Method 4: Writing

If we ever figure out teleportation, I imagine it’ll feel something like this. The transition from the busy intersection of Mopac and Loop 360 to the Greenbelt is almost instantaneous. The moment my foot leaves the pavement of the office building parking lot and makes a crunch on the dirt path, it’s like stepping into a bubble. Suddenly, it’s as if the land belongs to itself again. Its trees haven’t been uprooted to make room for more suburban housing, the creek hasn’t been dammed up into a reservoir. This place belongs to nature; we’re only visitors.

I never realized how rural the small town in Pennsylvania where I grew up was until coming to Austin. Though I could do without the frigid winters and wet summers, I do miss the feeling of driving down wooded roads on summer nights, windows down to let the sound of crickets and cicadas accent the music playing on the radio. I miss cutting through the forest to get to the baseball fields, having a backyard bordered by woods instead of more houses. Being on the Greenbelt takes me back.

The sun has finally broken through the storm clouds of the weekend, and the glow that bursts through the trees is heavenly. Hannah and I make our way down the path towards the creek. In one hand, I hold the camera I’ve borrowed from the library, snapping pictures of every branch and leaf and spider web, though I can’t quite figure out how to zoom in on the tiny spiders that move gracefully along their silken traps.

In the other hand, Baron tugs on his leash, joyful to be free of the confines of the house. I try to hold him long enough to get a shot of a small red flower, but I know the Australian shepherd could easily win this tug of war if he was brave enough to venture more than twenty feet away from someone who can rub his belly.

The water is still out of sight, but we can hear a few other people and their dogs. Is it possible to be more than a few yards away from a dog anywhere within Austin’s city limits? I wonder to myself as we pass a woman and her Labrador. Hannah holds Mingo close to her; it’s funny how she gets so protective of Baron. Though she’s bigger than most of the dogs we come across, she’s still at least thirty pounds smaller than Baron, who can definitely protect himself if he needs to. I wonder if she’s just jealous; worried that someone might try to steal her man. Do dogs get jealous?

We find an opening in the wooden fence that runs along the path and go through. Baron decides—as usual—to take the most complicated route: under one of the slats in the fence, wrapping his leash around of the poles and knocking the vertical slat off its perch. I groan as I try to guide him back through the fence without dropping the camera. He expertly manages to make it worse, so I let go of the leash and let him figure it out on his own. Finally, he wiggles free and I grab the leash before he can run off.

We can hear the creek trickling and in just a few short strides it’s finally in view. The dogs immediately plunge into the crystal clear water. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it looked good enough to drink right out of the palms of my hands.

Across the stream there’s a sheer cliff with an overhang, cactuses populating the top of it. A group is setting up ropes and harnesses to make the climb, and I admire their skillful work. The path continues on the other side, and we look for a shallow part of the creek to cross. I slip off my boots and socks, tying them together to hang around my neck. I pull on the straps of my backpack so it doesn’t hang too low and wet all of my belongings.

The first few steps in the water are jarring; it’s chilly and my bare legs are covered in goosebumps. But my body quickly adjusts and I trudge on, the water reaching just above my knees. As we pass the halfway point, the water doesn’t seem to be getting shallower. It only looks about knee deep, but as the water passes my hips we realize that we’ve made a terrible mistake. Mingo doesn’t seem to have a problem; she swims to the rocky bank and shakes the water out of her fur, patiently waiting for us to reach her. Baron, on the other hand, has planted himself firmly in the middle of the creek where the water just reaches his chin. I try to coax him towards me but he just starts whining. What a big baby.

Hannah is already out of the water, trying to squeeze it out of her shirt and pants. I’m still waist-deep, holding my bag above my head so none of my electronics get waterlogged. I plant my feet on the rocks, pull the leash over my shoulder and start towards the bank. Baron gives a little, but I still need to make a big lunge before he finally gives up and starts swimming over. I reach the opposite bank and set my bag down before pulling myself out of the water. Baron jumps out and promptly douses us with all the water trapped in his coat.

Hannah and I both groan, but give into laughter at the true hilarity of the situation in retrospect. We rid ourselves of as much water as possible before slipping our shoes back on and moving forward on the path.

 

Reflection

I chose to highlight my work for our writing method in research and process of our design. As a Writing major, I feel it’s important to merge my disciplines and see how I can use one to enhance the other. Though there isn’t a lot of visual design here, I feel this piece shows one of the steps I took to create the concept of my final design (the mark). I was able to explore the feeling of my location, using imagery and figurative language to paint the emotions of being at the creek. By focusing on the transition from modernity to nature, I was able to discover my concept: escape.