Clear Fork confidential: River stories that had to wait for the statute of limitations
Before I took up residence in a teepee at Charles Mill Lake, Campground B served as my home away from home in Mohican Country.
I had just started working at the Ashland Times-Gazette and was transitioning from Columbus to Mohican at the time. I spent weekends in the city and weeknights at the campground.
Campground B sits along Clear Fork of the Mohican River, between Pleasant Hill Dam and Mohican State Park’s main campground.
Oh, the stories that stretch of river could tell. I think it’s safe to share a few — now that the statute of limitations has expired.
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Miserable night of camping illegally at Pleasant Hill Dam
I’ve twice camped illegally just downstream of the dam. On both occasions, I had started canoe trips in Bellville. As I portaged Pleasant Hill Dam, the heavens opened and showed no sign of stopping.
I could have loaded the canoe, pressed on to Campground B, and spent a miserable night there. Instead, I spent a miserable night camping at the dam — away from people. In my world, misery does not love company.
Company found me regardless. On both occasions.
One of those times, I was boiling coffee water on a backpacking stove when a guy with a camera came along and took my photo. He introduced himself as a photographer for one of the big-box outdoors stores.
Not that I believed him. I figured he was an off-duty park ranger collecting evidence so he could later cite me for illegal camping.
I had something like that happen while perch fishing with family on Lake Erie. We were unloading our catch at East Harbor State Park when a guy with a camera showed up at the boat landing. He claimed to be a photographer for the Sandusky Register and asked if he could take pictures of us with our stringers full of perch.
After snapping several photos, he confessed that he was actually a game warden and asked to see our fishing licenses.
As for the Clear Fork photographer, nothing ever came of it. No illegal camping citations. No blackmail attempts. No one ever came up to me and said, “Hey, I saw your picture in a camping gear ad.”
Not that it matters; I was decent when he took the photos.
On the other occasion, not so much.
Runners break the solitude at camp
That time, I awakened around daybreak and crawled out of my tent to answer nature’s call. Suddenly I heard the sound of feet plodding down the trail. I looked up to see a long-distance runner — a number pinned to his sweaty T-shirt.
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He apologized for the intrusion and trotted down the trail toward the campground.
So much for solitude. By the time I’d eaten breakfast and broke camp, a dozen more runners came through. I thought to offer them coffee, but they seemed to be in a hurry.
It proved to be an eventful day, which included a possible concussion, a river rescue, and a canoe overloaded to the point that it reminded me of "The Beverly Hillbillies" pickup — complete with Granny on her rocker. But those are stories for another time.
That night I ended up camping at Greer, about 14 miles downstream. I awakened in the wee hours of morning to answer nature’s call. Suddenly, I heard the plodding of footsteps on the dirt road behind the campground. The light from a headlamp bobbed up and down with each step.
It was a runner. He was too far away for me to see his face or make out the number pinned to his chest. I’ve always wondered if he was the same guy who jogged through my campsite the previous morning. Or whether he ever finished the race.
As for living in the teepee at Charles Mill Lake, that too is another story for another time.
This article originally appeared on Ashland Times Gazette: Irv Oslin's riverside confessions: Illegal camping in Mohican Country
