Tales from Turtle Creek - Part 1

The Crossroads

Turtle Creek runs through the Little Jungle. It is a small muddy creek which includes sections of man-made canal, and winds around the wooded area on the Southside of Old Town Alexandria. In the 1970's it was a haven for bums and hobos (what we now call homeless people) as well as our gang of locals. There are a few different paths through the Little Jungle (as we called it) which converge at Turtle Creek in a legendary spot known as the Crossroads.

We used to meet at the Crossroads on Saturday nights and build campfires, drink Molson Ale and roast bacon on sticks. At first we sat around in a circle on our skateboards under the three low overhanging trees which formed a natural shelter to this mystical spot where trails, levees, and canals all converged on Turtle Creek. Later we built benches which included backs and hand rails against the trees, forming a semicircle facing the Potomac River, which was just out of sight about 30 yards away, concealed by the undergrowth and overhanging verdure. A musty smell of river mud and vegetation permeated the air.

Someone always brought a radio or tape player, so the sounds of 70's rock were an integral part of the atmosphere. Robert Johnson's "Crossroads" as played by Cream and Lynyrd Skynyrd was always a favorite, along with Ted Nugent's "Hibernation," or any song that could invoke an aura of wildness. The musical background served well to create a backdrop for the telling and retelling of stories, myths and legends, and beer loosened our tongues, so that these invariably grew in the telling.

Stick battles were legendary. Nobody really knew how they started (someone probably threw a stick at someone else), but that they grew into mythical proportions is a known fact. Generally the forces were divided into Northside versus Southside, although some stick warriors had been known to go over to the opposing side to balance out the numbers. There were no written rules, but the generally accepted guidelines were that sticks had to be small enough not to inflict serious or permanent damage on the victim. This did not, of course, completely prevent the occasional injury, at which point all play stopped until it was determined that the downed man was indeed OK.

One evening a captive was taken by the Southside and forced to reveal secrets such as entrenchment locations and stick hordes under threat of torture. He staunchly refused, and in reward for his honor was tied to a tree, beaten with small sticks, and left there for several hours, until his captives came and freed him.

Generally it was only the local boys who were allowed to be initiated into the Turtle Creek Gang (also known as the Kamikaze’s because of our daring skateboarding feats, also the stuff of legend). There were a couple exceptions to this rule, but they required approval, which needed to be obtained in advance. If this was not done the consequences were serious – the offender could be banned on the charge of treason!

Gradually the word got our about the nocturnal revels taking place in the Jungle, and before long many of the uninitiated began to show up at the Crossroads on Saturday night. One night a couple car loads of courageous young ladies from the far side of town showed up and began trekking down the trail along Turtle Creek. As they had not been trained on the guerilla tactics of silence and stealth when approaching the sacred spot, some of the adjacent home dwellers alerted the local law enforcement and we found ourselves under siege.

I remember someone shouting “Bail! Cops!” and the fire was put out in a hurry, the tape player shut off and left lying there, beer and other things stashed, and a general scattering of attendees through the undergrowth. My close friend Miles and I, who were Jungle regulars (we practically lived down there,) knew every trail by heart even in the pitch dark, and as we could see the flashlights of the local bobbies, we were able to evade capture and make our exit at a strategic point where no law forces were keeping watch (we did have to turn back once when we encountered some of our gang who said the North end of the Jungle was being watched).

For ten long years the Crossroads was the central focal point and meeting place for esoteric secret society meetings and revels. The Jungle Rampage and the Net grew out of the tradition of this refuge, and became the stuff of legend. Although today Turtle Creek is almost dry, and the trails back to the Crossroads so overgrown with briars and brambles that penetration to its inner sanctum is all but impossible, if one were to make the pilgrimage, an old broken bottle opener nailed to a tree at the barely discernable crossing of two overgrown trails might lend credence to the legends of Turtle Creek and the Little Jungle from a time all but now forgotten.