MaRs

During one of my wanderings

in the woods north of my home,

I decided to explore the areas

along the railroad tracks.

Climbing up the embankment 

I took a short trek northward

and came upon a railroad trestle

spanning a creek.

Nothing there would have caught

the attention of most boys my age.

The water around the trestle

that fed into the Imperial River

was too shallow for swimming.

The cattails were thick along

the west side of the crossing;

it looked more like a haven

for a snake or gator.

On the east side of the tracks

there was a small pool of water

with scattered cattails

sprinkled along the fringes

and a small population

of bream and minnows

before the creek meandered eastward.

As I made my way down

the embankment to the pool,

the rocks gave way, and

I slid to the bottom.

As I dusted my britches

some bream quickly sought refuge in the

shadows of the trestle and

the crowded cattails.

Unlike the bream,

the minnows were not as skittish

and remained out in the open.

I was uneasy about the cattails

on the other side of the trestle

and kept a healthy distance

from the water’s edge

on the west side.

Since rocks were everywhere

I did the boy thing

of throwing rocks into the water

from off the top of the trestle.

After my splash sensation

ran its course,

I decided to head back home.

I had no intention

of ever returning to this trestle

until I received a gift one day from a widow.

Her husband was a rock collector of sorts.

She gave me a Golden book on rocks and minerals

and a cigar box of various rocks

collected over the years

from different parts of the US.

My favorite was a petrified rock

from Arizona.

The book and the box of rocks,

would spur a lifelong interest in

the shapes, colors, and textures of rocks.

I was already planning a return visit

to the northern trestle

where rocks were abundant.

I later dubbed it MaRs

for minnows and rocks.

So I stuffed my backpack,

with my new field manual,

my Dad’s chipping hammer,

a PBJ sandwich wrapped in wax paper,

and a canteen of water,

and took off for MaRs.

The tracks and slopes

were covered with

granite and river rocks.

All I knew about granite rock was that

it was sprinkled with salt and pepper,

and the railroad company had a fondness for it.

Other than for headstones,

that's all I knew about granite.

With the aid of my field manual,

I learned that it was feldspar, quartz, and mica

that covered granite like the measles.

In all my treks up and down the tracks

MaRs was the only place

where river rock was found

along with granite.

The fish didn’t care much

for my prospecting tool.

The smaller rounded stones

would easily take off on impact,

pinging off the metal trestle or

raining down onto the water,

sending the fish for cover.

By noon

my stomach was growling.

I shared some of my breadcrumbs

with the minnows,

making sure that any speckled ones

got a nibble; they loved it.

The bream were too skittish

for a free handout.

They couldn't tell the difference

between bread or boulders.

If there was any snake or Gator

lurking in the western tails,

it showed no desire for bread or me.

I climbed to the top of the trestle

and threw some rocks into the water.

The fish didn’t appreciate

the granite grenades;

they ran for cover.

A barrage of rocks

were directed toward

the cattail thicket

for good measure.

After I had my fill of that,

I returned to prospecting and

sifting through the rocks.

By mid-afternoon

I packed up and headed for home

with a sack full of rocks.

There were a couple of more expeditions

to MaRs over the next few weeks that summer.

Even my cousin tagged along on one occasion

after telling him of my adventures.

He had never been on a rock hunt

looking for geological treasure.

After spending several hours

on the shadeless terrain of MaRs,

prospecting for gems

was too much like work;

sweaty, he vowed to never return.

For me,

I enjoyed the isolation and

the hot atmosphere of MaRs.

Visiting the minnows,

sneaking up on the easily spooked bream,

trying to coax out some imaginary creature

from among the cattails,

and looking for geological treasures

beneath the sunny Floridian sky

were all an adventure to me.

Prospecting on MaRs

eventually panned out.

I knew the fish or

any hidden reptile

surely didn’t miss

the bombardments,

whether by hammer or hand.

And if the truth be known,

in spite of the meteor shower,

I bet the minnows

missed the bread from heaven,

especially the spotted ones.

Those were the only days when

rocks and bread

rained from the sky

on the remote environment of MaRs.