Getting Back on Track

• DateApril 7, 2014
• AuthorMary Heather
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• Discussion2 Comments

When I was a kid, my father used to take me on long bike rides to the shore of Lake Erie, in the town next to ours.  Our town and the one with the beach were divided by railroad tracks, and we would often walk our bikes along long stretches of railroad on our way to the shore.

It was a quiet corridor of nature in an otherwise typical piece of midwestern Americana — disorganized, tenacious greenery hidden from the asphalt roads that took families in station wagons to Ace Hardware and Dairy Queen.  Out there, along the tracks, clusters of goldenrod and Queen Anne’s lace danced under miles of woody shrubs and fluttering young hardwoods — there were invasive weeds and native trees recovering from years of disturbance, but to me it felt like wilderness.

It didn’t matter that there were rusty cans and broken glass strewn along the berms, or that the creosote-treated railroad ties left a persistent smell of tar in the air. This was a place where the imperfect seam between human and nature, between parent and child seemed simpler, surficial, and my father and I could walk along the metal rails, bumping our bikes over the railroad ties without falling off.

Usually, that is.

If you’ve ever walked along railroad tracks, you know that the ones with the shiniest rails are the ones that carry more freight.  They’re the active rails, the tracks that carry important cargo to and fro, the ones you want to follow.  These are the rails that vibrate when something’s coming, warning you to step off and run down the berm because the track is alive now and if you’re not careful, anything can happen.

Maybe that’s the thrill of writing true stories and walking the tracks: knowing what can hit you at any moment.  There’s an inherent tension between wanting to follow the line as far as it will take you and somehow knowing you’re pushing your luck.  As creative nonfiction writers, we know that at any moment, the ground will rumble and the horn will blast and now we’ve put ourselves at risk.  It’s a difficult line to walk.

The shiny rails are the most slippery, and as a kid I would always fall when I got too scared, or over-confident and walked too fast.  My father was not the type of father who would stop and wait, so I learned very quickly to figure out a way to just keep up.  And I suppose in some ways, the doggedness he taught me then is what I’m relying on now to get myself back on track with my work.

But there’s also this: whenever the trains came, we were forced to stop and be present in that moment.  We’d guide our bikes down the berm, then turn and wait for the rumble of the oncoming engine, the pitch of the horn piercing the air.  The thundering grew ever stronger, and then we’d stand together, bracing ourselves against the wind of the speeding train. I remember now my father’s arms around me as the cars clacked quickly by.

I’m realizing now that this is supposed to be an exercise in slowing down.  In recognizing the power of a moment.   Lately, I have immersed myself in the work of Abigail Thomas and the rich simplicity of Margaret Chula’s tanka and haiku.  I know that I’ll climb up that berm as soon as the tracks have cleared.  But for now, I’m just going to close my eyes and continue taking in the wind.

Photo credit: Joshua Michtom, http://greenfriar.com/crosstie-walker-2014-03-10

About Mary Heather

I am an East-coaster and a West-coaster. I am an academic and a creative spirit. I am an environmental scientist who always wanted to write, and a writer with a nagging nostalgia for the complexities of environmental science. Above all, I am a mother — so whether I’m writing about the natural world, family, or place, I like to consider my work as environmental advocacy in the broadest sense.