Tonight I have been recollecting memories of the great, woodland adventures of my youth. Thinking about how lucky I was to have grown up where I did. To have so much unencumbered forest for a backyard was truly amazing. The hours I spent wandering through the thickets and underbrush, imagining myself Indiana Jones or a covert, Special Ops on a mission. From very early on, when I did not venture very far into the forest, but found magical creatures like trolls and dragons. To the later years when I would don my combat attire and skulk my way through the jungle to blast milk jugs with a sawed-off 12 gauge. There were many adventures, of all description that filled my imagination and the forest behind the house.
I remember the old, drainage tunnel along the path over the hill. A great, gray ring of concrete that stuck out about a foot beyond the sod and grass that encased it. A small "creek" running into the undergrowth from just below it's mouth. Over it's broad face, a rusted, iron grate. Rigid bars running vertically to about 3/4 of the way down, where they intersected a single, horizontal bar. The arrangement creating a narrow opening at the bottom, where one could work their way into the tube if they were committed.
Once inside the tunnel, I could not stand, but could crawl comfortably on all fours. The deeper I would go into the darkness, the stranger and more pronounced the sound became. A continuous reverberation of every noise. Like echoes creating echoes of themselves, over and over again. I usually waited for a dry spell before venturing into the tunnel, as it was the exit point for all of the catch basins in the development. However, there were a few times when the water was of no consequence.
I used to love sitting in this one area of the tube, just in about 15 to 20 feet past where the sunlight no longer revealed the tunnel's contents. I used to lean back against the arched wall, close my eyes and just listen to whatever sound there was to hear. It was amazing all of the things you can pick up from such a location. There was generally an ever present scratching, scampering sound which I always just assumed belonged to rats. And the usually present drift of a breeze making its way through the trees. But even deeper than those on the surface were the most incredible of all.
Occasionally there would come a heavy, metallic crash from deep inside the pipe, well beyond where I was perched. It took many trips there to realize that it was the sound of something hitting a dumpster. A bottle hitting the bottom perhaps, or maybe the top lid coming down hard. Other times it was the sound of children playing and laughing in some far off place, echoing lightly until it reached me. Then there were the sounds of others walking through the woods, occasionally stopping to investigate the large tube, but never realizing that I was there. Those were often very entertaining and very terrifying moments, depending on who was hanging out at the end of the pipe.
The very best times were during thunder storms! Every single nuance of the storm, amplified and reverberating through your body. The wind passing the mouth of the great pipe making a slight, undulating whistle. The energy of a thunder clap passing through you as your ears ring with the sound of every drop of rain, striking countless different surfaces is... unexplainable. So much so, in fact, that the water flowing across you is of no consequence. The price of admission is well worth the experience.
And later still, well into my teens, was when I discovered the tunnel under the bridge on Bridge Street. Down over the rock ledge that led to the river bank and base of the bridge, if you were careful about where you stepped, you could get under the bridge and the greatest tunnel ever. This was no bar-covered, neighborhood catch basin run-off. Oh no, this was a full on city run-off. The tunnel was so high that I could walk upright the entire distance that I ever traveled. At about 50 feet in, there was a large "room" directly below a manhole cover. It was the intersection where the cut-through to go west on Main Street began.
This room had a completely different resonance than the pipe. It was much larger and more hollow sounding. Then there was the constant din of Bridge Street traffic overhead, which became purely ambient after a while. But this was a great place to just sit and think. Like my own, private place beneath the city, where I could hatch my plans for the next adventure.
I miss those places. Where there is nothing but sound and time to hear it. Where my mind used to run freely with whatever thought happened to pass through. The electricity of being able to daydream and believe they could come true. I miss those places where I could be myself without concern for perceptions. Where everything was something special and held wonder to be found. I miss the places where no one else would go and finding myself there, sitting quietly. Listening.
