Let's go to the Creek

CHAPTER ONE

The Creek

          Just down the hill and around the corner from the house flowed an overlooked stream dubbed by Shades and me as “the creek”.  By all standards the creek was just a small stream in the middle of the middle of America.  Every few years or so though it’s hidden power would be unleashed, an extraordinary event for a boy of twelve to behold. 

In the spring, after several days of heavy rain, the creek would swell and jump it’s banks. It went where it willed and would make good on threats to the nearby houses of the neighborhood and also indulge itself in Mr. Jacobson’s Christmas tree lot.  The floating debris and turbulent waters seemed unreal.  Most of the time though it minded it’s own business and kept much to itself, hiding there amongst the trees.  The fall of the year was when the creek was in it’s prime.  Piles of leaves, fort building, and some of the best smells around made the creek our choice destination of the season.  Little did the passers by on the state highway realize the adventures that awaited them on the other side of the guard rail.

          The creek meandered across the eastern side of town making its way through sub divisions and trailer courts.  When it got within a mile of my house it found it’s way past the town’s water district, through a couple of acres of timber (really an old overgrown cemetery), past a corn field, and then skirting Mr. Jacobson’s Christmas tree lot.  It was a young boy’s heaven full of mystery, danger, and glory.  The heart of the creek was there, not to far from the water district, and it’s entry was not for the faint of heart. 

          If one wanted to get to the other side of the creek one must first cross it.  There were really only two ways to accomplish this.  A third though, and I must say spirited venture, was once attempted by Shades and myself.  In hindsight however hickory logs don’t make for the choicest materials in the world of raft construction, so it’s better that we stick to more practical crossing methods. 

          In creek crossing, the first and most basic way usually involves getting wet, depending of course, on your ability to walk on water.  It was common knowledge in our boyhood circles that if one would run fast enough across a creek that you could reach the other side without so much as getting a drop of water on your pants.  Shades and I tried this way many times and at different crossings, but were always unsuccessful.  In review of this truth we felt that it’s origin must have referred to a specific creek in the next county over.  When headed home, however; this method of creek crossing didn’t seem so inconvenient and at certain times of the year was even considered desirable.  On the way there though, it made for a less enjoyable day of exploring and fort building.  So it’s the second way to cross the creek which became our preferred method.  It’s a much faster and drier method but also required steady nerve and a superior level of concentration.  

The “pipe” as it was called was an old water district line that spanned the breadth of the creek, almost 50 ft, to the other side.  This iron monster was long but only big enough around that if it were possible; a young boy of our size could have possibly squeezed himself through it.  Rusty and worn, almost iridescent at times, the pipe was put together in 10 ft sections making for an amazing obstacle when suspended out above the creek.  When crossing, the idea was not to look down, especially after you started.  Turning around at any point was considered impossible so it was best to continue on ahead.  When staring “the pipe” in the face it was either victory or certain death; there was no in-between.

Shades, it seemed, had no fear of death or height for that matter.  I on the other hand was not as inclined.  I’d watch him time after time look forward, jaw set, and go without hesitation.  Straight in a straight line, steady and sure.  When he’d reach the other side he’d turn, look back, smile, and wait.  I’d think to myself, “Ok Britches.  It’s your turn now.”, as the little beads of perspiration started to drip under my hairless arms, like I was getting ready to leap from the nest for the first time.  The only thing was though; it was not my first time.  I’d in fact done this many times before.  Oh yea of little faith!

Stepping out onto the pipe was scary enough in itself.  Like being on the edge of the Grand Canyon, all senses heightened, I can feel and hear the grit under my boot scraping against the metal.  (This oddly enough made a similar sound to that of rubbing my hand against Dad’s 3 day old beard stubble)  Looking over the edge of this would be bridge, the reflections on the water seemed distant and the drop was daunting.  Taking one last look over my shoulder, as if to say goodbye, was my farewell to the world. I’d breathe deep, raise my arms, and start to slowly put one foot in front of the other.  It was at this point, more tense than a bungee chord at full gate, I’d pray that no bird would fly too close or God forbid a gust of wind would stir.  The first few steps were the worst; all of life hanging on the brink of eternity, but after I made it a few feet this feeling began to lift.  It was right at this moment in the crossing though, that the end of the first section of pipe reared it’s ugly head. 

At the points where the pipe sections butted up to one another there was about a three inch rise you’d have to hurdle.  Sure a three inch hurdle doesn’t sound that impressive but remember that eternity is all around you; whispering sweet nothings in your ear.  Momentum was the key now; keeping a nice slow steady pace.  Precise foot placement is critical; not too far to left, not too far to the right, keeping yourself directly on the crest and clearing the hurdles as they would come.

For reasons of adventure and exploration I’d like to say something fantastic at this point like, “Then all of a sudden… and something terrible!” but not today.  In all my times of crossing the pipe I never had the classic Indiana Jones cliff hanger experience with toothy beasts waiting below.  Never did I experience the slip and fall one arm snag and hang; nor the equally impressive, leap and grab-a-vine and swing.  It was safety first I suppose.  We where there though, in the middle of it all; right on the cusp of adventure.

After making it over the rest of the hurdles we had arrived at freedom’s front door.  At the precise moment of putting that first foot on solid ground it felt like all your worries and cares lifted.  Smells became richer, sounds clearer. Like stepping through a wardrobe, we had been successfully transported from the real world to the creek.  With the day to ourselves to soak up some woods and be boys; no other place would suffice. The creek is where we longed to be.