Mishap on the Black Creek
Wet Behind the Ears
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I had just passed out of grade 7, and my parents bought me a new bicycle, a gold Super Cycle Racer with the 3-speed Strumey-Archer hub, from the Canadian Tire store on Keele Street. Until this time, I’d been riding around on a dark blue CCM with a single speed, coaster brake, chrome fenders and a streamlined headlamp. I must have put hundreds of miles on that old machine. This new Super Cycle was the key to longer journeys away from home — and further beyond the ever-watchful eyes of parents and neighbours.

One such journey found Scott and me riding downstream along the concrete channel of Black Creek in Toronto’s West End. This channel ultimately flows into the Humber River after cutting right through the Lambton Golf Course. 

In the mid-1960s, the creek was confined and streamlined, far upstream — beyond Weston Road, through Trethewey Park and the Old Eaton Estate, as far north as Wilson Avenue, to help control erosion and minimise flood damage.  The creek had, after all, played a major role during the devastation wrought by Hurricane Hazel in 1954, so getting it under control to help protect life and property only seemed wise.
 
Gone were the lazy meanders and wetlands of the wild creek. Gone also were the natural habitats of birds, otters, beaver, and the 60s and not a lot of thought was given to environmental damage, where quick and dirty solutions were sought. 

All this work to avoid flooding seemed for nought when, in August of 2005, a heavy rainstorm, later known as the Toronto Supercell, pummelled many parts of Toronto with high winds and heavy rain. In fact, some 103mm of rain fell in North York, doubling the amount that fell during the devastating Hurricane Hazel. This caused the Black Creek, despite its channelling, to overflow its banks and flood the basements of dozens of businesses and hundreds, if not thousands, of homes throughout the area. 

The flood was so powerful that it took out a major culvert on Finch Avenue, causing traffic disruptions for months to come as it was completely rebuilt. 

Apparently, little to no thought was given to the aesthetics of its vast, concrete structure. It was utilitarian, cheap and necessary. It was man over nature, pure and simple, brutal and repugnant. 

Today, it’s still grotesque, but at the very least vegetation has overgrown the sides, trees have matured along its banks and now lean over the channel to somewhat soften its unsightly harshness. Little bits of nature have reasserted themselves in nooks and cracks along the length of the channel, making it appear somewhat  less intrusive. 

Someone, or perhaps some municipal agency, has, in a few locations, placed large rocks and a few boulders in the channel to help break up the monotony of the channeled creek and maybe help make it look more natural. The effort, while appreciated, is not without its irony.

Despite my criticisms of this open drainage ditch, this channeling has produced a nice flat area between the creek and the angled walls of the channel, almost like two sidewalks, one on each side of the creek – perfect for stupid kids riding their bikes in places they shouldn’t be.
It must be understood that the channel has a few of small waterfalls along the way.  The drops are typically about 6 feet maybe more maybe less, and they seem to be for the purpose of gathering flotsam in weirs that might otherwise end up clogging in the narrow spots — I don’t really know.
 
These drops are pretty obvious and easily gotten around, except for the one that is just under the bridge at Scarlett Road - right between the 4th and 12th holes of the Lambton Golf and Country Club. 
It was late morning — probably August — and the bright sun was casting a shadow from the bridge just across the top of the drop off. 
 
Having just gone under the bridge, our eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the increased brightness on the other (downstream) side. Both myself and Scott launched over the edge and fell the 6 feet or so right into the weir below!  

By luck, there was nothing but water in the weir. It could just as easily been the repository of shopping carts, tires, old pallets, or any number of things, but it was empty save for the murky water.

We were both shocked as hell!  Neither of us got hurt to any serious degree and our bikes suffered only a few scratches and twisted handlebars. We could just as easily have landed a couple feet to the left and crashed headlong into concrete and done serious damage to ourselves and bikes. We could just have been riding faster and totally overshot the weir and crashed on the concrete beyond — or worse on the far edge of the weir.
 
We were also lucky that the waterfalls itself was little more than a trickle — it could have been much stronger and created a “hole” in which we could have been trapped. Good luck was with us that morning. 
The water was about 5 feet deep but we managed to drag ourselves and our bikes out of the water. We were soaked, of course, and the bikes needed a bit of attention, but for all that, we continued along the channel through the golf course to the Humber River.
 
We spent about 30 minutes wading along it’s banks, picking up rocks and trying to throw them across the river to the other side. Standing i the water up to our knees, we shifted large rocks to make a bit of a dam to see if we could alter the water flow. Why not?  We were already soaked. It was a bright, warm day so there seemed no urgent need to get dry. 
Eventually we found ourselves about half a kilometre further down the Humber, where we could see the Lambton/Humber train trestle high above us a little further south. We climbed back up the bank to the golf course.
 
In those days, the club wasn’t as fancy as it is today and there was lots of building and landscaping going on, so there were muddy or gravelly roads all through the property. We walked our bikes eastward along a gravel road at the edge of the club, back to Scarlett Rd. near the entrance to the course. We were surprised to see a long line of traffic backed up in the north bound land.

It was about an hour and a half later, by now, and we were almost dry.  We were just about to ride home when suddenly a couple of bright yellow police cars raced northward down the hill, passed all the waiting cars, sirens wailing, towards the bridge. These two patrol cars joined others already parked. There must have been 8 or 9 police cars there and a small swarm of cops. 

Being curious kids, we gave up on the idea of going straight home and we rode down the hill to see what was going on, right past the police cars with no problem at all.
 
When we got to the bridge, four or five officers with poles, fishing around in the creek, near the weir that we had so recently fallen into. Some were on the bridge, while others were walking down near the water.
 
We asked an officer what happened and were told a couple of kids, on bikes, went off the bridge and into the water.  The officer then reaches out and feels my shirt sleeve – of course it’s still a little wet.  

“How’d you get the soaker kid?”
 
Sensing that no good would come of telling the truth, I lied.
 “Just down by the river sir, messing around in the water.”

“Uh huh. Just messing around in the river, eh?  So you weren’t on this bridge?”

“No sir,” we both shook our heads.
 
“How’d you get to the river?” he probed.

“Just along the gravel road,” and we both half turned in unison and pointed back up the hill.

I’m pretty sure the cop knew we were lying, but how much time do you spend cross-examining a couple of wet, pre-teen knuckleheads before you realise you have better things to do?
 
“Ok. Get out of here. Stay away from the river … and this channel.”
We turned and rode southwards, back up the hill, but not too quickly. We didn’t want to look like we were trying to escape. 

Any adult might reasonably imagine this episode with its dangerous fall into turbulent water and a brush with the cops would have a sobering effect on a couple of 12-year-olds, but you’d be wrong, as the next tale demonstrates.