ONE HUNDRED YEARS OF SERENITY
By Benjamin Forgey
Sunday, August 12, 1990
; Page W12
ROCK CREEK PARK IS AN AMAZEMENT, A DREAM, A God-made artifact in a
human-made domain, a miracle. It also is a dumping ground, a sewer, a
speedway, a human-made compromise on God's green earth, a resilient giant. The
woodland valley -- with its sharp descents, towering trees, rushing waters and
quiet eddies and its fish, deer, beaver and birds -- is ages old, a connection
to the wilderness that once was, and to all the romance that non-Native
Americans have made of the wild in the last five centuries. On September 27
the park will be, precisely, 100 years old.
Like many a transplant to this city, I vividly recall my first encounter
with the park. It occurred -- and this is all too typical -- in a car, and it
was love at first sight. This, I suspect, is also typical. A solitary
passenger in the back seat with no particular interest in direction or
location, I was dreamily enveloped by the lush canopy of green without really
noticing until the improbability struck: green speckled summer sky for miles,
green ground, green escarpments, green reflected in the faces of companions in
the car. We were in a place called Rock Creek Park, I was told offhandedly. I
thought: Rock Creek Park!
In the quarter-century since, I have been a steadfast admirer if only a
casual, passive user of the park -- a commuter, shortcut taker, stroller,
sometime picnicker. I've been moved by gospel singers at the Carter Barron
Amphitheatre and by art at the Art Barn. Bill Christenberry once installed a
piece in the attic there -- one had to climb a ladder to see it, and it
spelled out "Fox" in italicized blue neon. Every now and then I'll stop at
Pierce Mill, one of the few 19th-century structures remaining in the park,
mainly for the unique smell inside the building, a damp mixture of machine
grease, whitewashed old stones and old wood.
My daughters have ridden horses on its trails. A biker friend regularly
pedals miles up the valley, way, way into Montgomery County, and back. I've
had tennis-playing
friends who use the courts there, and a golf-playing colleague at work who
speaks disparagingly of the lumpy greens but lovingly of the longneck
Budweisers for a buck and a quarter at its rolling, well-hidden 18-hole
course. Recently I walked a trail into the deep woods north of Military Road,
just to see if a point could be attained where even the faintest hum of
automobiles does not reach. It exists, one of those spots park Superintendent
Rolland Swain had told me about, a place "not too different from being dropped
into the middle of the Smokies." There were a few dilatory midsummer bird
calls, and not another human soul.
Rock Creek Park is a presence in the city, and in the county too, though
the county part is different, a meandering sliver of tree-bordered meadow that
follows the stream for most of the 22 miles to its origin near Laytonsville.
Because of its length, the county park is bigger (4,193 acres) than the
portion inside the District line (1,754 acres). But because of its bulk, the
city park, which antedated the county extensions by about 40 years, looks
larger on the maps -- it stretches nearly a mile from east to west in its
upper reaches and bulges even wider before funneling
down to Klingle Road and on to Georgetown and the Potomac.
And the city park feels larger. Which is to say that both in fact and in
the imagination, Rock Creek Park is one of the biggest city parks in the
world. No conventional urban park, it's a magnificent anomaly, an almost
pristine forest in the city. The stream and valley date back to
pre-prehistory, to geological time, and were utilized gently for thousands of
years by Native Americans, hunter-gatherers, then hunter-cultivators. The
ecological balance remained exact and exacting -- when the land thrived, the
people did; when it didn't, they didn't.
Since contact with European cultures, the valley has been subjected to more
or less continuous exploitation, sometimes healthy, sometimes not. One of the
profound ironies of the valley's existence, after it became a protected
parkland, is the immense amount of effort it has taken to keep it, pretty
much, as it was. A recurring theme of the park's first century has been the
unremitting struggle against the pressures generated by population growth and
increasing development on the park's periphery. The incursions range from
minor to middling to major, from thoughtless littering, for instance, to
contemptuous dumping to insidious and constant depreciation of the stream's
water quality. At times, to those in charge, it almost seems a losing battle.
