Paths & Creekbeds

Paths and Creekbeds

I

struggle to keep the tires of my mountain bike on the smoothed dirt pathway. Leaning forward on my handlebars, I try to maintain control while shoving low growing tree branches out of my face, alternating ducking and swatting motions. A few feet ahead, through the dense thicket of the overgrown trail, I realize that I can not go forward. The path is blocked. A large tree has fallen, intersecting the path and sending back all who come this way. ************** When I was a kid, this path was never like this. It was a five foot wide thoroughfare, pressed down by so many size 10 feet that it was safe enough to drive a car on without getting bogged down (we tested this theory one day, when at 14, we stole a 1984 baby blue Chrysler LeBaron and used it for off-roading). The path started at the end of the street and continued on to eternity. Continue straight on the path and you would come to an abandoned railroad that would lead you as far North or South as you could imagine. Turn right and you were on the shore of Cazenovia Creek (or Caz Crick, as we called it), a mere 10 mile rubber raft ride to Buffalo Creek and on to Lake Erie, which led anywhere in the world. Go East upstream and the creek would lead you to it’s source somewhere near the Pennsylvania border. The path wandered and curved, with equally trod tributaries branching off to Anywhere.

On early summer mornings we would walk down Benson Avenue, stopping at other friends houses, and then we would disappear into the woods until suppertime. There were infinite possibilities. Sometimes my friends and I would run through the woods carrying plastic guns in our amped up version of Capture the Flag. We would crouch down in the bamboo on the banks of the crick, frequently shifting positions because the elastic waistbands of our homemade camouflage pants made flesh creases in our hips. As our elbows dug into the sun-baked dirt, we would wait for the enemy to run by. Suddenly, we would hear a twig snap or leaves rustle, and we would jump out and shoot imaginary bullets at the intruder. In the waning daylight, friend and foe would emerge from the field, discussing the latest episode of Tour of Duty, ready to reluctantly wash our hands for dinner. Other days we would salvage wood from the neighbor’s garbage or steal it from the McCaskey’s Lumberyard scrap-pile, and haul it down to the fields to build crude forts. Some were rough lean-to shelters, some were multilevel tree forts ready to come crashing down in the first strong wind. We would lounge around on cardboard or tattered blankets all day. Some time was passed with more ordinary tasks; throwing stones at a piece of cardboard with a rough marker drawn bulls-eye, or carving our names into enormous trees. A few times we pored over a Playboy magazine stolen from one of our friend’s father’s secret hiding places, too young to understand the full scope of what we were looking at, but still guessing that it was probably pretty cool. Other days

we just sat quietly. Every few weeks our fort would be torn down by the elements or by partying teenagers. The next day we would rebuild. *************** I grab the handlebars and push backwards and left on my bike, swinging it around. I half walk, half ride a few steps and amble towards another path that leads down to Cazenovia Creek. This path is also grown over, but I push forward through the thicket that scratches at my bare legs. The creek spreads east to west before me and my eyes follow the flow of the water. I set my bike down and walk onto the rocky shore.

***************

The creek was an endless source of enjoyment. Theone or two swimming pools in the neighborhood were consistently off limits, so on hot days we would strip down to our cut-off shorts and old sneakers and splash around in the murky water. We passed the time Chicken fighting and engaging in clay wars. In the deeper parts of the creek we’d plug our noses and swim down to the bottom, half afraid at what we’d find down there. Sometimes we’d catch odd-looking Rock Bass or suckerfish, using the local crayfish population as bait. Rumor had it the creek was polluted. Then again, what waterway in Western New York wasn’t? When we were done we’d walk back home in our half dried shorts, water and gook splurching in the bottom of our Converse All Stars. When our parents saw

us approaching they’d begin to unwind the hose. They’d leave the sprayer on, and the cold stream would absolve us of the creek’s filth. An old train bridge helped us across the creek into parts unknown. Rendered useless when the railroad company tore up the tracks in the early eighties, it had fallen into a state of disrepair. There were several places where multiple railroad ties were missing, and a missed step would guarantee an extended stay in the hospital. Neighborhood lore had it that someone died here. However, that didn’t stop us from tempting fate. The more daring of us leapt across the expanses, stomachs searing when we’d land and immediately have to steady ourselves on a crumbling foot wide piece of wood. The least brave would revert back to a more primal technique to make it across, crawling hand over foot, using the railroad ties as a sort of horizontal ladder. All of us felt an acute sense of relief when we reached the other side, aware of the fact that we were defying both our parent’s warnings and our own vague sense of self-preservation. ************** I walk back to my bike, lifting it off of the young bamboo shoots that broke it’s fall. I have still not learned to use a kickstand. I hop on and push myself back up the hill where the path waits. I need to get back onto the street and pedal the eight miles back to my new home, deeper into suburbia, where every day sees more green space razed in the name of development. As I get to the top of the path, I feel the need to

look back into the thick woods. Today, the fields seem lifeless. A log bars the passage to the unknown. Three inch steel walls, thick with rust and graffiti, have been erected to prohibit people from traversing the dilapidated bridge. No splashes disturb the calm flow of the creek. The sounds of nature are not being drowned out by the shouts and yells of child war games. It is simply still, like only empty forests can be. However, it is not a peaceful calm. Where childhood innocence once thrived now exists the soft rustle of trees. It is a void. It is lonely. - Joel Malley