We called it the “tunnel.” It was located in the “field” at the bottom of the steep hill below “the tracks.”
Mom used to caution me as I went out the door: “If you go to the field, stay out of the tunnel. And off the tracks!”
“Sure, Mom,” I cheerily yelled. Then I and friends Mikey and Bill would cross the street to the field and proceed to defy death – by clambering through the tunnel’s depths or dodging trains on the Missouri Pacific train tracks above. (You can see the field today if you call up Google Maps and put in: “Glen Road and Hawthorne Avenue, Webster Groves, Mo.” It’s to the west.)
As I watched fireworks last night, I thought about taking risks. And how as you get older, you avoid them. When young, we used to throw firecrackers and shoot bottle rockets at each other. We’d dance or duck, depending on what was coming our way.
Last night, we dodged sparks from sparklers and thought that daring.
What’s the riskiest thing you’ve ever done?
I asked myself that this morning.
There was the time roommate Tom and I, just out of college, rafted down a mountain river not far from Lynchburg, Tennessee, home of the Jack Daniels distillery. (We had stopped at J.D.’s along the way, saw the bourbon but couldn’t partake because Moore County, where the distillery resides, is dry. But we smelled it!)
"The river is too high," we’d been told by phone. Plus it was off-season. But Tom was not dissuaded. We arrived at the guide’s store, and he agreed to take us … but he warned, more than a few times, that it’d be dangerous.
It was treacherous – angry rapids; looming rocks; ice-cold, heavy waves knocking us senseless. When it was over, it took three beers and a drive to Nashville before we calmed down.
Then there was the time I flipped a total of three times while single-man rafting down the Green River in Utah. Or when I went rock climbing on Missouri river bluffs with no ropes or knowledge of techniques … just slippery Keds to grab a toehold.
Or probably the riskiest … when, in high school, friends Bruce, Holly and I explored a very small, largely uncharted cave in Southern Illinois after a heavy rain – a cave so small and wet that you had to sink neck-deep into water to squeeze into the next chamber.
Who knew whether that underground waterway was rising or falling that day?
Yep, there’s often a fine line between taking a risk and being dumb.
But the buzz, the exhilaration you feel each time you live such an experience is priceless.
Now that I consider the question, I think I remember most fondly the “tunnel” and the “tracks.” Because I think then – when I was 8 or 9 – that the risk-taking was most natural. You didn’t think about danger much, and when you did, only as some distant recollection that Mom may have warned you once about something … maybe.
I won’t share our activities on the railroad tracks. That was dumb.
But the tunnel … ahh, that was adventure, pure and simple. The tunnel opening was flat with the land, measuring about 4 x 6 feet. You’d climb down by jumping first to a large, clay pipe that jutted in from the north; from there, you’d leap to the bottom. I’d guess now it was altogether maybe 5 feet deep; to us, we were knocking on China’s door.
It was always cool in the tunnel – in the hottest of summer days, always cool and damp.
The horizontal opening yielded to a vertical cave-like entrance, wide and tall … rounded at the top like a miniature railroad tunnel. It was brick-lined. We could walk upright for about 20 feet. We would secretly bring flashlights – or, when we were most daring, candles and matches – to see.
This was not a sewer tunnel. It smelled fresh … or at least as fresh as a brick tunnel could smell. It was designed for storm-water runoff, so there was no apparent danger of sewer gas, though that was a distinction that occurred to me many years later.
The first 20 feet were, of course, the easiest. After that, the tunnel narrowed considerably – to a storm-water pipe of about 3 foot in diameter. There, we’d lower ourselves to hands and knees.
As we crawled, we also knew we were navigating under the huge hill supporting the tracks above. If we were lucky, a train would rumble over, and the ground would shake around us. Most times, though, it was quiet except for the bouncing noise of our own movements.
Although my memory is fuzzy now, I’d say the pipe stretched for another 50 feet or so. But the pipe didn’t emerge into daylight. It opened into a small chamber, at the top of which was a manhole cover -- likely a portal to the street on the hill’s other side.
And at the bottom of the chamber there was more tunnel, though now an even smaller pipe.
We had made the trip to this chamber many times. We’d use candle smoke to leave our initials, or share a knife to scratch a message. Sometimes we’d compliment each other on our bravery, though that got old after awhile.
Rarely if at all, though, would we venture on, either above or further west. Because now it became truly scary.
Above, you risked popping up in the middle of a street whose traffic was not known. We never tried this.
To the west? The pipe was tight -- 2 feet wide – but navigable. The few times we went, we’d squeeze in, one at a time … your head right behind his feet. Like a mole, you’d have to lie flat and inch yourself along with your hands while pushing with the sides of your shoes.
Oh, and usually no flashlights. It was hard to budge when you were one-handed. But that was okay; the pipe was so tight you could barely lift your head to see. So all was black.
And, of course, there was no turning around; to get out, you had to put yourself into reverse.
I’d say the furthest we got was maybe another 20 feet. It was always the same: Whoever would be leading would chicken out first. He’d tell the others he wanted to start backing up – now! -- and his panicky voice would get higher and thinner and louder the slower the rest of us responded.
In the end, it’d be a mad mix of screams, shouts and grunts, all echoing loudly in the pipe, as we scrambled backwards. We’d all squirt out into the small chamber, huffing hard. If we were lucky, nobody’s teeth would be lost to flailing shoes. And we’d laugh – a laugh of relief, sure, but also a celebration. We dodged death again.
In quieter times, we’d guess where the tunnel eventually ended up. We all swore we could hear distant traffic noises when each of us had led the parade, and that caused more speculation.
I always hoped it opened onto the then-new McDonalds on Manchester Road – I’m sure I smelled fries the time I led – but I later realized the tunnel would’ve required a couple of sharp rights and a distance of 5 miles -- at least -- to reach the Golden Arches.
Six years ago, I took our dogs to the field to check it out. Dad had passed on; Mom soon would be moving to assistant-care-living near us in Kansas City.
I found the tunnel closed … filled in. The Missouri Pacific Railroad at some point must have realized -- guided I’m sure by its liability attorneys -- that the tunnel opening posed a danger. So it is now sealed shut.
The parent in me says, “Okay, I get it.” But the little spark of the child in me says, “Oh … too bad.”
It’s not a coincidence that we risk the most when we are younger. But why is that?
This is the 10th month I’ve been writing this blog, which started with a promise to myself and encouragement to others to embrace occasional risks. I’ve taken some since, but I think not enough.
You see, the tunnel continues to call.
It’s a good thing.
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