James River: Beware of what lies beneath

I heard a while back that there was some pollution in the James River. I've heard people mention websites and groups from where and whom I can "find more information." I've heard about different science-based classrooms doing experiments and finding horrific content of all sorts mixed into the water composition.

I've heard that there are ways to "get involved!" (the exclamation point is necessary for the tone I'm hoping you read that with) with various projects for cleaning up the river, the most popular way, of course, being monetary contribution.

All of this to me was but indistinguishable background music to complement the ongoing personal theme song playing in my head. It was just "stuff I heard," directed at "other" people rather than myself. It was an overarching message that concerned the science people, the hippies, the environmental people and the progressives.

People who actually took note of such a distant and irrelevant message were, to me, those rare and wondrous people who care enough to put in effort to make the world a better place - people who, I tend to assume, are somehow personally affected by the dirty water of the creeping James. "How fabulous those people are for trying to clean the James," I would think to myself. "They deserve some kind of governmental award."

Unfortunately, that doesn't seem to be in the cards for them, so I'd continuously resign to admire their efforts from a distance while adamantly staying far, far away from their whole "selflessness" spiel. Sorry you're sick, James, but let's face it - I've got things to do.

Then I was affected. As if the James sensed my resignation, it came right around and bit me in the butt. Or, more accurately, in both feet.

It happened this past beautiful Saturday morning. I was trotting along behind a couple of people with significantly more experience and interest in the great outdoors than myself, trying desperately to make striding along secret pathways in the woods look as easy as they were able to make it look. I think I was initially doing a good job - I managed to keep up for what had to be at least a mile, right to the edge of the woods where the river began. (I tripped over a couple of roots and also fell on my face descending stairs, but those were times my nature guides were positioned around corners in such a way that witnessing my defeat would have been impossible. I'm almost positive about this - I went to where they had been and checked the perspective. Safe.)

When we got to the river's edge, I saw what I was expected to accomplish and my white flag almost bust my purse open. We were about to cross tiny stepping stones into the middle of the river - whatever stones were actually larger than the average heart of an infant were slanted vertically, with slime slicking down them in such a threatening way that I could swear they had been planted there by terrorists. I might send in a report.

Just as I expected, I was about three rocks in when I toppled for my first time. This only shoved my white flag further from exposal. A grazed knee did nothing but rev my determination. I marched across those rocks with my back teeth clenched and my arms a-swingin'.

As most of you probably ventured to guess, you can't successfully "march" across tiny and/or vertically slanted rocks. About three more rocks into the path, I met my most unfortunate demise. My right foot didn't reach a rock in the path sequence, and fell relatively lightly upon something sharp on the river's bottom.

The reason it fell lightly was because as soon as I felt that slight inkling of pain on the sole of my foot, I shifted all of my body weight to the other side and threw my left foot under me with a resounding thud. This foot was not so lucky, and I felt something slide viciously into this sole much further than I was comfortable thinking about.

I'm someone with a lot of pride, especially when I'm set to "competitive - HIGH." When I'm trailing with athletic nature-goers, I'm going to try to walk off pain from a fall I'd rather not draw attention to. This "walk-it-off" method did not turn out to be the most preferable option. With every step I could feel little shards of glass, flakes of cigarette butts and Natty Ice can tops sneaking into the open wounds (which I dared not look at before reaching the car).

When I finally peeked, the visible crapola stuck firmly into my five cuts - yes, a grand total of five, with one riding an inch deep - was a bit too much to accept, and I had to put in a request with one of my fellow hikers to operate with tweezers. My consciousness was a bit spotty during that maneuver and for a couple of hours afterwards.

I thought that perhaps that makeshift operation was sufficient and that the hospital could be avoided. This thought contradicted those of every adviser I approached. This is when the James River pollution facts began to be, for the first time, directed unmistakably AT me with utmost urgency:

"Don't you know you can get a staph infection? That's vicious piranha-like bacteria that eats away at you until you die!" and "I mean, it may have been a broken bottle, but let's be honest - it could have been anything from a shaving razor to a lawnmower," and "Are you sure it wasn't the teeth of a sunken corpse? There's a few floatin' around in there," and "Yeah, you are definitely harboring human semen and canine defecation in your feet right now." You better believe I checked into St. Mary's the second that the possibility of stitches was out (the rule is eight hours, FYI).

Besides walking like Quasimodo, the story has a pretty neutral ending. I got medicine and antiseptic and in the words of Gloria Gaynor, "I will survive."

I'll pull in the introduction here: I now understand what a serious problem pollution in the James River really is. Likely among the countless items mentioned by worried (albeit semi-dramatic) friends in response to my recent ordeal, I know for a fact that Natty cans, bottles of various recyclable material, used condoms and shards of broken glass scatter the river's floor, well-hidden under water rendered opaque by dirt and various forms of human (and animal) excretion.

I was cut and internally polluted by the James River, and now I know how it feels when we do it to it. Not fun - so, a resounding "right on!" from me to all of those active members of groups and projects that help the river. Maybe you can help it be a bit less vengeful. I've already paid my dues, though, and now I also have injured feet, so I unfortunately will resume my position along the sidelines.

Nonetheless, I do have an idea for an ad campaign that river-helpers can launch while their work is not yet done, so if any of you read this please take it into consideration. It would feature a horrific image of some horrible-looking creature (this part is up to you - but make sure it is absolutely nightmarish), with bold print above it warning "Beware of River Trolls;" underneath the image, in italics, write "Litter Attracts Them." If you think people will laugh off "trolls," then go ahead and make up a very scientific-sounding species. The heinous picture is the most important part, I think.

As for you lazy sideliners like me, I leave you with this: If you wouldn't use a public toilet as a wading pool, don't use the James River as one. Wear your shoes if you're walking in it, wear a body-encapsulating waterproof suit if you're swimming in it and if you expose an open wound to it do not hesitate to visit a health professional immediately (or within eight hours) after its exposure. The only thing worse than coming into contact with the James River litter is becoming another piece of it. Don't take that chance.