22 May 2009
The Smell of Venison
(South West Five, Stones of the District of Columbia)
A massive construction project is in progress behind the General’s house on the hill.
Carl was clearly proud of the work, as proud as if he were digging it himself, and not all those hired contractors.
It was funny about that, and as history usually is, filled with irony, since it was a war with Contractors and political influence that got then-Captain Montgomery Meigs exciled to the Dry Tortugas.
The private sector did not want the public sector scooping up all that wonderful work, and they enlisted everyone from the Secretary of War to Meig’s own father to put the screws to him. The feisty Meigs was having none of it, though, the very embodiment of the upright Army officer. That is how he wound up contemplating the massive walls of Fort Jefferson in the Dry Tortugas.
Jason and I got both barrels about the Corps of Engineer’s considerable achievements in the construction of the Washington Aqueduct. There are problems with infrastructure, though, as we know all too well from falling interstate bridges and a flickering power grid.
The Aqueduct that Meigs constructed, 1852-1859 has been supplying the Capital with fresh potable water for 140 years, and it has done it so efficiently that people began to forget about it.
Apparently Bobby Lee did, too, though he was an Army Engineer and Meig’s supervisor, before he became the Confederate Commander of the Army of Northern Virginia. You have to wonder what might have happened if he had sent Jubal Early on his reckless attack on Washington in 1864 not on a frontal assault on Fort Stevens, but to poison the drinking water of the heavily fortified city.
The in-flow to the Aqueduct at the Great Falls is only twelve miles up-stream, and then as now, it would have been an attractive target if Lee had been a terrorist.
Carl said that when they started walking the 9-foot tunnel in his time at Decarlia, there was a lot of stuff that had grown up down below. But it has all been taken care of down there under MacArthur Boulevard.
“General Meigs couldn’t think of everything, though” Car ruminated as he maneuvered the white sedan out of the parking lot in back of his bedraggled house. “The Decarlia reservoir has been scooping up the sludge that falls out of the soluble water in the settling ponds and dumping it back into the river since the beginning of the project.”
“That’s a lot of sludge,” I said in wonder. We are all so oblivious to what keeps us alive and healthy sometimes.
“Naturally enough, it is partly treated and partly solid waste, and the EPA decreed that such practice will cease not later than 2010. That’s is why we are digging this.” He pointed out the window of the sedan at the earthmovers scurrying about with scoops of mud and gravel.
“The water coming down from the reservoir on the heights will now be funneled through deep concrete channels, and the sludge will be collected and trucked out to a landfill somewhere. We are going to stop putting it back in the River.” He parked the car in a place where we could see the white curing concrete far below,
“Impressive,” said Jason. “Seems like the right thing to do.”
Carl nodded in satisfaction. Putting the car in gear, we exiting the back of the great pit, we drove along a narrow gravel road from the present back into General Meig’s past. The single lane gravel road led gradually upward.
Decarlia is a nature reserve, in part, and the first thing we noted was a deer standing in the green next to the road. Then we noticed there were another dozen of the graceful animals clustered in a depression on the other side. The animals showed no fear. At come periodic interval, bow-hunters are permitted by the Corps to come in and cull the herd, and it must have been fairly recently, since the animals were cautious.
Apparently some independent contractors from Tennessee doing dredging on the Reservation also were caught with venison on their breath, go figure.
Carl said that sometimes the deer will stand still and allow the workers to pet them. All the activity below must have them a little nervous, tan and brown and handsomely dappled, they melted back into the trees.
We talked about dogs and deer and deer ticks and Lime’s disease, and I resolved not to roll up my sleeves despite the rising humidity.
There is a lot going on around the reservoir itself. The houses that come down almost to the perimeter fence are grand, and all feature big windows to appreciate the million-dollar view of the artificial lake. The Corps has a special relationship with them, since the residents are proactive about the maintenance of their vista. One woman insisted specifically which trees should be trimmed, and which would not.
There is a maple she has a particular preference for, since its colors in the Fall are quite stunning against the greenish pool. She brought cookies and juice to the workers, and is in frequent contact with the Chief Engineer about just how things should be maintained.
Carl pulled the sedan off onto the verge and we got out. NE 5 is on the down-slope in the deep woods. I have prowled the other side of the fence three times looking for it, even to catch a glimpse and validate the hunt with a picture. Once a deer bounded past me while I peered through the fence and scared the crap out of me.
The fence is problematic. The Corps repairs it frequently, but trees fall and when they do the boundary is violated and laid open. Where the creek feeds the north end of the reservoir there is a water gate of steel bars on hinges to permit debris to pass through in times of heavy rain, such as we have had this spring. The gate was propped partly open by a large tree limb that was swept along in the torrent, and the Post's dauntless Speed Stone Explorer probably came in that way.
I remember being on the other side, following the creek, looking for a concrete culvert that reportedly gave a path inside the reservation. I could not find it, and grew increasingly disoriented in the greenery.
That is not uncommon. Carl’s first outing to find the stone led to a search of more than an hour, since the sandstone block and its protective cage disappear into the black tree trunks and thick undergrowth.
He pointed up the hill, across a streamlet at two plastic angry orange tapes tied around some trees like a crime scene or a construction site. If we scrambled up between them the Stone would be revealed.
Having come direct from the office, I rolled up my slacks and we crossed the stream where it passed over a concrete spillway. Then a jog to the right, and a plunge into the trees, climbing upward past a steep gully. Carl knew what he was doing (tall rubber boots) and where he was going, and in just a few minutes we were standing over NW 5, touching the protective cage around it, and documenting the inscriptions on all four sides.
It is in an excellent state of preservation, having been protected by the Corps this last 140 years, and not subjected to the indignities of city life that some of the others have.
Arriving back at the car, Carl pointed out the dredging that had been done on the pumping station that brings the water up the hill. Over the years it had silted up pretty well.
The Corps contracted with some fellows from Tennessee, who worked on a firm-fixed price contract basis with incentives for early completion They did their job well, those rough and ready Volunteers, and if there was the smell of roasting venison around their luncheon barbeque, Carl said that it was only to be expected.
Maybe three deer perished, he figured, and the workers had the good grace to be a little sheepish about it.
We waved goodbye to Carl back down at the Admin tower that General Meigs had constructed of stout abiding bricks. I put the Xerox copies of the pictures on the dashboard of the Bluesmobile.
“Two Stones to go, Jason. SW 8 and SW 9. The former is a replica that has had tough times at the back of the DC Impound lot. The latter has been relocated from the bank of the Potomac, but we can get to it by parking on the verge of I-295 near the new Wilson Bridge .”
“I bet we can find it by plunging down the slope to the flood plain, and pick through the scrub trees and flotsam and jetsam by the river. We’ll get them, sooner or later.”
“Yeah,” the guy in the Post can do all this in less than seven hours,” I said grimly. “I have been looking for six years.”
Jason picked up the picture of the stone with the letters “W.A.” carved in the side. Carl had nearly sprained his ankle on the thing, and he thought it was interesting enough to give a couple stone-seekers a copy of the picture.
“I’ll bet the Washington Aqueduct has a bunch of stones the Post has never even heard of.”
My spirits brightened as we drove off, directly over a nine-foot conduit buried deep in the soil, filled with fresh, potable water.
Copyright 2009 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com