Creek stomping remains a staple
By Dave Bates
For the Observer-Reporter
Creek stomping (noun), to creek stomp (infinitive verb). The act of wandering about a stream, river, tributary, lake or body of freshwater for the purpose of exploration, discovery, knowledge and basic outdoor recreational fun.
OK, it’s my own definition but it has gotten me through the better part of six decades.
Creek stomping was a staple activity of my youth. Few days during my upbringing were complete without a visit to the stream to explore. Often, it involved jumping over stepping stones to avoid deep water but I recall returning home, wet, more times than not. Checking out the most recent tracks laid down by wildlife was always on the menu. Turning over large flat stones usually ended up in a crayfish sighting and the occasional capture. Minnows were to be seined. Myriad water bugs, spiders, caterpillars and extraneous insects would need identifying. Occasionally, something would come up on the radar that I had never encountered and that would require the expertise of my father (pre-Google) for further classification. A lecture in field biology usually ensued. I looked most forward to those. Once in a while, Dad would accompany me, resulting in less stomping but more formal lessons in woodsmanship. Funny, but those are some of my deepest core memories.
On a typical foray, any number of animals might be encountered. A lumbering possum, a deer jumping from its bed, or an unsuspecting blue heron startled from feeding all created excitement. One of my personal favorites was the Kingfisher. I never realized just how many different types of wildlife abounded in our neck of the woods until we would sit and try to recall what all we’d seen on our stomp. I didn’t even know that some of these critters existed until I saw the likes of my first hellbender, bobcat and coyote, years later.
I tried to incorporate a stop at Ralph Bell’s Christmas tree farm, whenever possible, on my creek stomping route. Ralph had a dried up pond on his property that still held a bit of water and always contained something of interest. These side junkets were always good for bird identification lessons, maybe some retrieval of trapped birds from the nets and resultant tagging. I was always amazed at the meticulous record keeping that went along with Ralph’s birding affairs. His gentleness and tenderness with the birds he so loved was its own lesson in kindness. More often than not, a glass of his wife Betty’s lemonade and a cookie were the finale. Truth be told, it was the reason for my visit. Ralph’s company was a close second, though.
During my formative years, I learned the rudimentary skills of dam construction in order to improve my local swimming hole and overall creek stomping experience. The water level was normally about a foot deep but when I got finished it was almost up to my waist in spots. My efforts were of no great concern to the Army Corps of Engineers but provided enough draft to properly cool off during the summer months. Creek stomping greatly improved when a beaver took up residence in our stream valley.
Along the banks of the creek grew myriad sycamore and beech trees. It was during such stomps that I developed my affinity for tree identification. Mr. Kormuth, my biology teacher and Mr. Kline, my woodshop teacher, went to great lengths to educate us on the scientific as well as the practical when it came to trees but I always liked the varying shapes and sizes and colors and textures of the leaves. Mostly I liked the smells of trees and leaves and earth and plants. In our feeble attempt to immortalize our youthful selves we carved our names into the old beech tree. The names live on to this day but will be lost to the next generation of stompers.
Who knew so much love and appreciation for the woods would result from such a simple romp? These days I do most of my stomping in tandem with my daughter Emma. She has developed the same appreciation for the outdoors that her dad acquired at an early age. Rainy summer days find us at Ohiopyle or on Seven Creeks or along Ten Mile searching for the next exciting find. It really doesn’t matter where we venture as much as the time spent together.
Emma is a member of the championship Carmichaels Envirothon team so, as of late, my kid teaches me as much as I ever taught her. I look forward to each and every stomp, taking advantage of the bits of time I can steal away. Most of our stomps end up with lunch on the road or at the very least, an ice cream cone, which is fine with me. I know it’s a flimsy excuse to spend time with my baby but I no longer hide behind it. I’m excited that creek stomping season is nearly upon us.
My brother, Glenn, welcomed his first grandchild into the fold this week. I wonder how old Dawson will have to be to creek stomp? Maybe I’ll creek stomp with my grandson or granddaughter someday.
Dave Bates writes a weekly outdoors column for the Observer-Reporter. He can be reached at alphaomegashootingsolutions@gmail.