Creeking

Wednesday, 18 December 2002

about twelve years ago my fa­vorite ac­tiv­i­ty con­sist­ed of some­thing i called ‘creek­ing.’ about 300 yards from my house, down a ravine and through a bit of new growth wood­land, you came up­on the not very im­pres­sive Little William’s Creek. not im­pres­sive un­less you are a ten year old boy. it was around 25 feet wide at the near­est point to me. not very deep though, and if i just want­ed to ford the damn thing and not get wet i on­ly had to plan my route from rock to rock very gen­er­al­ly.

there were an abun­dance of craw­dads in said es­tu­ary. i used to catch them and live in fear of their tiny it­tle bit­ty claws. some of those bas­tards were mean. i would catch mul­ti­tudes of them and pit them again­st each oth­er in lit­tle pools. the one that was vic­to­ri­ous over all the oth­ers had the hon­or of be­ing smashed by me on a nice sun­warmed rock. i was a despotic god to those craw­dads.

if you went down­stream you came to a golf course. which i golfed on many a time with my ju­nior size clubs. but it was no man’s land if you were creek­ing.

up­stream about 300 yards was a bridge. it was scary. all kinds of graf­fi­ti un­der it and lots of it was racist. i thought the Bad Boys were re­spon­si­ble. if you went up­stream even far­ther the creek got deep enough that you could ac­tu­al­ly see fish swim­ming around. and wa­ter moc­casins, but they didn’t re­al­ly scare me. the wa­ter al­so be­came a deep green-blue col­or in the­se deeps parts. it was a swim­ming hole. and when the light was right, it looked right out of Clu Gulager short.

Little William’s Creek al­so had a lot of large trash in it. Old tires and rims. An ice­box so old it was bare­ly iden­ti­fi­able, beer cans ga­lore, twist­ed pieces of met­al, a plank, a seem­ing­ly ran­dom as­sort­ment of every­thing.

try­ing to re­mem­ber every­thing that the creek meant to me is like try­ing to make a space­ship out of the name­less bits of flot­sam and jet­sam that would stub my naked feet and provide hid­ing places for the ter­ri­fied craw­dads in the stream of my con­scious­ness.