Today I went to Blunn Creek. It was sunny and it was 70 degrees Fahrenheit. It is January twenty-fourth; it is winter. What is going on with this weather?
I set out on this courageous journey on my own, at nine in the morning. I say courageous because, I will point out, that when I arrived at Blunn Creek it was as if entering a horror movie- or a fantasy world; and it was still nine in the morning. The reason why these scenarios crossed my mind was that the pathway that led further into the preservative had tress that had lost most of their leaves (they looked like thorned sticks adorning a pathway) created a sort of eerie atmosphere. Nevertheless, it was beautiful, and I decided that I was entering the fantasy world.
I decided to arrive at the small creek and set my things down to observe nature for an hour. This creek, although being small and weak, represented hope and freedom to me. It is a feeble stream, yet it still runs and it is admired by many who walk these paths; it is almost as if these frail streams of water escaped from some oppression. They are swimming away, weak, but with freedom. It is as Leopold explains “Perhaps every youth needs an occasional wilderness trip, in order to learn the meaning of this particular freedom.” This faint stream of water did in fact bring freedom into perspective.
Looking back at past blogs about Blunn Creek I notice that what most people pointed out was the pollution that was scattered throughout the preservation. Arriving at the creek was not the exception. As I arrived to see this small trickle of a creek I was received (or actually I just saw) a little toy train, lying melancholically next to the creek. It was covered with dirt, as if an infant was playing with this toy and forgot it there, leaving it to rot and be caked with mud.
I took this as a sign to stay at that sight. That small, speckle of pollution set the scene for what was surrounding it. As I looked around, I came about an abundance of pollution accumulating at a sight, where a shrub stopped the trash that ran down from the running creek. (I should take a garbage bag to clean the creek next time.)
There was no sign of fish in the creek. The water was too shallow for this possibility. I starred at the creek, listening to its sound, to the song of distant, unidentifiable birds. It all seemed to be as Dr. Wasserman said “that time was irrelevant”.
For a few minutes even the sound of distant cars had died down, it was peaceful. My tranquility, the harmony of the birds, and the running water ended with the loud honking of, a train? Was it a train? Is there trains nearby, or was it my imagination? I looked at the small toy train sitting next to me. I understood the sign; it was time for me to leave.
