A set of abandoned railroad tracks run through the Cherry Valley hills. By abandoned I mean “not actually there.” Only a five-foot wide pebble pathway lies clear in a deep, twisted forest. The wooden rails have been removed, the steel nails have been buried, and the trains have vanished. No sign remains of a train ever steaming through these woods, except for the occasional rusty nail found along the tracks edge, or a soggy wooden rail that has turned antique with time hidden in the overgrown brambles. For me, these tracks, this place, hold more than just history, or memories, or old rusty nails. They hold answers. The railroad tracks serve as a strong symbol of summer and sisterhood for me.
If my coming of age happened in one secular place it was on the railroad tracks. The tracks as we like to call them, connecting one end of Cherry Valley to the other. It was the summer I was 13 years old, when my older sister, Bethany, took me to the tracks. It all started with me asking if I could go on a run with her. She was hesitant and I was persistent until she finally said yes. I hopped into her car with my new running shoes, and we drove up the hill to our grandparents’ house to park and begin our first run together. Beth led me down the tractor trail to the entrance of the railroad tracks. We stretched our legs and left our water bottles in the weeds. Then, we began to run. Her on the left side of the tracks and me on the right. Together, we ran through the woods, under the birch trees and along the wildflowers and berry bushes. We instantly found a rhythm. I let her set the pace, and I simply followed. Our breaths became one in unison, and we soon realized that we had found our perfect running partner. Little did we know that this run would be the start of a years in the making relationship. One that would take us up mountains and across the country. Little did I know that this run, and these tracks, would become the foundation for who I was soon to become.
From that day on, every night after dinner I would look forward to our runs up on the tracks. Beth would blare the music in her Ford Focus on the drive up, pumping us up for our run and workout ahead. We started with 2 mile runs that soon turned into 3, then 5 miles long. We expanded from just the tracks to adding in some road miles, creating new routes every night. We brought up our bikes and would leave them at the entrance point, adding onto our runs with a slow and steady pedal after. We always ended our runs in the same place, setting an imaginary finish line where we would pick up the pace and sprint to, finishing our runs strong. She would always win. We would take cool down walks, where we would talk and ask each other questions. Discuss our life goals and current romances, books we were reading, and songs we were singing. It was in these walks and runs that Beth taught me lyrics to Springsteen songs and how to run in just my sports bra. How to pick bouquets of wildflowers and find four leaf clovers from along the tracks edge. It was a golden aged summer; one where I blossomed from an innocent and timid girl into a brave and bold young woman. Almost like that “Strawberry Wine” song, how Deanna Carter sang of her loss of innocence in her grandfather’s strawberry fields. Although for me, it was the railroad tracks.
Not only was it my coming-of-age summer, but it was also the summer that Beth and I formed our soul sister connection. By her taking a chance on me, it allowed our love for one another to deepen. Beth served as my mentor, teaching me her simplistic and unorthodox ways. Allowing me to always think out of the box and explore the unexplored if I felt the need to. We named different parts of the tracks, according to what they reminded us of. Avenue of the Elms, Birch tree run, the Water Works, where the waterfall we named Big Katherine ran only after heavy rainstorms. We began to become familiar with the tracks, getting to know them like the back of our own hands. We were there every night, and they became our secret place, like our own version of Terabithia. We found a grove of white birch trees where one day, toward the end of the summer we took sharp rocks and carved our initials into the bark. BKG and MVG. We marked our territory, letting all other travelers know that these were indeed our railroad tracks.
Summers such as these followed for a handful of years to come. Summer became my favorite time of year, where I felt most like myself and where Beth and I became in sync once again. After Beth moved away and I graduated high school, our nights up on the railroad tracks began to dwindle, and sad to say slowly came to an end. One summer my engraved birch tree was struck by lightning and came crashing down. My grandfather cut the rest of the tree down for firewood. I tried to reengrave my initials into a nearby tree, but it wasn’t the same. I took this as a metaphor for our summers on the tracks that were no more. Life happened suddenly, like it always does, and if we got up to the tracks once a year together that was an accomplishment. There is still something so holy about the tracks that never seems to fade. How natural it was for us to always have a place there. How it was on those black pebbles, that we always came back to ourselves and our sisterly union. Filling each other in with information and important life decisions; where I chose to go to college and why Americorps didn’t work out for her. Engagements, trips to India, college breakups. The tracks served as our communication line; hearing and holding onto our deepest secrets and fears, along with our passions and dreams. The tracks knew it all, almost like they knew us better than we sometimes knew ourselves.
Years later and the railroad tracks are still there. Although different now. With Gramma and Grampa both passing, it is at times hard to be up there in those woods, on those tracks, knowing they are not there to see and visit with after. They would still want us to be up there, running and frolicking through their woods. Every time I am home, my heart yearns to be up on the tracks. Summer isn’t summer to me unless I visit them. It’s almost like a calling. A ritual. A home with no boundaries. Every time I am on the tracks, it feels the same. There is this faint remembrance of the younger version of Beth and I, now mixed with the older version of who we are. How we have grown so much in wisdom, yet at our core, we are only the same young woman who began running together so long ago. Laughing and jumping over the pink salamanders that would come out after summer rainstorms. Singing Springsteen songs so loud that Gramma and Grampa could hear us miles away. Dreaming big dreams about what we were going to do one day, about the things we are doing today. How the tracks knew all along our capabilities, how they made us grow into something even we could never imagine. How today it all seems to make sense. How all along the tracks made us fall in love with life and each other that much more. Maybe someday we’ll get back up there together. But how content I am today, knowing that they are the reason for why we are who we are.