Sub Terra Vita Chronicle #33: Part XII: A Brief Autobiography of the Valley Underground: Surrounding Solitude

Sub Terra Vita

By Tim Krenz

January 25, 2016

Chronicle #33: Part XII: A Brief Autobiography of the Valley Underground: Surrounding Solitude

I grew up loving to camp, developing that underground consciousness for observant travel in low-key adventures. By now, mid-aged, I have camped in woods with swarms of big black flies; near waters of placid ponds or by loud rivers with swift falls; on red desert dust; across melting glaciers in a hot August; on mountains within reach of clear nights and crystal blue stars. By car, by foot and pack, by floating, by train, even by airliner, I sought these adventures, and I almost always come home, however, reflecting on the times camping here in the St. Croix Valley.

I always did my best camping in my Valley homeland. I camped with schoolmates during middle school years in the Boy Scout Troop 131 of Osceola, and we created almost every sort of mischief that Boy Scouts could do. In high school and college, we camped as freelance kids, looking to get out of someplace else and on to the St. Croix River. Youth in Osceola always have had to, and always should, explore the long waters below our town. All should use caution—absolute caution—since the river's power mostly stays unseen in its ability to penalize risk or carelessness.

I understand better now the overt awareness and the inner revealings of the almost meditative, sometimes insightful purposes of exploring here. Seizing this near world demands some ambition, some questing, and a starting point on which to begin the long slog “there” and back.

At age 13, I camped alone for the first time, about a mile or two my home one Friday night in the chilly fall. I took my small green pack with very little—sleeping bag, mess kit, flashlight, book, sleeping bag, tarp and rope, my hatchet, and some food and water. I walked the railroad tracks farther and away from town, past the then-smaller industrial park, not far from Osceola Creek where it emptied into the swamps by the Schillberg farm. I pitched on the railroad right of way, about thirty yards from the tracks. I tied one end of a big, loose dead branch to a tree and secured the other end into the ground. I threw the tarp over it, tied it off in places, and had a lean-to shelter under which I unrolled my sleeping bag. I cleared the brown, dead leaves in front of the shelter, piling it under my bag, and I made a fire on the bare dirt earth using the scraps of wood I found and shortened.

I cooked a sirloin and veggies wrapped in foil once the fire coals became orange and glowered. In the night air, I could hear the big crowd cheer and the old bell ring for the varsity football game far away. I ate my delicious dinner in the unfolded wrap, inside my mess tin-plate, and I read a little by flashlight. I fell asleep early out of some comfortable boredom. Critter steps and a slight wind on dry leaves kept me unnerved a little but also some company in the quiet after the football game ended.

I woke from a dream at some point, full of fear and twinging, groggy from the dream, as the quaking ground, the surprising anxiety of shaking trees, the loud bumping dry leaves, and the unholy sound of an iron avalanche seemed about to bury me!! Still groggy, a hell banshee blew, and my heart popped! I saw the unidentified swirling brightness illuminate the woods!! The train. I forgot about the train while sleeping. It passed long, but fast. Momentarily, I thought I had slept on the tracks, until I realized I slept safe away from it. Finally, the ground stopped rolling, and the autumn leaves on the ground went back to the dry crackling of deer and other varmints walking and scurrying on them. I fell back asleep. Saturday morning, I dismantled camp, packed, and walked home. I had nothing heroic to remember, but I realized I could camp alone.