Angels Along the River

AuthorHouse

Contents

The Dream..............................................xviThe Plan...............................................xixDay 1. Beginnings......................................1Day 2. Detours.........................................6Day 3. Sag Wagons......................................14Day 4. Endurance.......................................20Day 5. Gossip and Gift s...............................23Day 6. Rich or Poor....................................27Day 7. The Mayor.......................................29Day 8. Old Women.......................................35Day 9. Fear and Trust..................................39Day 10. Grandparents...................................43Day 11. Touching Back..................................47Day 12. Mothers and Daughters..........................51Day 13. Naughty 'n' Nice...............................55Day 14. An Unremarkable Day............................58Day 15. Politics and Parties...........................62Day 16. Connections....................................65Day 17. Sunshine and Storm Clouds......................69Day 18. Love...........................................79Day 19. The Pleasant Point.............................87Day 20. Fathers........................................90Day 21. Impressions....................................95Day 22. Breaking Bread.................................98Day 23. Religion.......................................102Day 24. History Lessons................................107Day 25. Repeating and Resisting........................111Day 26. America's Finest...............................115Day 27. Equipment and Training.........................119Day 28. Reporters......................................122Day 29. Tensions.......................................126Day 30. Breaks.........................................130Day 31. Attitudes......................................136Day 32. Disappointments and Hope.......................140Day 33. Searches.......................................143Day 34. The Protector..................................145Day 35. Rainbows and Promises..........................148Day 36. Waterfalls and River Rides.....................152Day 37. Surprising Abilities...........................154Day 38. The Children...................................158Day 39. Culling........................................161Day 40. The Antagonist.................................165Day 41. Cold...........................................171Day 42. Friends and Neighbors..........................174Day 43. Endings........................................178Homecomings (The Afterward)............................183Postscript.............................................187The Begats.............................................191A Partial List of Angels...............................195Eating Along the River.................................204Acknowledgements.......................................209

Chapter One

Beginnings

Curled in a ball, I shivered as cold, damp air crept in among the blanket folds and down my neck. Each time I rose to consciousness, I thought how anxious Mary and Ghetel must have been in the sleepless hours before their escape. No more planning. No more training. This was the real thing.

I wouldn't need Janette's travel alarm to wake me—I slept hardly a wink. It was still pitch black when I decided I'd had enough tossing and turning. The light from a small Maglite eased that awkward dressing- while-sitting one does in a tent. I fumbled into jeans and T-shirt, then stumbled out and picked my way across frosty grass to the deserted shower house.

Ah-h-h. The caress of warm water flowing over a naked body. Only 42 days to go without another real shower or bath. It is amazing how special ordinary things become when you think they may be the last. Deliberately, I pulled on a yellow GIRL SCOUTS DON'T LIVE BY COOKIES ALONE T-shirt that was left over from my days as a Girl Scout leader. I liked the message and the Girl Scouts, even if the bigwigs had declined my request.

Trying to save my hiking boots (from what I haven't the foggiest idea), I put on an old pair of Aigners. Wet grass soon soaked through both shoes and socks. My feet were freezing. Idiot! Moisture is one of the prime causes of blisters. In over 400 training miles around my hometown of Bloomington, Indiana, I had never done anything like this. Now, on Day 1, before taking one step, I do something truly stupid. It was not a good beginning.

My two-daughter support crew, Janette and Lisa, struggled to start the Coleman stove while I shivered in the early morning chill. A rosy- pink sun began its climb in a clear blue sky. Good hiking weather. Bacon and eggs slid down easily and began warming my innards. But it took forever to heat water for coffee. While waiting, the girls covered Janette's homemade, cream-cheese, pecan coffeecake with candles. (Though not all 51.) Then, ever so softly, for it appeared we were the only campers awake on the hill, they sang "Happy Birthday, Mom."

Hands on the clock inched toward 7:00. I couldn't give the clock up yet because I had told several people I'd leave between 7:30 and 8:00. I had to be on time, and time was slipping away. The girls were tense. In an effort to reduce the strain, I walked to the edge of the hill. As I looked at the sun-drenched sky, my project became pitifully insignificant when compared with the wonder of a sunrise and the miracle of Mary's accomplishment.

