Objectively, it was a very nondescript day. Although in the eyes of children, still so unfamiliar and not yet unfazed by the big bad world around them, even the most average of days are exciting, by nature of the mysteries it contains.

It was with these eyes, untainted, easily-shocked, overly-gullible, bright and firing, that Sam, Ryan and I walked across Shadycreek Drive, treading through thick grass before arriving at the mossy, muddy bank of Medea Creek, looking for a way to cross from one side of the greenbelt to the other. This had been a recurring theme in our young lives. There was no way to cross in the middle. The first option was walking to Laro Drive and entering the greenbelt on our preferred side of the creek. Our other option was walking down Shadycreek to the lazy, graceful oak tree that stood next to a clearing with a path that took us across rocks interspersed in a flowing stream. We needed a quick, more direct route from the amenity free Shadycreek side, which featured only a road and thin slices of green that I guess could be used for lounging, and the other side, which housed bucolic rolling hills, a wide meadow atop these hills, and an obscure hiding spot near a pond. This time was different. We had not found a crossing, but we had found the means to make one. We stopped in our tracks, and admired the oddity of six or seven pieces of wood, each a different length and shape, chilling on the bank of Medea Creek.

What happened next perfectly marks the distinction between young boys and the rest of the populace. If my dad were with us, he would have analyzed these planks of wood, and then arrived at the logical conclusion that he was looking at some planks of wood. When I first saw these pieces of wood, I immediately had to chase after my imagination, which was bouncing from planet to galaxy to nebula, trying to scour every inch of the universe for a clue as to what would be the uttermost fantastic use for these pieces of wood laid out in front of me. Sam and Ryan were channeling my train of thought, and I like to imagine that in unison, we turned to each other, and uttered the same two syllables, bridges. 

   The first bridge we made was the most obvious and easiest to build. Sam, Ryan and I hauled the widest piece of plywood to the entrance we used most often, the one where we had to skip from rock to rock while keeping our balance as to avoid falling into the gushing stream. A few feet below the small rapids created by the chain of rocks we sketchily walked across, the water became quite still, turning into a brackish moat. It was there that, foregoing craftsmanship and planning, we plopped down that piece of plywood. Crouching on one leg, I outstretched the other to push the plank across the moat to the other side of the creek. The water was just shallow enough that if we quickly jumped on and off this janky piece of plywood, and in the right spot, we would hardly get wet. If you jumped too slowly and not far enough out, the wood would sink, flooding your shoes and ankles. Like the bridge itself, the name was simple but functional: flood.

   From then on, we created our bridges loosely following this formula. After trolling for good areas to cross, we would find the right size plank and lay it down. Each bridge had its own distinct personality, which was expressed in its name. When we built a bridge that was about three feet above the ground, we named it Highway. Because of highways satisfying spring, somewhat like a lame trampoline, it was nicknamed Bouncy.

In all actuality, the bridges served little purpose. If there is anything that kids have in abundance, it`s the time and energy needed to walk to either non-bridge accessed entryway to the creek. And it`s not like dirtying our clothes by wading straight through the rank creek water would have bothered us either. No, those bridges don`t occupy a large part of my childhood because of their functionality. They were our mark, our contribution to the place that had served us so well. They facilitated shirtless airsoft wars and wagon racing and grass sledding. They took us through swamps and sewers and secret passageways. They led us to develop a certain vernacular when talking about the creek. “Let`s take the extra bridge from Original and see if we can use it at Vacation Island.” We were kings of our very own playground. Dogs peed in the creek, coyotes lived there and other kids played in it, but make no mistake, the creek was ours.