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a chance for Melannen the geo student to show her mettle . . .
I went for a walk by the creek today, to greet the new year and touch the water. It's no ocean, but a few miles downstream it grows into the Severn and flows into the Bay which mingles, south and east, with the sea; bearing with it all that way a libation, to judge by the smell, from the aged pumping station a quarter-mile upstream.
It's been far too long since I've walked those woods by the creek-- a year at the very least-- and they're all changed. That should not have been a shock; there's been a hurricane she's weathered, not to mention the year of all-time record rain, *and* road construction not a hundred yards away, and years of simply getting older, too; skies know I've changed in that time. But she's still the same creek, and I'd know her from any other. I've known Paint Branch better, these past few years away at school, with its textbook-perfect meanders and undercuts and sandbars; and I had forgotten that my creek would be so different. She's-- not wilder, maybe, but more honest: the difference between the alligators at the Baltimore Zoo and the ones in the sewers, underneath. There were deep beaches of yellow sand and muddy islets with no discernable cause; pebbles and cobbles and dirt not sorted in the least; litter and debris and fallen trees of all kinds, including a new one just perfect for crossing the creek. On the right side, where the better trails used to be, the bank had in several places collapsed, leaving scarps two dozen feet high, baring the raw clay, the reds and purples of a healing wound, slick and stubborn. In the narrow places the water shaded the exact same gradient of red-brown to brown-blue as the evening sky over McKeldin Mall.
I hadn't meant to walk farther than just out of sight of the street; but the road goes ever on and on. I was tempted indeed to keep going-- see if there's any sign left of that old boardwalk that was somebody's Eagle project fifteen or twenty years ago-- but it was getting dark, and I didn't want to worry Mom. I'll have to go back, if there are any more days this nice. For years I've been saying I will; spend a school holiday giving the creek all the love she merits, really get to know her; but it's always been too hard to start. It's terrible and depressing, really. My father spent his childhood playing in the city dump; I'm twenty, and I'm still not sure I'm allowed to go for a walk in the county park across the street. Maybe this year I will, with my stick and my cloak.
It was maybe the third time I've worn the cloak on any sort of woods-tramping; usually it's too warm; and then, people who don't understand about cloaks make comments. But I've decided I like it; oh, the coarse wool weave seems to draw thorns to it, and sliding down the slick-clay slope I stepped on it several times; but overall it was less bothersome than anything else I've worn in the woods, save nylon. And I can't abide nylon. It was a lovely day, too warm for January really, at least under my customary three layers. Very little green; the old stands of holly and crow's-foot were farther from the water, so I'm not surprised. Saw tracks of person, six-pack, dog, and deer. If I'd seen rabbit that would have exhausted my real-life tracking knowledge. I dipped my fingers in the creek and blew a kiss "To freedom!" then overstepped myself and ended up with wet feet. Which was only to be expected, really.
It's been far too long since I've walked those woods by the creek-- a year at the very least-- and they're all changed. That should not have been a shock; there's been a hurricane she's weathered, not to mention the year of all-time record rain, *and* road construction not a hundred yards away, and years of simply getting older, too; skies know I've changed in that time. But she's still the same creek, and I'd know her from any other. I've known Paint Branch better, these past few years away at school, with its textbook-perfect meanders and undercuts and sandbars; and I had forgotten that my creek would be so different. She's-- not wilder, maybe, but more honest: the difference between the alligators at the Baltimore Zoo and the ones in the sewers, underneath. There were deep beaches of yellow sand and muddy islets with no discernable cause; pebbles and cobbles and dirt not sorted in the least; litter and debris and fallen trees of all kinds, including a new one just perfect for crossing the creek. On the right side, where the better trails used to be, the bank had in several places collapsed, leaving scarps two dozen feet high, baring the raw clay, the reds and purples of a healing wound, slick and stubborn. In the narrow places the water shaded the exact same gradient of red-brown to brown-blue as the evening sky over McKeldin Mall.
I hadn't meant to walk farther than just out of sight of the street; but the road goes ever on and on. I was tempted indeed to keep going-- see if there's any sign left of that old boardwalk that was somebody's Eagle project fifteen or twenty years ago-- but it was getting dark, and I didn't want to worry Mom. I'll have to go back, if there are any more days this nice. For years I've been saying I will; spend a school holiday giving the creek all the love she merits, really get to know her; but it's always been too hard to start. It's terrible and depressing, really. My father spent his childhood playing in the city dump; I'm twenty, and I'm still not sure I'm allowed to go for a walk in the county park across the street. Maybe this year I will, with my stick and my cloak.
It was maybe the third time I've worn the cloak on any sort of woods-tramping; usually it's too warm; and then, people who don't understand about cloaks make comments. But I've decided I like it; oh, the coarse wool weave seems to draw thorns to it, and sliding down the slick-clay slope I stepped on it several times; but overall it was less bothersome than anything else I've worn in the woods, save nylon. And I can't abide nylon. It was a lovely day, too warm for January really, at least under my customary three layers. Very little green; the old stands of holly and crow's-foot were farther from the water, so I'm not surprised. Saw tracks of person, six-pack, dog, and deer. If I'd seen rabbit that would have exhausted my real-life tracking knowledge. I dipped my fingers in the creek and blew a kiss "To freedom!" then overstepped myself and ended up with wet feet. Which was only to be expected, really.
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Isn't that what a cloak is for? better the thorns stick in the cloak than in the hiker.
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We could hide a new one. Farther from the creek, maybe on the other side. :P Also, looking at the cache title was the first time I made the connection to the name of the road. Burns Crossing. Because it crosses a burn. Twenty years. How stupid am I?