While stationed with the Air Force in Rapid City, South Dakota, I developed several hobbies to pass the time in a rather desolate part of the country.  Mountain biking, camping, and hiking in the Black Hills near Mount Rushmore were a few of the things I spent a lot of time enjoying.  Another favorite pastime of mine was fishing.

I preferred fishing in remote streams and hidden ponds miles from roads, telephone poles, and especially other anglers.  A coworker, who was also an avid fisherman, detailed the location of a pristine lake filled with walleyes and small mouth bass.  I followed his directions, taking the correct exit off of the interstate onto a barren dirt road that stretched on for miles and miles through sage brush-covered hills. But I never found the lake he had recommended.  Determined to do some fishing, I began looking for any signs of water in a desperate attempt to catch some fish.

Exploring farming roads and crossing through cattle pastures, I came upon an old wooden bridge that spanned a small, yet promising looking stream.  I immediately parked my car next to the bridge, grabbed my pole and tackle box, and headed towards the meandering water.

In less than twenty minutes, I caught two huge catfish.  The first one was about 16” long and the second was exactly 24” in length.  Satisfied with these two gray monsters, I put them in my cooler and returned home feeling proud.  The next day at work, I told some friends about my secret location.  A week later, I saw the coworker who directed me to that area in the first place and told him about the two huge catfish I caught and how beautiful and isolated the area was.

It wasn’t until over a month later that I had time to return to that “secret” location to catch a few more giant catfish.  But when I parked by the bridge, things were not the same as the first time I was there.  There were tire tracks from parked vehicles all along the road. Empty beer cans thrown on the ground outlined the exact location of each truck, like chalk traced around murder victims at a crime scene. Trash lined a well-worn foot path that had recently been created along the stream.  And to make matters worse, I did not catch a single fish.  My private treasure had been plundered.

The reason I mention this story is quite simple.  Recently, I discovered free parking within blocks of Drexel. Because of this past experience, I have not told anyone about it.  As a reward for my concealment, I have had a free spot to park in everyday since last fall. If I tell even one person, I fear that my spot will no longer be available.  It will be ruined, just like the stream I discovered.