Up The Ohio Canal

by BlueBook

Lock 31: Lost or Lonesome?

Our dinner over, the Sylph once more got under way. I was back sitting on my perch atop the passenger cabin. Rosemary had emerged several minutes after my departure from dinner and taken up the tiller once more, now wearing her naval cap but with the uniform discarded for a more practical cotton dress. The woods were growing thicker as we forged onwards, and soon the town of Boston seemed as remote as a distant planet. Replacing the sounds of the bustling town were the rustling of branches, the chirp of birds, and the strange calls of the forest's other denizens.

Up ahead, a clearing appeared in the trees. I expected it would be a road, or a path, or some other form of civilization. Instead, the telltale shapes of lock gates greeted me. Not all the locks we had met thus far were bordered with houses, or showed the signs of adjoining settlements. But none had, thus far, seemed particularly remote. Always, there was the suggestion of other travelers, not far ahead or behind.

This place, I found, was different. There was nothing, but the darkness of the forest and bleak emptiness of the clearing. The lock gates swung open, and we passed into the lock. I wondered if perhaps we had taken a wrong turn, and passed into a feeder seldom used. “We’re not lost, are we?”

“Nope. This is Lock 31.”

“What is this place? Where are we?”

“The middle of nowhere, officially. It’s a long, long walk to the nearest town. And no roads to take you there from here.”

I marveled at the desolation which surrounded us.

“How lonesome.”