On one occasion, of course, a literal war was conducted in the valley,
although actual fighting was limited. The artillery at Fort DeRussy, one of 68
armed outposts ringing the city during the Civil War, secured the Union
garrison's left flank when Jubal Early's Confederate force appeared in front
of Fort Stevens in July 1864. (This was the engagement in which President
Lincoln came under fire.) The fort is a secretive place today, hidden in the
deep woods just 200 yards from Oregon Avenue NW (near Military Road). Standing
atop its still impressive, tree-strewn earthworks, peering into thickets
beneath the tall trees, it's difficult to picture the great forest as nothing
more than a clearing of tree stumps for miles around. But the image, haunting
in more ways than one, is yet another reason to celebrate the birthday of the
park, its creators, its caretakers . . . and its survival.
THE DRIVE TO PRESERVE THE ROCK CREEK VALLEY FOR public uses has a curious
origin. In Reveille in Washington, her nonpareil account of the city during
the Civil War, Margaret Leech tells how President and Mrs. Lincoln, like
President Buchanan before them, would remove during the summer's heat to an
isolated presidential cottage on the grounds of the Soldiers' Home, well
beyond the city's then-northern boundary. Questionable on security grounds --
the president's aides worried constantly about assassination plots in the
southern-sympathizing city -- the practice was understandable for reasons of
health and comfort. The White House at the time backed up to the fetid
malarial shallows of the Potomac, where the Washington City Canal disgorged
its wastes every day.
Dissatisfaction with the White House prompted Congress after the war to
propose "a park and site" for a new presidential home in or near the city
"which shall combine convenience of access, healthfulness, good water, and
capability of adornment." The agent selected to survey possible sites was Maj.
Nathaniel Michler, Civil War veteran, officer of the Army Corps of Engineers
and first hero of Rock Creek Park. As recounted by National Park Service
historian Barry Mackintosh in Rock Creek Park: An Administrative History,
Michler did an astonishing thing.
"Departing from the apparent intent of the Senate," Mackintosh wrote,
"Michler chose to separate the subjects of the presidential mansion site and
the park," and, while enthusiastic about the former, he lavished his "greater
attention and eloquence" on the latter. The public park he had in mind was
none other than the entire Rock Creek valley within the confines of the
federal district created by Congress in 1790. Something of a pragmatist,
Michler in his 1867 report proposed an ideal version comprising 2,540 acres
and a lesser alternative encompassing 1,800 acres. The whole idea was
considered too extravagant by a majority of the Congress at the time -- "Let
us wait until the country is in a more flourishing position before we do it,"
argued one opponent, successfully. The proposal died in
the House. But Michler had planted the seed. In size and location if not in
character, the park created 23 years after he submitted his report closely
approximated his alternative plan.
Michler's was not the first great written appreciation of the natural
beauty of the Rock Creek area. Historians consider it likely that in his
explorations of the Potomac River, Captain John Smith passed beyond the mouth
of the creek (then much broader than it is today), and his 1612 "A Map of
Virginia," with its accompanying text, contains much valuable information on
the Native American groups in the region. The spirit of the early European
accounts of the area is apparent in the celebrated description of Henry Fleet,
a young Algonquian-speaking English adventurer-entrepreneur said to be the
first white man to set foot
on the land that became Washington.
"This place without all question is the most pleasant and healthful place
in all this country," Fleet wrote in 1632, "and most convenient for
habitation, the air temperate in summer and not violent in winter. It
aboundeth in all manner of fish. The Indians one night commonly will catch
thirty sturgeon in a place where the river is not twelve fathoms broad. And as
for deer, buffaloes, bears, turkey, the woods do swarm with them,
and the soil is exceedingly fertile."
Though written more than two centuries later and focused specifically on
the Rock Creek valley, Michler's account of "this wild and romantic tract of
country" was scarcely less effusive. But unlike Fleet, Michler wrote not to
promote the commercial exploitation of the
territory but to conserve the land, and he considered congressional action
urgent in order to prevent its usurpation by "costly suburban villas."
Conservation was Michler's starting point; the rest he left to "the taste of
the artist and the skill of the engineer."
In Michler's day the very idea of urban parks as we know them was still
new. Victoria Park in London's crowded East End and Birkenhead Park across the
Mersey River from industrial Liverpool, products of the English reform
movement in the 1840s, were the first truly public parks in the history of
western civilization. Before these, observed landscape historian Norman T.
