There was a regatta on the Potomac that day. College crews were unloading their sculls and warming up. Spectators were standing by the water’s edge. The Thompson Rowing Center clubhouse was busy, but there were bikes available to rent. We put on helmets and stashed the bike lock in our backpack. I left my driver’s license at the desk, and we set off to find Rock Creek trail.
With the Connecticut Avenue bridge above us, we locked our bikes to a rack at the foot of a steep, grassy hill and picked our steps thru blooming wildflowers back up into the hustle and bustle of Washington DC. Looking for a place to eat for lunch, we came to the National Zoo. We went in to see the pandas and ate overpriced sandwiches. We rested a bit and then returned to our bikes.
There were runners. There were walkers. There were people on bikes. There were kids. There were old folks. There were hipsters with white wires hanging from their ears. The creek was gurgling. The sun was shining. And we were grateful for the periodic shade and cool breeze as we followed the wide upward sloping road into the park.
There were Beech trees there—big Beech trees with trunks like elephant legs, silvery grey on the hills with spring leaves filtering the warm sun, enveloping us in a gentle green glow. And there were Dogwoods at the margins of the forest reaching out over the trail with bright white blossoms in full bloom.
We stopped at a picnic table beside the creek to snack and to rest. Runners and walkers and bikers passed us. Trudy lay down and was soon breathing deeply. But amid the Tulip trees and Elms and Oaks and Beeches and Dogwoods and trees unknown to a Texan, and amid the rushing water making its way to the Potomac across tumbled-down boulders, I could not close my eyes.
In what seemed an instant, hours had passed, and it was time to turn back even though we had barely just begun.