Paths and Creekbeds

struggle to keep the tires of my mountain bike on thesmoothed dirt pathway. Leaning forward on my handlebars,I try to maintain control while shoving low growing treebranches out of my face, alternating ducking and swattingmotions. A few feet ahead, through the dense thicket of theovergrown trail, I realize that I can not go forward. Thepath is blocked. A large tree has fallen, intersecting the pathand sending back all who come this way. * * * * * * * * * * * * * *When I was a kid, this path was never like this. Itwas a five foot wide thoroughfare, pressed down by somany size 10 feet that it was safe enough to drive a car onwithout getting bogged down (we tested this theory oneday, when at 14, we stole a 1984 baby blue Chrysler LeBar-on and used it for off-roading). The path started at the end of the street and continued on to eternity. Continue straighton 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 Cazen-ovia Creek (or Caz Crick, as we called it), a mere 10 milerubber raft ride to Buffalo Creek and on to Lake Erie, whichled anywhere in the world. Go East upstream and the creek would lead you to it’s source somewhere near the Pennsyl-vania border. The path wandered and curved, with equally trod tributaries branching off to Anywhere.On early summer mornings we would walk downBenson Avenue, stopping at other friends houses, and thenwe would disappear into the woods until suppertime. Therewere infinite possibilities. Sometimes my friends and Iwould run through the woods carrying plastic guns in ouramped up version of Capture the Flag. We would crouchdown in the bamboo on the banks of the crick, frequently shifting positions because the elastic waistbands of ourhomemade camouflage pants made flesh creases in our hips.As our elbows dug into the sun-baked dirt, we would waitfor the enemy to run by. Suddenly, we would hear a twigsnap or leaves rustle, and we would jump out and shootimaginary bullets at the intruder. In the waning daylight,friend and foe would emerge from the field, discussing thelatest episode of

Tour of Duty

, ready to reluctantly wash ourhands for dinner.Other days we would salvage wood from the neigh-bor’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 treeforts ready to come crashing down in the first strong wind.We would lounge around on cardboard or tattered blanketsall day.Some time was passed with more ordinary tasks;throwing stones at a piece of cardboard with a rough markerdrawn bulls-eye, or carving our names into enormous trees.A few times we pored over a Playboy magazine stolen fromone of our friend’s father’s secret hiding places, too youngto understand the full scope of what we were looking at, butstill guessing that it was probably pretty cool. Other days

we just sat quietly. Every few weeks our fort would be torndown by the elements or by partying teenagers. The nextday we would rebuild.* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I grab the handlebars and push backwards and lefton my bike, swinging it around. I half walk, half ride afew steps and amble towards another path that leads downto Cazenovia Creek. This path is also grown over, but Ipush forward through the thicket that scratches at my barelegs. 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. The-one or two swimming pools in the neighborhood wereconsistently off limits, so on hot days we would strip downto our cut-off shorts and old sneakers and splash around in the murky water. We passed the time Chicken fight-ing and engaging in clay wars. In the deeper parts of thecreek 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 localcrayfish population as bait. Rumor had it the creek waspolluted. Then again, what waterway in Western NewYork wasn’t? When we were done we’d walk back homein our half dried shorts, water and gook splurching in thebottom of our Converse All Stars. When our parents sawus approaching they’d begin to unwind the hose. They’d leave the sprayer on, and the cold stream would absolve usof the creek’s filth.An old train bridge helped us across the creek intoparts unknown. Rendered useless when the railroad com-pany tore up the tracks in the early eighties, it had falleninto a state of disrepair. There were several places wheremultiple railroad ties were missing, and a missed stepwould guarantee an extended stay in the hospital. Neigh-borhood lore had it that someone died here. However,that didn’t stop us from tempting fate. The more daringof us leapt across the expanses, stomachs searing whenwe’d land and immediately have to steady ourselves on acrumbling 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 sortof horizontal ladder. All of us felt an acute sense of relief when we reached the other side, aware of the fact that wewere defying both our parent’s warnings and our ownvague sense of self-preservation.* * * * * * * * * * * * * *I walk back to my bike, lifting it off of the youngbamboo shoots that broke it’s fall. I have still not learned to use a kickstand. I hop on and push myself back up thehill where the path waits. I need to get back onto the streetand pedal the eight miles back to my new home, deeperinto 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