Only Sneakers

Cold! The water makes my bones ache up to my knees. I've just stepped off a muddy, brushy bank into a creek with birches and blackberry on both sides. Tall trees leaning toward each other cast a leaf-shadow pattern onto the mosaic of gravel under the water. I'm wearing an old pair of canvas sneakers and cut-offs, and I feel like I'm ten years old.

My husband and I found this creek while hiking. Since then I've been longing to revisit my creek-wading childhood. I want to follow the current, stepping carefully on slippery rocks, stopping to bend down and look at the minnows, sleek, placid cold-water dwellers. This is the perfect wading creek, a consistent six inches deep, clear, the bottom visible. I like hiking and kayaking as much as the next nature lover, but to me, the best adventure lies in simply wading upstream or down in a pair of old sneakers.

From the moment I step out of the car and head down the trail wearing no boots, no socks, only the sneakers, I think I'm back in Arkansas, behind my aunt and uncle's house, running down to their creek to wade and splash. My dad would follow me, carrying a long heavy stick to kill any copperhead snakes we might see. At the creek I'd sit on rocks and dangle my feet, as the perch in the swimming hole bumped their noses against my ankles. I'd catch butterflies or bees in my net and let them go again. In the still, shallow backwaters, I'd lift rocks and try to catch the backward-dashing crawdad that lived under each one-and let him go after feeling his pincers. Best of all, I'd walk upstream with my dad for what seemed like miles, never wanting to turn back. The sun was hot, but the trees were shady and the water was cool.

It was a spring-fed creek, as they all are in the Ozarks. Once we discovered a tiny spring at the edge of the creek, at the foot of a red clay bluff. Pinpoints of sand danced on the bottom like tiny dust devils under a foot of perfectly clear water. How did we find it? On the brown gravel creek bed, a trail of white sand led us from the center of the creek to the edge. Where the water met the bluff, bunches of green watercress grew, telling us the water was especially fresh there. We scooped out a handful of last year's dead leaves, waited for the disturbed water to clear, and then saw the little dancing spots in the sand. We took a drink of the sharp, cold water, and went back to the house to get my mother and aunt. This was a major discovery.

As I hurry down the trail today through the Washington woods with my husband behind me, I feel unencumbered, lightweight. I know boots are better for my feet, but I think I was made to run through the woods in old sneakers, made to jump into a creek and follow it.

I stand in the water with my bones aching, and my husband laughs to see how ecstatic I am. I've achieved an epiphany by stepping off of the muddy bank. He wades in, and the cold water turns his smile to a gasp and a grimace. He decides to find a trail and meet me downstream. I don't mind—I know he loves the challenge of finding his way through the woods. I wade off, looking down at the fallen leaves on the surface and up at the clear blue sky beyond the trees. The air is sweet, not with the sycamores of the creek in Arkansas, but with cedar. I want to breathe more of it, to turn my whole body into a lung.

I hear a splash. My husband decided that wading was worth the effort—after all, his feet would stop hurting and turn numb eventually—and stepped in to join me.

We find the mouth of the creek, where it joins a swift, wide, and sunlit blue river, and climb onto a log to take in the view. This is a deep valley, surrounded by craggy peaks on all four sides—the Cascades. You can't see anything that spectacular and soaring in the Ozarks, but the sensuous joy of creek wading began there for me. Walking in this glacial stream or that spring-fed creek is more exciting than following any trail.

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