2- Exodus 7:20
I
I know a river far to the east of here where the fish slip through the streams of the sky, and casually part clouds with their caudal fins. One can lay belly-down on the rough-textured surface of a floating dock and watch as they cruise by with massive dignity; they are reminiscent of great Chinese dragons ribboning through the atmosphere, bewhiskered and Oriental. Their large milky-opaque eyes are steel-blue, heavy-lidded, and strangely wise, like blind seers.
The carp are not native, but were imported from China where they have been specially bred for centuries and symbolize grace and strength. They swim lazily through the summer waters of the Susquehanna River, colossal in length and girth, the sturgeon of eastern aquasheds. In the bright, robin's egg blue of June mornings, they come close to shore for spawning. If the light on these mornings is right, it becomes difficult for the observer of these bottom-feeding giants to see the muddy brown bottom of the river, and thus one sees instead the overhanging dome of cerulean reflected over the gently gliding carp. It is then that it is easy to believe that one is not looking downward into water, but upward at the universe, and there are fish living in the sky.
II
It was on many of these days that I came down to the Susquehanna, first lying nose to the water to soar through the upper air currents with the carp, and then to cast my line outward in search of them. The best carp bait is leftover food: the greasier, the better. Fatty bits from grilled steak works nicely, but I prefer day-old chicken skin that, once bent onto the hook, retains it shape for repeated casts.
Carping is not something you do if you want a lot of 'action'. It takes patience. Once you cast your line, you might as well lie down and get a tan while you're waiting; I've fallen asleep on the dock before with my pole gripped loosely between my hands. You don't need to pay too much attention really, as you don't need to watch a floating bobber and can let your mind wander so long as you keep a finger resting delicately on the line to feel for the fish. Touch-fishing is my favorite way to fish, simply for this reason. You can watch minnows and ducks, and daydream, and still be technically doing something.
Carp hit the bait hard and run with it. It's always surprising, especially if you are napping or daydreaming. Nothing, nothing, nothing; then suddenly your pole is bent over and the reel is screaming as yards of monofilament are pulled from it. You have to work the fish slowly into shore, as they are big and strong and like to fight. It's best to let them wear themselves down. They also like to swim directly underneath the dock you are fishing off of, which makes them difficult to catch in ropy fishing nets and haul their bulk up to the dock for inspection.
The last carp I caught was two feet and probably eighteen pounds; a gorgeous sleek, shining monster glistening green and red, and flapping its heavy tail in protest to dry air. It's barbels were an inch long, and imbedded in its thick fleshy lips were three other hooks. This carp, like the others I had caught before, became strangely passive once out of its native element, and lay in the tangle of net only heaving to breathe as its own weight crushed it into the hard splintered wood. I removed all of the hooks with needlenose pliers and rolled him back into the oxygen-rich water.
III Carp are certainly not the only inhabitants of the river, as it wends its way through the Appalachians, but are one of the most appreciated non-game fish. Also making their home in these waters are walleye, muskellunge, large- and smallmouth bass, chub, blue and channel catfish, perch, the occasional trout, and assorted panfish. There used to be shad and river eels also, but commercial over-fishing and damming reduced both these species to almost non-existence. The river has been dammed for hydroelectricity since the 1830's, and the eel walls are still in place up and down both branches.
Eel walls are V-shaped stone walls facing downstream in the shallows, immediately obvious to any observer. The river eels would swim into the point of the V on their annual migration to the Chesapeake Bay, and become trapped. Fishers could then just scoop up the wriggling, slimy masses by the bucketful; it was not unusual to catch a ton of eels a day in the early 1900's. Church-sponsored eel suppers used to be quite popular along the river, or so I've heard.
American Shad used to be so common that it was considered a crucial food crop in Pennsylvania to both the Native Americans and the colonists; however the construction of hydroelectric dams on the river blocked migratory routes, and as a result hundreds of miles of spawning ground was lost. Aggravating the problem was the pollution and silt added to the water by coal mines, logging companies, and industrial development, as well as over-harvesting at the mouth of the Susquehanna by Maryland fisheries. By 1920, there were no more shad in the river.
Restoration efforts to reintroduce shad to the river did not begin until1998, and the newly established populations seem to be thriving.
IV
No one knows what the Susquehannock tribe of Native Americans called themselves or the river they lived by and depended on. Their language was lost so long ago that there is no record of it, and the name "Susquehanna" is actually Algonquin, and means "muddy river." (Another Algonquin name for the area was "Shamokin," or "place of the eels". but as we've seen, this is no longer appropriate.)
Early unstable relations with white settlers led to the eventual slaughter of the Susquehannocks, that much is clear, but accounts of how and why vary. In one account, the last fourteen were hatcheted to death by their white neighbors, who would receive a bounty on the scalps (never mind that the Susquehannocks were considered a friendly tribe); in another, more personal story, my ancestors killed them in the Sugarloaf Mountain massacre on the outskirts of Cunningham Valley.
