Place Entry #1: Finding Lost Creek

I turn off Jericho Road onto Ridge Road in Fermanagh Township, Juniata County. The road—mud and rock, pockmarked and rutted out by truck tires—winds along the edge of a field on my right, which is clipped short like the spikey hair of a Caucasian flattop. On my left, a hedgerow. Barbed-wire weaves through the vegetation, is tied to posts camouflaged by the brush.  Trees, once saplings scraping the edge of the fence’s claw, have now completely swallowed steel. More threatening than man’s barbs, thickets of green briar, now burgundy with loss of chlorophyll, seems to add highlights of blood to the landscape. Between the hedgerow and a gently arching hill, a small tributary creek meanders through sporadic cattail reeds and deciduous trees that I can’t identify when leafless. The trib, as I am, works its way down to Lost Creek.

Ice clings to the banks of the creek proper, and at some of the slowest pools, it seizes the entire flow. Yet, the current runs freely through the riffles and, at times, down the middle of the creek. The water is clear enough to see down to the cobbled bottom; nothing moves. Anchor ice is forming on the rocks beneath, choking the creek from top and bottom.

This is what I came here expecting to find. I came looking for death. Trying to force its presence out of nature’s metaphor like so many people before me, trying to fashion my own mythology: the barren tree, frozen water. I hoped to trace the cycle of life of this creek in the year to come, explore the symbolism of its name, as I walk its banks throughout the seasons. But it isn’t that clear cut.

Throughout the field, down to the creek and across the ice: tracks. Deer, rabbit, a myriad of birds, raccoons (maybe), and the possibility of tracks I can’t identify like coyote and bobcat. Here or there, the snow is dug up, a snout having rooted for seeds or grubs. Beyond the creek, I see rabbit tracks zig-zagging in what must have been evasive maneuvers, but I can’t distinguish any tracks that would have chased it. And then I can’t deny the signs of human life: a road is plowed and treaded by tires, an SUV is parked at a cabin that overlooks the creek.

I park at a pull around and get out to walk along the edge of the ice. I follow some tracks until they run out of land and across ice of the creek (or turn around, lost in the collage of other tracks). Here the creek bends easterly, running into a mass of land that is not quite cliff yet steeper than bank. The cabin’s deck reaches out to the edge of land overhead. Hemlocks sharply contrast the other leafless trees with its bluish-green winter foliage. This grove shades the creek, which, here, is fully iced. I place a foot on the ice, and it creaks under my weight. I don’t go further and draw back, knowing that another step could be disastrous.

As I retreat back to my car, I realize that’s what I’ve found on Lost Creek today. This landscape, this season, is not death, but life in retreat, a response of life to potential death. Everything—the trees, the wildlife—the creek pulls back, holds its breath, in one communal sucking in of life.

I too pull back: back to my car, my house, my life. Right now, I have to retreat within to survive the wintry responsibilities of work and school. I can’t stay out now, but can’t wait to return.