Creek Crawling

Beside my childhood home there is a small pond and beyond that is "the woods." It is not a very dense woods, certainly not a forest. I used to follow the creek inside for a long time, walking along the edge, crooked turns and dips. Sometimes I would take off my shoes and socks, tying the shoelaces together and shouldering them as I stepped into the water onto mossy stones and pebbly creek beds. I'd cross from one side of the creek to another side by stepping stones, but occasionally by straddling a log laying across the creek walls, then scooting slowly over the bark until I reached the other side. I was too scared to walk across, afraid that I'd slip and fall head first.

One Thanksgiving a cousin and I went hiking beside the creek. We'd left pretty early in the morning thinking we'd come back in time before dinner. But we became distracted and more interested in following the creek, getting to where we were going, finding out where it went. We weren't even hungry. It was an adventure. We weren't concerned about sharing our own stories about what was happening at home, or about school life. We were only interested in discovering the next turn of the creek or what was beyond the little grove of trees. Maybe it was a really sunny and warm day, just right for creek crawling. Maybe it was a need for a little freedom from everyone else, even ourselves, and hiking through sunlit oaks, pines, maples, birches, and ironwoods. Finding smooth colorful pebbles was like finding a pearl. Sometimes we stumbled upon rubbish, a boot protruding in a sandy creek or a rusty oil or soda can wasting away between vines and mossy roots.

Then we heard our names being called from far away. We didn't have watches on, so we didn't know how much time had passed. But we knew that our names being called meant we were in trouble. We'd gone too far, literally. We had followed the creek about a mile or two away from the house, definitely on someone else's property now. My father and my uncle both shouting our names, concerned, frustrated, and a little angry. We finally caught up with our fathers, and upon arriving back at the house, we were told we could not go into the woods anymore. We could not be trusted beyond the pond's embankment. We might would get lost.

Another creek I used to follow a lot was the one down below my Uncle Tommy's and Aunt Cathy's house. The house is surrounded by trees, and down a short path I found another creek I could follow. This one was bigger than the one at home, prettier moss growing, the sun shining brighter through the oak and pine trees, the sandy creeks seemed cleaner, and I found little flowers, muscles, turtles, and frogs here. It became a personal tradition to go down to the creek either before or after Thanksgiving dinner. After a while my youngest cousins were able to join me. At first my personal get-away seemed less my own, but after a brief interlude I enjoyed knowing others were interested in the same natural treasures.

I have not been in a creek in a long time, where I can get my toes wet and sandy, fingers in mossy embankments, digging for shells or smooth pebbles. I'll return one day this Summer, I'm sure.