past the odd, old rock wall that's been there so long no one remembers why it was built there to begin with...
past the falling apart bridge, built on an island, that walkers can't get to to cross
past the remnants of an ancient dam, useful back when the river was used to float timber down (the lumberjack history thrills you)
just under the whispering big trees with the crooked arms that call out for you to climb
is a little lake. Someday, when you're older, your Mom will probably let you take the boat out in it. She's said so.
But right now? You love the bridge. Love the giant dark timbers that support it, love how it's big enough for your bike and decrepit enough that you can see the wood strips under the asphalt along the fraying edges.
You're sure there are giant fish swimming silently under the dark waters, waiting for you to learn to hold a pole, fish with teeth, and you use that knowledge to scare your sister.
And it's the best (the best!) place to show off how well you throw rocks.