I remember the branch. It looked like a creek, a skinny creek with steep banks, or sides. Maybe it was a creek. But is wasn’t as a creek. It was a branch.
“First recorded in 1835, ‘the branch’ (at that time and in that context) is a word for a creek, brook, stream of clean drinkable water.”
The branch possessed a fair share of curves, maneuvering through a forest of tall pine trees faithfully guarding the branch on both sides. Massive quantities of pine straw lay at the base of the banks, next to the cool water. Jeff and I were committed to the adventures of the branch. This included running starts, catapulting our immortal pre-adolescence over the branch… landing on the deep, spongy, masses of pine straw, perilously close to the water. There was extraordinary power flying through the atmosphere, upwards of 100 mph. Jeff’s dog went by the name of “Smoky”, who appeared to be a Labrador mix; a charcoal-gray scoundrel, a real scrapper. My dog went by the name of “Spotty”: a collie, much more of a refined dog. Jeff and I would follow a trail that led through the woods, alongside the branch. When we reached the turn-around point, the dogs were behind us at first, but quickly faded into the forest. When we reached the place where the trail started, both dogs were there, waiting on us. We never understood how that worked. Since the euphoric days of the branch, I am still committed to adventure, amidst those pieces of life I fail to understand. That is part of the adventure. There are days when we do what Indiana Jones would do, “… I’m planning this as I go along.”