Journey Into Spring

"You drove all the way up there to come down the river?" said the lady. "How fast do you go? Would you like some ice cubes in your jugs?"

"About 20 or 25 miles a day. Thanks, but the ice would just melt. All we need is something wet."

"You must have been in some wild country. Where did you get your water?"

"Up until now mostly from springs. Right out of the mountain. Just like old times."

Though we had feared the worst, Williamsport , to its credit, does not foul the river. The water remains clear and the acid has been all but dissipated. In fact, this lower section is the most vital in terms of aquatic life. One morning, from her vantage point in the bow, Lyn counted 103 of what she classified as "really big fish." Most of them were suckers and bass, perhaps 14 inches long.

Below Williamsport the major highways bypass the flood plain. Some country roads meander along the north bank, connecting villages that were built in the 18th century, prospered in the 19th and have long since become stable in size and expectations. The scene on that side is pastoral and antique. On the other bank it is still wild as the river beats against the last of the big Appalachian ridges—Bald Eagle Mountain. Surprisingly, the lower river still has some respectable white water. It is not created by pitch and speed as in the highlands, but by sheer power. As the current is forced through narrow interisland channels, some heavy standing waves are created. There is no need for maneuvering since these are straight, deep shots. It is a matter of getting set, more or less like riding a bucking horse.

All along the lower river are convincing signs of how strong and savage it is: the remains of a railroad bridge crumpled casually like a cheap toy, gaping cuts in the bank, the front quarters of a Chevrolet wedged high in a tangle of current-blasted oak. There are very good reasons for Williamsport and other communities to have stepped gingerly away from this river, and for fortifying themselves against it. Yet, at least for the visitor, if not for permanent residents, there is something grand about its power and latent savagery.

The West Branch is truly a wild river, though not of the picture-postcard variety. It has never been pampered, protected by legislative acts, or guarded by park rangers. We have had at it ferociously for the better part of two centuries. We have taken our best shots. We have used and abused it as we have few big rivers. It has been scarred and tainted by what we call civilization, but it has not succumbed. It has survived because of its great powers of resistance. It has held us at bay, defended its own wildness. To personify, perhaps outrageously, the West Branch is a river of great integrity, and that is why I have always admired it so much.

Boiling around Bald Eagle Mountain, still demanding that people and their works keep a respectful distance, it powers down to Northumberland and joins the Susquehanna, a more sluggish river, for the final run to the sea.

By chance we finished our trip on the eve of the stern paddler's 50th birthday.