Source

My wife and I just spent several wonderful days at an international conference. It was held at a location that the brochures identify as “the headwaters of the Chesapeake Bay” in North East, Maryland. I am not into crabs and oysters that make the area so famous, but the sunsets over the bay, the peaceful bliss, and the majestic waterfowl make it a special treat to be in that area.
It is a joy to trace the majestic stretches of rivers of my native Pennsylvania. Several weeks ago I enjoyed seeing the Pittsburgh-portion of the three rivers (one is underground) that join together to form the mighty Ohio River to takes barges on to the Gulf of Mexico. I live not too many miles from where the Lehigh and Delaware Rivers join for their final sprint into the Delaware Bay and on to the Atlantic Ocean.
I guess “the headwaters of the Chesapeake Bay” is technically proper because the mighty Susquehanna River finishes its long muddy journey not far away. Still, to me headwaters mean the ultimate source. Within the past few months we have journeyed through the upper reaches of two different areas of upstate New York. In those areas the Susquehanna and Delaware Rivers are what I would have termed in my younger days as a “cricks,” not rivers. Now that is getting close to what I term “a headwater.”
I have a heritage anchored on the shores of the West Branch of the Susquehanna well above where it joins the North Branch in Sunbury, Pennsylvania and hundreds of miles above the Chesapeake. I grew up playing, fishing, trapping, and swimming in the Susquehanna. About a mile south of my boyhood home, there is a “V” shaped stone eel trap where my grandfather told of massive migratory eel harvests. He was born in the late eighteen hundreds when there were actually runs of east coast Susquehanna Salmon at certain times of the year and Shad Roe was a common local delicacy. Those days are gone although fortunately the Delaware still produces a Shad run each spring. I think about the increasingly hazy details of my grandfather’s oft repeated stories. Several weeks ago a picture of my grandfather’s Model T Ford fish market truck was given to me. It reminded me of his tales of the seasonal migrations of fish and eels up the Susquehanna. They are gone forever even though they still make it up the unblocked Delaware River. Fish are “mysteriously” drawn to the source of the river where new life is spawned. Man tried to help the Susquehanna with the massive Conowingo Dam several miles above the Maryland/ Pennsylvania border. Much needed power is produced and fish are “helped” up the river. That part hasn’t worked. Neither trucking the fish, nor then later, the 1991 addition of a fish lift have permitted all the fish to get to the river’s source. Our ways aren’t always better. Reminds me that man is drawn to a source too where the old dying self can be replaced by new life. It seems that we “help” folks just like we do the fish. Unfortunately, we, with our meddling, sometimes unintentionally keep folks from making it all the way back to the source of new life