OLDTOWN, I believe, was called Oldtown even in its younger days. I believe also that now in its boast of municipal veneration it looks younger than it did in its youth. The wrinkled visage of great age is in strange contrast with its modern affectations. Personify it and you would have the picture of a centenarian doing a fox trot. Oldtown is one of the oldest settlements in western Maryland and it dwelt on in a kind of proud senility until West Virginia went "dry." Being on the border Oldtown possessed a situation of peculiar strategic value. It afforded the opportunity for the establishment of an exceedingly "wet" outpost, and the opportunity did not go begging. In consequence the chief enterprise of Oldtown is slaking the thirsts of West Virginians from many miles up and down the Potomac. The structures that domicile these establishments form a cluster of new buildings that gives Oldtown something of the appearance of a boom town in the west. A sincere opponent of the liquor traffic would be justified in saying that Oldtown is in its second childhood.
With many thanks we declined the hospitality of the whole-souled lockmaster and his family and cooked our dinner in a drizzling rain and "tinkered" on the motor until after midnight. The knowledge that we were among friends enabled us to make ourselves comfortable for the night regardless of the weather.
In the morning we were awakened by a call from Mr. Carter. He came to give me "a lift" with the motor. As a last forlorn hope I gave the flywheel a twirl—and it went! We made all haste to depart and before the sun had reached the mountain tops we were under way. With good behavior on the part of the motor "Sometub" is the spryest young boat you ever saw, and on this Tuesday, July 18th, we made our record run. The sky was cloudless and out in the meadows we watched farmers and harvest hands sweltering in the broiling sun, but in the shade of the stately trees that form an arch over the canal in this region we enjoyed a delightful atmosphere. Steep cliffs enclose the north bank of the canal and over these in luxuriant profusion were seemingly endless brambles of blackberry vines burdened with luscious ripe fruit. For luncheon we skirted the cliffs and picked a dish of berries which with crackers and tea enabled us to have a unique and delicious repast without tying up the boat.
Our logbook for this day contains nevertheless many entries of enforced stops. Wild grass growing up in the bottom of the canal checked us frequently and necessitated removing long coils that choked the propeller. Shortly after noon we reached the tunnel which carries the waters of the canal for seven-eighths of a mile under one of the lofty ridges of the Alleghanies. The channel is barely wide enough to allow the passage of a single craft and we knew that we must hold the right of way or back out in case we should meet a canal boat. The tunnel has no lights and when you get into its depths it is a veritable black hole in the ground.
Fixing our red and green running lights we started bravely in, but after going a dozen yards we struck windrows of grass and weeds which made it impossible for our propeller to turn. There was but one thing to do, and I climbed out on the narrow shelf of a towpath and took the end of the line while my better, and on this occasion, less nervous half, caught up the paddle and steered. The towpath in the tunnel is intended only for mules. In many places are mountain springs whose icy waters trickle down through the old brick walls and transform the towpath into soft mire that is knee deep. It was the longest seven furlongs I ever trod and I came out of the tunnel with a feeling of profound respect for the canal boat mule.
Our cruise during the remainder of the afternoon was delightful. Here is the wildest scenery in the upper Potomac valley and there are few settlements. The locktenders were the only persons we saw for hours at a time and the locks were few. Likewise on this part of our run we passed no boats. We felt real neighborly toward the train crews on the Baltimore and Ohio and Western Maryland railroads when they condescended to look at us as they sped past. For miles, however, no railroad was in sight.
A COUNTRY store keeper at Little Orleans, who dealt in everything from women's "fashionable gowns" to fresh fish and from "near beer" to gasoline, enabled us to continue our voyage without delay. From him we purchased a supply of gasoline, oil and tobacco—three important items for the "engine room." When the motor is out of order the consumption of tobacco is particularly heavy.
In the twilight we passed the village of Pearre and at dark drew up alongside the dock of the Woodmont Hunting and Fishing Club. Dinner was late this night but the weather was perfect and no fashionable restaurant could have offered more inviting surroundings for the diner with an appetite whetted by a day of toil in the great outdoors. We sat in the boat and used the dock for a table. And we would not have exchanged the privilege for the finest mahogany ever turned out!
We were in Dixie now, sure enough. On the clubhouse porch up on the hill a party of young people were holding a dance which was enlivened by singing oldtime songs that recalled our presence in the beloved Southland. As two tired voyagers dropped off to slumber they heard the sweet strains of an inspiring melody that floated on the still night air far across the Potomac hills—