Understanding the real risks of this trip, the night before, I had written a farewell letter to my children, attached a copy of the song "It's My Turn," and cried my tears. Now, on the brink of a final good-bye, I wanted desperately to be close to them. But it wasn't working. Son John was in Indianapolis and son Jerry in California. Janette and Lisa were physically near, but emotionally distant. Through shivers, sniffles, and strangled sobs, I whispered a gut-wrenching plea, "God ... It's almost here ... Please, help me...."

Debbie and I had planned to meet in the campground the previous night. However, arriving after dark, the girls and I couldn't find the campsite the park reserved for us. A quick search in the morning and still no Debbie. In three weeks of marathon telephone conversations, she sounded enthusiastic. However, she canceled every joint training hike we had planned. If Debbie was late, I would leave without her. This was one activity in which I refused to act as someone's mother. Come, follow the rules, take care of yourself, and keep up was all I asked. I wondered how many of the people I had talked to would actually show up.

Seven o'clock and still no boiling water. Park manager Bob Lindy expected me to be at the shelter at seven and leave between seven-thirty and eight. I was not where I had said I would be. As I paced around camp, my nervous tension was showing. Intuitive Lisa offered to stay and break camp. A last check for Mary's essentials: hatchet, blanket and belt, and mine: money, Mace, and MasterCard, then Janette drove me down to the shelter.

A small crowd greeted us. Randy and Linda Barlow, friends formerly from Bloomington, now lived a few miles from the park. Brend a Hartman, the teacher who would walk the first two days and who had arranged permission for us to camp outside the Loder House this night ... if we make it that far. Marsha and Gary Epplen, who were providing tent space and supper on Day 2, came with smiles, enthusiasm, encouragement, and children in tow. A woman with bushy, jet-black hair who said she was a friend of Chip Stallard's pulled up in a white Corvette. A gal with short red hair and freckles smiled in the background. (Years later, I learned she was Patti Dillard, checking me out before joining us in Maysville.)

Just as I had hoped, Mary's family was there in the form of Sue Kennedy, her husband Christopher, and daughters Lynn and Anne, and also Sue's sister Patty Hons. Regina Villers, free-lance writer for the Cincinnati Enquirer, came with a photographer.

Others arrived whom I did not recognize. Each was important. I tried to remember everyone, but there were too many for my brain to take in. Names began to blur. A few names made it onto the yellow legal pad I carried in my backpack. It was amazing. Cold and shivering, total strangers had pulled themselves out of bed, early on a Saturday morning, just to see someone (me!) begin a walk.

John Arrasmith appeared, wearing authentic, Native American clothes he had made himself, in the style of those who lived in the eastern part of the country. His right eye and forehead were painted black, his left eye white, and he carried a rifle. He wore a blue shirt, brain-tanned buckskins with feathers, and braided decorations. Representing the natives who raided Drapers Meadow and kidnapped Mary, her sons Thomas and George, and her sister-in-law Bettie, he was also a symbol of those who had raised Thomas in such a good life that he was reluctant to return to his parents. To protect me from those who said that I couldn't do it without offending the Indians, this man with Native American blood in his veins said, "I'll be there for you." To keep that promise, he left his daughter's hospital bedside. Though a stranger, he felt like family.

With all the laughter and hugs, it looked as if a long awaited reunion was taking place, not a gathering of strangers. On this day, Mary's family and the Native Americans moved the pain of the past into the background. They met with goodwill and mutual admiration.

Warm feelings. Freezing air. Chattering teeth. Tingling toes. To thaw out and get acquainted, we took turns piling in and out of Randy and Linda's van. Seven-thirty and still no sign of Debbie. I would wait until 8:00 and no longer.

Concern for what lay ahead had me strung tight. I knew I could walk 20 to 30 miles for one day. But could I do it day in and day out? Could Debbie? (If she came.) I kept asking people to check on Debbie. Had she called? Had she checked in? If she backed out, the way she had on all other planned hikes, I might as well stop this dawdling and start.

