When I was in seventh grade, our history teacher told us the river trail in Thatcher’s Woods was once traveled by freedom-seeking slaves as they made their way north on the Underground Railroad hoping to reach Wisconsin or Canada while all the time being pursued by slave catchers.
This fact interested my friend George and me, so we decided to walk the trail from Chicago Avenue to North Avenue. Because of our enthusiasm, you would think we walked the trail many times but, in fact, we did this only three or four times for two summers. We stopped hiking a week before starting high school in September 1953.
The trail never made me nervous, but once George’s stomach became quite jittery.
On one hike, he brought along one of his dad’s cigars, and sitting on the bank of the Des Plaines River, he tried to smoke one, but it made him sick and he quickly abandoned future thoughts of ever doing this again.
We sometimes took off our shoes and socks and waded in the cool waters on the shoreline, being careful not to slip on the stones along the river bank. Once while walking, we spotted a gunny sack wedged between two large rocks, and we believed that we had found a treasure. We pulled out the bag only to discover that the sack contained twelve empty beer cans.
On one trip, we decided that the next time we came to the river trail we would fish. At first, we fished using bamboo poles, but before long, we borrowed rods and reels from our respective uncles.
We practiced developing the skill of casting from the river bank, but our lines frequently got hooked on the trees and bushes surrounding us or became snarled on underwater obstacles. Most of our time was devoted to untangling our lines without getting our fingers caught by the barbs of the fishing hooks. However, we did not give up.
Fishing, it turned out, was practically an all-day affair, so we brought lunch — peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, cookies, and two thermos bottles of water.
When we reached the trail early in the morning, there was no sign of life. The trees along the river bank and the slight mist rising from the water gave us a feeling of tranquility. We located a place where a large tree branched out over the river, and there we sat and fished.
The only fish we caught were bullheads and catfish, and if we had success, we would take our catches home. My mother would not fry the fish, because she believed that they were polluted, but sometimes George’s mother would prepare George’s catch for their supper. But most of the time she would feed the fish to their two cats who, by the way, survived these meals.
To George and me, the trail was like an oasis from the active world; its great attraction was the solitude that prevailed. Except for the bird calls and the occasional sighting of small creatures, a few deer, raccoons, and possums, we never saw another living being.
We were away from houses, roads, and any signs of civilization — alone in a distant forest.
