26 Jul 2026 2 min read Field Notes

Oh, the Water

A creek where the noise first stopped.

Photo by S. Rolling

Creeks still do it, the never-still surface, light breaking apart and reforming over whatever's underneath. Some stretches clear enough to watch the bottom rearrange itself in slow motion.

That's where it started, and it never really left. No reasons beyond the one that got built decades ago, in a few backyards, past the noise.

Born and lived in San Francisco early on, then East Oakland by the late-seventies. Near Eastmont Mall, deep in the hood...

A surprising place to discover a quiet creek.

A friend from school lived a few blocks above MacArthur Boulevard where a creek ran through the backyards. We'd disappear for hours after school, a few blocks in real distance, but slow going, full bushwhacking the whole way.

Past a certain point, the water moved faster, picking up volume.

It dropped into a culvert pipe, it threw the sound back louder, almost a roar at times. Then the canopy closed overhead, the hill and trees swallowed enough sound that the neighborhood just stopped existing.

No traffic, no noise, no vigilance required.

Just water moving over rock, doing the one thing it does. Something in me settled the second the canopy closed, the way Van Morrison meant it...

And it stoned me to my soul.

Years and creeks removed from that first one, same pull, different water: Alvarado Park - Richmond, CA

A few passes through the same water, different angles, no talking, just the creek and whatever birds showed up.

I came to the outdoors later than most kids do, city life pushed it back. A few camping trips gave me early introductions, but none of it really took until I was seventeen. Looking back, I was seeking regulation without knowing that's what it was. Connection to myself, through connection to nature.

When's the last time you sat still somewhere and let it be enough?

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