My great-grandmother lived in the same general area her entire life- stretching from 1906, when she lived at the base of Sugarlaof and her family owned the Valley, up to today when she sleeps eternally but a few miles from the Susquehanna River-and had forgotten more of the area's history than most people ever get the privilege to know. She lived for a time in a small valley between the river and a mountain known as Council Cup, which is unusual in that one side was broken off, forming a series of enormous reddish cliffs. Council Cup, the old woman told me, is so named because that was where the Indian chiefs met on nights of the full moon to dream dreams and smoke peace pipes and talk about the white people. It was considered a sacred spot to the natives and cursed by everyone else.
But there are no more Susquehannocks. They are gone, and now people hang- glide off Council Cup, and built in the shadow of this sacred place and reflected in the shining water of the Susquehanna River is a nuclear power plant.
My great-grandmother died in the summer of 2003. The history that she lived has faded even further into obscurity.
V
The Susquehanna River drainage basin covers more than thirteen million acres of land, and is the second largest watershed on the East Coast; almost fifty percent of the freshwater of the Chesapeake Bay flows south from New York through this mighty river, compared to the Potomac's measly two percent contribution. In fact, geologists believe that the entire Bay was formed by the Susquehanna, and is, in truth, nothing more than a drowned bit of river valley. The health and edibility of those famous Maryland blue crabs depends a great deal on the cleanliness of the river and its load of nutrients, chemicals, and other pollutants.
It is disheartening then to know that in eastern Pennsylvania and all of Maryland, the name "Susquehanna" is synonymous with filth and contamination. The Lackawanna, or East, branch of the river is notorious for its pollution levels (it is, in fact, listed on the Environmental Working Group's website as the twenty-eighth dirtiest body of water in America), and I have seen used diapers, Tide boxes, and numerous dead fish carried in its current.
It is hard to find much information on the sources of the corruption of these ever-so-important waters; said waters affecting millions of tons of fish and seafood, aquifers, and vast tracts of recreational land. I have heard that a majority of the pollution is sewage run-off and industrial dumping from the small cities of Wilkes-Barre and Scranton. Other sources I have found blame the rich farmland of Lancaster County Pennsylvania, and farmers' improper usage of chemical fertilizers, and soil erosion.
The Western Branch of the river, which I am more familiar with, is relatively clean, especially compared to the Lackawanna Branch. There is, of course, the occasional tangle of fishing line, old car parts, snack food wrappers, and 15,000-gallon gasoline spill, but hey, nothing's perfect.
VI
It is not a gentle, peaceful thing, this river. The Susquehanna is infamous for its terrible and disastrous floods, which have been recorded at roughly fourteen to twenty year intervals. The river basin is one of the nation's most flood-prone areas, and is more likely to experience ice- jams than any other river east of the Rocky Mountains.
The flooding caused by 1972's Hurricane Agnes was the worst disaster ever experienced by Pennsylvania, costing over two million dollars in damages and killing 117 people; and it was also the most expensive natural disaster in the nation until Hurricane Andrew flattened Florida in 1992. The waters of the East Branch crested over forty feet above the river's normal level, with the churning brown currents running somewhere around 2.6 million gallons per second. The swollen, furious river swallowed whole islands.
I remember standing before a stone railroad trestle, and I remember the white painted lines and names that indicated year, flood, and height of the water. The line indicating Agnes was six times higher up on the marker than I could reach.
VII
The Susquehanna River is cradled and caressed by the loving curves and swells of mid-Appalachia; a broad sweep of blue calligraphy dawdling past the gently rounded mounds thickly furred with maple and spruce. These mountains may not be scratching furiously at the sky with their purple majesty, but seem to possess a calmer, almost maternal, romantic grandeur. They are reminiscent of the exaggeratedly bountiful Venus figurines of Ice Age Europe, with huge rearing breasts and massive, sprawling hips. "Old Man River" does not reside in this place.
Summer is the season of philosophy on the Susquehanna. Evenings are spent pleasantly exhausted, savoring warm drinks and staring raptly into dancing, teasing flames of a campfire, and listening to the crickets speak of wisdom, while above the thick-leafed walnut trees the stars are singing lullabyes. The river never sleeps through, but spends all night cruising southward.
The water is warm as blood, and diving past the clear surface is baptism. It is possible to become submersed in a primitive, prenatal world of fluid and nourishment, and there the river otter becomes as your twin, floating next to you and speaking with large eyes full of curiosity. Breach the surface and gasp your first gulp of air.
Twilight slithers over the water like candlelight on a silk kimono, touching the delicately woven fabric with rose and sleek black. The trees are breathing too; the sighing weeping willows are perched in melancholy upon the shoreline lamenting some terrible personal loss.
It will not be summer forever. Eventually, all human beings have to leave the water and drag themselves, heaving and shaking, upon the dark, primeval shore; we are cast out of Eden, out of the sea, out of the womb. We spend the majority of our lives high and dry, and shed salty tears that symbolize our wish to return to comforting water when we are distraught.
The Susquehanna is not just a body of water, but a sign from God, an ancient new consciousness, an allegory. It flows deep and pure with our tears, sweat, and blood, and carries human history in its inexhaustible current. The light of spirit dances upon its gleaming surface, carried by the water-skimmer bugs and lacewings. Its rage is fury that can wash away small landmasses. The pollution of its waters corrupts us all. We are all carp. The archetypical River is the heart's blood of us all.