Just Like Nothing (else) on Earth: Conklin Community Park

By Tim Jon

After decades of unexpected upheavals in my life, I’ve actually come to appreciate the surprising travails that keep popping up as long as I’ve been above ground; many times, my little forays into our natural world serve as a microcosm of these larger dips and peaks. My first reaction on pulling into view of the Conklin Community Park in South Riding was a bit of a letdown: I saw only well-groomed fields for organized team sports—all well and good in themselves, but generally less stimulating than, say, a path through the woods. 

I hadn’t even parked my vehicle on the eastern portion of the preserve, when I noticed—with childlike, impatient anticipation—a placard with a map of the facility and the usual rules and regulations; again, my shoulders probably slumped a bit as I read that pedestrian use of the dedicated bike paths, through the very inviting forested areas, was strictly prohibited. 

I know some would have taken a chance on walking the course anyway, but I’m in the age and medical condition category that would make me a sitting duck to be an accident victim along a twisting bicycle trail through the woods, with lots of blind corners. So, I took a breath or two and surveyed the remaining acreage before me; as I’ve said, the sporting fields appeared less attractive, but I crossed the road and mounted the low rise to the plain of soccer and whatnot. 

Having taken just a shot or two of the sun’s reflection on the opposite tree-line, I noticed a red fox trotting along the perimeter, probably looking for breakfast. Now, while being far too distant for impressive photography, I nevertheless like to capture any notable experience of one of my exploratory walks, so I clicked off several images of the interesting creature. I guessed that it was a female with cubs in a nearby den, on a mission to feed the family. 

I always count wildlife sightings as good fortune (possible generational inheritance?), so I struck off for the opposing corner of the series of fields on this side of Donegal Drive, which more or less bisects Conklin Community Park in South Riding. Telling myself that the camera shots I was taking were of great interest, I skirted the north border of the field and made my way back to the road. The allure of the fox sighting was wearing off, and I knew I’d covered a fair percentage of the acreage encompassed by the Park. 

Just as I crossed the road, I noticed the familiar sheen of standing water in the low-lying section beyond the neighborhood sidewalk; being on my usual very-early-in-the-morning schedule, the mist rose from the liquid surface in—to me—a most striking manner. Now this, I felt, was just what the photographer ordered; the sun was barely visible in the East, ‘shore birds’ were just starting to come to life and start moving, and even in a sizeable locality like South Riding on a Saturday morning, pretty much all else was still. 

Those are the magic times. You never know just what may occur; creatures of all sorts may wander into view, birds, fish, mammals, amphibians, insects, you name it, every instant creates just a slightly different choice of lighting—given the rapidly-changing angle of the sun combined with mist, surrounding greenery and water—and then there’s the bit that I add to the mix (I believe each individual will approach a situation like this in a unique manner—and I’ve always been nothing, if not at least a bit unusual. 

So, the chemical experiment in nature between myself and my surroundings played itself out: I continued as far in each direction around the small body of water (in my native Minnesota, I would say, ‘swamp’ or ‘slough’ but in this neighborhood, I would guess, ‘stormwater retention pond.’) In any case, I swallowed hook, line and sinker of the given circumstances and walked until the grass-covered portion of the path ended at a man-made, cement channel that I figured brought excess rainwater from other low-lying areas. 

It was the kind of walk which I take one slow step at a time, trying to notice any crucial views of the sunrise, or maybe some sleepy waterfowl close to the shore, or an alluring set of flowers amidst the swampier vegetation. 

I even relaxed enough to go back some … well, almost 60 years, now … to the old, long-gone swimming hole my brothers and I had used growing up in a small, midwestern farming community. And that’s something I could never have planned, as I’d headed out of Leesburg just before dawn, that morning. 

You see? Surprises can be a good thing.