Poteat
Prior to the recently completed reconstruction, Fiddlers Run was just to the right of the walking trail in Bethel Park. As part of a massive flood control effort, both Fiddlers Run and Hunting Creek have been rerouted to make flooding far less likely.
If I had a nickel for every lap I’ve taken around Bethel Park over the past 45 years, I’d need a wheelbarrow to carry them.
My first visit to the park, conveniently located between Sossoman Funeral Home and Timberwoods on Bethel Road, came soon after I joined the staff of the Morganton News Herald in the spring of 1980.
I loved how the park had a .70-mile walking trail, one that was absolutely flat as the proverbial pancake, and that was lushly shaded at its southern boundary, providing a few moments of welcome shade during the hot months.
Even better, the park was a virtual peninsula, with the East Prong of Hunting Creek on the east flank and Fiddlers Run on the west, close enough to the track to be visually pleasing and to provide a tiny bit of cooling energy.
Walking track, restrooms, picnic tables, a children’s playground — all just a short drive from both the Herald’s office in downtown Morganton and my home in Drexel. The Poteats gave the park a lot of use when my daughters were young.
That use increased exponentially in the spring of 1988 when, at the age of 32, I reckoned that walking was not demanding enough to keep me in shape, and I decided to become a jogger.
(I would never, at the best of times, call myself a “runner.” My usual pace, whether going for a casual jog after work or doing my very best in a race, was a 9- to 10-minute mile. Not exactly blistering.)
But it was at Bethel Park, under the tutelage of a younger mate at the Herald, that I learned how to pace myself, how to turn off my mind and let my body take over, how to steadily increase my mileage.
And again, Bethel Park was the perfect place to do those things.
With each step as flat as the next, I could settle into a rhythm and stay there, not having to worry about the challenge of the next uphill climb or staying in control on a sharp downhill grade.
Some joggers prefer running on roads or downtown sidewalks. Not this boy. I never had any desire to have an intimate relationship with a car bumper, and I never wanted the additional challenge of being chased by dogs.
Instead, at Bethel, I could turn up my music, provided by a Walkman tape player back in the 80s, transitioning to a hand-held CD player at some point in the 90s, and then to the miracle of the i-Pod as the new century began.
Neil Diamond. Bruce Springsteen. Bob Seger. Don Henley. James Taylor. Paul Simon. Those guys powered me through many long-distance jogs of six to eight miles that I could never have accomplished on my own.
As I grew older, my favorite times to visit Bethel Park shifted.
Summer mornings, early, before the sun had yet to clear the trees and there was likely to be a huge black snake resting somewhere along the track, were my favorites.
Not far behind were the “Golden Hour” jogs in late autumn — jogs in that special hour beginning 30 minutes before sunset and ending 30 minutes after. The hour in which the sun sank in red beauty in the west and the air grew cooler with each passing step as the twilight deepened.
But back to those two creeks which paralleled the track. Those boogers could raise some havoc, particularly after a summer thunderstorm gullywasher or a couple of days of hard, consistent winter rain.
Bethel Park, located in a flood plain, became exactly that, a flood plain.
Flat is great for jogging. It’s even better for standing water. And the time it took for the water to dry up at Bethel Park made a week’s visit from your mother-in-law seem short by comparison.
Get a really long spell of heavy rain and everything went underwater — the track, soccer fields, parking lots, the whole deal.
At such times the city had no choice but to lock the gates and declare the entire park unsafe and off limits.
More than six months before Hurricane Helene tore through Burke County, the city had already closed the park for a major restoration and renovation project.
The wreckage in the wake of Helene slowed that project down but made it obvious that it had to be done.
Fiddlers Run and Hunting Creek were rerouted to make water flow more slowly and the track location was moved farther away from the creeks. Indeed, that southern section of track in the shade no longer exists. The track is now a half-mile long rather than .70.
But the shortening of the track is offset by new amenities — new pickleball and futsal courts, a modernized (read “safe”) playground, new picnic shelter, a refurbished dog park, improved landscaping, and modern lighting.
After a two-year absence, Bo the Wonder Dog and I visited the newly reopened park for the first time last Saturday afternoon on a picture-perfect day, and the place was alive with activity.
Walkers, joggers, and the occasional bike rider crowded the track.
Geriatric types packed the pickleball courts.
Kids swarmed the playground.
Bo and I made two slow laps around the track. During those circuits, he was kissed by babies and petted by old ladies. We then settled on a bench — covered by a sunscreen — and simply watched the world roll by.
It felt mighty fine to be home again.
Parks don’t just hold memories. They keep them alive, waiting for us to come back.
Now, if only I can find my jogging shoes.