In the middle of the hubbub, Sue called everyone to attention. Out of a paper bag she pulled a white sweatshirt with bright red lettering emblazoned across the front:

THE LONG WAY HOME 1755–1987

and on the back:

IN MEMORY OF MARY INGLES

It captured the essence of the project, and I had another clothing layer. People seeing it would understand the reason for The Walk. With brimming eyes, I struggled for words of thanks; then the crowd broke out in a rousing, "Happy Birthday." Fifty-one is a great age.

Janette walked off for one last Debbie search. Silently I called for her, Come on, Debbie. Time is running out. At 8:00 I'm out of here with or without you.

Excitement mounted. Families and individuals were deciding who would walk the first steps, yards, or miles as part of the historic event. Sue Kennedy, her daughter Lynn, and sister Patty would walk Big Bone Lick Creek to the Ohio River. On the spur of the moment, Gary Epplen asked to walk. Why not? He was providing tent space tomorrow.

My watch showed 8:00. No Debbie. Disappointed, I turned to leave, just as Janette ran up, excited and breathless. "She's here! She'll be right down!" Tired of cooling my heels, I thought, She better hurry.

Janette explained that, arriving after dark, we had missed the WELCOME DEBBIE AND ELEANOR sign on a reserved campsite. Debbie had been where she was supposed to be, but had forgotten about the Indiana/Kentucky time difference. As Debbie sat on the "john," her mother-in-law ran in yelling, "Hurry up! She's leaving. NOW!"

Being late or waiting for someone (after I've made an effort to be on time) is a pet peeve of mine. It was after 8:00. I paced. I fretted. If she was coming, where was she? Janette insisted, "She's coming, Mom. She's coming."

After what seemed an eternity, a van drove up. A brief flurry of good-byes around the door. Then up walked a young woman in her late twenties. She wore blue jeans and sweatshirt, a small day-pack across her back, and a camera slung over one shoulder. A black, felt hat flopped over long, dark brown, wavy hair. She looked shy, scared, and sad. "Are you Debbie?" "Yes." "Let's do it." With that brief greeting, Debbie and I turned, stepped out of the parking lot, and headed toward Big Bone Lick Creek. An Indian, holding a rifle, stood off alone, watching.

Before reaching the trees, I noticed Debbie's reddened eyes and her efforts to hold back tears. Only then did I realize that, like Mary, this young mother walking out of Big Bone Lick had just turned her back on her young children.

Walking beside Debbie, I put my arm around her. The tremors I felt were not from the cold. Could she force herself to walk away? Softly, so no one else could hear, I asked, "Are you all right?" Through a sniffle came, "Yes. I'll be okay." "Are you sure?" A slight nod of her head. "Then let's go."

"... with an anguish that surely would kill her, she rose to her feet and stumbled, tearblinded, to the edge of the camp, her lungs quaking for release, her throat clamped to hold down the awful wail of despair that was trying to erupt.... Oh dear God help me! Mary's heart felt the way her loins had felt when the baby was being born. But ten times worse ... They were far into the woods before she could see or hear or feel anything, and what she became aware of first was the old woman's strong arm across her back helping her along...." (FTR, p. 156)

Chapter Two

Detours

"... when they were perhaps a fourth of the way back down the shore of the tributary, they were dismayed to find still another obstacle before them: a deep creek flowing across their path into the river. Mary sighed. They would have to make a detour from their detour. This was worse than ever she had expected." (FTR, p. 167)

Over and over on Day 1 as we hiked away from Big Bone Lick, we asked people, "How far is it to Rabbit Hash?" No one would admit they didn't know. Everyone tried to be helpful. However, we soon learned that "about five miles" was a guess. In a car, five miles is five minutes. Being off a mile or so is no problem. On foot, "about five miles" is an hour or two, depending on terrain, how tired you are, how many blisters you have, and how many people you have in tow.

