I called an end to the party, wished the fisherman luck, and we headed back into town. On the walk back I was envying that Gore-Tex suit. I bet Thoreau would have loved Gore-Tex. The roads were getting worse by the minute. I would have been hesitant to take my All Wheel Drive Subaru down it. But that didn't stop the UPS driver from coming down the road to deliver a package. I can't think of too many vehicles more ill-suited for these kinds of conditions and this kind of country road than those big brown boxes. Those UPS drivers are crazy. I know, because my brother is one.

By the time we got back to town, we were drenched. Village trucks with snow plows were busy heaving brown slush out of the road and onto the banks of snow that had been bride white just a few hours ago. We retreated to the Jitterbug coffee shop to warm up. All the regulars were there--Philosophy and Religion professors and students. We caught up on the news and learned that plans are in the works for a Pac Man tournament on the vintage Pac Man machine that the coffee shop acquired a few months ago. That could be the event of the month here!

After finishing up our hot drinks and getting back into our still soaking wet coats, we headed home, making a quick stop at the public library, where I checked out a couple of CDs: Norah Jones, Modest Mouse, Coldplay, and Springsteen's Seeger sessions. I think we're in for the rest of the evening. And maybe tomorrow, too.

Running to the Reservoir

Rumors of a snowstorm headed this way, or some kind of nasty mix of snow and ice over the next 48 hours. If I was going to get any outdoor running in this week, today might be the only day. I brought my running gear to the office, and headed out at lunch. It was 27 degrees and sunny, with almost no wind. Downright pleasant. The run out and back to the Reservoir has become my default run. In the winter, especially, it is usually the best bet. Once you get beyond the quarter mile run on the National Road, past the grinding noise of trucks accelerating as they leave town, and turn onto Shadyside drive, it is peaceful, quiet, and virtually traffic free. The road to the reservoir is a patchwork mix of chip-and-seal asphalt and crushed stone. The road runs up the middle of a small valley, sheltered from the fiercest winds, when that is an issue. The first half mile is forested, then it opens up to farmland. From campus to the reservoir is about two miles, so the round trip is four. But on days when I struggle to find motivation, I tell myself my run is only two miles, then a rest to take in the view of the reservoir, some easy stretching lying on my back on the dock, eyes focussed on the sky.

Then a second simple two miler back to town. But I don't even think about the second one when I'm starting out. It's just two miles to my little place of peace.

Of course today, there would be no yoga stretches on the dock, as it is covered in snow. And the patches of compressed snow and ice on the road means that I spend much of the time getting there looking at the ground. It was a slog today. Every small hill seemed to be a strain, and the downhills brought little relief, as they required extra care watching my footing. But I did get there. I walked out on the ice, and found a small corner of the dock that had been cleared of snow, and sat down to listen. The sound of water flowing into the drain pipe was the dominant sound. A low hum of traffic from I-70, two miles south, was noticeable but muted. And assortment of bird calls completed the scene. I can't name any of them by ear, and think that I should probably learn that skill.

Meetings and office hours called, so I headed back over the hill and began the second two mile run. In the woods just north of the S-bridge, I noticed an old stone structure--a wall or a dam--I had not seen before. The best thing about winter is what it reveals that summer hides. It is impossible for a winter walk in the woods not to be a walk of discovery. I stepped off the road and climbed up onto the crumbling rock structure, expecting to find, perhaps, that it was meant to retain water in a small, manmade pond. But it turned out to be an old road bed. Looking north and south from on top of it, you could see the path of the original road, highlighted by the snow. I had run by this spot hundreds of times. In warmer months, the stone structure was hidden, and even were it known to me, crossing over to it would have meant battling through briars. But in mid winter, it was easily accessible, and the simple act of stepping a few feet off the road revealed an airy avenue long forgotten.

The link below shows the route to the reservoir.

http://www.sanoodi.com/route/wkerrigan/reservoir-run/2007-02-13/06-00-00/

Water

The New Concord Reservoir was created for a utilitarian purpose--to store water for use by the residents of the village. The New Concord Reservoir is actually one of two town reservoirs. It is the upper reservoir, and holds about sixty million gallons of water. The 10 million gallon rectangular lower reservoir, tucked behind the town maintenance buildings just west of town, is the primary source for the town's water. The village draws only on the upper reservoir when it needs to replenish the lower reservoir. The water that does not flow down to the lower reservoir in underground pipes spills down into Fox creek, past pastures filled with grazing sheep and cattle, under the New Concord S-bridge, where it merges with the aptly named Crooked Creek. When it is not spilling over its banks and flooding farms and fields, Crooked Creek meanders erratically eastward, in no particular hurry, toward the town of Cambridge, where it joins with the waters of Wills Creek. Muddy Wills Creek takes a scenic tour along the western and northern boundaries of Cambridge, before turning north, then winding and arcing west, before it finally meets up with the mighty Muskingum River fifteen miles northwest of New Concord, then travels southward for seventy miles to meet the Ohio river. If you can't follow that confusing journey on a map, just think of it this way. If you are standing on the earthen dam at the south end of the New Concord Reservoir, the water you see flowing into the drain which empties into Fox Creek, is going to travel in a snail shell spiral completely around you before it meets the Ohio River.

