Journey Into Spring

The West Branch accounts for 6,990 square miles of the Susquehanna drainage. When it floods, it can have a quick and vicious temper. I have seen August thunderstorms send it raging over its upstream banks. However, it has been less destructive of human life and property than some other components of the Susquehanna simply because there are fewer people along its course. This holds true especially in the up-country, which is sparsely populated; in many areas there are fewer people than there were a century or more ago, reflecting the gradual depletion of the basin's two principal resources, timber and coal.

All through the West Branch country there are corduroy logging roads now rotting and being converted into compost; old mine shafts being filled and broken by slides; breached millraces that are now being used only by trout; collapsed bridges traversable only by raccoons; villages that were once prosperous towns. The West Branch basin of the Susquehanna may not be the best place in the world to be if you have to earn your living there, but it is a great place for wilderness and all the things that go with it.

In terms of topography and history, the obvious place for beginning a descent of the West Branch is the village of Cherry Tree, about 30 miles from the springs that are its official source. Cherry Tree was something of a boomtown during mid-19th-century logging days, being a convenient place to commence driving logs downstream and for rafters and jacks to carouse when they were not working in the woods or on the river. It is still a pretty, shaded village, but the river is merely a 30-foot-wide stream, badly silted and muddied. Quite obviously, Cherry Tree now has not much regard for the West Branch except to use it as an informal, and probably illegal, dump. And, except in times of flood, the stream here does not hold enough water to float a canoe. By ten miles or so below Cherry Tree, at McGee's Mills, the West Branch has received several infusions of water from tributary creeks, and it has leaped over rocks and gravel bars, rolled on and aerated itself many times. Thus the river has been purified.

McGee's Mills is another former logging village, but one which has shrunk to a hamlet consisting of a few old houses. Among the remaining 19th-century structures is a covered bridge that no longer bears traffic but is retained for its charm and antiquity. A lane leads down to the bridge, and the area around it is an informal park shaded by big pines—a nice picnic spot and fishing site. It is also a very good jumping-off place. The banks slope gently down to the river and it is not necessary to dodge traffic while unloading gear. However, the bridge is not far off the beaten track. As Lyn and I unloaded our gear, down the lane rattled a modishly painted van out of which emerged a fashionably bearded, sandaled, bandannaed young man who was carrying a three-foot pine plank. He immediately said, "Wow, far out—a canoe. I'm into martial arts in Altoona , but I had a grungy week. I told the old lady I had to get out in the country and get my head together. I ripped off this board and I get anybody I see doing anything cool to sign it. You have got to sign."

"What are you going to do when it's filled with names?" I asked. "Split it with a single karate chop?"

"Hey, man, be serious. This is going to be one of the best things I own. I'm going to hang it up, and when I get down I'll look at it and think about today and the people and that will bring me up."

From McGee's Mills to the mouth 200 miles away, the West Branch, except for a few roiled and poisonous stretches, is crystal clear. It is so clear because it flows over rocks and because there is not much loam or farming land or living room on the ridges it passes. Also, in certain places the clarity comes from impurity, from infusions of acid mine waste, which kills organisms that make water murky. The West Branch is as clear as an Arctic river or a big spring, even in 20-foot-deep pools.

About 30 miles below McGee's Mills the West Branch is a big trout stream. It is very shallow and crooked, writhing against cliffs, wriggling through gaps, around boulders, gravel bars and ledges. Riffles are almost constant, and there are some fast chutes and short drops but no formidable rapids. It is entertaining but not dangerous white water. All of the problems met in heavy water are there, and all of the downriver techniques can be practiced. However, the penalties for error are not very harsh. In big white water, if you select the wrong stroke, miss an opening in the rocks or try to force maneuvers in the current, you may be swamped, even drowned. The shallow West Branch reminds you of your mistakes, but gently—you get a cautionary bang from a rock on the keel or at worst end up stuck on a ledge and have to get out and pull your canoe free.

Lyn said at the start, "I haven't paddled on white water for a long time. Maybe I'm not so good anymore. If you yell at me, I'll yell back."

"You'll be all right—you had such superior early instruction," I said modestly. "Anyway, I never did yell that much—just coached forcefully."