A Leinenkugel on the St. Croix
When we were 16, myself and two friends ventured to the north woods to camp and float the St. Croix River just west of Gordon, Wisconsin. It was 1968 and our first of many road trips. We put in just below the St. Croix Flowage spillway in our yellow one-man inflatable rafts and made our way downstream in this beautiful protected "wild and scenic river." We caught many smallmouth bass, walleye and northern pike (purple worms and daredevils were irresistible).  We had the river to ourselves. Some stretches were wide and slow, then the river would narrow and some nice rapids and big rocks would appear ahead to make us think about how to get through. But not too much thinking, after all you are invincible at that age. Tom and Huck never had it this good. We floated, talked and joked only to be interrupted by a fish strike, an eagle overhead or a deer wading in for a drink. When we approached the first bridge, it was memorable because there was a beautifully landscaped summer home there and an older "southern accented" woman sitting in a chair on her pier. She spoke of her husband "the colonel" and they even had a gardener at this secluded place in the pines. We deflated our rafts at the bridge and hitchhiked back to the campground on the St. Croix Flowage. We floated this same stretch three or four times that week.

My friends looked 18 so one evening we thought we would try for an underage beer. We walked down to Tuversons campground tavern on the Flowage and ordered a round. Three Pabst Blue Ribbon shorties appeared! We were in heaven: floating a wild river, catching fish, hitchhiking in pine forest back roads, camping out, and now a cold beer, in a tavern no less! But before we could drink, an old man sitting at the end of the bar in a flannel shirt said, “Don't let those boys drink those beers.” We were busted! Then he said, “Give them Leinenkugels.” When we asked the bartender who the man was, he said, "Old Man Leinenkugel." It was Carl Leinenkugel. He had a fishing shack there. He toasted us. We told him we were from Illinois and he told us to stop by the Leinenkugel Brewery in Chippewa Falls on our way home and tell them he was still fishing and doing fine. We did.
~Terry Hannan

 

When I Was a Great Pioneer
I spent much of my elementary school years living across from "a great woods" and playing "down by the river" in North Barrington. We would swing from the branches of a weeping willow. I remember looking forward to discovering mayflowers, buttercups, may apples, and trillium in the spring. There were wild strawberries and raspberries to eat in summer. We played with toads, salamanders, crayfish, and snakes. We would make great journeys up and down our river (Flint Creek), crossing over fallen trees or rocks. Sometimes I'd come home all soaked wet and would have to change in the mud room. It was great. It seemed like an eternal place, where I often go back in my memory. I don't drive by there much, as my woods has been subdivided and developed with large houses with manicured lawns. I think that the ravines around Flint Creek have been maintained, but they won't be the same as when I was a great pioneer.
~David Husemoller

 

Cool Mornings with My Cane Pole
When I was 8 or 10 years old, my mother and father would take me and my two sisters to southern Illinois to visit my maternal grandfather who owned a brick factory, Ford Brick & Title Company, in the vicinity of Harrisburg, IL. The brickyard was probably a hundred or two hundred acres in size and consisted of a steam driven millhouse where bricks were manufactured, steam drying sheds for the drying of bricks, and about seven or eight round, coal-fired kilns where the bricks were actually baked into the final product. A railroad line ran along side the brickyard, and there were sidings where they would park rail cars to be loaded with bricks occasionally. Part of the yard consisted of a 50-75 acre open space where the clay was mined.

In this clay pit area, there were 7 or 8 ponds resulting from the digging out of raw material. These ponds were surrounded by willow trees and cattails and contained abundant water life including bluegill, crappie, large mouth bass, turtles, frogs and all the insects that one finds in a wetland area. Between the ponds was situated a railroad track upon which a single mine cart, pulled by a mule, went back and forth between the clay mining area and the mill. The miners would explode big piles of clay off the walls of the pit and load them into the mine cart for the mule to haul into the mill for production of bricks. One of my early jobs was “mule skinner”; that involved me walking along with the mule back and forth between the freshly mined clay and the mill carrying a large willow switch that I would use to keep the mule moving (if I wasn’t there, the mule would get out of sight of everyone and simply stop on the track.)

