The soft wail of a train, the familiar rumble, the rhythm as metal met metal, this sorrowful, distant music pulled me from sleep. It was still dark, but I remembered the sunny creek from yesterday. Swiftly moving icy water spilled loudly over the rocky bottom. It sang a meditative song. I had considered wading in, looking at shallow water churning over the pebbly creek bed, “small and hard as toes,” I thought. “For All,” I thought as I dragged myself from sleep.

I made a cup of strong coffee. It was too early to be up, but the muse comes when she chooses, unpredictable and temperamental as a cat.

The sun came out yesterday, a relief after many gloomy days, and lured me to a favorite place: a former Boy Scout camp. There’s never anyone else hiking at this forest preserve, which adds to the eerie fun. My imagination runs wild with the little red buildings in various states of deterioration, nestled in the woods. The first time I visited, I explored each one, quietly peeking under the walls for feet before I entered.

There’s a vast network of deer runs. Sometimes I explore, respectfully staying on them as if they were official trails.

In the woods, the softness of the ground was superficial. It was frozen below. The leaves, once sharp and crisp, were battered, approaching mulch. In the sun, the ground was squishy and slippery. The narrow track through the prairie had a thick, soft straw-like layer from the beaten down, stalky plants. Snow frosted the protected side of the hill. A few birds made sounds muffled by the snow or maybe my hat. Everything was brown.

I wandered along the path, lost in thought until I saw a tiny orange ribbon in a tree further up the trail. It was a strip of orange tape on a clip attached to a twig. A marker of some sort? I looked ahead and saw another, rounded a bend, and saw more, spaced just close enough to mark a trail. I’m always ready for a treasure hunt at an abandoned, certainly haunted, Boy Scout camp. What was the point of this quest? Treasure? A body? I shivered with glee.

I followed the trail, vacillating between boldness and fear. When I came to the last orange marker, I looked around timidly. Once I was sure there wasn’t a deer corpse, I returned to being bold and curious. The path forked and went down to the creek. It’s probably a great fishing spot, I thought. I smiled and stumbled down the slippery little bank to the edge of the shallow, fast water. Some areas looked deep and calm. Treasure for a fisherman, I laughed and started to walk away.

Then I stopped.

How would I respond to this lovely spot if a friend had brought me here? What if it was a treasure hunt left for me? I DECIDED to let this little stretch of water take my breath away. I closed my eyes and then opened them wide. I dutifully took a sharp breath in and looked around. I soaked up the shining sun. The sparkling surface of the creek threw light this way and that as the water babbled its way downstream. I embraced the sights and sounds. I squatted to inspect all the mud prints of the creatures that need access to this clean water to survive. I got lost in the wonder of Little Rock Creek.

Eventually, I squinted into the midday sun, warm and bright, and decided it was time to go. An elongated shadow, a chubby bundled-up me, head round and bald looking due to a snug hat, followed devotedly.