Newton, although there were piazzas, commons and royal parks that common
people were allowed to use, "there is no recorded instance of outdoor
recreational space on land acquired and owned by the people themselves,
developed with public funds and open indiscriminately to all."
Michler clearly was inspired by the progressive example of Frederick Law
Olmsted and Calvert Vaux, whose Central Park in New York (influenced by, but
far grander than, the English examples) was well on its way by the time he
made his tours of Washington's wilds. Indeed, as William Bushong, another
National Park Service historian, pointed out in his recent study of Rock Creek
Park's historic resources, had Michler's vision prevailed, the park would have
turned out to be very much a Washington version of the New York prototype.
Among the improvements Michler proposed were dams to produce a sequence of
lakes and ponds "for useful and ornamental purposes"; long vistas,
"artistically arranged," to be cut through the forest; formal flower gardens;
"charming promenades"; observatories; conservatories for exotic plants;
zoological and botanical gardens; and "grounds for play and parade, and many
other useful purposes."
THE DECADES FOLLOWING THE CIVIL War made up a great era of city park
building in the United States, and most of the parks -- Philadelphia's
Fairmount (begun in 1865), San Francisco's Golden Gate (1870), the
transformation of Boston's Back Bay Fens (1878), to name just three of many --
followed the Olmstedian example (when not actually designed by Olmsted
himself). The basic concept of the age was to construct an artificial,
idealized version of nature within the increasingly crowded cities. This was
seen as an antidote to the ills of urban existence. Michler's windy
justification for his proposal reflected these pervasive ideas. Parks, he
wrote, were "the most economical and practical means of providing all, old and
young, rich and poor" with opportunities "to cultivate an appreciative and
refined taste," to breathe "the free air of Heaven" and to meet "that greatest
of all needs, healthy exercise in the open country."
Similar ideas were expressed in Washington when sentiment to transform the
Rock Creek valley into a park surfaced again in the 1880s. But, other than the
Capitol grounds, which Olmsted designed in the 1870s, Washington was not to
have its grand Olmstedian park. Simple, clear-headed recognition that too much
tinkering with natural conditions in the valley would ruin it played a role in
that decision, but it was not until much later that Rock Creek Park benefited
from a systematic assessment of its character and needs. Other, more pressing
concerns than park designs were the driving forces behind the campaign to
acquire the valley.
Foremost among these concerns were the deplorable conditions of the creek
itself and the realization among park advocates that they were in a race with
development. From the late 18th century on, the lower creek, navigable as far
inland as P Street, had been a site for trade and fledgling industry. By the
1880s, however, it had been heavily silted by nearby development and become
smelly with Georgetown waste. Editor Crosby Noyes in the Evening Star
predicted that the valley would become "a dangerous nuisance in the shape of
foul open sewer, lined with a succession of slaughterhouses, breweries,
dye-houses, hog-pens, privies, & c., polluting the creek with their
excrement." Things were sufficiently bad that in 1888 the D.C. Board of
Commissioners had recommended covering the fouled creek from O Street to
Pennsylvania Avenue with an arched tunnel.
Development, meanwhile, was beginning to spread north into platted
subdivisions in the rolling farmlands bordering the valley. And even though
park proponents often used the "worthless lands" argument to make their case
-- most of the land was unbuildable "in its present condition," they carefully
said -- it was clear that with improved roads it would not be long before
Michler's "suburban villas" began to perch on the ridges and fill in the many
attractive creek-side locations that had for years been used for farming and
low-level industry. During the mid-19th century there had been at least eight
mills on the stream.
Furthermore, the valley needed saving even from its ostensible friends. In
1883, the city government, seeking a reliable source of clean water, had
proposed federal purchase of much of the watershed in order to dam the creek
for a deep reservoir extending four miles north of Georgetown. It is hard to
imagine what this radical transformation would have meant, although it's
certain the city now would have a wholly different feel. The park around this
impressive lake, it was noted at the time, would be of "great natural beauty."
Maybe, but the thought only makes one treasure today's park even more.