I would arrive at the brick factory around five or six in the morning with my grandfather an hour or two before the operations began and I was allowed to go fishing in the ponds until 8 a.m. when the big steam whistle blew and we all went to work. It was always cool in the morning (and hot as the day went on) and I enjoyed those cool mornings with my cane pole, raw bacon for bait and my eyes to see the birds, snakes, turtles, and the fish that I caught. If I caught a big one, my grandfather would usually cook it the next morning for breakfast in the office of the brickyard.

I returned to the area after the brickyard had been closed and I found that a housing development replaced the entire area including the ponds and clay pit I remembered as a child.
~Mike Roach

 

I Lived in an Old Farmhouse
That fork of the Chicago River running through Forest Glen in Chicago and the forest preserve there. My mother, little brother and I lived in an old farmhouse that remained in the preserve. Caldwell Woods was a part of it. The house was small and without central heating, running water or electricity. The hand pump behind the house released the most delicious water I have ever tasted in my life.

We children were assigned the duty of scouting the preserve to protect it against fire. This we diligently did.

My favorite spot was on the river, which we reached by going through native ferns, wild asparagus and great trees. Large rocks were in place in the river and we jumped from rock to rock to cross. The sun filtering through the vegetation was bright and inviting. The clear trickling water, the occasional frog, delighted us. The place remains as a part of the Cook County Forest Preserve District. The house was torn down when we moved into Albany Park in Chicago. I was nine years old at the time.
~Ethel Untermyer, Founder, Lake County Forest Preserve District

 

Sitting Way Out on a Branch
Looking out the plate glass "picture" windows of my childhood home, I was treated each day to the unbelievably pristine valley below me. The Carmel River bubbled through, a silver ribbon which changed in intensity with the quality of the light. Cross valley in the spring, soft hills glittered, covered with lupine, poppies and Indian Paintbrush. And the oaks. These were mostly Live Oak, characterized by their low thick trunks and candelabra laterally spreading branches so suited to climbing. Afternoon would usually find me way up in one of those monumental trees, sitting way out on a branch with my latest read and brown bag lunch. My loyal springer spaniel, Duke, would sleep at the base of the trunk when he wasn't exploring the hills. In the late afternoon light, I would hike home through waist high grass, lost in my own world.

It most surely does still exist. I was there a few years back. But it has changed, having become the "valley of the wealthy." Tennis courts and spas abound but Robles del Rio on the south wall is still mostly the way I remember it, though somehow smaller in scale...that "kid view" phenon.
~Susan Ashley Meyer, recalling Carmel Valley, California

 

Tussock Island
As a young boy growing up in rural New Hampshire, there was a vernal wetland in the woods behind our house. My brother and other friends and I used to play for hours in that area during the early spring. There were black alder tussocks all through it, often standing in 18 inches of water. We would jump, crawl and climb (sometimes swim!) from tussock island to tussock island. Often we envisioned ourselves as the Swamp Fox outwitting the British. We would lose ourselves to the imaginations of Francis Marion for hours on end, returning to the house freezing, wet and delighted! Today the wetland still exists as a special place for kids growing up on New Canada Road.
~Mike Sands

 

No One Had Fences
My first twelve years were in French Lick, Indiana on a small street with many kids of all ages. My friend Kathy and I spent hours playing in the fields and woods that backed up to our neighborhood. No one had fences so we would run from yard to yard, through fields and forests (okay, ‘forest’ might be stretching the imagination a tad!). Nonetheless, we were outside enjoying nature during all seasons and we would not come inside till our mothers yelled with our middle names attached.

To this day I reflect on those days as ‘when life was much more simple’ and I treasure the memories and opportunity to appreciate nature at an early age.
~Deidre Schwartz

 

A Small Rowboat
When I was about 10 years old, my family got a small rowboat that I used to explore the canals and marshes around Gibraltar, Michigan. About a mile from our house was a high bank where I used to go and just sit, sometimes by myself and sometimes with my friend, Joe. We had to row down a canal, then go under a low bridge and row some more. We would take a lunch and sometimes fish. All we ever caught was carp. I remember the sun beating down and the water lapping at the bank.

