There was one other car sitting there, a silver-grey late-model muscle car. When we made our way down over the cement curb, onto the rocky surface interspersed with all manner of weeds and wildflowers most of which I'd never before seen elsewhere, we saw that, standing on the lip of the curbed cement wall, there was someone silhouetted in the late-afternoon sun, with a fishing line. We stumbled down (I stumbled, he sure-footedly made his way down) to the same level; we approached and spoke briefly. We could see a small school of tiny minnows in the slate-grey water below. He was fishing for bait.

We made our way further downhill, downstream from where the young man was fishing. Hopeful that we would see a myriad of aquatic life forms but the waters, although vegetatively productive, and hosting grasses aplenty where the rocky shore met the stream, were devoid of fish. A small, bright-green frog's huge eyes seemed to be fastened curiously on us.

I stayed at the shore balanced on the rocky surface, trying to identify the wildflowers, while he, with his waterproof boots, leaped from rock to rock that jutted out of the water either just above or below the surface. He bent down from time to time to lift rocks so he could examine what lay under, net in hand. He brought an interesting colony of caddisfly larvae on a black, slate-like rock over to me. It had been colonized by both caddisfly and aquatic slugs, tiny things. He showed me the minuscule hair-fragile netting the caddisfly spin to catch and filter edible organic objects.

There were a few desperately energetic crayfish, quite beautiful works of nature, actually. We studied their form and function closely for a few seconds, then released them back to the water, where they quickly disappeared. But fish there were none.

Above us, on the highway, cars were whizzing by, disinterested in and obviously oblivious to what lay beneath them. What lay beneath them was a large viaduct, a bridge and a tunnel that the creek rushed through. And on the large concrete surfaces of that constructed presence was a hugely colourful display of street art. Fanciful lettering, precise and somewhat interesting; it was the competing colours, form and obvious expertise with the medium that caught the eye. Graffiti-city.

We made our way across the highway when the lights turned in our favour, and dipped down the opposite side toward the creek. Accessibility was somewhat more difficult, and evidently less tried. The grasses here were in bloom, and taller than me, but there was an almost-track demonstrating that many others had come here to assuage their curiosity.

The sun had disappeared under a heavy curtain of clouds, and the wind had picked up considerably. Suddenly we heard loud high-pitched shouting, looked over the expanse across to the other side of the creek and watched as a group of four boys made their tentative way along the tunnel edge, shouting between them and generally having what appeared to be a good time, released from school and homework. We wondered where they had come from; a nearby subdivision from where they had biked over, likely.

On this side, there was a plenitude of mature trees; ash, oak, poplar, maple. Some were bending over perpendicularly, toward the creek. A few had begun to turn, displaying autumn colours. It was not particularly picturesque, rather raw looking, and vast.

Here too, there was little in the way of robust aquatic life. A biologist, particularly one familiar with fresh-stream ecology such as the one I was with, knows that such urban waterways are impacted by fertilizer and pesticide run-off from the nearby farms and domestic lawns.

A reasonable explanation, but the search that resulted in the conclusion does not speak well for the health of the environment, nor in the final analysis, the community that hosts it.