This may start things off.
Four boys left the village behind, and vanished into the opening between the hemlocks and the honeysuckles to the woods and the paths to the creek. None of them spoke, the destination agreed upon. Going to one of their secret places where they had no one to answer to.
The creek trails were as old as the first people, the massive size of the trees bordering the paths bearing witness to generations of children on the way to their secret places. They planned to follow the creek paths down through an area they had never explored, miles past the village, ending at the mile-wide river.
As they walked downstream, the path on the north side grew higher. The rolling, wide path was luxuriously soft with fragrant pine needles and moss. The beautiful green and gold light was filtered through millions of moving leaves. Giant oaks pushed the path aside. The roots created mounds from which they could check for others from the east. They knew they could disappear if needed, the forest being theirs and willing to shield them when asked. Caution was observed, and staying alert and aware always prudent.
They climbed down and crossed the creek, to get on the path to the “Elephant Rock.” Being on the south side made them uneasy, with the northern path looking down at them. Here, every storm could move things around. There were always surprises: lost paths, washouts, and patches of strange growth, all conspired to confuse and entrap, but they always relied on the sun for their position, and these changes became just interesting side trips.
The “Elephant Rock” was misnamed, though it sounds big, the thing was immense. To call it 10 elephant-boulder would not exaggerate its size. They gave the rock its name from its curved, grey surface and its shape, one end that was high and round like an ass on the end of a 40-foot-long pachyderm. The head end slowly tapered out, trunk-like, over its mouth, creating a small cave under the rock. During visits to this cave, they used rocks to enclose the sides, leaving only a small opening for entry.
Mark, the second oldest, peered into the opening, investigated the interior, and disappeared inside. He emerged smoking a pipe. “What the hell is that?” His older brother Peter asked, his mouth wide open. Mark laughed, mocking Peter’s surprise, pointing the pipe at him. “Look at what I found when I was here last,” he said, holding out a small bundle wrapped in a bandana. He carefully revealed a heavily aged pocket watch. The chain was crusty and green, the crystal opaque, but the gold case was still perfect with the initials “W.E.” engraved on the back. He allowed each of the boys to examine the watch as they asked him questions about his discovery. “I don’t know whose it is.” “No,” it doesn’t work. “Yes,” it is real gold.” “I found it right over there.” Mark wrapped the watch back in the bandana and stuffed it into his pocket. He had heard the old stories about outlaws who inhabited these woods a hundred years before. With his discovery, the imaginary had become real. He became absorbed in the notion of outlaws walking in this place.
There was a treasure hunt as the boys looked all around the elephant rock. They kicked rocks and leaves aside and found more rocks and leaves, and toads, which distracted them, and they soon tired of the search. They all went to a large, partially fallen tree that remained about six feet parallel to the ground, its roots forming a massive clump that held it securely. Here, they sat and talked. Peter said, “The creek goes all the way down to the river.” “We should follow it all the way.” With the whole afternoon before them, taking the journey became a unanimous decision. They secured the cave and headed east along the trail towards the river.
The Creek started carving a progressively deeper ravine. They had to decide whether to take the easier path along the top edge, which skirted farms and fields, or follow the creek bed full of boulders and deeper, wider pools of water. They didn’t want to see or be seen by anyone, so down they went, deeper into the glen.
The sunlight was gone there, shielded by banks some 30 feet high on each side. They edged their way around clear green pools and jumped from rock to rock. Lost in their thoughts, quietly descending downstream. They were banded together on a journey of conquest and exploration, individually making discoveries.
The trail eventually flattened out and joined an old wagon track. The creek was dividing around sandy reed-covered islands. The boys knew they were very close to the river, seeing a glimpse of blue through the trees, and hearing the loud honks of geese. There were huge flocks of flying ducks, and the breeze was fragrant with honey locust trees and a powerfully enticing odor of fish being smoked. The boys followed the reed-walled track till it parted, opening to a view so wondrous they were unable to speak.
Shanties sat up away from the beach where small skiffs and other boats were being pulled up, or put out to the river from the sandy shore. Working on long tables, near the shanties, families cleaned and filleted big shad and striped bass that were piled upon carts drawn by goats and children. The filets were being hung over smoky fires like laundry while the people laughed and sang as if at a party. Dogs slept and ran, some looking to eat a dropped morsel. Looking out over the river, the boys marveled at the large bay of boats of all sizes, carrying the country’s commerce on the highway of the North River.