The Rock Creek valley was thus poised on the brink of another great change,
potentially the most damaging. Burial seemed a probable fate for the lower
creek -- the city's tunneling proposal had strong support in Georgetown and in
Congress. Inundation was a possibility for the gorgeous upper reaches. The
certainty was that, left in private ownership, the upstream valley would in
time become an unusual rustic subdivision for wealthy residents, many of them
emigrants from the nation's industrial capitals, who were just then beginning
to transform Massachusetts Avenue with their beautiful stately homes.
What saved the valley in a sense was the valley itself -- its beauty was
incontestable and its rarity in an urban framework widely acknowledged. But
people had to fight for it, and, fortunately, the political climate was
amenable. This was dawning time for a nationwide conservation movement. Thanks
to the enlightened agitation of Olmsted and others, Yellowstone, the country's
first great natural preserve, had been created in 1872, but it remained an
isolated case. At the time of the Rock Creek debate, however, other important
additions to the budding national park system were being considered by
Congress and would become part of the public domain -- Sequoia National Park
on the very same day the Rock Creek legislation was approved and, four days
later, Kings Canyon (then called General Grant) and Yosemite. Locally, a bill
to create the National Zoological Park in the Rock Creek valley was sailing
through Congress, establishing an important precedent.
As it sometimes happens, leaders emerged who were sufficiently savvy to
take advantage of the opportunity. "A final and vital component" of the park
movement, as Bushong wrote, was the united effort of the local business elite
under the leadership of Charles C. Glover, president of Riggs Bank (then Riggs
and Co.) and second hero of Rock Creek Park. Glover had been the chief
political force behind the reclamation of the Potomac River flats -- he helped
to save them from the railroads -- and he used the experience to effect in the
Rock Creek campaign.
To demonstrate the beauty of the place, Glover organized an outing in the
valley for a few of his powerful friends on Thanksgiving Day 1888. This was
followed by a meeting at his Lafayette Square home to draft a park bill, and a
public gathering at the Atlantic Building downtown to elect an executive
committee to lobby for the bill's passage. The committee included the
president of the American Security Bank and the editor of the Evening Star,
among other well-connected souls, but the tenacious Glover was its chairman.
The result was far from a foregone conclusion, despite the bill's
sponsorship by Republican Sen. John Sherman of Ohio, one of the leading
figures of the 51st Congress. Sherman's prestige guaranteed Senate approval,
but the House -- burial ground for many a local measure -- was altogether
another matter. Anti-Washington congressmen, always tight with the District's
purse strings, had the extra ammunition of conflict of interest -- Sherman
owned huge amounts of land on the periphery of the proposed park.
In the end, though, the House adopted the bill, with the conditions that
the park be named "Columbus Memorial Park" in honor of the upcoming
anniversary of the discovery of America, that the District government pay half
of the $1.2 million price tag for a park of up to 2,000 acres, and that
adjoining landowners also be taxed on the appreciated value of their property
to cover a share of the costs. The Senate reluctantly accepted the last two of
these amendments. The compromise creating Rock Creek Park was passed by both
houses on September 25, 1890, and signed by President Benjamin Harrison two
days later.
A five-member commission was appointed to survey the land and arrange for
its acquisition. To no one's great surprise, the price limit set by Congress
proved too low for a 2,000-acre park. In the spring of 1892, the commission
reported the purchase of 1,606 acres of land north of the zoo for $1,174,511,
with most of the "missing" acreage lying northeast of the park, between 16th
Street NW and the creek. Predictably, the attempt to tax adjacent property
owners came to nothing -- there was no immediate escalation in land prices,
although everyone knew that one fine day living by the park would be a
privilege people would pay handsomely for.
SO, WASHINGTON HAD ITS GREAT PARK, paid for and maintained equally by the
federal and District governments. (Not until 1933 did it come under
stewardship of the National Park Service.) People began to use it right away.
A man hired to watch over the reserve was submitting reports by 1892. "I find
everything all right in the Park this week," he wrote. "There has been Picnics
in the Park every day this past week. No damage done yet to the trees." Teddy
Roosevelt was of course a great fan, before and during his presidency, leading
sturdy friends (or underlings) on strenuous "point to point" walks, as he
called them, and more than once to swims in the creek "when the ice was
floating thick upon it."
