UR lake offers different type of summer school

It's evening rush hour on the University of Richmond campus. Even though it's summer, there is plenty of activity, as employees, professors and students make their way elsewhere.

Only I'm not going anywhere. I'm sitting behind two other cars on Lakeview Drive waiting for a gaggle of Canada geese to make a move. They're obviously in no hurry. The six or seven of them just stand there. There's no room to pass. A few students walking by have a good chuckle at our expense before the geese finally waddle down to the edge of Westhampton Lake.

I've come to do the same -- spend some time exploring the lake. Only I intend to do it with a rod and reel.

Friend and local fishing guide Mike Ostrander teaches a fishing class at UR's School of Continuing Studies every year that includes hand-on instruction on the lake, so I know it holds bluegill, largemouth bass and even a few yellow bullhead catfish.

When he told me about the lake, I figured it would be good place to investigate for an installment of my Urban Oasis series. Every month since January, I've sought out overlooked and underappreciated parks, wildernesses and green spaces in the Richmond area. The lake seemed as if it fit the bill. I've driven past it many times -- I suspect many Richmonders have -- but never thought of it as a place to go fishing.

But as the geese shuffle down to the water, I get a better look at the lake and realize there's a problem: the water level is down a few feet. The muddy bottom shows in places. These are not ideal fishing conditions. Apparently, I've come at the time every summer when the school drains much of the water from the lake -- formed by the damming of Little Westham Creek -- to clean its banks.

Bummer. Looks like I'll need to find another oasis.

Then something happens to change my mind. On my way out of campus, a giant rabbit, an Eastern Cottontail, runs across the road in front of me. There are plenty of people milling about, but no one notices it. There are no woods in this area, only buildings. I have no idea where the portly fellow is going, but his appearance convinces me to poke around campus for a while, maybe see if I can discover where a rabbit would make its home and a goose would bring up goslings.

I drive around to get my bearings, then find a place to park near some tennis courts west of the lake. It's quiet above the lake, away from the heart of campus. My dogs, Ruby and Lila, find a trail leading into the woods and don't hesitate.

The trees here are immense, and made to seem even more so by how compact this forested area is. The slender pines and oaks spend all their energy to grab for the sunlight at the roof of the canopy, leaving an open, cool understory of dogwoods and berry bushes.

Between us and College Drive to our left is a meandering slough that offers deliverance for the dogs from this hot day. Along its banks, thick bushes and downed trees shield the creek from drivers and provide the kind of habitat a rabbit would love. Maybe this is where my bushy-tailed friend comes home to after a long day of eating the school's annuals.

Frogs dive for cover as the dogs lap up what little water trickles toward the lake.

We follow a trail south along the lakeshore until we reach the Tyler Haynes Commons. Below it is the dam, in front of the lake and behind a dry spillway. The maps I have say a creek goes on from the spillway all the way to the Kanawha Canal just north of the James River.

I can't see it from the commons, so we walk south to a small bridge. There's the creek. Now, I have a decision to make. Press on and follow the stream, or turn back and head for home. Pushing on means doubling the hike time. Stopping now could mean regret. What self-respecting urban adventurer doesn't follow a creek to its end?

The sun beats down on the three of us. The cars that drive past probably wonder what we're standing here for. Ruby and Lila do too. I know what they're thinking.

I turn in all directions. Nobody's looking. There's a break in the cars. The dogs stand staring at the shaded creek channel, a tree-lined tunnel of darkness surrounded by bright light.

We splash in. The shade swallows us, and we're gone.

Contact Andy Thompson at (804) 649-6579 or .