I’ve never considered myself a naturalist, because that connotes having knowledge of nature and types of trees and flowers and fungus and such. I plead ignorant on all counts.

I don’t call myself an outdoorsman, because that is generally considered to be a person who enjoys walking through the woods killing things.

I’m definitely not into that.

I don’t know what tag to put on myself, but I do enjoy running, walking, hiking when possible, in the woods. Unfortunately that isn’t always a frequent occurrence. Other things vie for my attention.

My interests hark back to my days as a youngster, when the neighborhood kids would play for hours, sans parental supervision, in the nearby wooded area we called “the woods.” Walk down an embankment and we had “the creek.” The two went together but were different.

At “the woods” and “creek” we frequently played army, with our plastic helmets and equally plastic grenades and machine guns. We would be Germans and Americans and the woods would often come alive with shouts of “You’re dead, I shot you.” “No you didn’t, you were holding the gun in the air.” “No, you only wounded me in the shoulder.”

Whatever arguments we had were settled by us without our mothers having to come out and referee.

Fast forward a million years and it is 1990 and I am married and have outgrown our first home and looking for a new one for our two kids, aged 9 and 5. We ended up with a whole lot of yard, 14 acres of woods and part of Conneaut Creek.

Sure our country road is terrible and I’m still billed for street lighting that’s more than a half-mile away, but there are definite advantages.

This time of year my woods is lush and green and filled with vibrancy. And my own “woods” and “creek” are far bigger than what we had to play in as kids.

Playing army was OK in the two decades following World War II, but I don’t have the time nor inclination to do that today. Besides, I’m not certain where to buy plastic grenades these days.

But grenades or not, on a hot summer day with no lawn to mow and a day off, there’s nothing better than slipping into the woods, where the temperature drops, and eventually walking or falling down the steep embankment to Conneaut Creek.

There is a serenity there, like you’ve stepped back 200 years, unless a plane flies overhead. You wish the creek was closer to the house so you could hear it babbling while asleep. Go wading? Absolutely! The water looks clean and enticing as the sun beats down on it. It’s initially cold, but within 15 seconds you adjust.

There is a porous wall you can access only by wading the creek. The water from the wall squirts at you, a natural, cooling process on a hot day.

I’ve mentioned before, but when Casey our beagle became a part of our family in June 1994, I took her on this giant leash through the woods and down to the creek. Her little tail waged as she sniffed everywhere. I promised to make frequent trips through the woods and we have.

This month Casey will be turning 16 in human years, which dogbreedinfo.com says is 80 in dog years. This past fall she lost her ability to walk. We used a towel to support her middle so she could go outside. Don’t get out the hanky just yet. Thanks to modern medicine and Dr. Robin Wulf at the Edgewood Animal Hospital, Casey is again walking, on her own, although one back leg sort of drags. She can walk up and down the driveway and across the lawn. She’ll never climb stairs again but her progress is more than I ever dreamed.

When she could no longer walk, I thought about our trips to the woods and how they would be over. But I’m now thinking she has a few good trips left in her. We just take it slow and I carry her down the steep slope. The woods was always our place, where she could have her own adventures. The creek also the only place she’s done any real swimming.

When son Derek was middle-school aged, we would make regular hikes in the woods, crossing downed trees that served as bridges over small streams and then run up and down the hills.

We even had walking sticks behind the house to use in our journey.

Those sticks are still there but Derek got busy with school and band and friends, then college and marriage and finally a son of his own, my best buddy in the world, Henry R. Lebzelter. In the dead of winter, using one of my winter jackets, I whisked a not-yet-year-old Henry out to my snow-covered woods.

Just a few weeks ago, Henry, at nearly 14 months, returned for another visit. The first morning, still in pajamas, I put his shoes (or ‘s-s-s-s-shoes’ to Henry) on him and we went out for a little walk.

This summer Henry will absorb some of the Lebzelter legacy of playing in the woods, going over an embankment and having his feet refreshed by some beautiful creekwater. I know he will laugh and have a good time and come back to the house ready for a nap.

I hope our creeking adventures will be something he looks forward to.

What brings me to this essay on wood sand creek travels? It’s a story in Monday’s Star Beacon by staff writer Margie Trax Page about the Ohio Department of Natural Resources walk along the Ashtabula River.

ODNR is interested in preserving and garnering more interest in some of the county’s beautiful rivers, whether the Ashtabula River, Conneaut Creek or Grand River.

I could never describe the plantlife or animal life along the creek, but I could talk about the time Casey as a puppy tried to attack a porcupine and I was pleading with the little creature not to stick her. I could talk about the adventures Derek and I had on a cheap plastic raft in a swift current taking us to who knows where. I could talk about watching the little creatures dancing around my toes while wading, wondering where Casey was. Then I would hear a yelp and there she would be.

Give it another summer and I can tell about Henry’s reaction to the creek and the woods.

I could call it the “creek walk of memories.”

Lebzelter is special sections editor. E-mail him at bobleb@starbeacon.com.