Article 3 - "OTEGO CREEK" by Jessica Kuzmier October 2008 edition of First Church of The Streets

     There is one of those places that I pass by that got me wondering, what was in there? It was s a park that seemed to have appeared from nowhere, announcing its presence with a sign that said, "PARK ENTRANCE AHEAD". It wasn't on a road that I frequented all that much, a small county road that led to another small county road, so maybe it had always been there and only now I was paying attention. But a sign telling me about a park always gets my attention once I know it's there. Unfortunately, it seemed that every time I drove past the place, there was a gate shutting its doors closed. It seemed like a place where I was destined to hear about but never go to.

     The trick was with this place to figure out when it was opened, and what the seasons were. Based on the sign itself, I couldn't quite tell what kind of park it was, whether it was a state forest, town park, local watering hole or some fishing access. One day when I happened to look though a brochure of parks surrounding the local city, I saw this enigmatic place listed as a town park. During the winter, it was closed. During the summer, it was opened. Better armed with facts, a plan was made to see what lay nestled behind all the trees and other growth in the middle of a county highway, a place so hidden that most people seemed to whiz right past it without even knowing it existed.

     The first day we arrived at the park, it was summertime. Creeping on its driveways with our car, it was like entering a campground, with pathways wending further and further from the road. I almost expected campers parked along the way, little enclaves carved out so that one may better experience the great outdoors from a huge home on wheels. But there was no such thing; more and more trees greeted us. Friendly in their own way, but distant in the sense that they hadn't made way for motor homes and huge vans to make temporary refuge. You could pull over on the side of the road, but I would probably wouldn't want to be dealing with two-way traffic in the process.
copyright 2008 John B.

     The path into the woods was endless, but arriving at the clearing near the creek felt abrupt. It was as though I had been so hypnotized by the green movie that I forgot that there would be a finale to it all. It made me think of the Endless Mountains of Pennsylvania. So long they seem to go on, that the urban sprawl of Scranton was a shock to the system. Urban sprawl was not what greeted me here, but it was obvious man had left his mark. A picnic table graced a section of grass that had been cleared of trees, and there was a bench sitting along the creek. There was room enough for several cars to park, but not many. In many ways, it seemed like someone's summer property, with enough decorations to make the place welcome for a family picnic and a few friends driving from some distance to join them. A boat ramp was located to the far right of the park, in case one of those family friends wanted to launch a small craft to live out his own dreams of Huck Finn and Mark Twain, floating leisurely down the water in the summer. In this case, it was a boogie board just lying there, as though someone had run in for ice cream and would be right back. A couple of houses were visible from its banks.

     Soon enough, others joined us here at this place. Workers in telephone repair vehicles, town trucks, sedans with office workers, they all congregated like loose souls for informal worship of this place. Well, maybe it was just a lunch break, but it felt like some communal gathering. People were here, instead of sitting under some fluorescent light bulb pretending that the world was contained in four walls or the parking lot of a strip mall. Meandering through city streets, it sometimes felt like places like this were forgotten, but not this day.

     Eventually, we were greeted by a bunch of kids doing their own version of Huck Finn. Four boys, one girl, and a small dog, all in the kid's summer uniform of bathing suits, made their way down the river on tubes, boards and their own power. Quiet as we were, it wasn't much of a surprise that the first one amongst them to notice us was the dog. The most assertive of the children, a boy who appeared to be the oldest of the children, called the dog back, apologizing to us for the canine interference. The kids floated down the river, climbed up the first few steps of the boat ramp, and then disappeared on the narrow bank that edged the creek. The only other visitors we had were crayfish, making their home near the sludgy shore. One darted played hide and seek with our cameras as it carried its prey to his lair. In the way of animals and many people, he was out of the pose by the time our mechanical lenses got to him, but our eyes had already caught him.
copyright 2008 John B.

A year later and armed with an inflatable kayak, we made our way down the river ourselves in our own version of Huck Finn. This time, the place was devoid of all the people we had seen. The hot sun of the previous year was not with us most of this particular season, so visions of floating down the river took a different note. In this part of the northeast, it had been raining frequently, so the fantasy of boating down the river seemed possible. The plan, or the wish list, included being able to kayak down to the Susquehanna River, and then back up again. There was no accident in the placement of "down" and "up"; we intended to start our journey going downstream, and come back against the current. The water seemed calm, and the wind was blowing in our favor. That is, it seemed to blow against us as we headed downstream, so it would blow on our backs as we paddled back upstream. A test run yielded that yes, the current was mild enough to paddle against. It's just that one never knows how things may change along the way.

Earlier in the season, we had paid the place a visit in the mindset of boaters, not picnickers on mediation and staycation like the previous year. While it seemed relatively deep from the numerous rainstorms we had, there had been numerous trees which had fallen as casualties from the onslaught. On this present occasion, it seemed as though they had been cleared away, whether by the town or some good soul, I wasn't sure. The creek was just deep enough for us to make our way, although we found ourselves etching our way on the bottom a few times, hoping the promo video which had promised an inflatable kayak supersized strength and durability had been more than a simulation. Trees which made their graves earlier across the water had been sawed down enough for us to squeak by. Sounds of roadwork which had greeted us at the park disappeared, the water was calm. It was easy rowing. But things always change, it seems.
copyright 2008 John B.

     The further we got away from the boat launch, the more of a maze the branches became. Like through a jungle or a video game where one needs to be on constant alert, the deception of calm gave way to an obstacle course of spears of limbs. It certainly was good practice for staying in the moment. The only thing important was making sure that I got through each obstacle, stayed on course, and synchronized my movements enough with my spouse that I didn't kill him in the process. Who needed reality TV when I could get an adrenaline kick like this? Except I was so involved with keeping focus that I couldn't tell you if I felt those endorphins or not. Distraction, though, was far from my mind. A whirlpool of current just as I thought I had cleared the wreckage allowed for no respite for daydreaming.

     And yet, I liked that single-minded focus that was needed to survive. No worrying of juggling little details of everyday life, just sheer survival. Of course I knew that my Western lifestyle with all its micromanaging and multitasking was the way of the world, and was the reason why something like this felt like a relaxing luxury. In the old days, this would be me running away from an enemy tribe. Now we just used lawsuits and faraway wars to settle dispute, freeing up kayaking for the likes of regattas and meandering and a way to exercise those muscles that weren't needed for simple survival at this time.

     In that observatory mindset, I noticed something that seemed unusual. Clams embedded themselves in the silky clay floor. If they were indigenous, I didn't know. Maybe they were like those zebra mussels that had infested the waters here in upstate New York, or some other exotic species. Hard to know, and we were too busy trying not to get beached in shallow sand to really investigate. The wind which had seemed so promising on the way down now shifted and buffeted us from the side. Contemplating the origin of strange clams would have to wait for another day.
copyright 2008 John B.

Intensity dissipated as we crossed back under the sawed remains of the original trees we encountered The crayfish of last year, or at least their descendants, were still there to greet us as we survived the last test and re-discovered the open water that remained by the launch. Still, no one was there; a place which had been bustling with humans now only knew two. Soon, we departed as well, boat folded and replaced in the compartment of real life. But for a moment, Huck Finn postmodern style had been ours for the taking. Sometime later, we would be there again, if only for a short moment in time.