Huron River Drive

Content warning: sexual assault, depression. 

 

I was freshly sixteen the first time I drove my Mazda CX-5 down Huron River Drive. It was the homestretch of my thirty minute journey from Novi to Ann Arbor, which included vigorous thunderstorms, stop and go traffic on M-14, and my shaky hands squeezing the steering wheel, trying their best to ooze out the nerves. I was driving towards my first date with my soon-to-be first boyfriend. Back then, I didn’t notice the mesmerizing, gentle curves or the vast water reservoir hugging the right side of the road. It was just pavement.

 

Fast forward to seven months later, and our whirlwind, juvenile infatuation soured into melodramatic hostilities fueled by heartbreak. He broke up with me, and I didn’t take it well. Now, I can admit to my immature refusal to understand that young love simply (and for good reason) doesn’t last. But our break-up entailed more than just my hard feelings towards the end of a coming-of-age romance; it involved gaslighting, emotional manipulation, and sexual assault veiled as the loss of my virginity. And the trauma those left me with didn’t just make me hate Huron River Drive — it made me hate the whole goddamn city of Ann Arbor. 

 

Although I dedicated my senior year of high school to scholarship requests and Hail Mary applications to colleges across the country, my efforts to escape the inevitable were unsuccessful. I was going to the University of Michigan, located in the city I learned to avoid at all costs. Looking back, I’m extremely frustrated at the ungrateful attitude I had towards a debt-free undergraduate degree at an exceptionally ranked school. But I also remember the girl who was drowning in depression, and didn’t realize her evasion of an entire city was powered by the pain of being raped. 

 

I gained a sense of closure towards my fate the summer before I started my first year at college, not at all understanding why my feelings changed. Maybe I realized it was required, and I didn’t want to be miserable anymore. Or because having a dorm address in Ann Arbor meant it could officially belong to me, not just my ex. Whatever it was, I finally graduated from both high school and the numbness that burdened me. I spent the summer healing in my newfound freedom, imagining all the possibilities I could bask in now that I forgave Ann Arbor for hurting me. 

 

Less than a week into freshman year, I met Leo. Ironically, he was also from Ann Arbor, but our instantaneous connection based on hiking and movies and politics made me ignore his resemblance to my past. The night we met, we left the party early together and stayed awake talking until the birds started chirping, only leaving his room once to go on a 3 AM campus walk. Within those 24 hours, I fell in love with him. 

 

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After a year and a half of only being able to feel partial happiness, I finally felt whole again. I was challenging myself in classes and pushing myself out of my comfort zone to make new friends. I began loving the parts of myself I grew accustomed to hating. I was learning what it felt like to be loved by somebody who guides me to the best version of myself. 

 

I began experiencing a new Ann Arbor with Leo. We’d walk through Burns Park, admiring the charming houses while he pointed out which ones were his friends. We visited his childhood house biweekly to play with his cats, Micah and Jude. We found secret study spots on campus together, and pointed out certain benches and trees that were our favorites. 

 

Leo was my best friend. And although we shared countless things in common, one of our most compatible similarities was our love for the outdoors. Nature was often accidentally incorporated into most of our plans, and we were always looking for new spots to show each other. One summer night after freshman year, Leo and I were trying to chase the sunset before it escaped. 

 

“Here, let me drive,” he said. “I want to show you the ridge. It’ll be perfect for this.”

 

He drove us down Main Street and turned onto Huron River Drive, the one road I intentionally neglected to revisit. As he twisted around the first bend, I rolled my window down and rested my arm on the outside of it. The sharp winds glided off my fingertips, bouncing back onto the Maz and then into the road behind us. He turned up the music until the gusts were no longer audible. 

 

We continued floating down the road under the delicate cave constructed by dangling tree branches. I gazed past the thick forest into the Huron River, creating a thought montage of kayakers and duck families playing harmoniously. I normally get car sick on twisty roads, but this meandering ride was soothing. 

 

About two and a half minutes into our drive, Leo pulled into a makeshift parking lot on the side of the road. We got out of the car and walked towards the railroad tracks. He led me down a steep step ladder made of stones, authorizing us both to use the downhill hiking tactics we learned from our dads. We crossed over the train tracks and into a network of trails along the river, enveloped by oak trees and untrimmed shrubs. The central trail branched off into several others, each leading to an open area right near the shoreline.  

 

“My friends and I used to come here all the time in high school for bonfires,” Leo said. I imagined having this spot as somewhere to socialize growing up instead of subdivision basements and car parking lots. I was so happy this was now my world. 

 

According to the archives, the riverbank had a pivotal place in the lives of other University students as well. George Washington Pray, a student in the first graduating class, admires the “river winding along its shady banks with soothing murmurs and far off stretched scenery” in a 1844 summer diary entry. In 1924, the University’s Alumnae Council found hundreds of women citing the Huron River as their most outstanding college memory. 

 

In addition to canoe trips and swimming adventures, one woman listed how “sometimes a bunch of [her and her friends] would get up at 4 o’clock in the morning and watch the sun rise and the birds awakening along the river.” The women described that the best way to cram for exams was to cram their mind’s with the peacefulness of drifting down the Huron. The memories mentioned the collection of laughs and deep conversations they had with their friends here — a few even shared the intimate bond it created between them and their significant other.

 

For centuries, young twenty-somethings like us have been savoring the shade under the trees and relaxing by the soft stillness of the river. Despite our historical differences, our profound emotions towards the Huron were still the same. We appreciated its gentleness as an escape from the harsh reality of college, and the closeness created by being in nature with the ones who love. The consistency of this spot’s emotional impact is inspiring. 

