The Creek Jessica Baker
White with red shutters and no porch, gray with green shutters and a porch, brick front with blue shutters and no porch - this is the only way to identify the houses where I live. Other than differences in color and minor disparities in design, they are all exactly the same. Each house has the same pleasant shade tree on one side of its immaculate lawn, and a small oriental cherry tree on the other. Stand in the middle of the road, and the quaint nightmare of suburbia is all anyone can see, the horizon broken only by black power lines. I am lucky enough, however, to live in one of the early developments of the Greater DC Metropolitan area, when the developers still had ample space to build. They were careless in their planning and left a strip of land between my development and the neighboring one. The land is probably about seven meters across, but undeveloped, which means that it is wild and ready for exploring. My third-of-an-acre plot backs this strip, with the green lawn running into a wall of pine trees. The woods on our property is cleared so that only some small weeds grow amidst a floor of pine needles. Beyond our property the undergrowth is thick and includes poison ivy and oak, along with ordinary ivy, ferns, wild grasses, and small hollies. The trees were sappy, with braches too high to climb and only good for squirrels and birds. The soil around my home is mostly muted yellow clay and rocks, acidic from all the pines. But we were not interested in the trees or the dirt: standing at the back of our yard, we could see through the trees to the bottom of a miniature valley settled into the land between the two developments. The sun set early on September evenings and we could see light glinting off the bubbling surface of a creek. In the quiet moments between the birds roosting for the night and the sun disappearing, we could hear the water trickling, the backdrop to the symphony of crickets. Our parents helped us build a path about a meter wide back through the woods. We lined the path with fallen trees and rocks, ending it at the top of something like a natural staircase: a flat rock, some dirt held in place by the roots of a young birch, some more rocks, and earth compacted by rain and runoff. Down by the water, all the plants glowed that brilliant green color grass turns in the spring right after a long rain. Even in early autumn, the plants near the water were still that vivacious. A large, old silver birch tree stood not far from where our path met the water, and its roots formed tiny pools in the creek. The place burst full of all kinds of life I'd never seen before, yet was quiet in a way that the rest of the world was not. The trees blocked out the sounds of cars and people, leaving me with only birdsongs, insects, and water. Exploration was hesitant, at first. Winter came, and we ventured outdoors less often. But with the return of warm weather, I was outside after school before my mom could ask how my day went. The sunlight came through the trees softly, dappling the water and rocks. When the water was low, big rocks stuck out of the water, making it easy to cross or, if I trusted my sandals and my balance, to walk up and down the creek without the hassle of vines and branches. The water varied in depth depending on the season. In winter, it rose - three feet deep in some places - and ran fast due to winter rain and snow. In summer, so many plants grew in the water and on the banks, with only scattered thunderstorms and lawn sprinklers providing water, that the creek was often only a few inches deep. It would flow under rocks instead of over, forming pools with tiny minnows and tadpoles. Growing bigger and braver, my brother and I explored farther. Downstream, the creek panned out and the bottom became silty instead of rocky. We found this was the best place for chasing minnows and walking barefoot, although our mom was always worried we'd step on broken glass. The minnows were a dusty silver, which made them all but invisible between the shiny surface of the water and the bottom. The only hint of them was their shadows - slim, fast moving black lines that always swam toward the cover of rocks to join the crawfish already hiding there. On the hottest days of summer, when green dragonflies with black wings skimmed over the water, we would sometimes hear the almost silent sound of scales sliding through dead leaves and grass as we played. We'd freeze, and turn, trying to find the source of the sound - not with fear, but excitement. Most times, we could not find anything, but every so often we'd get lucky, and a sleek, brown body would slip into view. We learned to hold perfectly still, so that the smooth earth snake (Virginia valeriae) would not notice us as it dipped its head out over the water and flicked its forked tongue to drink, causing tiny ripples. However, it always, inevitably, saw us and slithered back into a pile of rocks or a hole and disappeared from view. But for just that moment when it was unaware of us, we were amazed. Upstream was a different world, separated from downstream by a fallen birch that was lodged among the rocks and acted as a natural dam. Behind it a wide, deep pool collected, but there were no paths up the creek to follow alongside the water. The still water was usually coated with pollen, and so we were disinclined to walk through the pool. For summers, we were stuck downstream, seeing only the thick trees and undergrowth of what lay above the dam. One day, we stumbled upon a deer path that wound its way upstream along the creek, and we dashed off. The houses were farther away from the creek and we could not see them through the trees anymore. We felt more like pioneers with every step we took. Trees grew closer together and were more abundant. The path was not easy to follow, but eventually the creek became narrow and rocky, and we ventured into the water again. Around a bend in the creek, our explorations were rewarded with the discovery of islands. White tailed deer pranced off in the distance, their tails the only part we could see: the shadows of leaves and branches created the perfect pattern on the plain brown fur, allowing the deer to blend in with the forest. Birds sang from the branches of trees - small oaks and birches - on the islands. Red-winged black birds, sparrows, blue jays, cardinals, robins, and mocking birds were always around. The mocking birds became my favorite because they could sing so many different songs, making them easy to tell apart from the other birds. The creek split around the small hills of land, and we named the first one “Baker Island,” followed by “Cole Island” for one of the boys who sometimes joined us on our adventures. The islands were only explored from their shores: thorn bushes had seized the islands for themselves and trespassing would surely have resulted in great casualties to our expedition. However, we were still witness to a great diversity of life kept secret from the rest of the world. Box turtles sunned themselves on logs and rocks, black lizards with bright blue and green stripes zipped out of sight often before we got a good look at them, and sometimes a pebbly toad would hop away from us for fear of being stepped on. Early on summer mornings, before the sun was above the trees, geese would swim in the larger pools of the creek, and once or twice we caught sight of a heron, with its gray-blue feathers and long legs, wading along the edge of an island before it saw us and took flight. Over time, summer homework and other responsibilities took the place of our adventures, though we still wander down the path to the creek that meanders through one of the few undeveloped pieces of land remaining. The last time I went back there, it was late winter. Signs of spring were showing: tree buds were growing fat, and rich purple crocuses had popped up despite the light snow cover. The snow was fresh, but not deep enough to even blanket the grass. I found myself standing on a rock that juts out into the water as I poked at a patch of ice with a stick and looked around for rabbit tracks. The water was running fast between muddy banks, and the world was silent except for the muffled sound of snow falling from tree branches.
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