My spot was lucky – it later became part of Lake Erie Metropark and has been preserved forever. But the canal leading to it has silted in a lot, so it’s impossible to row there anymore.
~Anonymous

Armed with Mason Jars
Three soaking-wet boys, armed with Mason jars splash noisily in Stover Creek as they collect tadpoles.

The same three boys dare each other to peek down into the end of a hollow log to see if the opossum they had discovered there a few days ago was still holed up inside.

A collision and tangle of arms and legs as the boys flee in terror when the harmless hog-nosed snake they had cornered on the edge of the pasture suddenly puffed itself up, cobra-like, as if to strike.

The creek, the woods and the pasture were near the house I lived in northeast Iowa until I was 12 years old. Today, the meandering creek has been straightened and tamed, and the pasture and woods are gone, the land now covered with tract housing.
~Jim Cubit, remembering a favorite open space in Monticello, Iowa

This Towering Haven
Under the canopy of a mammoth fir tree every discovery was a triumph and every song magical. Within this towering haven, boughs brushed the ground—completely concealing me. The tree was deep in the woods behind our home. The only sounds were of birds, animals and wind. Years of accumulated needles cushioned the ground, quieting bare feet. This tree was my cloister. I could hide away to sing, dance and explore. The branches were about 3 to 4 feet at the trunk – just high enough for an 8 year old to stand. To find this cathedral, branches had to be brushed aside, as the skirt of the tree draped the ground.
~Cynthia Horine

 

We’d Walk Barefoot in the Creek
From the age of 8 to 12 I lived in Woodbridge, Virginia, which is south of Washington, D.C. Behind our townhouse community was a stretch of wooded hills and a small creek. We would spend most days after school and most of the summer exploring the area. There were lots of kids in the community and my brother and I would help build “forts” from fallen branches. We’d walk barefoot in the creek and collected crawdads to compete in the neighborhood crawdad races. It was a great way to grow up. When I visit my parents in Virginia I now feel most at home when I hike.

Recently my brother and I visited our old woods. They are still there, but seem much smaller now (only because we are larger!)
~Anonymous

An Island in the North Sea
I grew up in rural Germany. Between ages 4 and 10 our family of six children had very little indoor space. How fortunate I feel now that we spent so much time outdoors exploring beyond the back yards of the village houses. But I yearned to get to big water - and by a miracle I got the chance. For health reasons I was sent to a children's camp on an island in the North Sea. One day between camp sessions I walked far out to a cow pasture. It was magical! Due to the winds, the land was undulating dunes rather than flat. Due to the rich manure plops, mushrooms dotted the landscape. And due to the small herd of cows the meadow combined grazed spots, tufts of wild grasses, patches of heather, and a few low shrubs. The day was gray and windblown. Sea birds rose occasionally and then dove into the dark, heavy waves. I loved being there by myself, and I gathered bits of moss, wildflowers, twigs and a small abandoned bird nest for table decorations. To other children the landscape might have been lonely, even threatening. To me it was mysterious, exposed and refreshing.
~Linda Wiens

Our Fort
My place was a small, wooded lot we called “our fort” next to an open field behind my house in Mokena, IL. We would play “wilderness” back there in the wintertime, gathering berries, building “fires” and cooking our survival meals. In the summertime, a cute stray cat we named Kizzy showed up. We’d bring her cat food in handfuls. It was just a peaceful place where, at 10 years old, we could feel in charge and happy! I’m not quite sure what happened to it—I’ll have to check.
~Anonymous



There in the Silence
I remember putting my water colors in my bike basket and riding my bike to a favorite area that had some woods and open areas. There in the silence I tried to capture on paper the beauty I felt around me. I must have been about 8 or 9 years old, and I remember how I could never quite capture what I saw and experienced onto paper. But I enjoyed my solo sojourns into this peaceful area. (I believe this area is now a forest preserve in Winnetka.)
~Anonymous

