The Creek Made Me Do It
Tom Toles
My kneecaps were vibrating.
This was something I did not know they could do. I took it to be a signal from my body that I was in danger. And yes, sure enough, there I was, about three-quarters of the way up a shale cliff, along Eighteen Mile Creek. And I had run out of things to hold on to.
This creek was about a half mile from my home in Hamburg, N.Y., near Buffalo. I was probably about ten years old. Yes, Conn and Hal Iggulden's recent bestseller, The Dangerous Book for Boys, could have been written about me and my friends. And this creek could have been its setting. Its banks were only about 30 feet high where I was climbing, not a certain death by any means, but not out of the question, either. They grew far higher farther downstream, and more nearly sheer. Here there were larger rocks, roots, and branches from the deciduous trees that filled the woods above. Except that just then, in this spot, there were few of these.
Would this tiny bit of loose rock be something worth holding? This rotten branch? As it turned out, no. My kneecaps had known. Everything gave way all at once, and I was sliding. I took leave of my friends, who were perched at various locations on the cliff face, as I dropped through a blur of small trees and finally launched off a rocky overhang. And then . . .
And then I landed on my feet in the creek, in about an inch of water, barely enough to get my sneakers wet. I walked back to the cliff and began climbing again.
A magic creek? Well, yes. And its powers were certainly tested. There was the initiation rite of leaping the five-foot gap in the old dam to gain access to the woods on the other side, without having to wade. There was the year we built a raft and rode it out into the raging spring flood without a plan on how to avoid the 20-foot waterfall downstream. Winter ice paved a wide winding trail that could be skated or hiked without falling through. Usually.
But it wasn't the creek’s magic that prevented mishap. That was luck--the unearned good luck that often accompanies reckless childhood behavior. The magic of the creek was something else. The magic was its wildness. It was the timeless sense of the world being itself, untended. Unimaginable eons were engraved by the creek into its banks as it wore its way down to the level where we now found it.
And the magic was the opportunity to explore. To discover. The path of unknown destination. The mysterious tributaries. The fish, the crayfish, and salamanders. The snakes! The blue heron lifting itself into flight to move farther downstream when we rounded a bend. It was by no means as magnificent as America's great scenic treasures. But it was adventure. And it was ours.
Childhood, when you're in it, can be a vastness of time without measure. But in a blink that the creek would barely recognize, I grew up. Suddenly I was an English major at the University of Buffalo, and drawing for the student newspaper, The Spectrum. The environmental movement was new to me. I realized that nature was at risk and started including the idea in my artwork.
It was my Spectrum cartoons, not my English degree, that led to a job, first as a newspaper illustrator, then as a political cartoonist. Given a space and an opportunity to say something, I began asking myself every day, “What needs saying?”
The national media cover many subjects extraordinarily well. The environment hasn't been one of them. Part of this is that things happen slowly, or unnoticed. Rarely does a headline say “Species Goes Extinct,” or “Glacier Gone.” Or the focus is on one aspect of the story, rather than another, as in “Mall Opens,” rather than “Habitat Destroyed.” I decided to use my space to draw some attention to the overlooked.
I doubt anyone has ever counted them up, but I'd guess that if anyone ever does, the numbers will show that I've done more cartoons on environmental topics than anyone in the history of the world. I may have to take that back if the numbers ever do come in, but suffice it to say I've done a lot.
Again and again I have tackled wilderness issues, development sprawl, habitat and species loss. Then came global warming, the threat that throws a dark shadow across everything. I started cartooning on climate change in the 1980s. It has never been a popular topic with readers, but I felt that repetition might help lay the groundwork for wider public understanding. I’m still at it.
Making the protection of natural treasures part of the American story has had a slow, fitful history. Creating national parks and wilderness areas, cleaning the air and water, and protecting irreplaceable plant and animal species are triumphs of American environmentalism. Our desire to preserve other species and the experience of exploring wild places for those who will follow us has brought us to a higher place.
But now climate change, if I dare make the analogy, leaves us three-quarters of the way up the cliff face, with handholds scarce and calamity palpable. It’s almost enough to make your kneecaps start vibrating.
Tom Toles, winner of the Pulitzer Prize in 1990, is the editorial cartoonist for The Washington Post, and his work appears in 200 daily newspapers via Universal Press Syndicate.
