I knew it was illegal. We all did, but that was what made it all the more special.

The first time I went there was with a friend from Laona. He was kind of a wild spirit, and he lived near the place. Plus, he had been fishing there with his older brother and knew of a hidden path through the woods off Spoden Road.

It was late afternoon in early June when we hiked through an open field, crested a hilltop, and descended through a dark stand of pine trees. At the bottom, the tree line ended abruptly, exposing the most beautiful body of water I had ever seen.

Not more than 100 feet from where I stood was the tip of a small island. Beyond the island was a wall of sheer cliffs capped by trees leaning precariously over the water, their crooked roots clinging to the clay walls. Directly across from where I stood was a stretch of dense green forest, its image mirrored in the clear water below, resembling a chess queen lying on her side.

For the next 30 years, I would be drawn to that place hundreds of times. Early on, I went with friends. It was an adventure filled with challenges. We found new entranceways off back roads and railroad tracks, and eventually we made paths all the way around the basin. On the cliffs, we fastened a rope to a tree branch that reached over the water. Using a heavy root as a perch, we swung out, letting ourselves go at the highest point. Other days we swam to the opposite shore or around the island. We swam fearlessly (and foolishly sometimes) through the lazy high school summers, during thunder and lightning storms, and in early spring before the ice had completely melted. Some of us even swam late at night after the lights came on at BJ’s and The Moody Blues sang for us to “Go Now”.

Later, as an adult, I would go there for other reasons. It had become less an adventure and more a sanctuary – a quiet place of solitude and meditation. My dogs were my companions now, and I found myself going there as much in winter as in summer. I especially loved riding horseback on the trail through the woods high above the water. I remember one late afternoon, just before dusk when I came upon a clearing where a dozen deer were grazing upon a snow-dusted meadow. They were startled, and began running toward the woods at the far end. My horse was more than willing to join the flight, and for a moment it seemed like we were airborne. I’ve never felt such exhilaration, and I never felt closer to nature than during those 60 seconds of racing with the herd and pulling up at the last second as they disappeared like pogo phantoms into the darkening woods.

Of course there are things I won’t confess to having done there. But I can say that I was respectful of that environment, and greatly appreciative of its beauty and richness. And I might justify my trespass by arguing that my large, single-parent family could not afford vacations; for me, it was an escape, and a source of recreation and inspiration.

I often wonder how it was that we never got busted. Surely the police and other officials had heard talk about some of our antics, and they must have noticed our cars parked in strange places. Maybe they felt that, well, boys will be boys, and decided to leave us alone. More likely, they didn’t want to waste any resources to protect a facility so remote and in such disrepair. Maybe the village had given up on it a long time ago.

I admit I don’t know much about the engineering involved in basins, dams, and outlet structures. Yet I would bet that the ones built today are more sophisticated and efficient than those of a half century ago. And I bet that, since the population here is less than it was back then, an upgraded system would serve the community well for a long time.

I don’t know much about the water fight in Fredonia. I probably couldn’t comprehend the technical stuff anyway. But I do have a right to make some assumptions about life in general:

≤ Wherever there is natural beauty combined with the potential for public benefit, preserve it. Treasure it. Protect it.

≤ Take anything that is naturally clean over that which relies on chemical treatment for disinfection or sterilization.

≤ It is always easier to guide things downhill than it is to force them up.

Pete Howard is a Dunkirk resident.