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Click on the green dots to take
a photo tour of the day's journey to the valley |
By Mike Uva
On a crisp, blue Saturday in October,
I join my wife and the rest of the Hotel Bruce staff
for a bike ride along the Cuyahoga Valley Towpath Trail.
We meet at the West Side Market in time
to witness a gang of youths excitedly tormenting a rat
that has wandered into the sunlit Market Square. Woe
to thee, vermin! One ruffian kicks the rat into the
street, and the poor animal is promptly flattened under
a car tire.
Unsure if this is an omen of good or evil,
the six of us pedal across West 25th, over the Lorain-Carnegie
Bridge and toward the ISG Cleveland (formerly LTV) steel
works.
One member of our party has made this
trip from Ohio City through the industrial Flats to
the Towpath “scores” of times. He points
out landmarks along the route, including a nondescript
brick building that once housed John D. Rockefeller’s
earliest business enterprises.
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Soon we are dwarfed by the dark and elaborate
steel factories. River pollution here measures in the thousands
of pounds each year, and the adjacent neighborhoods suffer
from persistent soot and a foul sulphuric smell. But this
afternoon the engines of industry have slowed to a crawl and
the air smells okay.
We’re stopped in the middle of the road
snapping pictures, oblivious to a tanker that coasts towards
us until its horn startles us from our photo-op. We move off
the road, and the pavement shines like oily gray Naugahyde.
Along the circumference of a nearby fenced yard are trailers
full of scrap metal that reflect the sunlight like tinsel.
We climb a steep hill and casually trespass behind a warehouse
for a view of the horizon and the valley.
Soon we’re back on tidy residential streets
that skirt the working-class neighborhoods of Slavic Village
and Newburgh Heights. We pick up the Canal’s
trailhead just past Washington Park.
Some history: The construction of the 308-mile
Ohio & Erie Canal (1825-32) drastically shortened the
trip from Cleveland (Lake Erie) to Portsmouth (Ohio River).
The resulting boom in commerce saved Ohio from bankruptcy,
and within two decades of its construction, Ohio became the
third most prosperous state in the U.S. Eventually railroads
made the Canal obsolete, and severe flooding put an end to
its use.
This afternoon there are plenty of pedestrians
and cyclists enjoying the towpath where horses once dragged
barges of grain along the water. Preparations are underway
for the 13th annual Towpath Marathon. In Valley View, a stone’s
throw from Rockside Road, the paved concrete turns into tightly
packed dirt and crushed stone.
This is where I accidentally ride over a green
snake—the second animal fatality of our trip. I am sad
and anxious, but I ride on. Should I have stepped on the snake’s
head and ended its misery? Maybe.
The landscape along the trail is varied—forests,
wetlands, and fields. This is much different from the terrain
we crossed minutes before in the Flats. We see turtles and
herons. We stop and eat smokies purchased earlier from the
West Side Market and apples.
In a few hours, we’re just north of Peninsula,
coasting into the driveway of the area’s only hostel,
Stanford House. This historic farmhouse sleeps 30 and has
a huge kitchen, and, at sixteen bucks a night, it is a sweet
deal for lodging.
A friend has already arrived with a car full
of food. We park our bikes by some picnic tables and take
in the view: A serene field beside an enormous barn and the
forest in the distance. Before dinner we play a halfhearted
game of Wiffle ball on the wet grass, minding the deer droppings,
which resemble piles of coffee beans.
More friends arrive by car. In the fading light
we feast on several varieties of grilled, encased meats. A
mild-mannered Vegan staying over from Detroit joins us, and
luckily, we have salad and tofu dogs to offer her. As night
falls, we head over to the fire pit to roast marshmallows
and make s'mores.
A fat raccoon stalks nearby, clearly interested
in our chocolate. We see the silhouettes of several deer in
the moonlight. We feel close to nature. Sitting by the fire
inspires a deep craving for beer, but (and you SHOULD know
this before you hop on your bike to undertake this 30-mile
ride) alcohol is verboten
at the hostel. So we drive to a bar in town and enjoy some
tall pints.
Back at Stanford House before the 11 p.m. curfew,
we’re exhausted and satisfied with the day’s travels
and companionship. The hostel has a rule that boys and girls
sleep in separate rooms. Nevertheless, my wife and I huddle
against the cold night under rented sheets, and soon I’m
dreaming of rats and snakes and water.
Bruce home
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