PBX did a trip in 2002 entitled "Begin the Batsto". We went from near the boot camp upstream to find the source of the Batsto until we ran out of flow. We graciously received permission from Cutt's Cranberry bogs to cross their property, but the gun club told us NO!
I really wanted to see some of the impoundments they have back there. But, I changed the route a bit. After they told us no I didn't want to be on their stinking property. Here is the trip report below.
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Its quite likely that none of the members who went on this trip can ever
again cross a bridge over the Batsto River, however small that bridge,
without thinking of the time they traveled upstream to the source that
warm day in May, 2002.
Trip members were the main crew; Bob Bruneau, Bob Moyer, Phil
Iapallucci, Joe Wszolek, Mike Baker, Doug Cook, and Paul Follman.
The weather was 55 and sunny when we started out about ½ mile from the
boot camp. We stayed close to the river at first, passing through a
hardwood swamp, yet able to walk right along the bank. We were walking
in a normally wet area for most of this trip, but it was bone dry. The
drought ain’t over yet.
It did not take us too long to be channeled away from the river sort of
natural like by the vegetation that started to clog our way. At one
point we were actually thrust out into a path that ran through the
lowland pine forest on the west side. The path, according to Mike, ran
straight to Carranzza Road. Not wanting to be cheaters, we took a deep
breath and plunged into the vegetation towards the river again. We
thrashed, and cursed, and sweated, and thrashed some more until we had
the river in sight.
Again we stayed in sight of the river as long as we could, but you know
what? We were eventually forced out again to the path, which we
gleefully took the last 150 yards to Carranzza road and the bridge.
After a short respite, we followed a dirt road north just west of the
river till we came to a tributary by a burned out area. We crossed the
burn area and headed by blind instinct to the water again. We followed a
fire cut for awhile, and then plunged into the thicket again until we
again sighted the mighty Batsto once again. At this point the river
still seemed the same size.
At this point Joe and Paul took the lead for what seemed like a mile
through close-quartered hardwood swamp. We ended up at a high beaver
dam. Paul took the initiative (and the guts I might add) to cross it
carefully to the other side. Only thing was, we weren’t going up that
side of the river, so we had to call him back. Sorry Paul-nice
acrobatics though.
We headed north again, looking for the second tributary upstream from
where we stood. It became more and more dense as we went upriver, and my
compass became a worthless piece of trivia. Enter one mightily prepared
explorer, the world traveler, the man of the hour and everyone’s
trekking friend, Mr. Bob (don’t leave it at home if it fits in the bag)
Bruneau. Thanks to Bob and his GPS (I gotta get one now) we eventually
found the first tributary, which was close enough to the target one that
we just had to cross to the other side at this opportunity.
Now Phil took over at this most excruciating point in the trip. We
needed a fearless point man and he fit the bill perfectly. We had to
fight, and crawl, and grovel our way out of that swamp, but Phil was up
to the task. He beat back all comers and goers and other diverse
vegetation such as greenbrier, huckleberry, magnolia, laurel, red oak,
and young cedar. We emerged onto a dim trail all hot and nasty with
about 20 ticks on each of our bodies (no kidding).
We headed down to Goose Pond, but left it quick since it was privately
owned and we were woefully exposed. We backtracked and ate a quick lunch
while pulling off the ticks. We had enough of the briar for a bit, so we
took that dim trail north along the river about a half-mile till we came
out on route 532 and some semblance of civilization. We walked over the
bridge to regroup and plan our attack on the bogs across the street,
where the water was a’ coming from. The river at this point had dwindled
to about 30” feet wide and 6” deep.
We crossed 532 and headed along the bog dikes until they petered out.
The way ahead blocked by a formidable thicket of young cedar, we turned
west a bit into the surrounding forest and skirted the barricade nature
had thrown in our way. We made a smooth arc back to the stream when the
coast was clear. Now the creek was really small. It was down to about 20
inches wide, and the current was barely visible. It branched off several
times along the bogs, we always chose the strongest looking branch.
Now we followed it along the final dike. It lay there like a puddle as
we walked north along a wide bog dike. We could see that the abandoned
bog along the creek was really a seep for the whole river. This did not
look like a bog that was ever actually planted. They scraped the ground
clean, and forgot to plant. The river had no oomph in it to fill it up.
There was a puddle of water in the low spots, and we surmise it was
seeping slowly out of the aquifer. At the end of the dike, the flow just
about stopped. We had come to the edge of a cedar swamp that seemed to
feed both the Batsto and Friendship Creek, which hurries along towards
the Rancoacas.
While the others sat and cooled off along the bank where it all begins,
Mike and I walked about 50 yards further, till the water actually ended.
Trumpets sounded in the distance and the clouds parted to reveal angels
singing the song of the Batsto. We had found the source of all those
canoe rides and flower hunts we enjoy.
Although I did not reveal it to the other members, at that time I was a
little out of my head from being dehydrated. It had turned 70 degrees
while we walked, and I needed more water than I carried. Not to worry
though, I was among friends and I found consolation in the fact that if
I truly needed help, they were there.
We found a dim trail that led north and made it to a road that led back
to Sooy Place right by the cars.
Some events of this trip;
a.) Joe and I saw a large black racer and Paul found a northern water
snake (Paul swears it too was a racer).
b.) Found immature Lady Slippers and Turks Cap lily.
c.) Saw a huge snapper in the bog that looked as big as a midget scuba
diver.
d.) Found a large dead snapper that Doug wanted to eat. We wouldn’t let
him.
e.) One member got 12 tick bites (any others want to fess up?).
One thing was disappointing to me; there were no savannahs or nice
flower bogs this far up the river.
We averaged a score of 8 on this one. Some liked it better than others.
Mike rated it higher than most. Which is surprising since he lugged that
tripod all day. I swear I have yet to hear Mike complain about
anything……way to go Mike.
It was a good trip, and one for the memory books……………Bob.