But money was in short supply and the park's early governors moved slowly
upon improvements. This was just as well. Although the legislation creating it
stressed the need to "provide for the preservation from injury or spoilation
of all timber, animals or curiosities within said park, and their retention in
their natural condition, as nearly as possible," the vast tract of otherwise
unoccupied land has proven a constant temptation through the years.
Some proposals were downright weird -- in 1898 a couple of solons on the
Hill floated a bill to establish permanent state exposition grounds in the
park, with each state being allotted from one to six acres for a building.
Others were sensible sounding but basically mischievous. One of the lesser
known facts of park history is that from 1911 to 1920 the United States Forest
Service operated an experimental botanical garden in the park, planting 2,000
trees of 170 species, with intentions to expand. Fittingly, an Olmsted came to
the rescue: From his seat on the Commission of Fine Arts, Frederick Law
Olmsted Jr. objected acidly to the orchard-like reserve. "It does not now, and
it never will, look like a part of the natural scenery," he wrote. Eventually
his view prevailed. Park rangers today cannot say whether any of the exotic
trees still stand.
Olmsted Jr. also was one of the four members of the McMillan Commission,
whose famous 1901 report did so much to reestablish the ingenious clarity of
Pierre L'Enfant's original plan for the city. The report's impressive
contributions to the capital's monumental core have in fact obscured its wider
scope, which envisioned a cohesive system of parks for the whole city. Though
its recommendations in this regard were not fully carried out, it had a
lasting influence. For instance, the acquisition of tributary "fingers" to
Rock Creek Park -- Piney Branch Parkway and others -- was due in no small
measure to the commission. (Obviously, it is not the commission's fault that
so many of the "fingers" are too narrow and, in some cases, almost wholly
disconnected from the body of the park.)
Concerning Rock Creek Park itself, the report was cautionary: This
"principal park of a populous city," it said, "was a matter of great
perplexity, requiring the most careful study." When time tardily arrived for
such a study, it again was Olmsted Jr., this time in partnership with his
brother, John, who carried it out. The Olmsted brothers' report of 1918
remains the basic guidebook for the park, and for good reason -- its thinking
is fundamentally sound. It identified three basic landscape categories for the
park -- natural forest, open woodland and open grassland -- and established
principles for their preservation and enhancement, with the largely
efficacious results we see today. It created thoughtful standards for
architecture in the park, which by and large have been followed to good
effect: Structures, it said, "should be so designed and located as to fall
naturally into place as part and parcel for the scenery."
And, perhaps most importantly, it set down a basic rule. "The dominant
consideration," it began, "never to be subordinated to any other purpose in
dealing with Rock Creek Park, is the permanent preservation of its wonderful
natural beauty, and the making of that beauty accessible to people without
spoiling the natural scenery in the process."
IT HELPS TO KEEP THIS WISE MANifesto in mind, for today Rock Creek Park is
besieged with problems. It suffers from an image crisis. Recreational users
compete with cars, and despair at the difficulty of such simple-seeming
operations as reserving large picnic groves (they're snapped up by companies
the first week of every year). The park is coupled in many minds with crime,
despite statistics proving the actual incidence of crime there to be quite
low, in relation not just to city streets infested by the drug wars but to
practically all regional jurisdictions. And, because it is a dividing line of
sorts between predominantly black and predominantly white residential areas of
the city, it has been too easily identified by many as a source of racial
tension, as if the forest itself somehow were a cause.
Plus, the park suffers from a sort of nagging malnutrition. I recently sat
at a table with Superintendent Rolland Swain and his division heads. All are
experienced National Park Service hands, which is to say they are the sorts of
people who choose their work mainly because they love it, and also that their
idealism has been tempered over the years by realism. They're straight
shooters. Sad to report, the mood at the meeting was fairly grim. Dave
Newman's summary was, unfortunately, typical. He's in charge of maintenance,
and he has 57 full-time people (compared with 125 in 1972) to clean, mow, cut,
clear and repair all the woods, meadows, roads, trails and buildings in the
park (plus quite a few nearby parks). "In reality we're not doing a job I feel
comfortable with," he said.
