June 01 2008, 11:24 PM As I Walk Through The Valley Of

I was recently in conversation with another about some of the strangeness that is this place, the wild and lovely layers of history and use that still mark the landscapes around here. There are books about this, many: there are discussions of geography, history, civil planning (or lack thereof!), all the ways in which the twisted rumpling of earth around here has been nudged, spent, and managed. All of these academics are fine, but it is also true (so claim I) that we are all living in an extraordinarily beautiful place, and one of the blessings of our hills and valleys is that we are incapable of letting the broad smash of urban crush rob the land and waters of their aesthetic. If we tried it, it would all fall down the hills. You don't have to take my word for this; all that's needed is a walk.

So today I put on shoes, checked the stove, locked the house, and ambled. I wound my way down the valleys to the water. We have a growing network of converted rail beds, here, and I was able to make much of my journey using those. It was with a grin that I passed under one of the remaining sections of a pedestrian bridge; a very long time ago, I ended up on the middle of that somewhat by accident, and it wasn't until I had strolled over a major highway and up a hillside of crumbling stairs did I learn from the sign at the top that the whole thing had been condemned for safety purposes.

There is something to be said here for the Hot Metal bridge; it's worth looking that one up, should you not know why it's called so (and it is easy not to, these days). One hint, that I should think Mrs. Compass would appreciate: the bridge has a grade. It should be simple to puzzle out which way it rolls. It is also a marker of an unrelenting, nearly decadent practicality that it was the bit of the bridge designed to carry the heavy, snarling, hellish cauldrons of moving steel that has been converted to take the light feet of running shoes and the wispy hum of bicycle tires. It does not sway, that bridge.

Never mind all of that. This afternoon, a crisp breeze tumbled down the river valley, playful and looking for kites. It tasted of the mixture that is this place: hung with arboreal scents, the clean taste of river air in spring, and undertone tang of bitumen, paints, machine oils. The sun played at hiding behind clouds, putting down pools of cool shadow on the surrounding hills and distant buildings, sending strong light in between. I bought a book about stairs, and then considered the trail, scrambling on behind a parking lot, leading who knows where, disappearing into the mulberry trees downriver. It was not a day to turn that sort of thing down.

So: keep going. I am getting better at recognizing the plants that live in the sideways. I saw a hawk, lazy in the constant air. The river was laden with boats, the quick snapping slaps of the chop against the fiberglass shells of jet-skis; the more stately progression of larger boats, top decks spread with young women and men all turned to the sun; the muffled, giant grumble of the engines in tugboats, furious power bound in the gentle graceful shove of an acre or two of low-slung coal. There is history there along that trail, with helpful signage to mark the places where things happened, and it is sobering how much did on what is now anonymous stretches of parkland and semi-parkland. There is ample secret history as well. Small paths and steps fell from the side of the trail to lead down to the river: utility landings with strict signs in red, old and forgotten access to moorings long since gone, places where feet fell often enough to keep the weeds down. I did not follow them; I will save them as mysteries. I will look for them again, later. Some of them may still be there when I do.

I am old enough now (and soon be even older) to have had unpleasant things happen to me, lo these past four years. Reminders are mixed into the days, and for whatever reason in recent ones there have been several. It is not as bad as all that; it is rare now to wake up crying, or screaming, or both. So much of it is out of my control, and I am careful with what little of it that is. So: keep going. The simple exercise of putting feet forward is a great help.

I thought myself clever; it is good to have a plan, and my plan was to walk a ways and then take a bus to return home, perhaps to tea under the trees at the little table. I had forgotten that the current configuration of the roads on the other side of the river threw wrenches - the routes I had expected were not there, greyed out on the signage. It was not vexing - the day was still beautiful, the wind was still light, and air was still layered and sweet. It was the last hill that made me tired, but not too tired for tea.

It is good, from time to time, to be reminded that we are capable of more than what is easy.