Killer Creek

Having gone to school in Syracuse for three years, I have only recently become acquainted with Onondaga Creek, a waterway flowing north from Tully and emptying into Onondaga Lake. This summer I have been training with my fellow counselors for a summer science camp taking place mid-July. Our camp dives into the chemistry, geology, plant, bird and insect diversity associated with the creek. We compare these biologic indicators at varying points, starting in the rural headwaters and as it transitions to an urban environment.

We've spent many waking hours taking water samples and cataloguing species to see what changes we can infer from our data. About a week ago we were taking measurements of the creek at Dorwin Ave when an unsavory older gentlemen pulled up in his beat up deep green pick up. He hobbled over to the fence donning denim jeans and a button down denim shirt, favoring a cane with his right hand. He purposefully leaned over the chain link fence to observe us as his long gray beard bound with a single wooden bead dangled over the rickety fence.

I had been bird watching a little way off and as I came back to rejoin my comrades I spotted the old man intently watching my crew. The only way to pass through the fence to get to the creek bank where the counselors were taking measurements was by passing through a narrow entrance mere inches from where the old man was standing.

Expecting to exchange brief "hellos," I approached the man with a smile when he turned and asked, "What are you all doing out there?" I started to explain our summer camp when he cut me off and began to vehemently explain how dangerous it is to enter these waters in waders. In a patronizing tone he told me how the muddy creek bed will suction your feet and before you know it you'll be reaching down with your hand to pull your feet out, your waders will fill with water and the weight will pull you down, knock you off balance and send you tumbling down the creek to a watery death. He said this to from personal experience, having lost three relatives to the creek. While I could sympathize with his story, I could not get over his use of numerous swear words as he passionately told his tale. By this time all of my counselors had congregated by the fence opening and shot each other nervous glances as the man went on to scold us for being so careless in the creek.

It is one thing to give people a helpful warning, but to yell at us and talk down to us as if we're irresponsible children is another story entirely. This man's poor conduct made me question what exactly were the circumstances of his family tragedies, if they had in fact happened at all. If he wanted to retain a bit more credibility, I might have suggested to him not to swear and yell at us, which only bolstered his image as a poorly educated country bumpkin. Perhaps his family members were tragically swallowed by the creek after one too many beers on an afternoon spent fish wrangling. While the old man really may have been expressing genuine concern for our well-being, his way of going about it will forever crown him as the crazy old river man at Dorwin Ave.

View of the creek
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