My first impression of the Hinkson trail, after my first run on it a few weeks back, was that it wasn't as scenic/attractive as my old haunts on the MKT trail, but how much closer it was to me--making runs quicker and easier to schedule, and saving me on gas--made it worthwhile. In the time since, I've changed my tune and have found many small and not-so-small things in which to delight.

After another nice run on Saturday, I felt a compulsion to linger a little longer and wander around a bit. So, after stretching, I walked across the gently rolling hillocks surrounding the trailhead, taking the rocky path down to the creek. With no one else in sight, I felt a pleasing sense of reverence in the aloneness with this untroubled nature. Walking down to the creek's edge, I crouched down and just watched, and listened. What little noise there was from the nearest road was quickly forgotten in the quiet of the moment.

Looking over the gently rushing water (the area I'd walked down to is fairly rocky, providing much surface for whooshing and babbling of the brook), I spotted what looked like a piece of paper wrapped around a rock, plastered against it by the force of the water. Thinking that it probably wasn't doing much harm but was still an interference to anything green growing on the rock's surface, I grabbed the nearest fallen branch-piece, reached out over the water, and set about trying to loose it from its lamination. After several tries, I was finally able to peel it off and lift it out of the water.

That it was so tidily intact should have tipped me off, but I found that it was not paper but instead plastic. Specifically, a plastic bag from a child's birthday party. There are a hundred ways it could have gotten in the stream, but I was just glad that I'd gotten it out. It's simple presence as a foreign pollutant is clear to anyone, but lately I've been reminded of how dangerous plastics can be to the ecosystem through reading articles like the recent ocean study in Mother Jones magazine.

After pulling it ashore and setting it down next to me, I returned to my meditation over the gently rippling water-sounds. Then I noticed, just a couple yards upstream, a small bird alight on a low branch overhanging the stream. (I think it was an Eastern Phoebe, but it may have been an Eastern Kingbird; my bird IDing skills are woefully poor.)

Keeping quiet and still, I was treated to a delightful show by the little one; a series of looping dips down into the water, then swooping back up to the branch to wash itself and shake itself dry. Mixed into this cleaning ritual were a few cursory above-water swoops, presumably to snag the occasional insect. I waited long enough for the bird to finish and move a little further downstream before getting up and walking back up to the car.

Another reminder that most of my fondest memories, those that stay with me and emerge in the most thoughtful and meaningful times, don't involve concrete.

(This journal entry typed to the accompaniment of Bert Jansch's lovely and pastoral 1980 album, Avocet.)

Labels: Environment, Life, Running