It’s early morning; the rising late summer sun peeks over the water of the C&O Canal. Geese fly in formation overhead. A Great Blue Heron stands motionless, waiting for breakfast to swim by. Turtles, stacked on a half submerged log, warm themselves. The wildlife of the canal is awakening and will soon be joined by runners, dog walkers, bikers, photographers and others attracted to the serenity of the place. No matter the weather, from winter’s harsh winds to the gentle breezes of summer, a community of people comes to the canal for a respite from the busy streets only blocks away.
For the first 19 years I lived in Bethesda, the canal was something I heard other people talk about. We lived near downtown Bethesda, and I wasn’t even sure how to find the 185-mile canal. But when we moved to a home near the towpath four years ago, the canal became an extension of my backyard, my personal sanctuary. I found multiple paths and bridges that beckoned me to the canal, and most days now I run there. My mileage changes— the weather is finicky or I’m tired—but one thing remains constant: the sense of belonging to something magnificent.
As a photographer, I find that almost every run on the canal produces a picture in my mind. I marvel at the changing colors of the water—sometimes brilliant blue and occasionally the green and brown of camouflage. I often wish I had loaded my camera gear onto my back instead of putting on my running shoes. Usually, when I return with my camera to photograph the heron I’d seen gliding over the water, silhouetted against the striated gray rock, the creature is gone, the image destined to remain only in my memory. It is a lesson that beauty is fleeting and sometimes is captured only in the mind’s eye.
I am not alone in my reverence for the canal. Strangers pause to marvel over a remarkable bird or the way sunlight reflects on ripples of water. We stop and chat, share a story or two, appreciate the vista. It doesn’t matter that we might not know last names; phone numbers are rarely exchanged. Like the changing scenes along the canal, membership in the community of the canal is never static.
I know Bob and Ginny Highbarger as the mushroom hunters. They surprised me one day when I saw them strolling toward me with Ginny cradling a large, white, beach ball-size sphere in her arms. It was a delicate puffball mushroom, harvested along the canal in anticipation of dinner. Whenever we meet, we chat about morels, bittersweet or other edible delights the Highbargers have found. Whether or not their hunt is fruitful doesn’t matter. Walking is the objective, and they’ve walked the towpath for exercise for 40 years.
Tim Hirt, an occasional running pal on the canal towpath, finds the clear air and serenity cathartic. During a recent run, he shared with me his journey through divorce and the deaths of two wives, twice leaving him the single parent of young children. The vibrancy and rhythms of nature on the canal energize him to train for 50-mile races, and those runs have helped ease Tim through troubling times that most will never know. We joke that our hour-long runs, talking all the way, are better therapy than the couch and less expensive. We both believe the natural world of the canal has a unique ability to inspire a sense of balance that invites an openness and trust in people.
I’m always happy to see Tom Ilich and his dog, Murphy. An engineer by trade, Tom has a passion for photography and filmmaking. Our conversations about the light or his latest film are always refreshing. Tom masterfully entertains Murphy with a tennis ball while talking about his latest film project, Prospect Park. The large park in Brooklyn, N.Y., was designed by Frederick Law Olmstead and Calvert Vaux, and Tom’s film was made to help fundraising efforts there. Murphy, despite his miles on the canal and endless fetching, hasn’t been able to stay trim, it seems, so he’s on a green bean diet.
During my runs, I frequently see people who are walking the length of the canal. The five Sloggers for Sudan I met one day were walking 200 miles to raise money for health and education clinics being built by the John Dau Foundation in southern Sudan. They were nearing the end of their journey when I encountered them at Mile 10. Their goal was to hike the distance without food to draw attention to the problem of hunger throughout Sudan. Their faces were filled with the luminosity that comes from fasting, but their pace was snail-like.
On a brisk winter day a year ago, I met a group walking across the country. They started their trip in Delaware in January of 2008 and hoped to reach California last fall.
Along the way, they planned to walk the 6,800-mile American Discovery Trail, which passes through 15 states and is the only nonmotorized recreational trail that runs coast to coast. Each walker was raising money for a cause: breast cancer, Alzheimer’s disease, Hugs for Humanity and neurofibromatosis. As I joined them for a bit, I noticed that one of the walkers wasn’t wearing gloves. She had lost them along the trail, and it was a cold, windy day. I gave her mine—a recent Christmas gift. It was a small contribution, but my sense of community grew by virtue of our chance encounter.
I know many canal devotees only by the greeting we share as we pass on our search for endorphins, tranquility and grace. We exchange a slight nod, the index finger wave of the Midwestern farmer, an eye-to-eye connection or the same “hello, how are you?” every day. By being there, we are part of a community of people who are nurtured by the natural world of our backyard, the C&O Canal.
Cindy Steuart is a photographer, freelance writer and board member of the C&O Canal Trust.
