I.

[Illustration]

THE cruise of the "Sometub" began at Oakmont on the Allegheny river

in Pennsylvania and ended in Rock Creek in the shadow of the national

capitol in the District of Columbia. In a total distance of 347

miles the little craft traversed six navigable waterways. Of course,

there was a portage of 150 miles, but this was accomplished without

inconvenience and provided a seasonable period to re-provision the

boat. Moreover, the 150-mile trip overland demonstrated the advantage

of a portable cruiser--of which "Sometub" has the distinction of being

the first in its class.

"Sometub" narrowly escaped being christened "Kitchen Maid." It is

literally a kitchen-made craft, that is, it was put together in

the kitchen after its knockdown frame was received from a Michigan

boatbuilder. When culinary activities in the aforesaid kitchen were

partially suspended it afforded an ideal boatyard, but the fact that

a kitchen would be put to such extraordinary use there was attracted

thither a constant line of spectators, the majority of whom had as

little nautical knowledge as the builders. Propped up on a stepladder

the bony frame of the future boat looked like one of those uncanny

paleontological specimens in the Carnegie museum, and drew from the

visitors a flow of remarks entirely irrelevant to boatbuilding. Nearly

everyone doubted that the thing would be made to float, but a few who

were too polite to express their views went to the opposite extreme

and indulged in a line of flattery that was more irritating than the

skeptcism of the doubting Thomases.

"Well, that's some tub!" The oft repeated phrase trickled away

somewhere into the damaged wall paper of the kitchen or into the big

paint spot that ruined the linoleum, and when the time came to name

the boat the words came back sufficiently anglicized and properly

compounded--"Sometub." And it stuck!

"Sometub" has been laughed at by hundreds of persons who will never

know how it received its name. It looks less tub-like than the majority

of motorboats. The Brooks Manufacturing Company up in Saginaw, from

whom I bought the knockdown frame, doubtless would object to the

innuendo suggesting tubbiness because they boast of it as one of their

latest and most graceful models--a semi-V bottom shape which is

especially noted both for speed and seaworthiness. And it is all they

claim for it, and more, too!

"Sometub" is 15 feet long by 43 inches on the beam. We took liberties

with the Brooks plan by constructing a bulkhead which enclosed five

feet of the bow. This left a 10-foot cockpit, over which was erected a

portable canopy top. Curtains that hung on the sides of the canopy made

a snug cabin 10 × 3½ feet. For motive power we use an Evinrude motor.

By the way, it is one of those coffee mill affairs that you screw on

the stern of a skiff or rowboat. "Sometub" was designed for this very

sort of equipment and the theory worked out beautifully--until the

motor went wrong. And there lies the key to all the villainy that will

be divulged in this plain tale of the cruise of "Sometub" from Oakmont

to Washington.

On account of the 150-mile portage from Pittsburgh to Cumberland, Md.,

it is advisable to allow seven days from the time of your departure

on the Allegheny until your expected sailing from the other terminal

of the portage. In these seven days you will make the run down to the

Pittsburgh Baltimore & Ohio freight station at Water street, pack your

engine and duffle, bail out the boat, cart it to the Cumberland local

freight car, see it stowed away and spend four days hoping that it

will arrive in Cumberland before you and your cargo. Of course, your

hopes will be blasted, but to hope is human. Anyhow, you might as well

realize at the outset that cross-country cruising is to be an intensely

human experience.

There was no ceremony when we backed out of a stall at the Oakmont Boat

Club in the late afternoon of the 9th of last July and picked our way

between the bathers, canoes and rowboats that clustered there. Even

if there had been occasion for ceremony, the thought that we had to

reach the Aspinwall lock before 6 o'clock or wait another hour, "on the

hour," caused us to lay a course straight for Nine-mile Island. With

its balky Evinrude five miles an hour is "Sometub's" best speed. Past

colonies of summer camps on the O'Hara township bank of the Allegheny

we continued our way hearing a giggle now and then as a maid in a canoe

or on shore caught sight of the aluminum letters on our bow and spelled

out "S-o-m-e-t-u-b." The tables were turned when we passed the "Ye

Gauds" camp. Phonetic spelling is epidemic among river campers. Their's

is not simplified, but rather perplexified spelling.

For a mile above Aspinwall dam the Allegheny in breezy weather has

all the choppiness of a landlocked lake and affords the exhileration

of boating that is enjoyed on a much larger body of water. Here we

witnessed a scene that was in strange contrast with the gayety farther

up the river. Below the mouth of Squaw Run a group of terrifed children

stood on the bank intently watching a skiff which was being rowed

slowly down stream. At the oars was a youth vainly trying to look brave

while at the stern a grizzled riverman dragged a grappling iron. It was

the sequel to an old story. They were searching for the body of a boy

who had been drowned an hour before while trying to exchange seats in a

canoe.

To make the Aspinwall lock on schedule time is always cause for joy

by the humble owner of a motorboat. If he is not there "on the hour"

he must wait until another 60 minutes have elapsed before the opening

of the gates, unless a towboat should happen along. The same rule is

in force at Lock No. 1 at Herr's Island. Here we arrived "in between

times," but the gates were open and we started in. A lock tender caught

sight of "Sometub" and waved frantically for us to get out and tie up

alongside a barge which lay near the shore. Astern was the towboat

Crucible making her way into the lock with a steel boat in tow. We

followed the locktender's directions, but when the big craft approached

and the pilot had sized us up, he stepped out on the hurricane deck

and pointed a place for us to tie in the lock. When our motor began to

sputter and he saw the name of the boat he laughed heartily and seemed

to share our delight in getting into the lock chamber ahead of the

Crucible. We soon chugged out and 15 minutes later rounded the Point,

anointing "Sometub" for the first time with the waters of the Ohio.

