When I was a kid, my sanctuary was a creek. It was just on the other side of the cow pasture from my house. Not even a mile long, it was a grassy path along what was essentially a huge drainage ditch. Definitely manmade, but overgrown and wild, at least to a 9-year-old kid tramping through the weeds and mud looking for fossilized sharks' teeth. I'd see owls, hawks, snakes, and raccoons; pick blackberries in March; clean duckweed off my dog. It was heaven.
I'd spend hours there, walking back and forth, talking to myself, singing at the top of my lungs, taking it all in. When my best friend moved away, I found my solace there. All through high school, the creek somehow held all the answers.
And when it was time for dinner, Mom could clang the giant rusty triangle on the patio out back and I knew it was time to head in.
Within the span of about 18 months, I graduated from high school, met my eventual husband, and went to college; my parents divorced; and the cow pasture and creek became part of a new suburban-style development, featuring quarter-acre lawns and three-bed-two-and-a-half-bath stucco houses. In what seemed like an instant, my whole world had changed and my past was no longer available for even a short visit.
Fast forward a dozen or so years. On Saturday, I decided to shake things up and drive out to Carderock for a short run. I've been out there before--both running to it and driving--and been inspired by the scenery. That Saturday run on the towpath was perfect. The lighting was right, the weather comfortable, the pace and rhythm easy.
Then I got the itch to hike the Billy Goat Trail again. The last couple of days have been stressful, so I took advantage of a free night to go on my first hike all alone. Going after work, I was a bit concerned about having enough time to linger and take photos, without being locked in the park all night. But on the other hand, it was Magic Hour, that sliver of time before the sun goes down where the lighting is diffused but the colors pop, where shadows are long but the light still flickers off the water and glows on the rocks.
Billy Goat Trail is a 1.7-mile course across rocks that line the river gorge just downstream of Great Falls. It's incredibly popular, and while it can be intimidating and a physical challenge (for balance reasons), it's often crowded with families in flip-flops and floppy hats. Dogs aren't allowed but people bring them anyway.
But at Magic Hour, the crowds are thin, and I was free to just hike or linger as I wanted. I jumped off as many rocks as I tiptoed over, and I skinned my knee climbing up the crack in a wall. I sat on a rock overlook around halfway through and watched the sun set behind the ridge as kayakers paddled quietly between the high granite walls. I could hear--but not see--hikers on the Virginia side. I took a lot of photos. And saw a beaver, a heron, turtles, deer--including one walking across the canal.
And in the end I realized that Carderock and Great Falls are the closest I've been able to get to recreating my old creek. Sure, now that I don't live on the edge of a little Florida town, I have to put up with urban, grown-up constraints, like a 20-minute drive and a $5 entry fee. But it's the only place since where I've been able to lose myself and clear my head and reconnect with my consciousness.
And I so look forward to going back.
