A canal boat at night is a great hulk of hush. Its silence is positively uncanny. A few ripples momentarily disturb the placid surface of the water but as they swirl around the craft they seem to beckon a state of funereal quietude. You can hardly blame the midnight driver of the canal boat for his profane vociferousness in addressing his mules. His voice alone breaks the death-like stillness. After the lock has been passed and the patient animals take up their gait, even he is overcome by the environment and relapses into drowsy silence.
At intervals through the night other specters appeared over there on the towpath and their advent invariably was heralded by the same hair-raising shouts. The noise of cussing the poor mules followed as certainly as the agonizing "low music" during tense moments in a melodrama.
Tardy dawn ushered in a gloomy day. We placed our "canned heat" range on a lumber pile beside the North Branch lockhouse and had our coffee and bacon progressing satisfactorily toward the proper elements of an al fresco breakfast when rain began to fall. We retreated to the boat. The rain continued unabated and we breakfasted on board. Inasmuch as we were obliged to keep the curtains down and tuck the baggage under a poncho, it was impracticable—we thought—to proceed on our journey.
The locktender's office at North Branch has seen service for more than half a century. We can testify to this because after we had sought its shelter and read all the magazines bought on the beginning of the trip we turned to a perusal of the lockmaster's records. These books date back to the 60's and it was fascinating to read on the faded pages the entries for the boats and cargoes of a by-gone era. The boats now operating are distinguished by numbers from 1 to 100, but in the old days they bore names, suggestive, no doubt, of their architecture and other characteristics, or of the ambition of their owners.
Noon brought no cessation of the rain. We ate luncheon in the office. "Star boarders" could not have reported more promptly at meal time. Good appetites were the most encouraging features of this portion of the trip. At 2 o'clock in the afternoon the skies cleared slightly and in a few minutes we resumed our voyage. The three locks at North Branch, Nos. 75, 74 and 73, respectively, were negotiated in less than 15 minutes and we found ourselves on "Oldtown level."
In the language of the boatmen and the denizens of the canal country all geographical distinctions are made strictly "on the level." A "level," we learned, is that stretch of the canal between two given locks. From Cumberland to Georgetown (Washington) there are 75 locks, and consequently the same number of levels, plus one.
There is an ancient and honorable superstition to the effect that the person who sets out on a journey and turns back is certain to meet with disappointment. Ten minutes after we departed from North Branch we remembered that we had left our maps behind in the lockmaster's office. The maps, United States Geological Survey quadrangles, were indispensable and we turned back. Prompt and speedy came our disappointment.
OLDTOWN LEVEL is about 10 miles long. We estimated that we could reach Oldtown village in about two hours. While the idle hours had dragged along in the sleepy hamlet of North Branch we looked forward longingly to Oldtown. The name sounded enchanting and moreover we were told that we could procure gasoline, groceries and our favorite brands of confectionery there. After running merrily about seven miles our motor stopped cold. No amount of coaxing would make it run. Gathering clouds betokened a resumption of the rain. No human habitation was in sight.