 

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Huron River Drive and the ridge became a staple for Leo and I. We spent most of our summer nights there: picking up take-out to picnic by the river while we watched the sunset, strolling down the railroad tracks alongside the ducks in the water, smoking weed while we sat under the stars. When Leo and I reunited after months of being apart during COVID, we collected our usuals from Chela’s and ate by the ridge. Five months later, to honor us both recovering from COVID, we got BTB and ate it at the same spot.

 

But less than two weeks after that, Leo decided he wanted to break up. At first, I didn’t believe him. The tears felt fake, and I scrambled to excuse his abandonment for anything I could think of: depression, his new fraternity friends, our distance during COVID. I was mentally incapable of believing that my best friend would just get up and leave.

 

But as the weeks went on, I registered the bitter truth I accepted once before: he didn’t want to be with me anymore. And after two of our most formative years together, I struggled to rebuild myself without him. I felt like I was existing outside of my body, defenselessly watching my once well-supported pillars of confidence and identity crumble.  

 

I didn’t need to, but I lost myself. My brain became moldy with depressive thoughts and obsessive habits of overthinking. The combination of a break-up and an isolated winter in the midst of a pandemic was wearing me down, one week at a time. 

 

A few months later, when I was on a night drive alone, I drifted down Huron River Drive. The features I loved so much were barely visible in the darkness, but the memories of past happiness I could no longer recreate overwhelmed me. I turned the corner, pulled my car to the side of the road, and cried until my sweatshirt was damp and my head ached. Once the tears expired, I drove home and promised myself, once again, to avoid Huron River Drive. 

 

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During this time, my friend Abby, who I’ve been somewhat close with since high school, and I began bonding over our shared misery and seasonal depression. We started out as each other’s point person to vent our sadness too, especially the thoughts that were too off-putting for others. We both understood what it felt like to be perceived as a heavy weight in social situations — even if everyone tries to assure you otherwise. 

 

We didn’t waste any energy hiding our unhappiness when we were together. Our only rule was to be honest about our feelings, and let them bubble up and boil over as they pleased. And once we saved up enough strength, we gravitated towards a mutual mission: we were going to be happier. 

 

Abby and I began laboring towards self-improvement. We encouraged each other to say yes to events we’d normally skip. Abby found lists of vegetarian recipes we could cook together. We’d constantly check in on each other, and good morning texts became uniform in our daily communication. I introduced her to The Dot Org, a student club I’ve been a part of since freshman year. We teamed up on projects, all while maintaining our level of emotional transparency we established in the beginning. 

 

Abby knew how important the outdoors were to me, and one of her personal goals was to visit more of Ann Arbor’s best nature spots. One day in March, she suggested we drive down Huron River Drive with the windows down — rebelling against the chilling temperatures and Mother Nature’s mandate to stay inside. I was initially hesitant, but I knew no matter what emotions it agitated, Abby would be there for me. 

 

As we drove through the first bend, I admired how the sky’s delicate pinks and blues occupied the space between the naked tree branches. The reflection of the colors created an iridescent, almost glittery effect on the river’s ice. Abby played a song we both liked, and took a video on her phone of us coasting down the road — sky, trees, and me included. She told me we would start taking videos for each season, reflecting on how the drive changes with the time of year. 

 

We went to the ridge and sat side by side in the snow. I finally realized how much growth I was avoiding by swearing off Huron River Drive. Here I was, sitting in the same spot I used to only experience with Leo — and I was fine. The nature was still the same: the ancient stump used for a chair, the trails leading towards the river, the section where you could best see the sunset. It was all still there, stimulating the same sense of peacefulness in me as always. The only difference was I was with somebody else — a person who wanted to be there with me. And that was something good. 

 

Nature doesn’t hold onto pain, or anything really. Each year, the trees shed off their seasoned leaves to make space for new ones. The water freezes up and melts back down. Plants die and are either replanted or sprout again in the spring. The environment is constantly giving itself a fresh start. Once I went back to the ridge, I discovered it was begging me to do the same. 

 

This past summer, I went to the ridge by myself for the very first time. The trees were filled out and the water’s surface was painted with a picture of the clouds. I sat on a swing made of a pipe and heavy duty string — a new addition I’d never seen before. I brought my journal with me to write, although it was used more efficiently to swat away mosquitos. As melodramatic and end-of-a-coming-of-age-movie it may seem, I was really proud of myself for being there. I learned to embrace both the happy and bleak moments I had in this space. Their inseparable inflection is why I cherish Huron River Drive for all it is — a touchstone for my emotional growth. 

 

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Seasonality is extremely valuable in tracking emotional progress, and the seasons along the Huron River have stimulated core memories for University students since its establishment.

But the climate crisis is jeopardizing that. 

 

Once climate change swings into full effect, we’re expected to experience two seasons instead of four. Alternatively, spring and fall will merely be transitional periods — each shorter than a month. But rather than a white Christmas winter and a comfortably warm summer, the climate will shift towards lukewarm winters with limited snow and severe summers with unbearable, potentially deadly heat waves. The Huron River won’t experience the freezing that produces glittery sky reflections, and the tranquil summer evenings will be ousted due to high temperatures. We’re unable to tell how these changes will impact the Ann Arbor environment, and how much time we have left with the ecosystem that’s all around us. 

 

The climate crisis will negatively impact our ability to trace emotional growth. It’ll rip away the markers that remind us of what we felt and when, and blend together the experiences in our favorite outdoor places. I urge you to contemplate both the personal and universal impact of these consequences, and once you do, take action accordingly.