It was the 4th of July in the 1960s and my Dad, Richard Robertson, and I planned to take a three-day float trip on the Allegheny River. We’d begin at Port Allegheny and end up at Seneca Junction. I was wild with excitement.
The old 17-foot canoe was again repainted. I’m not sure how many coats of paint were on the Old Town, but it weighed as much as a destroyer or so it seemed.
We packed the old army pup tent, sleeping bags and clothes, purchased ice and food. I could hardly sleep for anticipation.
Friday evening we received a phone call; Dad’s sister would be coming up unexpectedly for the long weekend. I was struck with paralysis when Mom told Dad about it. Would he cancel the trip? I waited with my heart in my mouth.
Dad looked surprised, glanced at me frozen in the corner with heaven knows what type of horrified expression on my face and then said he hoped that mother and the Gordon’s would have a great time together, but their surprise visit wasn’t going to cancel our long planned float trip. Everything was packed and that was that.
Mom looked chagrined as you may imagine, while I elevated father to a status near Godhood. The joy and relief that flooded my soul was hard to describe.
The next morning we lugged the canoe down to the river at Port Allegheny, loaded our gear and waved a merry goodbye to my scowling mother. Moms are so dramatic aren’t they.
The river was very low that summer, but from Port down flowed through the remains of the huge lake the glacier created long ago. The bottom was largely sediment and the rather narrow river with its many twists and turns tended to channel the water so we seldom touched bottom. The wood and canvas canoe didn’t leak at all.
Several times we rode up on sunken logs and teetered there, but Dad taught me to sit perfectly still and remain balanced. We always managed to work our way off. Great fun and instruction.
We saw herons, hawks, ducks with their little ones, beavers, muskrats, squirrels in the trees, an occasional deer and her fawn coming down to drink. That trip is a moving memory of great trees, sunlight on bough and limb, sunlight glittering like silver on the water and so warm on your face. The laughing rapids and silent deep flow of the long holes. Craggy and twisted tree roots snaked down the banks to drink in the clear waters as countless birds sang and flew about us. What precious memories.
We constantly fished, waiting till the last second to grab a paddle to prevent us from going aground or onto a rock or sunken log.
Dad seemed to think I did less than my share of positioning the canoe for I was determined not to miss a single cast. I may have felt a trifle guilty at his complaints, but not much. After all, what is better, a few complaints or a leaping smallmouth on the end of your line?
The first night we camped below Larabee Junction. There a rare gravel beach and gradual bank allowed us to beach the canoe safely and set up camp.   
We dug up the sand to soften our bed, pitched the tent, hauled logs to sit on and built a fire pit. As the soft summer night fell about us the frogs sang, the river laughed over the rapids and the stars and moon beamed down on us. We had steak that night, grilled perfectly over a wood fire.
The next day was just as sweet. We caught fish, dodged logs, saw countless animals and birds. When we reached the confluence of the Oswayo Creek our problems began, however. Here the soft mud and sand bottom turned to rock and gravel, the river widened and the low water became a challenge.
The river was so shallow, the rapids as well, that we ended up dragging the canoe through ankle deep water every half mile or so, scraping the paint away and the canoe began to leak. Not fun.
We camped above Olean that evening and slept like logs. The bacon and eggs that morning were heavenly. As we neared Seneca Junction late in the day we came to a set of rocks across the river. Dad dropped the anchor and I fired out my #2 gold Mepps, letting the current sweep it across the river in front of those boulders. The lure stopped and I set the hook hard.
Snagged I thought, but suddenly my drag squawked, then screamed as a powerful fish bent my cheap Zebco rod double, the plastic 202 reel’s complaining at the stress placed upon it.
For 15 minutes, my heart in my mouth, I battled this unseen fish. Dad seemed to think it was a carp since it stayed so deep. I prayed it wasn’t. Slowly I worked the fish in only to have it run downstream again and again. Then a huge golden side flashed: a giant walleye.
When Dad finally netted the walleye I couldn’t believe my eyes: a 30-inch, 10 lb. monster. The next cast I caught a 24-inch walleye. When I remembered it was the 4th of July I realized no one on earth could have had a more spectacular set of fireworks than I had just experienced this perfect holiday.