rollin' on the river

Last weekend my father, uncle, and I went to watch an annual canoe race on the Red Moshannon Creek. The Moshannon Creek (in Central Pennsylvanian dialect: ‘crick’) runs through several small towns on its way to the West Branch of the Susquehanna River, which flows east until it merges with the Susquehanna, finally flowing south and draining into the Chesapeake Bay.

Although not a huge affair, the event attracts quite a number of people. Spectators and participants alike inundate the creek’s banks at the Peal Bridge in the hamlet of Grassflat, where the race begins. The racers range from the serious kayaker to the “weekend warrior.”
Some come decked out in dry suits and helmets, with long sleek vessels, or stubby, maneuverable kayaks to see how many seconds they can shave off of last year’s time. Others come for a casual float, with plenty of beer weighing down the canoe and a planned pit stop on an island at the entrance to minor rapids.

The drive took us through classic mountain territory. We were lost, of course, and wound up on unmarked dirt roads many times. When looking for the Peal Bridge, we tried following the flow of the stream through the hills and woods, flanked by sagging wooden houses emblazoned with black and orange “BEWARE OF DOG” and “NO TRESPASSING” signs. My dad suggested stopping to ask for directions, to which my uncle involuntarily jerked the wheel and replied, “Haven’t you ever seen Deliverance?!” Finally, after crossing the county line for the fourth time, we pulled into a driveway. My dad was elected to approach the bearded, bandana-ed man who was wiping down his truck. He returned with directions from the amused man that included landmarks such as ‘Old Schoolhouse Road’ and ‘Cooney’s Bar.’ We joked the rest of the way about the wild goose chase we were probably just sent on.


But we made it in time for the start of the race. There were no reasonable parking spaces along the dirt lane that wound downhill to the bridge, so we shoe-horned our way into a cubby between two SUVs, our nose half-pointing into the road. The ground was covered in a brilliant array of canoes and kayaks and it was rough picking our way down to the bank. The bridge above us was out of the question, a wall of flesh pressed against its crumbling cement rail. As each heat took off, the banks cleared of boats and the audience trickled downstream to the finish line.

Eventually we, too, headed for the end of the race, just at the Snowshoe town border. There was considerably less excitement here and we spent the rest of the time gazing with waning interest at the racers pulling one-by-one out of the creek. I ran into the father of an old friend, and the distraction was enough to clinch the end of my race experience. The four of us had a pleasant chat and then it was back into the car for the return home. As we drove back to Houtzdale, I spent the time daydreaming about a kayak and a backpack....