the Day I Ran to Maryland: a Modest Adventure
Being tired of that familiar loop at Hellwig Park, I today drove to Leesylvania State Park in hopes that its marshy forests and the bordering Potomac River could offer me a more refreshing backdrop for my run. My hope became actual, though the way it did so is a tale of risk, compassion, and the discovery of a new freedom. A true adventure.
I have actually been to Leesylvania State Park numerous times. It was often the site for the district races of my high school’s cross country team. In those days, I approached running with such contempt that I was blind to what the park had to offer. Today (in this story, ‘today’ is Tuesday, June 14, 2011), in a more mannish state, I think myself more receptive to the offerings of Leesyslvania.
Like most of my runs, I started running and I kept running for a while and generally*, that’s how running is done. But at very specific and opportune moments I would stop running. This seems contrary to what I have previously stated running is, but keep in mind that up until the point I used the word ‘specific’ I have been speaking very generally (*please note the use of the word ‘generally’). At the first (chronologically) specific and opportune moment of stopping, I had discovered a smaller, secondary trail that branched off from the primary trail. I feel I must clear up the order of events here: the discovery of the secondary trail occurred before and was the direct cause of my stopping. Again, stopping happens not randomly, but at specific and opportune moments, as running is, generally, a continuous thing that happens without stopping. Generally.
So, after stopping to investigate this secondary trail, I came to the conclusion that it was actually created by runoff. Rain falls. Rain follows the path of least resistance to the nearby Potomac. This is that path. This path leads into the brush and immediately down a steep hill, where the Potomac, you know, flows. I thought for a moment; is this trail meant for people like me? For people at all? There are people paths. There are deer paths. And here is a water path. I figure, my grandfather is a Creek Indian, hell, that makes me, what? 70% water? I decide this path is meant for people exactly like me, and for anyone out there who isn’t a shitdick (I just added ‘shitdick’ to Word’s dictionary on my computer).
I follow the runoff path into the brush until it becomes less a path and more a freefall through small trees and roots onto a rocky outcropping that transitions to a sandy beach below. This section of beach is not reachable via the sectioned-off beach that the Leesylvania State Park authorities would have you conduct your officially sanctioned beach activities. It is at this precise moment in the story that I have become a risk-taker.
I explore what I believe to be, in effect, a deserted beach on the Potomac River. However, I soon discover that I am not alone. I am startled by a thrashing that seems to come from the rocks at the shoreline to my left. Never in my life have I suspected rocks of thrashing and so, in a desperate need to uncover the identity of thrashers of any sort, I hopped onto a nearby rock (that, again, was incapable of thrashing) to spy a fish trapped in a puddle. The puddle is not the fish’s preferred habitat. The fish was about 14 inches long and the puddle looked to have a volume of maybe 10 inches cubed. If you have ever tried to fit into a dryer (I haven’t) then you can understand the problem this fish faces. It will suffocate. Do you understand this? The puddle is too small for the fish to live in. The fish is a catfish. It is large and it is surprisingly blue. I have never seen a blue catfish before. But don’t be distracted by it’s color like I was, it is suffocating and will have suffocated if some action is not done to move this catfish back into the Potomac River.
My suspicion is that the ebbing tide locked this blue catfish in its puddley-prison. I don’t know how this could have happened. I hadn’t witnessed it and I don’t know how this particular fish could have gotten itself into this position. Is this a rare occurrence among fish? Is this simply the dumbest fish? I don’t know. But I do know that this fish cannot live in this puddle.
I approached the fish, and I want to emphasize the terrific blue hue that covered its entire body. Imagine a Dum Dum lollipop, blue raspberry flavored. Take the color of that lollipop and pretend it is a paint. You have a paint can full of it. But this is not the exact hue you desire, so you ask the attendant at the paint desk of the Home Depot or Lowe’s to add a dollop of umber. The attendant mixes in the umber and shows you the result. You’re not satisfied. You ask for another dollop, this time of cool gray. The attendant mixes a second time. The paint is perfect. This is the exact color of the catfish I had found. But again, I must stress that the color of the catfish is trivial to the fact that it is suffocating and will have suffocated, etc.
I decide that the most obvious course of action to take is to simply lift the catfish out of its puddle, carry it over the rocks that surround its puddley-prison, and place it back into the river. I proceed to do exactly that. I place my hands around the midsection of the fish, just behind its pectoral fins, and I squeeze. I’m not sure whose job it is to lube up catfish in the Potomac River, but he takes his work seriously. This fish is impossible to hold onto. It is a slippery fucker. I can’t hold onto this fish. It was firm and muscular, but I have never held, nor attempted to hold, something this slippery. Very matter-of-factly I told the fish this wasn’t going to work.
I began to pace. Pacing helps me think and I was going to pace until I thought up a plan to transport the suffocating fish into the river. I must be some combination of clever, observant, and lucky because I had only taken five paces before I saw bits of plastic bag buried in the sand at my feet. I immediately formulated a plan to construct a sling or slings to carry the fish. I pulled the bits of plastic bag from the sand to find that they had been shredded. I had too many shreds of plastic bag, and none of them were of sufficient length to act as a sling. I tied bits of plastic together and soon had two slings.
I returned to the fish, still thrashing, and calmed him with my calming presence just long enough to slip one sling under his tail and backend, and the other sling under his head and behind his gills. I tightened the slings like tourniquets and lifted the fish to my waist. I estimate the fish weighed about 20 pounds, which is not heavy, and so I stepped up onto the rocks and moved to lay the fish in the river like I would a babe in a manger. But suddenly, all 20 pounds of the fish began to thrash. All 20 pounds of this thrashing fish were also slippery and I quickly realized I wouldn’t be holding onto this fish for much longer. I was still atop the rocks as the thrashing began, and not wanting to land the fish on the rocks, I lunged forward and with the slings, slung the fish toward the river, desperately. The fish landed (watered) in the river about ten feet before me and was lost in the muddy Potomac. I stood there, with one foot on the rocky shore, the other planted firmly in a foot of water, on the border of two worlds.
After returning the fish to the river, I climbed back up the rocky outcropping, made my way through the brush and came back to the main trail I had been running. I continued to run.
The rest of my run was also eventful and will be described here in less detail. I saw a groundhog climb a tree. I was eye-fucked by a slutty deer on an epic ridge in deep woods. I visited the visitor center to inquire about the ironic nature of the groundhog’s naming and local catfish species that are also blue. The catfish is called a blue catfish, which seems obvious. Groundhogs are known to climb trees and swim, which is substantially less obvious. I didn’t speak to the woman at the visitor center about the sexual habits of deer, because that is awkward, and I still haven’t made sense out of the sexual habits of females of my own species.
After leaving the visitor center, I decided to continue my run and to further emphasize a theme of this story. I ran along the shore of the Potomac and eventually made my way to the previously mentioned, sectioned-off beach. A pier on this beach extends about 100 feet into the Potomac River. At about 50 feet, one will pass over the border of Virginia into Maryland. The Potomac River is wider still by about several thousand feet. I have no idea why the border is so close to the Virginia shore. Why wouldn’t it be in the middle of the river? Why is Maryland such a riverhog? What else does Maryland hog? Ground? Trees?
I walked back to Virginia from Maryland and as I stepped back onto the beach, I saw a dead fish further down the shore. I walked over to it and touched its sun-baked, rocky carapace. Though it too was once a slippery fucker, this blue catfish was now dead and coarse. In one calm, hopeless motion, I slung the dried corpse back into the river, and continued my run.