One fellow suggested, "If you cut through the woods, you can save seven miles." Save seven miles? What happened to "about five miles"? We were on a treadmill running backwards! We collapsed beside the river in Rabbit Hash at 3:00. Three hours late. That evening I estimated that we had covered about 28 miles. A tough first day. The lesson I learned was to be skeptical and believe only a woman who had just clocked it by car or a grizzled, old farmer who'd lived there all his life.

On Day 2, determined to put the "about five miles" curse behind us, I carefully studied road and topographic maps. It looked like three miles of shoreline from Route 20 in Petersburg to the beginning of Route 8 (known locally as the Mary Ingles Highway), just north of I-275. The Captain Moore House, shown on the 1883 map, still stood at the beginning of Route 8. Easy to reach by car and close to the river, it would be a convenient place to meet Janette and Lisa for lunch.

The first night out, thanks to Brenda's connections, the Loder House, a house-turned-restaurant, allowed us tent space in its yard beside the Ohio River. This morning, with stomachs full of its chef's steamy breakfast and anticipating a pleasant river walk, Debbie, Brenda, and I headed out from the nearby boat ramp. On the opposite bank, Indiana's blue-green hills, brown cornfields, and smoke-spouting power plant looked enticingly close. Upriver, a light fog blurred the outline of the I-275 bridge. Just beyond the bridge another power plant stood across the river from the Moore House. Three miles. An easy hour.

The firm riverbank was a treat, even if we were stepping over and around tires, plastic bottles, trees, and dead fish. Around the first river- bend, reality hit. Hard-packed, level sand gave way to slippery, slate-like rocks the size of tabletops. Stacked at steep angles, they threatened us with a twisted or broken ankle at every step. So we moved inland, only to fight dense undergrowth.

Narrow animal trails were a treat to follow though they inevitably petered out. At times they led to a tree canopy that retarded the growth of bushes and seedlings. A thin rabbit trail felt like a four-lane highway. More often, an animal trail led to a tangle of blow-down and trash that we'd stumble and scramble over or through. Then we'd stop short, captivated by masses of yellow flowers waving their petals atop six-foot- tall stems. A stranded, rundown houseboat made us edgy. Did it run out of gas, or had drug dealers parked it in this God-forsaken place?

Briars and tree limbs caught and tangled my blanket. Was the undergrowth this thick in 1755, or did the virgin forest provide Mary with a four-lane highway? Did she struggle over these rocks, or were they erosion-preventing measures put in after the dams? Was this day harder for us than it had been for Mary and Ghetel?

An hour passed. The bridge appeared no closer. We seemed to move in slow motion, like one of those nightmares where you are trying to hurry but it feels as though you are slogging through Elmer's Glue.

At noon, two and a half hours after leaving Petersburg, we walked under the I-275 bridge. Janette and Lisa would be worrying and waiting at the Moore House, but there was no way to communicate that we were okay. Although I anticipated a short walk to where they waited, we needed food and rest. So, while cars whizzed overhead and boats played on the river, like Huck Finn, Tom Sawyer, and Big Jim, three women laid back to rest on large rocks. According to the maps, we were over halfway there. One more hour. The worst was over. The power plant Janette and I had seen when we had scouted part of the Kentucky route loomed large and close. It was right across from the Moore House.

Cool morning air gave way to muggy afternoon heat. Sweat ran in rivulets. Wool from the blanket stuck to and scratched my sticky skin. Debbie lost the lens cap to her camera. To protect the camera, she stuffed it in her hat. But holding the camera in one hand and the walking stick in the other left her no way to hold on as she slipped, slid, and clambered over boulders. A loose rock, slick surface, or misstep, and we'd be dealing with a broken bone or someone in the river.

Suddenly, Brenda slipped, and with a cry fell flat on her back. Her arms and legs stuck straight up, waving and struggling like a giant, overturned insect. My heart stopped. Then she burst out laughing. We were fine. Our collective hearts rejoiced when a cultivated field appeared through the trees. The end was close! Near the field was a house. Not the Moore House, but we had broken through to civilization. It couldn't be far now. Then a man stepped out of the doorway, strode toward us, and erased all joy.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Angels Along the Riverby E. M. Lahr Copyright © 2011 by E. M. Lahr. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.