John Pepin, Michigan Department of Natural Resources

Along the old railroad bed, I remember small honeybees and wasps buzzing around the pink and delicate blossoms of wild roses. Petals that had fallen away littered the gray and white graveled rocks below.

We’d ditch our bikes in the bushes beside the railroad tracks. The steel rails were already old and rusting, even back then.

Wild raspberry brambles and extensive stands of common tansy, with its gold-colored circular flowers, also flanked the railroad tracks. This was a railway siding that had outlived its purpose working for the iron ore mining company.

With the resulting abandonment, grasshoppers of various stripe and hue had inherited this place now. With their long and stoic faces, they clicked and buzzed as they flew and jumped in short airborne expressions of seemingly contrary exhilaration.

Like the grasshoppers, we kids had also developed an affinity for this place along the river, just upstream from where the cool waters hooked sharply north.

We felt free and were excited to be here, too. We were outside the shadow of our old neighborhood, but close enough to still be within our parent-prescribed boundaries — we hadn’t crossed the highway.

We spent our summertime days outside — usually until dark, with a refueling break for supper — playing games, riding bikes, fishing, exploring, collecting rocks, shooting slingshots and engaging in the now apparent lost art of building forts.

In those times, toys and gadgets — like Hot Wheels and Matchbox cars, board games and G.I. Joe — could not keep us in the house. All those Christmas and birthday presents that undeniably delighted us were no match for the call of the wild, the chance to get outside.

Those indoor toys would have to wait for rainy days and the worst of wintertime storms or times when we found ourselves in the doghouse under house arrest for some misdeed.

Those bouts of misconduct usually involved math homework or “not listening” for me and what my brother was unwilling to consume at the dinner table that night, green beans, onions, mayonnaise, et cetera.

I sometimes wonder whether cellphones, had they been available then, would have had the power to keep us from our inherent need for playing outside and running free.

It’s hard to say.

Those were very different times back then. We relied a great deal more on our imaginations to fire our pastimes, rather than have them dictated to us by computer applications.

We used to play old games like hide and seek, capture the flag or king of the hill. We’d also make up our own games or other things to do.

I can remember entire neighborhood games of hide and seek, tug of war and kickball.

We also used to stage contests like who could jump the farthest, run the fastest or take the highest leaps over concrete sidewalk slabs on our bikes.

Beyond sports like wiffle ball and football, we were very content to swing on the swing set or play with Frisbees, Superballs and yo-yos.

Most every kid had a Slinky and a bicycle to ride.

We spent entire days down at the lake just fooling around catching leopard frogs, garter snakes and painted turtles.

Girls were big on hopscotch and jumping rope, with its associated chanting of silly sayings spoken as the girls hopped.

Not last night but the night before

Twenty-four robbers came knocking on my door

I asked them what they wanted, and this is what they said

Spanish Dancer, do the splits, splits, splits …

I think that will be burned into my brain forever.

Because social media is boring to me now, I think it would have been boring to me back then as well. In general, I don’t think I would have enjoyed a cellphone either, unless it was an inside-only toy.

I think the lure to be out fishing, riding bikes or waving to railroad engineers would have been too strong for me to be deluded into sitting in my bedroom staring at a cellphone all day.

At least I hope that would have been the case.

One of the biggest draws of this place along the river was a wooden railroad bridge.

Following the railroad tracks, we’d be at the bridge approach when we arrived.

The decking had spaces in between the bridge cross ties where you could see the water flowing below. The bridge planking and supports were soaked in creosote to preserve the wood.

The creosote smelled strong and smoky, especially on hot summer days. It would also stain our pants brown if we sat in it or otherwise got it on us.

The bridge wasn’t a long one, but it still took a little while at first to get up your nerve and summon the concentration to cross it.

There was a longer railroad bridge not far away that was made from steel. It crossed over two sets of active railroad tracks and a busy street.

When we’d hear a train whistle blow, signaling an approaching train, we’d race to the viaduct on our bikes and run up the gravel embankment to get onto that trestle to watch the trains travel underneath us.

That trestle was scarier than the railroad bridge. It was higher and it had high steel walls on each side. If a train were to come, we would have a much tougher time getting to either end then off the tracks.

Even though the river railroad bridge wasn’t terribly high, we were small back then and it seemed high enough to us.

From there, we could see the road and cars passing along the road. We could get a look a long way upstream and see clearly the downstream riverbend and shallow waters where the long, lemon-lime grasses undulated.

On one occasion, my brother fell head-first from the bridge into the river. I happened to be right below him in the tall grasses along the riverbank.

He didn’t call out or anything when he fell. I just suddenly saw him in front of me just before he was about to hit the water with a big splash.

I reached in for him and pulled him out.

He still talks about that.

He was probably about 7 or 8 and I would have been 11 or 12.

Today, the entire railroad bridge has been removed and there is no way to cross the river without wading it. Even the nearby big steel trestle that went over the railroad tracks and busy street is gone. So are all the railroad tracks.

Everything has just moved on.

It’s crazy to think that things that were so big and present could all but disappear, especially in one small kid’s lifetime.

It seems like those old days weren’t that long ago.

And then again, it seems like they were.

Sometimes, I get so tired of trying to understand what this is all about and what it all means. It’s a riddle, wrapped up in a joke, tied around a mystery that could either mean absolutely everything or nothing at all.

I think that if I went back to that old railroad bed by the river, I could still see the summer’s wild roses blooming and find some ripe raspberries.

If I dug a line in the rocks and dirt by dragging my bootheel backwards, I could dig up an old steel railroad plate or a spike.

The place is undoubtedly still populated by the grasshoppers who reign supreme over the waving fields of tansy, common ragwort and Canada goldenrod – a king’s ransom worth of nature’s golden flowers.

These days, when I pass by on the road I often glance toward that old place.

I don’t know why exactly.

I know there’s really nothing left there, but I still look.

Maybe the laughter of us kids is still swirling around on the summer wind or the joy and freedom we shared in those days is still alive in some way.

I’d be willing to bet a pair of creosote-soaked pants that it is.

Now if I can only find it somehow.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Outdoors North is a weekly column produced by the Michigan Department of Natural Resources on a wide range of topics important to those who enjoy and appreciate Michigan’s world-class natural resources of the Upper Peninsula.