On Saturday we decided that the extended bitter cold had kept us imprisoned inside for too many days, so we decided to drive to Zanesville and follow the Muskingum down to Marietta, where it meets the Ohio. We had a limited amount of time, so rather than following the route of the New Concord Reservoir water, we took the shortcut to Zanesville, travelling due west on Interstate, probably saving ourselves a good sixty miles of meandering by following gravity.

At Zanesville we parked near the beautiful Sixth Street bridge, and walked along the greenway between the old Zanesville canal and the Muskingum River, to view the double locks. The canal was frozen over, but water flowed pretty freely down the river. Zanesville is a city that had a million reasons to exist in the 19th century. It is situated at the confluence of the Licking and Muskingum Rivers, and one of the three rapids impeding progress on an otherwise navigable river, and at the point that the National Road crossed the Muskingum River. Add to this the extension of an important spur of the B&O railroad travelling west from Wheeling, and you could say that by 19th century standards, it was at the center of everything. The late twentieth century, in contrast, has not been good to Zanesville, and the decision by the city's leaders to drive Interstate 70 through the heart of the city and over some its most historical neighborhoods proved a disastrous one. Zanesville today is a place you travel through, not to. Its funky, fascinating, historic downtown, with its rivers, canals, famous "Y" bridge (connecting the parts of the city trisected by the confluence of the Muskingum and the Licking) is largely empty. What passes for "growth" and "development" in Zanesville is a dreary, traffic-clogged ribbon of strip-malls, chain restaurants and big box stores marching endlessly northward. It is a city with 100% potential and 0% promise. In my fantasy vision of Zanesville's future, a fleet of C-130s flies over Zanesville, and a few thousand gay urban professionals paratroop down. They lovingly restore its architectural jewels, open art galleries and sidewalk cafes and convert old shipping warehouses into tony condos. That's all it would take, really.

After admiring the hand-operated double locks, and snapping a few pics, we retreated to the warmth of the car and took a scenic ride down to Marietta, Ohio's first city. There we had lunch at the Coca-Cola museum, and drove up to Harmar heights for a nice view of my favorite Ohio city. I never get bored with Marietta's simple charms. In the spring I hope to get back down here for a day of kayaking along the waterfront, biking through Marietta's many historic neighborhoods, and of course, rest and recovery at the local brew pub. It was a great day, and Katie and I decided we really need to figure out a way to get down here for a weekend for two. Maybe in April.

February 11, 2007

This afternoon I took the three dogs out to the reservoir to run. The sky was blue, the sun was shining, the temperature had climbed into the 20s, and there was little wind. It has been almost two weeks since the thermometer has climbed above freezing, so I knew the ice would be thick enough that I wouldn't have to worry about the dogs, or myself, falling through. When we arrived we found there were other visitors--three ice fishermen were on the ice, dropping lines through six inch holes they had hand-drilled with an awl. Our Cairn Terrier Chris was the first to spot them and to decide it was his job to tell them they shouldn't be there. He ran out onto the ice, barking and pestering, ignoring my calls to return. I was curious to go out and get a close up view, so as annoyed as I was about Chris's bad behavior, it gave me an excuse to go out on the ice and strike up a conversation. The other two dogs, Maizy (our mutt who resembles a miniature Golden Retriever) and Timmy (a rescued Sheltie) followed me out, and proceeded to nuzzle a half dozen bluegills, flopping around on the ice, with their noses. The ice fishermen were from Zanesville, and came equipped not only with the bare essentials for ice-fishing, but also high tech fish finders with LED screens, which told them the depth of the water and alerted them to the presence of fish. They had managed a respectable haul of small bluegills and a few slightly larger bass. After snapping a few photos, and asking a few questions about the thickness of the ice, I took my dogs and left them alone. We did our "usual" loop around the reservoir, shortened a bit this time by our ability to walk around the edges of the pond on the ice, rather than taking the trail that circles the reservoir in the woods. Maizy, Chris and Timmy were excited about this new adventure--walking on water. I would have taken more pics--it was really a beautiful day--but the batteries on the digital camera were dead.