(Look Back with Bob Enoch - Photo Illustration - MetroCreativeConnection)

The item from last month, titled “Wave Riding,” chronicling a perilous boat ride across the Ohio River in 1847, from Belpre back to Parkersburg, continues as the author describes the view from the middle of the river; she is looking toward and describing the Virginia shore:

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“Farther down, opens the long vista of [the] Kanawha — clear, deep, and blue. Those heavy elms overhanging its banks, how rich is their spring foliage. Yonder goes the ferry-skiff, with its freight of merry school children, all likely bound for the academy. [The ferry would have been transporting children from the south side of the Little Kanawha River who were probably attending Asbury’s Academy, formed in 1845.] That black boy is Bush, shortened from Bushrod. Smart, good-natured and easy is Bush, but never in a hurry. “Pull away, Bush,” cries the impatient traveler, as he hears the bells [of the school] ringing. Bush pulls away, but the motion of the craft is not accelerated, and the passenger, when he reaches the shore, must, by increased speed in walking, make up for the time he has spent on the ferry.

“There is the bluff of Kanawha, and its pinnacle of everlasting rock [then Mount Logan; today, Ft. Boreman hill]. The dogwood, with its large snowy flowers, and the red-bud tree, shows well on the hillside. There is a handsome white house half way up the bluff, and look, there is another on its very summit. Perfection of air and light must be there, but how could water be coaxed up so high?

“Downstream is the fair, forsaken island, Blennerhassett, green, wild and solitary. The western part is inhabited, but that is not visible from here. The head of the island is pic-nic ground, and hither, in the hot summer days, come skiffs loads of curious strangers, or joyous school boys and girls, making the silent wilderness resound with their careless mirth, scaring the rabbits and terrapins to their hiding places, and the birds to the very tree-tops.

“To the north-ward are the broad luxurious terraces of Belpre. What smooth green fields! What wealth of red and white roses! What large, white house, with magnificent elms and willows overhanging. Everything there looks so clear, comfortable, and Yankee.

“Twas on a bright day as this, that I was returning from a visit to that lovely green village, with a basket of fruit and flowers. The sun was going down in red and gold. The river, clear and still as a mirror, threw back a perfect copy of the sky and shore. I took my seat in the stern of the skiff; little Frank, my companion, was in the bows. ‘To the Virginia shore, George,’ said I to the boatman, a stout, fearless boy of thirteen years. We shot out from the bank, and, as I noticed a smile in the corner of his eye, I turned my own upstream, and beheld one of those enormous locomotives of the western waters, which throw a whole river into a foam. His quick ear had caught the sound before she had rounded Neal’s Island. She was bearing down with a tremendous rush, and a strong current. The river behind her was like a field of snow drifts. “Pull in, George,” cried I, “or we shall be under her bows. Let her pass, and then we will ride the waves.” George turned the skiff upstream for a few moments, when she went by like a runaway Niagara Falls.

“We plunged immediately into her wake; Frank and I grasping the gunwale as bows came up, and stern went nearly under water. Instantly the bow sank, and the stern was in the air. “Hold fast there — trim the boat — lean forward as she goes down — backward when she comes up — steady now.” Not a word of this was spoken, as it was all instinctive action. We only laughed at the foam and fury of the waves, which would have swamped our little craft, if she had not been nicely trimmed.”

To be concluded next week…