In My Paradise

This short essay was written for my creative writing class. It was a description exercise; we were told to think of a beautiful place that we were familiar with and describe it.

Winter had finally released its bitter hold on the Midwest to make way for spring with her warm, shining sun and chilly breeze. The trees had made a brilliant recovery and were already bright green. Muddy, mulch-covered paths wound around the hundreds of tall, old trees that made up the forest surrounding Avon Park: oaks, beeches, aspens, poplars, and dozens of others. The main path, the one which led from the parking lot into the wood, ran along a ridge flanked on the left by a small pond; snow white ducks could usually be seen leading small groups of Mallards around the pond and its banks. On the right of the trail was a small, marshy holler overgrown with weeds and tall, tangled grasses. The ridge sat directly in line with a dip in the canopy on the opposite side of the dark water, which allowed it to have hours in the sun; the direct light never overheated the ridge because of the cooling zephyrs blowing off the pond.

Beyond the pond and vale, where the ridge spread into level ground, the path forked into the wood, split by a wooden sign that declared in happy yellow letters the difficulty level of each direction for bicycle riders. The left trail meandered aimlessly through the forest; the right trail followed the creek to the Haunted Bridge. In that season, the paths were still covered by a thick layer of rotting leaves; the heavy, sweet scent overpowered all others.

Down the right hand trail, towards the stream, the forest abruptly ended with a steep drop-off. At the bottom of the cliff ran the creek, cool, muddy waters gurgling over smooth stones. There was a ledge, just below the lip of the valley, overlooking the creek that stuck out about ten feet and was equally wide. Buried in the ledge was a rusted, beat-up, old Volkswagen Beetle, covered with so many years of muck and exposed to the elements for so long that the original color was indistinguishable. The driver-side door was ajar and the back end riddle with what appeared to be bullet holes. Legends abounded about this half-buried car, usually in conjunction with the Haunted Bridge, which could partially be viewed from the ledge, soaring over the valley menacingly.

The trail continued along the edge of the cliff until stopped by a mass of spiny, sharp-leafed vegetation. A rough path was beaten through the undergrowth, like a deer trail, although this one was made by people—would-be adventurers who just could not afford a real adventure or children on a dare, all seeking a glimpse of the notorious Haunted Bridge. Halfway down the makeshift trail, the bridge became clearly visible, a dull, blood red behemoth starkly out of place in the bright spring sunshine. The background noise of lightly rustling leaves and singing birds seemed silenced by the intimidating structure, intruding on this effort of man to preserve nature in some way.

Out of the shadow of the awful metal beast, the birds cheerfully resumed their song. There was only one way back; the trail eventually branched off to the left, deeper into the woods. Daddy-longlegs skittered across the path, almost too fast and too small to be seen.

The wandering trail came to steep inclines where the only safe way down was to jump along the many roots crisscrossing the hills. Beyond the perilous rises the trees ended abruptly at a verdant hill, soft grass cascading down about fifty feet. At the foot of the hill was a gravel road and a big red maintenance shed. Atop the hill was a pavilion with little charcoal grills and a half dozen picnic tables. Beyond the picnic area were basketball courts and the blacktop parking lot—the starting point.