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River Adventure

By
Duncan L. Dieterly

The Little Miami River of Ohio is the lesser of the two Miami’s, both of which empty
into the mighty Ohio River. The Little Miami River flows for 105 miles through five counties in
southwestern Ohio of the United States. It joins the Ohio River east of Cincinnati.
In the summer of 1950, it was old, sluggish, shallow and muddy: a meandering
abandoned ghost of a great industrial river of a past age. For a boy of twelve however, it was a
mysterious magical flowing ribbon of dreamed prospective adventures. That summer, when my
best friend and I arrived at the old fishing cabin, to spend the summer on that river, we were
wide-eyed, fired by excitement, embracing the elusive whispers of treasures, ghosts, Indians and
savage animals.
All that day and all that night, we watched the river’s waters deep and dark moving
downstream with an easy flow and rhythmic sound. We could not begin to explain the strange
allure we felt as it flowed past us like an endless snake of mysterious power.
With our fathers and their visiting weekend pals, we spent a magical summer on that river
with an old aluminum rowboat, a grizzled fishing guide and a minimum of adult scrutiny. We
stayed up late around a blazing bonfire that cast fantastic shadows on the black river. Our dads
and friends drank their beers, related stores of past fishing triumphs, record catches and the latest
angler’s lore of time tested fishing strategies. In imitation of their drinking challenge, we
emptied can after can of soda crushing them in half with our bare hands. We used the empties
for target practice the next day.
Downing excessive butter-smeared ears of sweet corn freshly purloined from a nearby
farm roasted in its green husks, on an outdoor fire, frequently carelessly scorched black in spots.
We accompanied it with roasted potatoes, buried beneath the glowing firewood coals and chunks
of hot fish cooked in foil or pan fried in bacon lard. We had to chew carefully to avoid bones.
Many a tale was told of the canny angler who ended up chocking to death on his catches bones.
We ate lots of white bread to soak up the excess oils on our paper plates.

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We dined on the rocks sitting on the warm earth with fingers and pocketknives for
utensils, wiping our hands on the grass or our clothes. Unmonitored by moms we skipped
brushing our teeth and taking nightly baths, wearing the same clothes until they were rags. In the
warm afternoons, while the adults rested, we splashed in the nearby creek making endless mud
dams that mysteriously disappeared in the night, capturing legions of crawdads, which we
reluctantly released at day’s end and pestered the busy birds with our hunter’s wild shots. They
in turn circled high over our heads scolding us soundly for our trespass.
There were cold five o’clock morning sorties into the frightening damp fog, filled with
insect sounds to catch the elusive channel cats or even the noble trout. There were naked swims
in the cool opaque water to counter the impact of the humid summer heat. Then the long hours
in the late evening running the trout lines. The thrill of the pull on the line that signaled who
knows what monster octopus was snared below. Hand over hand; pulling up the thin cold line,
taut in our hands, we retrieved the small sunfish, repulsive carp, prized channel cat, rare bass and
an occasional turtle. Proudly we rowed to camp with our catch hanging on stringers over the
side of the boat, dragging in the dark water. Back on the shore armed with knives, being
instructed in the fine art of skinning, boning and filleting the fish for tomorrow’s breakfast.
Best of all were the hot summer July evenings when we still in swimsuits dancing in
excitement, lit fireworks, disrupting the nights low insect hum. High over the river we shot off
Roman candles, watching them burst into a shower of colorful stars arched high, descending
down into the murky water, extinguished with a slight hiss. A river gives off a signature smell
and sound as it sweeps endlessly forward that is hard to describe but is definitely experienced,
especially in the night.
In the old rowboat with a beloved fishing rod and real, a tackle box and a pellet gun the
intrepid boy hunters stalked that old river for one brief summer. While we caught many fish we
were unable to bring down one wild beast although we certainly defended our lives from them.
Especially at night, when with sullen eyes they silently skulked about our camp, outside the
range of the fire’s glare. It was our African safari full of laughter, surprises, scrapes and
accomplishments.
Our days cascaded by us too quickly, and all too soon, it was time to pack up for our
departure. Looking back with regret as we drove away, smelling of river and woods, dreading
our return to civilization and school. Even now, late at night when just falling asleep, I
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occasionally imagine those night sounds and smell the river’s moist breath that rolled across the
Little Miami River that magic summer of 1950.

[Note: Since then the river was reclaimed to achieve national prominence. The 1968 Wild and
Scenic River Act designated portions of the Little Miami National Scenic River as Ohio's first
National Wild and Scenic River. On April 23 of following year, the Little Miami State Scenic
River from Milford to the headwaters became Ohio's first State Scenic River, due to legislation
that predated the national act by a few months. The remainder of the river was added to the State
Scenic River in 1971. The Little Miami River is home to at least 87 species of fish, as well as
many species of turtles, frogs, water snakes, birds, mammals and invertebrates. The river
contains 36 species of mussels, including two threatened species, one of which is endangered.
Recently, invading Zebra mussels and Asiatic clams have crowded out native species.]

The End

[Note: This is a revision of an article that was published in Fresh Ink: March, 2010.]

Copyright © 2010 by Duncan L. Dieterly

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March 7, 2010

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