Well according to April, I need to update my blog. I guess since it hasn't been written on since January, an update may be needed. (A side note: my web browser tells me that hasn't isn't a word..) Anyway, my semester is almost over. I have three days left and then finals. I'm not really concerned about finals. They shouldn't be too bad. I've been doing very well this semester, so nothing is really scary.
I guess I haven't written on this blog because there really hasn't been anything extra exciting that has happened. I did have an interesting thing happen at Hills Creek Lake about two weeks ago. I wrote a paper about it for nature writing (yes that is an actual class). So I thought I would share it with all of those interested. It's kinda long.
The Money Shot.
Hills Creek Lake: a beautiful lake spanning a quarter square mile in Tioga County, Pennsylvania. The park that houses Hills Creek Lake is a 400 acre state park that was originally named Kelly’s Swamp. It was, in fact, just a swamp in the 1950’s. There was even a mine where paint pigment was extracted. The park opened in 1953 and was named for the nearby creek, Hills Creek. This very creek was dammed up to create the beautiful lake. The lake and the surrounding park are home to beavers, muskrats, wood ducks, blue herons, osprey, and even the occasional bald eagle.
My grandfather, on my dad’s side, lives just across the road from Hills Creek Lake. He bought a monstrous white house that still scares me to this day. The upstairs has been closed for years, and the winding, never ending staircase added to the scare factor. The attic, which had been boarded up and filled with triple expanding foam, was home to thousands of bats, which exited the house every night like clockwork. The sky would turn black with bats as the colony went to work for the evening. I am not sure if my fascination of Hills Creek Lake came because of my fear of this house or from my love of nature. No matter, while growing up, I spent many days and nights exploring the lake and camping areas. I never appreciated the beauty of the park; I just knew that it was a great place to ride my bike and play with my cousins.
I recently visited my grandfather, Pop-pop, and he told me stories about seeing a bald eagle nabbing fish out of the water. He also told of seeing several osprey partaking in the same activities. He waved his hands widely as he shared about them swooping down out of the sky and ripping the fish from their homes. I became very excited when I heard this story. I have a secret obsession (not so secret anymore) with birds of prey. I drive to the local lakes, armed with my camera, and sit staring at the water. I could do that for hours.
I had not visited Hills Creek Lake in several years. I could not even remember what it looked like or how to navigate the roads in the park, but after hearing about the return of the eagles, I decided it was a great time to take a trip. The weather had been beautiful, but with rain in the forecast, I carefully plotted my visitation day. March 23 was a great day!
I left Mansfield University with a mind full of ideas. I had my camera by my side and began daydreaming about all the gorgeous pictures I would take. The pictures would be of an osprey or, better yet, a bald eagle appearing only ten feet from me. He would plunge from the sky with outstretched talons aiming for an unsuspecting fish. He would finally reach the water and seize his meal. Of course I would be there snapping pictures, which would be published in famous magazines. I would make a ton of money and never have to work again. Maybe. Oh, I was about to miss my turn at the first boat launch.
I parked my car near the water and stuffed my hoodie pocket with a bird book, two camera lenses, and my notebook. The wind blew across the water and then across my face. It whipped my hair in front of my nose and eyes. I took a deep breath. The smell was clean. It reminded me of hunting with my dad. It was unlike any candle or perfume that can be bought. I stood silent for a few moments taking in the scene.
The crunch of the stones under my feet was an intrusion to my senses, but obviously I could not get those big money shots from the car. I reached the dock and walked to the end where I could see the entire lake. The water was a dark blue almost aqua. I would see green “sea” weed (lake weed maybe) floating in the water. The weed looked like a fern or a plant with tangled nets for leaves. I grasped my camera after having a thought of it falling into the water. The water moved with the wind under the dock. I almost felt like I was moving in a boat. I had a wave of sea sickness. It was time to move on. I spotted a path through the woods, the “orange-blue” trail.
The wooded trail was lined with eastern hemlocks. The trees were planted in a human-like pattern, very straight, in systematic rows, not one out of place or growing on the path. The human planted trees creaked and groaned in the wind like old men complaining about their aches and pains. There were several hemlocks that had fallen. There was fresh saw dust where the woodpeckers had been busy burrowing holes. (I suppose it would not be saw dust if the birds had made it.) I stepped on pine cones, which stabbed through my shoe and into my foot. I decided that wearing Crocs in the woods was not a smart decision, especially after I dug a two inch thorn out of the bottom of my shoe the next day.
I found an opening in the trees, which led to the edge of the lake. Dodging, ducking, squatting, and bending through the tightly spaced hemlocks, I surveyed the embankment and the water near it. A sparkle caught my eye. It was buried in the mud, under the water, just out of my reach. I imagined picking up the stick lying next to me. It would be conveniently hooked shaped. I would work for a few minutes trying to capture the shine. I would finally ring my prize and bring it in. It would be a diamond engagement ring larger than I had ever seen probably nearly five carrots. There would be an inscription reading, “To my darling Cynthia.” I would run back to the car and call my mom who would tell me to advertise it in the paper. Being an obedient child I would do just that. Cynthia Stone and her millionaire husband, Roderick, would contact me saying they had lost the ring on a vacation (what they were doing in Tioga County I would not ask), and they would offer a very generous reward. I would never have to work again! I grabbed the stick and prodded the earth under the water. Dang it! A soda can tab.
I was bored with the identical trees, so I drove to the next boat launch about a half mile down the road. This time I loaded my pockets with just my lenses. No need for a bird book when there were no birds. Well no birds except for the occasional crow, which I can identify with my eyes closed. It must have been the wind.
