Hillsborough River State Park 
   - Written and Contributed by Edward C. Woodward      

 Sam awoke at Hillsborough River State Park hands outstretched, palms up and shoulders shrugged. Wide-eyed he inhaled audibly as if saying “Where are we?” He’d traded concrete and cars for towering pines and the crying “keeeee-er” of a red-shouldered hawk. As much as I love Sam’s evolving expressions for discovery, I miss the old one: the rapid-fire “unk ah,” of spring/summer ’08.

     I loaded Sam in the jogging stroller and hit the 1.1 mile Rapids Nature Trail. Mosquitoes pestered us if we stopped too long beneath the sabal palms, oak trees and other hardwoods along the trail. Within minutes we heard the rapids, water rushing over limestone rock. Underfoot the forest floor widened and was flush with sticks, leaves and nuts. Sam stockpiled green hickory nuts, taste-testing one sand-laced treat before dad doubling as photographer could grab it.  

     Dense greens and browns, touchable trailside textures like bark, palm fronds, and even boardwalks, rewires my frenetic urban mind when I visit Hillsborough River State Park (built by the  Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930s). My breathing relaxes and is rhythmic.

     Along the trail we met a couple with a two-year-old daughter whose leaf-throwing act made Sam belly laugh. Comedy is uncomplicated, Sam reminds me. Fall to the ground making a funny face? Hilarious. And if belching doesn’t crack you up, release the weight of the world.

     The young girl’s father, who said he grew up “running the trails,” before the park had boardwalks, pointed to the river where a tire was stuck in a cluster of trash. He speculated that a rainstorm probably pushed it past the rapids. I beamed inside: a teachable moment about watersheds! The family walked ahead calling birds.

_______ 
I silently fist pumped the serendipity
of time, place, and my son sharing
the name of a carbonated soda.
 _______

 

      Meanwhile, Sam and I crossed the suspension bridge. Though curious to watch Sam experience the swaying narrow bridge beneath his own feet, my parenting paranoia superseded the need for writing material. So I crossed the bridge holding Sam.

On the other side of the bridge we collected trash. I handed Sam a Sam’s Cola can that he slam dunked into our small plastic bag, appropriate for his first official piece of river trash. And no, I’m not taking literary license with the litter, Scout’s honor, for what that’s worth from a low-ranking dropout. I silently fist pumped the serendipity of time, place, and my son sharing the name of a deceased billionaire’s soda.

     Before lunch, we stopped at a trailside playground. Afterwards we split a grilled cheese sandwich and french fries at the blessedly air conditioned Spirit of the Woods Poolside Café and Gift Shop.

     Air conditioning massages my mind, which unbinds taught brain muscles, which unleashes important thoughts. Such as: inefficient ketchup bottles ruined my Scouting career. Consider this: modern ketchup bottles have oversized flip-top lids doubling as bottoms, a brilliant design that harnesses gravity and a hinge to minimize finger exertion and frustration. When I was a kid, we suffered calloused palms pounding out red drops of deliciousness. We damaged our wrists and joints and gnarled our fingers twisting ergonomically-unfriendly tops. No wonder I scoffed at a merit badge for wood carving. Give me one for conquering the ketchup bottle! Borrowing from Marlon Brando, had I grown up with better bottles, “I coulda been an Eagle Scout. I coulda been somebody.”

 _______ 

Air conditioning massages my mind, which unbinds taught brain muscles, which unleashes important thoughts. Such as: inefficient ketchup bottles ruined my Scouting career. 
_______

 

     Several weeks later I returned to Hillsborough River State Park with my 5-year-old daughter for a litter and ice cream expedition. With a self-professed “eagle eye,” she spotted leaf-concealed candy wrappers. She also revealed a knack for management. While she supervised from the suspension bridge, I grabbed a plastic bottle near the river bank. But it slipped from my hand. “Get the glove on,” she directed. I grabbed the cloth glove in my pocket, leftover from a cleanup, and finished the job.

     We backtracked to the playground, played and picked up a few more pieces of litter. Then our destination appeared on the horizon. As if spotting land, Anna picked up a trailside stick and pointed to the Spirit of the Woods sign, which I read aloud.

     “Spirit of the Ice Cream,” she renamed her new land.

     “That works for me,” I said.

     Anna agreed. “It works for me, too.”