Ruins on the River

In the midst of the sprawling suburbs of north Atlanta, among the Super Walmarts, Super Krogers, Super Targets, McMansions, McDonalds, and miles and miles of steaming tar, there is a green gem hidden away. Every day, tens of thousands drive down one of Atlanta's major north-south thoroughfairs in forest green SUVs, oblivious to the secret that lies but a cigarette's flick from the roaring, belching river of cars. That secret is a foaming, rumbling mountain stream hidden in a heavily forested green valley.

I don't remember what first drew me there, but I vividly remember the day I first discovered it. I say, "discovered" and truly mean it. I have heard it said that every New Yorker sees Central Park as their personal park and all other visitors are merely interlopers there. People feel that there are secret places in the park that only they have seen, and they vividly remember the moment when they rounded that corner or pushed through that bush to see their space. There is a deep sense of connection, possession even, in certain places of the world.

On the day I "discovered" this park I felt that I was the first person to see the sights that I saw and that I was some kind of English speaking conquistador viewing the ruins of an ancient civilization. It was a winter day as I pulled into a NPS parking lot built for about six cars. Mine was the only car there. As soon as a stepped onto the overgrown trail, the suburban world passed away and I was in wilderness. The thrill of discovery grew as I followed the trails across a cliff, past the rapids, and across a sand bar. The trail all but disappeared as I pushed through the thick underbrush covering the steep, rocky bank. Above the low roaring of the rapids, I began to hear a louder, more insistent crashing. Through the brush a wall of falling water began to appear. At last I stepped out into the stream and was met by a sight that left me stunned to see. How could such a thing be here and I have never heard talk of it?



I spent the day and days after exploring my new park. Ruins lined the far side of the creek, and I eventually found my way over to what turned out to be the carcass of old cotton mills. I found a perfect reading rock at a bend in the stream where I first read Jane Austen. I sat many days on the heights overlooking the stream, letting the sun warm me as I listened to the gurgling of the waters.

I went back there today and took these pictures. It is surprisingly underused. I was there for almost two hours and only saw three groups of people, all of them near the entrance. It might be the lack of large, open spaces for fine weather frolicking. It might be the fact that the city of Roswell runs several sewer lines through the park and at certain times and in certain places, there is a strong odor. Mostly, I think people just don't know that it is here.

Every time I go there I think of Van Morrison song and every time I hear the song I think of the sunny heights over the stream:

I'm tired Joey Boy
While you're out with the sheep
My life is so troubled
Now I can't go to sleep
I would walk myself out
But the streets are so dark
I shall wait till the morning
And walk in the park

This life is so simple when
One is at home
And I'm never complaining
When there's work to be done
Oh I'm tired Joey Boy of the makings of men
I would like to be cheerful again

Ambition will take you
And ride you too far and
Conservatism bring you to boredom once more
Sit down by the river
And watch the stream flow
Recall all the dreams
That you once used to know
The things you've forgotten
That took you away
To pastures not greener but meaner

Love of the simple is all that I need
I've no time for schism or lovers of greed
Go up to the mountain, go up to the glen
When silence will touch you
And heartbreak will mend.





Peace