No wonder that, in places, non-native vines -- kudzu, porcelainberry,
Asiatic bittersweet -- seem to be taking over. Not exactly a comforting image
for a birthday celebration, but a needed wake-up call, a reminder that most of
the park's problems come from outside the park.
Take, for instance, the car. Fundamentally, the park is fortunate in its
roads. What the early park managers did do, they did well. With a few major
exceptions, the basic system of roads and trails in the park was completed in
the first three decades, under the sensitive aegis of the Corps of Engineers
following the sensible, Olmstedian principle that roads ought to disturb the
natural terrain as little as possible.
Of course, the automobile was unforeseen when the park was created, and no
major concern when Beach Drive and the other roads in the park's northern
sections were laid out and, subsequently, paved. The basic idea then seems to
have been that the car was a Sunday convenience, and that motorists would
cruise slowly through the park sheerly for the pleasure of it. But the days of
the pleasure drive were numbered, as any non-rush-hour driver knows who tries
today to glide along Beach Drive at 25 miles per hour, the legal limit but
still a bit too fast to take thoroughgoing notice of the green. It's no fun
leading an impatient pack around the curves.
The story of the park and the automobile is one of fair-sized
disequilibrium -- the roads north of the zoo were not designed as commuter
arteries, and, as pleasant as the trips may be for the drivers, their use as
such twice a day, five days a week, definitely discourages the use of the park
as a recreational resource. Returning these roads to their intended purpose
should be the goal of any sensitive long-term policy. (The parkway south of
the zoo tunnel is a separate chapter; it was planned from the beginning as
such, and it saved the lower creek from being buried alive.) There is comfort
to be found in the knowledge that it could have been much worse -- a scheme to
turn the upper reaches of the park into a multi-lane freeway, connecting to
Interstate 270, lived a long life before being discarded in the 1950s.
Traffic at least is cyclical. It happens every day and goes away. The most
intransigent of the park's many problems is its principal reason for being,
the stream itself. This striking tributary is subject daily to pollutants from
an impressive variety of sources throughout the watershed -- illegal sewer
connections, legal sewer lines (there are 60 crossings in the creek), streets,
sidewalks, parking lots, farms, houses, yards, oil tanks, septic tanks, cars,
trucks, buses, animals, people. Above all people, the root cause, doing what
we do.
And that's on normal days. On the inevitable abnormal ones, when the rains
come fiercely down, all of these sources combine to create a big mess with
lasting consequences. Some we can see for weeks, months, even years after
really madding storms, the creek clotted with wreckage, its banks falling
away. Some we can smell. Sludge settles in and goes to work.
Surprisingly, and perhaps encouragingly (one can't afford to be smug), the
creek seems to be holding its own. The overall water quality was rated
"intermediate" in a massive study completed in 1979, and by most accounts
(plus a casual inspection with eyes and nose), it remains about the same, in
part because many of the recommendations of that study have been carried out.
"Intermediate" isn't good, of course, but it has to be counted as something of
a victory, given the scope and complexity of the problem and the resources
available to counteract it.
One notices some of the work the Park Service has done, and notices that it
has been done well. The stone embankments (boulders with a splendid name:
riprap) built in critical places to combat erosion are soundly constructed,
and they fit, "as nearly as possible," just as the law says, into the natural
surroundings. Bob Ford, the park's resource manager, points out that trouble
was taken to quarry the stones in nearby Occoquan and Rockville, to make a
match with the creek's existing rocks. There are Catch-22s in such
environmental work. Shoring the creek banks encourages the water to dig deeper
into the soil; erosion is stopped, but the deeper creek bed may eventually
lower the water table and dry up the creek. "We're studying it," Ford says.
It is ceaseless labor, mental and physical, the task of keeping this urban
forest "pristine." The old conundrum applies: Is the cup half full or half
empty? It's a matter of perception. Rock Creek Park remains a stunning,
stirring, quiet, useful place, a gift unique in the world. But it is indeed a
besieged treasure, a gift in need of a gift. Perhaps its great birthday comes
just in time.
Benjamin Forgey, the architecture critic for The Washington Post, last
wrote for the Magazine on Washington National Cathedral.
Articles appear as they were originally printed in The Washington
Post and may not include subsequent corrections.
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