A chilly, windy February afternoon

My bike ride in to White Clay Creek State Park is less than enjoyable. It is a cloudy and chilly Tuesday afternoon. After riding my friend's bike—mine was stolen—for about a quarter of a mile, I realize the front tire is in dire need of air, but I continue onward regardless. For my entire 3.75 mile ride—out of campus, down Creek Road, past Wedgewood Road, across the red footbridge, and north up the path along the creek—I fight a terrible headwind, which naturally makes the ride even more challenging. As I approach my spot, on my right I pass a small pond, although "pond" might not be the correct word to describe it. I notice three geese floating around in the still water near the far bank.

The weekend before, I hiked through the same area with a friend, and she and I were lucky enough to see two long-necked and long-legged birds perched on a tree on the far bank of the same pond. After watching them for a few minutes, they flew gracefully toward the creek. (I thought the birds were great blue herons and my friend wondered if they were egrets, so we referred to the field guide that informed us they were in fact great blue herons!) I hoped I would see the beautiful herons again, today.

My legs are screaming at me by the time I reach my spot (although my most recently discovered favorite spot is a few more miles up the creek, which unfortunately is a little too far). I dismount the bike and set it up against a fence near what appears to be some type of power station for the dam, although I could be incorrect. I walk about ten yards away from my bike downstream and sit down on a rock that edges the slowly eroding creek to catch my breath. For a few minutes I just sit, attempting to soak up everything around me. But, it's too much. There's so much to see and hear that I try desperately to make mental images of everything. But then, I allow myself to relax and let everything flow through me. I feel calm. My legs no longer hurt, I can breathe easily, and I begin to really enjoy being at this spot. It's serene. Peaceful. Seemingly undisturbed.

I can tell the wind is picking up because I notice the water upstream—once quite still— is now rippling fast toward me to the dam. The ripples flow methodically and almost rhythmically, and it is beautiful to watch. A ray of sunlight manages to peek through the clouds and it reflects off the crest of each small ripple. The water pouring over the dam creates a loud rushing sound. It's powerful and forceful and somehow incredibly soothing all at the same time. At once, the sound evokes memories of my childhood—memories of Crescent Beach. I can picture myself—much younger now—lying awake in sandy sheets. The windows of my room are open wide and the breeze cools the once unbearably hot room. I lie awake listening to the waves pound into the shore as an imminent late-July storm approaches the bay.

I hear another sound that I am drawn to. Behind me I hear a gentle trickle of water—water that evades the dam—running through the rocks. The sound is captivating.

A blue heron flies elegantly from my side of the creek, a ways down shore, across to perch on a tree on the opposite bank. Is it the same blue heron I saw over the weekend? I wonder if they stay here through the winter. I wonder how they survive. The shore erosion is notable, and seems to be the worst I've ever seen in the creek. The roots of the trees lining the shore are visible, and I wonder how many have fallen into the creek during the winter. I wonder what causes the erosion. Flooding from snowfall and winter precipitation? Wind? Is the erosion natural, and does it keep the ecosystem healthy? (Probably not, I think.) Or, is the erosion a negative effect of human actions and the degradation of the land surrounding the creek, which leads to storm water runoff?

I see no animals other than the single blue heron, which I only managed to catch a fleeting glimpse of. I can hear geese flying above and behind me. Some of the bare trees strike me—they are mostly white, except near the bottom where bark still covers. I can't tell what type of trees they are, as I search through the field guide. Uprooted trees have fallen over the dam, and downstream I notice trees are down everywhere. I wonder why so many have fallen—it almost looks as if a fierce storm ripped through just that spot. It looks like a site of destruction. Upstream, however, no trees are down.

On my bike ride home, I realize why I am so drawn to my particular spot. Water. The sounds of flowing, rushing, trickling water are incredibly soothing. Any anxiety or stress is suddenly washed away if I am near water—whether at my grandma's cottage on Lake Erie or at a beach house on the Outer Banks or canoeing in Brown Tract Pond in the Adirondacks—water has always somehow acted as a force that allows me to drift away.