Echoes from the Valley

The Old Pier



On the western shore of the Monongahela River, where it bends through the tiny borough of New Eagle, Pennsylvania, there stands an old pier.  Its rotting timbers slowly decay with age, exposing a skeleton of steel beams bound by rusting bolts as big as a fist.  A few hundred yards to the north, a long row of shining new piers extend far into the cool green waters of the river, rising about 50 feet and overshadowing the slightly shorter old pier. Their modern cylindrical shape and network of lighted catwalks serve as a constant reminder that the old pier's glory days are long gone.  The adventures my friends and I shared at the old pier were secret.  Our parents would have killed us if they knew half of what we had done there.



         The old pier is not easily accessible from land.  The gravel road that once ran from the entrance of the Eagle mine to the river is overgrown with brush and crosses over the train tracks, through a scrap yard and into the tall trees that line the riverbank, which makes the old pier accessible only on foot.  It is all but forgotten by an automobile-obsessed world. 



         The pier was our refuge on endless summer days and our playground at night.  We arced into the river on monkey vines that hung from the trees on the steep embankment, and then raced each other to the eastern shore.  The steel mills, coal mines and factories were in full swing with mill whistles blowing every 8 hours to change the work shift, smoke streamed from every stack in sight, train whistles echoed off the valley walls night and day and the toot of the frequent barges on the river as they passed each other.  It was the frequent barges on the river that offered us the thrill of a game we called "Beat the Barge."  It was not only a dare to beat the barge, but a race to try to beat each other across the wide river.  We would stand on the old pier and wait for a barge to round the bend. 



         G-E-R-O-N-I-M-O-o-o-o! Dropping 40 feet into the cold water…swim, swim, swim.  A slow swimmer or a hesitant jumper would face a frightening decision in the middle of the river.  Can I possibly get across the middle before the barge gets to me?  Or do I chicken out and turn back?  Wussing out might have saved my life but, being a teen age boy, I preferred possible death by barge rather than the reaction of my peers.  When Jimmy chickened out on one jump, the next one was not "Geronimo."  It was “J-I-M-M-Y B-L-O-O-O-W-S…” 



         Being a good strong swimmer, this particular activity wasn't as dangerous as it might seem.  The barge pushing forward would create a current that would deflect anyone or anything in the water.  The real danger, however, was if I decided to wait and let the barge pass, then continue to cross close behind it because it could suck me right under.  I would never do that…unless…a barge was coming the other way at the same time and the two barges would pass each other exactly where I was treading water.  It was a horrifying decision between choosing which barge to out-swim, or splitting the middle and swimming like hell in between the two, always in the direction of which ever barge was full of coal.  A coal filled barge was much lower in the water and would create a stronger current than would an empty barge.  Swimming along side the full barge, in the same direction, was the safest thing to do.  If both were full or both were empty, which was unlikely, then the only option was to swim north, in the direction of the river flow.  I had to make that decision once, and the fear that I experienced made it a decision that I never wanted to face again.  After that, my choices were not quite as bold, and the calls made during future jumps off the old pier often echoed off the valley walls:  “B-R-O-O-K-S  H-A-S  N-O  B-A-L-L-L-S.s.s.”



         The true danger of the river was the least obvious.  A parked barge along the river’s edge was a death trap for anyone foolish enough to swim near.  The current would hit the stationary barge and flow down under its deep hull, creating a strong suction at the rear of the barge.  If loaded with coal, the undertow could extend 20 or 30 feet, but the surface was always calm as the river deceived the ignorant and swallowed the innocent.



         My adventures at the old pier reflected the changes in my life.  I loved the thrill of “G-E-R-O-N-I-M-O-O-O,” but I learned to fear and respect the power of “the Mon.”  As a major artery through the heart of industrialized America, it once carried more coal tonnage than any other river in the world.  It has the distinction of being one of only two rivers that flow north.  But, taken for granted, it became the toilet for mills, mines, power plants and factories of glass, aluminum, sulfur and plastic.  It was dammed, locked and dredged, but like an abused animal, it would not be tamed: overflowing its banks, flooding entire cities, driving people from their homes, and refusing to die despite the toxins we pumped into it daily.  Its rushing flood waters often cut a path of fear through the valley, leaving nothing but scattered debris and shattered lives in its wake. 



         In spite of the rivers' tantrums, its most powerful impact on my life came from its peaceful waters on a lazy summer evening when my friend Brian went down and never came back up.  At age 12, he was a few years younger than me, and he was afraid to swim out in the middle, so he stayed close to the shore…close to the deceitful calm.



         His death was not my first experience with the loss of someone I knew, but that didn't make it any easier to accept.  I had known of others who had drowned there and somehow I knew that Brian would not be the last.  I was only 14 years old but I already had the idea that "life goes on."  I had come to understand that we who are left on this earth can't second guess everything we do in fear of death.  We can't hide away in our houses and stop doing the things we enjoy; death will get us …one way or another.  We must keep living and doing the things we love or we might as well jump into the river between the parked barges.  Brian was not a symbol of life or a lesson to learn.  He was a real person, just like me.  I still think of him often and I miss him.



         My friends were totally freaked out by his drowning and avoided the river after his unfortunate death, but his death did not stop me from enjoying life; it made me want to live that much more.  I was still drawn to the old pier for many years after Brian's death even though there were no more games of "Beat the Barge" or races across the river.  It was the seclusion and privacy of the old pier that became its main attraction to me when I discovered cigarettes and girls with breasts.  It became a quiet place to hook a catfish or swim without shorts or just lie flat on my back and gaze at the stars, while the water under the pier kept a six-pack of beer cool.  I often went there alone to sit on the edge of the pier thinking about my life, my troubles, my future, and my dreams. 



         The old pier still stands today, hidden even deeper in the overgrown brush and trees.  Its steel structure is collapsing and its timbers have completely rotted away as it ages into the river bank.  Many miles away and a lifetime ago, I still often visit it in my mind.  I dangle my legs over the edge and listen to the train whistles in the distance and the toots of the barges echo off the valley of the past.