Running up the Monongahela in the twilight we moored at the motorboat

landing at the foot of Smithfield street. Here the boat was taken from

the water and shipped to Cumberland.

I have said that we eased our conscience by following the patriotic

footsteps of George Washington. We struck the sacred trail in the first

hour of our cruise when, running down the Allegheny we scudded under

the decrepit Forty-third street bridge and past the historic point that

once was separated from the mainland and was known as Wainwright's

Island. From this point until the end of the journey we were constantly

on ground intimately associated with the life of Washington.

Indeed if it had not been for the enterprise of Washington the cruise

never would have been possible; if it had not been for Washington the

Chesapeake and Ohio canal would not have been projected, and without

this pioneer waterway the valley of the upper Potomac would be a

solitary wilderness. The Baltimore and Ohio railroad only followed its

aquatic pacemaker and was pushed westward over the identical route

Washington had laid out for his canal to connect the waters of the

Potomac with those of the tributaries of the Ohio, the eastern link of

the intercontinental route which he dreamed would some day connect the

Atlantic seaboard with the great lakes, and the Mississippi valley. The

Lake Erie and Ohio river ship canal is but a revival of Washington's

gigantic project. "The Father of His Country" was a century and a half

ahead of the times in his comprehension of the transportation problem.

The history of the construction of this canal is a commercial romance

replete with many a fascinating chapter involving personal peril,

adventures, triumphs, failures and political intrigue; for four bloody

years during the Civil war its right of way was held alternately by the

Union and the Confederate armies, and many a grim tragedy was enacted

there; today it is one of the few places in the country where the

oldtime canal boat is to be seen in practical operation.

But the story of the canal will come further along. It is essential

in the narrative of the initial cruise of "Sometub" because its

towpath, worn by 20 successive progenies of mules, is the path that

paradoxically leads far, far away from the beaten path of modern travel.

On Saturday evening, July 15th, we reached Cumberland. Rain was falling

but this did not deter us from launching "Sometub" in the waters of

the canal. We had made up our minds that rain must be disregarded--and

subsequent experience proved that this step toward resignation to

the elements was well taken. Before the voyage was three days old we

realized that Jupiter Pluvius was a stowaway with us. For 100 miles

we were the harbingers of showers, the advance agents of thunder,

lightning, rain and cloudbursts.

We had hoped to leave Cumberland before sunset and tie up for the

night far from the noise of the city, but the best we could do between

showers was to put everything in shipshape and wait for the dawn. Rain

pattered down all night long and came in repeated gusts during the

day. In the meantime we sat on the hospitable porch of a retired canal

boat skipper and listened to his reminiscences of the "good old days."

Our delay just now was due to our failure to procure our waybill,

a document which gave us the right of way through the locks from

Cumberland to Georgetown. In this document "Sometub" was put down as a

motor-propelled craft of one ton net register and stipulated that it

should proceed at a speed not exceeding four miles an hour. The waybill

cost $5.10.

Late in the afternoon we were informed that a deputy collector of the

port, who lived "down the canal beyond the bridge," would hand us our

waybill as we passed. Simultaneously with this good news the rain

ceased and the sun came out in radiant glory. In two minutes we were

away and broke the speed limit with the impunity of a motor driver

who knows that if he does not exceed the legal speed his machine will

stop altogether. We made a dash for the waybill. "Pshaw!" exclaimed the

collector. "It's too bad I didn't know the name of your boat. I just

wrote 'launch.' If I had known it had a name like that I would have put

it down, sure."

"What are the rules?" we asked him.

"Keep to the left--always--that's all. Tie up on the berm side (to the

left) and don't let yourself get dragged into the flume by the current

at the locks." We thanked him and started again. We rounded the big

bend of the Potomac, turning to the eastward where the blue horizon

of the mountains melted into the blue-gray mists and clouds of the

weeping sky. In what seemed an increditably short time we had left the

city behind and glided along the vine-fringed, ribbon-like pool that

wound its way into sequestered solitudes among the towering hills. Here

and there a farmhouse was visible in the distance on the uplands and

occasionally a lonely cabin squatted among the willows and dank weeds

that grew in the marshy places, but for the greater part of our run on

this level we hugged close to the hillside or proceeded through courses

of broad meadows.

It was the first time an outboard motor cruiser had been seen on

the canal, and for that matter in the Potomac valley, and "Sometub"

attracted much attention among the country folk and the crews of the

boats. We passed our first canal boat beyond South Cumberland at a

point where the channel was scarcely 30 feet wide and narrowly escaped

rasping off our propeller on a ledge of rocks that formed the berm

bank, our danger being due to the provokingly deliberate action of

the steersman on the big mule-drawn hulk. After that we waited for

sufficient leeway before attempting to pass canal boats in narrow

channels.

At sunset a whitewashed log house came into view and as we approached

we recognized the huge arms of the lock gates. Beyond the locktender's

cabin we saw the roofs of the houses in the little village of North

Branch, Md. Here was our first lock, the first of the 75 in 184 miles

on the canal between Cumberland and Georgetown. We were curious to

know how "Sometub" would behave in an old-fashioned lock with leaky

gates and were anxious to push on to the tunnel some 30 miles east

of Cumberland where the canal for nearly a mile of its course passes

underneath one of the lofty ridges of the Alleghanies. Ominous clouds

in the west hastened the approaching night. The proximity of a shelter

in case of a heavy rainstorm caused us to accept the locktender's

hospitality to tie up for the night alongside the flume at the head of

the lock.

[Illustration: Left--"Sometub" Emerging from Mile-Long Tunnel Under

Alleghany Mountains.

Above--Head of Navigation of Chesapeake and Ohio Canal at Cumberland,

Md.