The James River Park System is a 550-acre natural refuge in the heart of Richmond. This collection of shorelines and islands is the largest—and, some consider, the most diverse—park in the city. It offers a refuge to those who long to escape the concrete symmetry of square buildings and asphalt streets.
The park system was once a site of stagnant pools, containing a high concentration of raw sewage dumped from the industrial plants lining the banks. Fish and wildlife dwindled from the abuse, and, due to health concerns, public access was prohibited to the area that is now the park. The entire balance of the river was threatened until the Clean Water Act propelled change.
The initial improvement—the completion of a sewer line in 1972—became the catalyst for great environmental prosperity and enticed the city to purchase pieces of land for public use. As the quality of the water dramatically improved, the ecosystem thrived. Now, the park is home to an array of wildlife. The James River Park System officially lists beavers, foxes, whitetail deer, muskrats, eagles, otters, and osprey among the inhabitants of this environment.
Although animal stability was a goal, the redevelopment of the river ecosystem emphasized human inclusion as well. A service road for the new sewer line became pedestrian access to the river, and thus the great human migration began. While most species of humans that frequent the area can be categorized in classic archetypes—river rat, urban redneck, awkward family, dog walker, jogger, after-school stoner—some individuals react differently when placed in such a contradictory setting than society conditions them for.
Most people can be observed in the park behaving as they normally would on city streets. They realize that, although the buildings and bricks have been replaced with trees and grass, basic social mores and taboos still apply. Some, however, seem to undergo a primordial flip when surrounded by such uncontrolled natural growth. Crossing immediately from the confines of a metropolitan society into the “wilderness” of the park allows for no acclimation of self-control. They lose sight of the city beneath the green canopies and forego all social standards that would normally apply. Eccentricities swell with the belief that they are in the wild and allowed to act accordingly. They become the white buffalo—the Bigfoot of the river.
On one particular occasion, I witnessed the reality that fuels the odd tales of the river. It began one early summer day. I had recently acquired an old canoe, a worthy vessel for a river such as the James. Most of my experiences had been on the land around the park system—Belle Isle, mostly. Gathered on the rocks with the other rowdies, the dogs would wander, and I would feel independent. But with the addition of the canoe, I envisioned a journey farther upstream.
After patching the holes in the boat, a perpetually unemployed companion and I set out to the south side of the river to seek our entrance to open water. Novices to the area, we simply drove along the river and chose, at random, the Reedy Creek entrance to the park. Overwhelmed with potential, we carried the extremely awkward and heavy hull over the railroad tracks and entered the river at the public boat slip.
A sense of unbridled instinct rose in the two of us as the current took hold of the ship. Immediately, we turned to paddle upstream, where we discovered we were just below a set of moderate rapids, which we wanted to explore. On this day, the river had not swelled beyond control. It was unpleasantly low, exposing the rude contours of the riverbed, which made for a worthy challenge. We were only able to paddle in small areas and had to evacuate the ship, carrying it over the more protruding stones.
Despite this test of determination, the two of us reveled in the natural surroundings. Swarms of no-see-ums hovered over standing water, and fish darted beneath the surface. It was as if we had been transported far away from civilization. We were alone—or so we thought.
On the southern shore of the river, a man seemed to be lying out on a boulder. I noticed him during a difficult maneuver with the boat, as my first mate and I were trying to drag it between a strong current and a troublesome rock. My friend stood holding the boat with his back to the shore, and as I glanced over his shoulder, I noticed this lone individual now standing and, it appeared, pantless.
I was immediately struck with a sense of doubt at what I was witnessing. This man was just far enough away to make me question myself. Then the dance commenced. The brazen man began enjoying himself in the most private way but in the most public fashion, like a human in a fit of convulsions, as if struck with the same delusion of uninhabited space.
I realized the truth of the situation. Turning to my friend, I spoke in a somber tone: “Don’t look behind you, but I think there’s a guy on the rocks… jerking off.” Of course, he turned—but slowly—and confirmed my vision.
“Just ignore the knuckle,” I said. “He just wants us to acknowledge him. It’s how the devil gets off.” Being in such a remote area, and at a safe distance from him, we figured it best to play ignorant—like not looking someone in the eye at a party, which means they’re not there. Yelling threats would only tempt the beast more.
Standing out on the river, my accomplice and I had an omnipotent view of an otherwise tunneled vision. A large bush stood to the creep’s left, and just on the other side of the bush, a carefree young couple appeared. They were out enjoying the sun and playing with their Golden Retriever. Neither party was aware of the other, and from the looks of the wildman’s antics, he probably didn’t care who saw his compulsion. If the couple witnessed this, I sensed, the world would crash to an end.
Immediately, we loaded the boat and caught a quick current between the rocks. We couldn’t leave the scene fast enough. I didn’t want to wash up on those strange shores.
After returning home, a weird film hung around my mind. A realization awakened in me: this natural refuge that I only saw with childlike delight was also inhabited by predators the field guides do not warn you about.
I have retold this story to many people since then. Almost one out of five can recount their own version of a similar scene. Usually, these stories are told by females. Some say he wears a white thong, usually spotted around the same location, but always involving his crotch. Others talk about him lying on a rock, fully exposed like a sundial at high noon.
While these accounts have been chronicled, other new “species” have been discovered. Some look like you’d meet them by a copy machine in a generic office, but instead, they approach you on isolated trails, wearing loafers. An even rarer individual—probably near extinction—has been sighted wearing camouflage and hiding in bushes.
The James River Park System does not recognize these creatures on its official list of mammals. While they have so far appeared harmless, an awareness must be raised. Some of the most dangerous places in the world are also the most beautiful. They are worth the risk to experience, but do not go unprepared.
Never go into elephant country unless you have an elephant gun. It is not the entire herd which you should fear, but the insane rogue with crazed eyes.
I continue to frequent the river, feeling more prepared than ever for the uncertainties that may arise in such a lawless realm. Now, though, I travel upstream with a keen eye on the shoreline, ever vigilant of the rare sightings that might arise. Strapped beneath my seat is a high-powered slingshot. One sharp sting on the upper thigh will snap anyone back into a civilized state.
Story by M. Dulin
Illustration by Brian Nozynski
