How do you pass a 1,200-foot

tow through a 600-foot lock, without losing uncontrolled barges down the

river?

This was the puzzle I contemplated

while the sun's heat baked me from above and bounced off the concrete

of the observation deck at Kentucky Lock and Dam. The downstream gates

were still open; through them I could see the previous vessel still within

the guide wall.

The upstream gates were closed,

the traffic light above my head still flashing red. I was standing almost

directly above the leading edge of the barges waiting to enter, and below

me three ruddy deck hands in personal floatation devices (no longer called

life jackets), lounged on the metal deck on the shady side of the forward

barge.

Their cargo was granite. I

suppose someone, somewhere, has a manifest that would tell how much this

payload weighed, but I would not hazard a guess. The rocks ranged in size

from a fist to half a VW Beetle and in the middle of each barge were stacked

seven or more feet high.

The downstream gates closed,

and slowly, silently water started flooding the chamber. When at last

it was full, the upstream gates opened and, the gates at last snug in

their recesses, the lockmaster gave the single "Enter" blast

of his air horn and the flashing red light turned green.

The crew began undoing lines,

and the front edge of the barges began inching forward.

Inching, truly. Little by little,

the captain pushed his immense cargo into the lock. I had a clear view

of the wall below my feet and I am not exaggerating: The side of the barges

maintained exactly 10 inches from the lock wall their entire 600-foot

length.

With the first nine of the

15 barges inside the lock, the crew made fast to the bollards on the lock

wall, then undid the intricate series of cables and turnbuckles that linked

them to the remaining six. When the last cable lay slack on the deck,

the pilot threw his huge pusher into reverse and pulled the load back

just the length of the upstream gates.

The lockmaster gave the customary

siren blast to warn fishermen downstream that he was sending a chamberful

of water their way. The mounds of boulders at our feet began to drop away

from us as the water fell 57 feet.

Only one deck hand now had

responsibility for the nine forward barges. How was he going to get them

out of the lock chamber and then hold them in place while the process

began all over again to bring down the pusher and remaining barges?

"Watch when the gates

open, Dave," I joked. "Somebody has a rowboat down there to

pull them out."

The downstream gates opened

and there was nothing in sight but the empty Tennessee River ­ no

auxiliary tug, no rowboat, not even a guy with a long pole. Yet as soon

as the gates were fully open and the air horn signaled the all-clear,

the deck hand undid his mooring line and the barges began inching out

of the lock chamber.

But how?

We've spent many weeks, these

past two years, on the rivers, and seen countless barges, some just entering

locks, some leaving, but never have we seen a raft of barges floating

loose on the water, waiting to be reunited with the rest of their load

and their tow boat. Obviously, that can't happen.

Nonetheless, the powerless

barges were sliding out of the lock. I was beginning to think a crew had

boarded when we weren't looking and was pushing hand over hand against

the lock wall to move these thousands of tons into the river. To prove

to ourselves that wasn't happening, we walked back again to the observation

platform we'd left earlier, where we'd be able to see the stern of the

slowly moving barges.

Dave saw it first. "Look!"

he said, pointing to the far wall of the chamber. Other onlookers who

had watched the whole operation from that end looked at us as though we

were mildly idiotic.

It was so obvious, so simple

that maybe they were right. In a high-tech world, some things are still

best done the old-fashioned way.

A hawser tied the stern of

the last barge to a large cleat traveling in a groove the length of the

chamber wall ­ the modern equivalent of a tow horse ­ and a

hidden motor was slowly dragging the whole lash-up forward through the

open downstream gate.

When the last of the barges

had cleared the sill, it would be a simple matter of tying off to the

downstream guide wall, closing the gate and refilling the chamber to receive

the tow boat and the last six barges. Once the water dropped, the pilot

would nudge his load forward to re-connect with the first nine.

It's a slow but necessary process

to put a gigantic payload on its way to who-knows-what-project. A wall

to prevent river bank erosion? A road-building project? An architectural

masterpiece?

We'd never know. Dehydrated

and sunburned ­ but curiously exultant ­ we got back into the

camper, turned the air on high and continued our journey.

Footnote: I wrote most of this

column and last week's before Sept. 11. When we returned to the river

Sept. 21, a steady stream of barges was hauling freight we had not seen

before: military vehicles and armored cars by the thousands, and locals

tells us the access roads are now closed to the public.

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