Into the Dunes
Between ages 8 and 12, I had my birthday parties with a group of 6 or 7 other boys at the Illinois Beach State Park in Zion. Not only was the beach the most expansive in Illinois, but when we hiked in to the dunes and the stunted black oak trees, we saw exotic cactus plants and orchids that we were told existed nowhere else in Illinois. Adding to the adventure of hiking through the dunes was the rumor that Dead River was favored as a nude swimming area. Alas, we never were able to confirm that rumor. The “dunes park” continues to attract and fascinate me—to the point that I recently celebrated my 60th birthday there with a park naturalist leading the guests on a hike through the same landscape that had enraptured me 50 years earlier.
~Wally Winter

 

My Bright Yellow Schwinn
From 1959-1977 I lived in Upland, California, population 20,000. The boundary of the city well exceeded the residential area. There were lemon groves and pastures for sheep dotted throughout the foothills of the San Bernardino Mountains, including Mount Baldy, towering at 10,000 feet and Cucamonga Peak at 7,500 feet. The only modes of transportation I ever had while living there were my feet and my bright yellow Schwinn ten-speed bike. Although I hiked the mountain trails extensively, including peaking Mount Baldy, my most memorable moments are on my bike. I biked miles and miles away from home, past the lemon groves and sheep, no destination, just riding. Today all of this bike riding country is solid 100% residential and commercial.
~Cheryl Pytlarz

Grandmother’s Garden
My childhood introduction to nature and open space was my Grandmother’s garden. That’s what she called her backyard.

Compared with my own backyard, Grandma’s was a mess. No mowing done there, no weeding, no trimming. It was wild. A gnarled oak, overgrown bushes, “flowers” planted long ago, now unattended, weeds flourishing among them, the pond—sometimes with water, sometimes not—the strawberry patch bigger and wilder every year.

And, I remember especially the smell of the creaky wooden sidewalk that led through the garden back to what had been the stable. I’ll never forget that smell or the wonder of my Grandmother’s garden.

On that site now sites an apartment building.
~Carole Whitcomb, recalling Hebron, Nebraska

Where I Hunted for Pawpaws
To get to my favorite place, you have to drive into the mountains of eastern Kentucky – past Hazard and beyond the Hindman Settlement School to Carr Creek. When you run out of road, follow the creek on foot. The families who live here still bear the names of the settlers who wandered into this holler a couple of hundred years ago and stayed put.
This is a narrow valley, where mountains block the sun’s rising and setting. Days are shorter here.

Go past the sorghum mill and the one-room school. When you round the bend and see a log cabin and barn, weathered to a soft gray by wind and rain and time, you’ll know you’ve arrived. I spent my early years roaming these hills, sometimes alone but usually with a dog or a cousin or two. If you’re patient, you can find waxy white Indian Pipes, poking their delicate heads out of the rich compost of the forest floor . . . or touch-me-nots, with translucent seed pods that explode in your hand. This is where I hunted for pawpaws and sassafrass for root beer and pokeberries that my mother used to make a glorious purple ink. My mother knew which plants could treat a stomach ache or a bad cold or just about any other ailment. And she had an arsenal of folk rituals for everything from curing warts to getting even with an enemy.
After forty years, I’m learning to love the gentle, subtle landscape of the upper Midwest. But to me, Wolf Pen will always be the most special place in the world.
~Sunny Sonnenschein, recalling Wolf Pen, Kentucky

Among its Branches
I grew up in Wheaton, IL in the 1960s when much of the western suburbs were rural and open. Our home was on a dead end street. Our neighborhood had a huge garden and a large open space we affectionately called “the field.” It was a wild and undeveloped place where we built forts, climbed trees, played games and collected wild berries and mushrooms. From our dining room we looked out through two picture windows into the field—it was a great place to view rainbows during summer storms.

My favorite spot in the field was a great big old box elder tree. I loved to climb among its branches. I liked to be alone there—I felt safe. It was my solo spot. I liked to climb up into its uppermost branches as storms approached. I would hold on tight and sway back and forth wildly in the winds. I could look down on the whole neighborhood from up in that tree. I think I need that perspective again. Unfortunately my tree and the whole field is now a neighborhood of condos. My parents fought valiantly to protect it for many years.
~Steve Barg