no trespassing.

There's this old water treatment plant outside Clemmons. You get to it by driving down a back road behind the golf course and nice houses. Park by the train tracks, in front of the "No Parking - Violators will be towed at owner's expense" signs. Then walk past seven "No Trespassing" signs along the railroad tracks until you come to the bridge. Make a left at the first "Stay Out: Property of the City of Winston-Salem" sign, then follow the chain link fence topped with barbed wire until you can cross the river. Be sure to wave at the poachers and immigrant fisherman to make sure that they understand that we're all in this together.

Despite my white bread girl misgivings, Josh and I spent America's birthday trespassing the polluted Yadkin River banks (just beyond the fruited plains, underneath the spacious skies). The area is one of those widely-known petty crime areas, where immigrants go to fish, rednecks go to hunt, and kids go to get high and make out. Since we were none of those things (though we sometimes come close on the rednecks and kids), we were there just to explore and take pictures. Little did I know that I was there to wave goodbye to my tomboy youth.

There was a lot of over the river and through the woods to our venture - apparently trespassing is okay, but you should have to work for it. I grew up an over the river and through the woods kid; I was game for anything, and while my red badges of courage were more raspberries than battle scars, I wore them proudly.

We started off by crossing the bridge to the midpoint just to check out the view. The railroad bridge. The one with no railings, where you could see down to the muddy Yadkin through the gaps between the wood slats. Funny, I didn't recall having acrophobia before. Must be one of those things I picked up in puberty. Then after we did some of the through the woods, we came again to over the river. This time, the bridge was again wood, though it was unharvested, narrow, and kinda shaky. After a few false starts and some whining, I walked the tree branch to jump safely in the sand on the other side.

We explored the abandoned skeleton of the old plant. I took pictures; old industrial stuff has always sort of appealed to me. Josh said it reminded him of the game Myst, where you come upon the remains of some civilization and have to figure out how to use the machinery. We found lots of knobs and levers that we would have fiddled with had we been in the game and therefore had immunity to tetanus. I was fascinated by both the old rusted gears and the small plants that had somehow found ways to grow right out of the brick walls like leafy torches in a castle.

Josh wanted to go up to the other part of the water treatment plant. The trouble was that whomever had made that part unavailable to immigrants, rednecks, and kids had done a more thorough job than the guy who did it for most of the place. Josh explored the options of gaining access while I explored the options of not falling in the river. In my defense, I was really more worried about dropping the camera, and if I fell in, I figured there really was no way for me to save my expensive toy.

Josh found a way up a deteriorating wall, apparently using some sort of personal side effect of being bitten by a glowing spider. I looked at the wall and said no way. I crossed the stupid railroad bridge with its gaping holes, I walked that shaky tree limb, but climbing a twelve foot wall with no discernable foot/hand holds was beyond my reach. Josh looked down at me from atop his perch, a no-contest winner of King of the Old Abandoned Water Treatment Plant. I sighed. When did I become such a wuss? When did I become such a girl?

We both walked around some more, he from twelve feet up. I was feeling the pressure. I could see my ten-year-old self glaring at me, her dirty hands on her bony hips. I surveyed the wall again, my clean hands on my even softer hips. Josh came back down the wall and studied me. His hips are pretty bony.

"Are you disappointed in me?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said lightly, undoubtedly not realizing the extent of my competitive family history. "I just think the payoff is worth it," he added quietly. Pause. "Want me to spot you?"

I threw my camera bag over my shoulder and stepped up to the wall. Josh stood behind me and explained some of the finer points of basic rock climbing. I concentrated both on his instructions and on the top. I dug my fingertips and my sneakers in wherever I thought they would go. I pulled myself up to the first ledge, gaining confidence, then panicked when I realized I didn't know where to put my hands next. I calmed myself down and surveyed my position. Finally I saw some rock jutting out a tiny bit and focused my attention and fingertips upon it. And then it became clear to me that my initial assessment of the situation had been correct.

Six feet at a acceleration rate of thirty two feet per second later, I sat on the ground, my glasses a foot away, my camera strap strangling me, my ankle and knee throbbing, Josh's hands under my arms, and my pride off somewhere being eaten by a wild pack of family dogs. I wondered vaguely if I could walk and also if the guys fishing a few feet away had seen my loss to gravity.

My leg injury didn't seem serious. I could walk with only the slightest limp that I could pass off as a strut. My hand and arm showed some scratches, and I was filthy and sweaty, but fine. I was in the unfortunate situation of looking completely not like a girl and having nothing to show for it. Without conversation, it was clear to both of us that it was time to leave, and rather than cross the tree limb again, we went out through a broken-into gate with a "City Property" sign half-pulled off. We'd only discovered the gate after getting in the other way, the hard way.

Josh apologized for pressuring me and took a concerned inventory of my injuries. I was basically quiet outside of reassuring him that I was fine and it wasn't his fault. We followed a gravel drive out and had to hop an electric fence. I landed on the other side with a jar to my injured leg and groaned. Josh had even held the fence for me while I had climbed it.

What a wuss. What a girl.

When did this happen to me? When did I become the kind of person who hesitated to jump a fence or cross a river on a tree limb? When did I start having less in common with the kid climbing the tree than his worried mother watching? Was it some sort of clause in the fine print of the womanhood contract? I was pissed at myself. I told myself it was because I had given in to the pressure of trying to prove myself in something that didn't matter. But no, I realized after a while that I wasn't even mature enough for that. I was pissed because I couldn't do it. Of course I should have given in to the pressure, actually, there shouldn't have even been a need for me to be pressured. I should've stepped up to the wall without a second thought. And the bridge, and the tree, and the fence.

Now I sit here with my sore leg and all I can think about is how I want to go back and climb the stupid wall. I am aware that that is the wrong conclusion to the story. First of all, the right ending would have me on top of the wall, with perhaps a fantastic picture to show my achievement. Maybe the fishermen would have cheered. But even given the actual ending, I'm pretty sure that my wish of revenge on the wall is not the mature adult conclusion.

But screw adulthood. Adulthood is what gave me a pair of breasts in exchange for my tomboy fearlessness. And frankly, I haven't gotten much use out of the breasts.