When I was growing up, there were several hundred acres behind our home that I roamed constantly from the time I was around eight years old until suburbia started to encroach on it a decade later. About 140 acres had once been farmed for corn, but by the time I was born in the late ‘50s, sapling pines covered the fields.

Going south about a quarter-mile across these acres, you entered a mature hardwood forest of oak and hickory through which a lovely little creek flowed.

A boy learns so many things from a creek in the woods. It was here that I first witnessed tadpoles become bullfrogs. I saw crawfish and salamanders, snakes of all varieties, beavers and raccoons and even otters, ducks and the quirky long bill woodcocks probing the soft banks for worms. I witnessed the cycle of life and death.

Being very still and observant, I once watched two beavers begin to build a dam. Their understanding of engineering is something I will never forget witnessing. I lay on my stomach on the creek bank nestled in a bed of ferns and watched them for hours as the sun was setting.

For a young boy who read about the exploits of legendary outdoorsmen such as Jedediah Smith, Kit Carson, and Jim Bridger under the covers at night with a flashlight, this place was near magic. With imagination, this became my very own Great North Woods.

During our rare snowstorms in Southeast Tennessee, the woods and the creek were the first place I went. In the fresh snow cover, I could look for tracks and try to identify what creatures made them.

During a heavy snow in the late '60s, I went to the creek and burrowed into some brush on the bank to see what I could see. Half-dollar-size snowflakes were falling and the woods were still and quiet. Just when I thought my hands and feet could take no more cold, a red fox appeared on the opposite bank for a drink of water.

The fox cautiously worked his way down the bank, eyes looking left and right. When he drank, his eyes were not looking at the water, they were looking up—scanning for larger predators like domestic dogs and encroaching coyotes. It was in this moment I learned what situational awareness was.

A few minutes later I learned what risk assessment and management was as well. In my desire to get to the opposite bank and see what the fox tracks looked like in the snow, I decided to cross a downed log that spanned the creek. I had never even attempted that crossing in the summer and now it was snow covered.

I made it about halfway across and slipped. With arms pinwheeling for balance, I fell backwards into the creek. I had on a wool jacket so the fall, while not life threatening, still had me shivering uncontrollably when I made it home to warmth and dry clothes.

During summer, the creek became a place to wade and cool off and also to fish the deep pool created by the beaver dam. Nothing complicated for tackle, just a cane pole with some line and bobber, a hook, and a can of worms.

Very soon in life I would begin to fish distant locations with my father using more refined tackle. In the subsequent five decades since his death and the attendant loss of my all-time favorite fishing companion, I have fly-fished all across the country. Through it all, I think maybe I was just trying to replicate one July morning in my childhood memory, sitting on the banks of that creek with a cane pole in hand and not a care in the world.

Now, nearly two generations have passed since most children commonly played in the woods, though the lucky kids still do. Richard Louv, author of Last Child in the Woods, addresses this decline in outdoor activities, citing electronic distractions, structured schedules with school and sports, more homework, and parents’ general fear of other dangers like Lyme disease and West Nile Virus. Of course, concern about crime and child predators rank high among the reasons that unsupervised and unstructured play rarely takes place in the woods these days.

A lot of that concern is exacerbated by endless media reports concerning dangers to children. Consequently, much of the wonder, creativity, self-confidence, and general love and appreciation of nature have not been cultivated. How can you love something you don’t know?

I now live on the banks of the James River in North Dakota. Many of the same creatures that inhabited the creek of my youth are here as well. There are no snakes or bullfrogs, but we gained eagles, wolves, deer, and the occasional mountain lion.

I am drawn to water and wild places.

The childhood memories of “my creek” come flooding back when I hear the opening lines of singer/songwriter Guy Clark’s song “Mud”:

Now down by the creek where the water goes slow
The green-backed heron and the moccasin know
All things come to him who waits
Yet he is lost, who hesitates
Life and death just dancin’ around in the mud