There were others joining me at this dock, fishermen not photographers though, three of them that I could see. Two of the fishermen were in a single silver boat. It was old. I could see some dents and scratches from shore. The boat reminded me of the one my father and I had accidentally sunk in our pond years before. The men were casting near the banks. The other man was by himself nearly in the middle of the lake. He was in a newer blue boat, which had a large motor that I could see from where I was standing. I figured if I did not bother the men they would not bother me. Into the hemlocks!
Another trail, the orange trail, looked the same as the previous one. Lined with perfectly planted hemlocks, it wound around the curves of the water. I followed it until the first opening. The trail had moved deeper into the woods, and I had to climb down the roots of a tree to get to the water’s edge. The tree was a perfect stair case. I snapped a few pictures of the water, boring. I followed the lower path until I was rudely stopped by a huge bush, which needed a trim. Back tracking I noticed a tree nearly chewed in two. No chain saw created a pattern like that. It must have been a beaver. The pattern was two perfectly parallel chisels that dug all around the tree, definitely beaver teeth. I saw a large disturbance in the water out of the corner of my eye. I turned and pictured a huge fish lurking beneath the surface. He would wait, very still in the black water just under the entangled water plants. A small bird would fly low to the ground. At that very moment the fish would leap from his hiding place. His gill would shimmer in the sun light and we would look at me holding my camera posing for his beauty shot. He would grab the bird from mid flight, which I would get several pictures of. In a flash we would be gone, bird and all. I would have my fish picture published in all the fishermen magazines. I would be known by everyone and would make lots of money. I might not have to work ever again. I looked again. The bubble was just a wave blown by the wind. Boring. I needed a money shot. Where were the eagles, osprey, or even the ducks? Nothing. Water, dark blue water, which does not photograph very well. Oh well, back to the car.
On my way back I noticed a small animal scurrying up and down one of the hemlocks. It was just a squirrel, but it happened to be the most exciting thing I had seen all day. He was a run-of-the-mill squirrel: average size, medium gray with a few orange spots, and, of course, cute. I snapped a few pictures.
Just as the chk-chee of the camera sounded I heard a splash behind me. I spun around and noticed the two fishermen again. However, this time one of them was reaching over the side of the boat for something I could not see. He leaned further and further until the side of his boat was touching the water. Immediately, his boat started filling with the lake. The men tried to lean the other way, but it was too late. The men and their boat slowly sank as if it were a cartoon. There were plastic boxes, green packages, and an orange safety vest floating in the water. The men began to yell, “Hey, can you help us?” I thought they were yelling at me. What was I going to do? There was no way to get to the other side of the lake, well not on foot anyway (I suppose unless you are Jesus). They yelled again. This time the fisherman in the blue boat, who I had forgotten about, yelled back.
I was on an adrenaline rush. I called my dad because that is what I do when I do not know what to do. I blurted out the whole story and Dad told me to go to the park office. I got in my car and drove a mile down the road to the main entrance.
The park office driveway was the first right off the road. The office was an old building, log cabin-like. It was plastered with rules and regulation signs, a map of the park, and state park logos. The office was dark. I opened the first door into a small entrance. It was lined with brochures, everything from local attractions to maps of Pennsylvania. The second door led into the building. It was locked. Of course it was.
I did not know what to do. I called my dad. His only advice, find a phone number. So, I drove through the park looking for anything that had a phone number on it. Ah! A bulletin board. I parked my car in the middle of the road (it’s not like there were any visitors). The bulletin board was covered in the same posters as the park office except for one. It was a list of emergency numbers and after hour managers. Of course 911 was listed on the poster. I always wonder who would have an emergency, not know what to do, then find a poster and be like, “oh I know 911.” It seems like 911 is common sense. Anyway, in this case 911 was not needed. I called all the numbers on the list. I got answering machine for all, but one. She was the manager of camping. I am not sure what that job entails, but it is an odd job title. She answered the phone, and I once again began my story. This time, however, I only got through the part about a boat turning over when the camping manager cut me off. “Ok,” she said with alarm in her tone. “We will send someone right away. Thank you.”
During this time my dad called Pop-pop who I met on my way back to the scene. He followed me to the boat launch, and we stopped to survey the damage. To my surprise the blue boat fisherman had enough room to fit both silver boat fishermen and all their junk. Apparently, the blue boat had towed the silver boat through the water because the now soggy duo were dragging the water logged boat out of the water. They were safe and sound just a little wet and perhaps a bruised ego or two.
I figured I would call it a day. I also figured I should call the camping manager again so she would not have to bother the ranger on his day off. I was nearly five miles when this occurred to me. She answered right away, and I told her the news. “Oh, so everyone is ok then?” I said yes. “Oh!” She said. “I will recall rescue then.” Rescue?! I was so embarrassed, but I am sure not half as embarrassed as the soggy fishermen.
I continued on my way home. I pulled onto the main road and saw an ambulance and a rescue truck, lit up and screaming toward me. I looked in my rear view mirror praying they did not turn, but to my horror the two vehicles turned onto Hills Creek Road. Now those poor fishermen would be really embarrassed. Dang it! (A few days later I received a call from the park ranger asking for my contact information for his incident report. My name would forever be in the records.)
I called my mom this time. She had not heard my story yet. I repeated the whole thing again including the newest chapter. She laughed and quickly asked if I had taken any pictures of the boat. Taken pictures? The thought had never occurred to me. “I bet you could have sold those to the newspaper or to the park.” My money shot that I had been dreaming about all day. The non-existent money shot, that is. Figures.
Hope you enjoyed my story. Let me know what you think, if you get all the way through it lol
