Prompt Entry #8: Reconnecting

I had hardly touched the nature/environmental genre prior to taking this course. I've found the readings for this course enlightening and intriguing, and I plan on continuing reading within this genre. While I've always loved spending time in nature, and I was aware of many of the dangers and threats to the earth's wilderness, this course really deepened my awareness. The discussion boards were great; it was helpful to see everybody's input and ideas.

It worked out nicely to take this course during my first snowy winter. While I may have chosen to keep myself inside as much as possible during the winter months, instead, this class forced me into the outdoors. My appreciation for my spot, Clark Reservation, as well as nature in general, grew. I started paying attention to the beautiful outdoor details. I have loved watching the park transition through winter and now into spring. I have never focused so much on the land during its changes, and I have been amazed by it. My love for the land has grown. 

This class and the awareness it has brought to me, has really pushed and encouraged me to change things in my own lifestyle. My husband and I are seriously considering moving this summer, so we can bike to work instead of drive. I have found myself wanting to spend more and more time outdoors, and though the oncoming spring has something to do with that, it is also a result of this class. I have grown more conscious of the land around me, and I want to do my part to protect it. Gardening has been on my mind a lot recently. I have a list of nearby wilderness spots I plan on visiting this summer, and I know I will travel to those spots with a broader awareness and appreciation than I had prior to this course.

 As a kid, I spent so much time outdoors, and this semester, I feel as if I have returned to that childhood love for the land. Taking time regularly to visit Clark Reservation has formed a bond from me to that place. I always want my writing to capture a sense of place; having an ongoing relationship with Clark Reservation has reminded me of the complexity and beauty in the bond between character and place. While I mostly write fiction, spending time at the park (or any place I take the time to explore and learn about) helps me create a deep, realistic sense of place for my characters. My trips to the park have reminded me how important it is to take time out of a busy schedule to go outdoors. Those trips, the readings, and the discussions have helped reconnect me to the land and deepen my awareness. 

Place Entry #8: The Heart of the Park

Saturday, April 16th
11:51 AM
42°


It was windy when I got to the park today, and my sweatshirt wasn't keeping me warm. Rain fell steadily, and I entered the park thinking I wouldn't stay long. As I walked along Cliff Trail with my dogs, I kept my hood tight around my face. I couldn't focus on much besides the sharp wind and the cold rain slapping my face. The dogs ran ahead, and I watched Keiffer make a sharp turn on the path and disappear. I followed him and found a narrow trail leading steeply downhill from the cliffs. I hadn't noticed it on any of my previous walks, since it was blocked by a thick shelf of rock. I followed Keiff down.

The lake trail entrance was still blocked off up near the parking lot; it had been blocked off since the start of winter. Keiff led me to the water another way. This part of the forest consisted of a lot of furry pines, so as soon as I reached the base of the cliffs, the wind hardly reached me. The pines captured it in their boughs.

The lake trail was closed because the water was really high. The trail disappeared into the water. I took off my hood, and sat on a fallen tree to watch for any wildlife. As my dogs roamed, the birds came to life. Geese sent out their harsh cries, while short, single chirps formed a light background music. Occasionally, a long purring sound would cut off the geese. I watched for any sign of movement, but I saw none. I only heard them, and I knew they were very close.

I felt like I had crossed into a bird sanctuary where few hikers traveled. How many people missed that tricky little trail that my dog found? The water rippled in the wind, and I watched the liquid dance and lap the shore. It felt fitting to end the semester with this visit. I have continued to watch the water at Clark this semester, and most of my visits, I have found it frozen. Today, when I finally found my way to the water's edge, I was glad it was alive with movement. Like a thirsty animal, I felt drawn to the lake. It was as if I had found the heart of the park, the place the birds called home. 

 I'm making it a goal to start identifying some of the birds I hear at the park. I think the spot Keiff led me to will be a great place to start. 

Prompt Entry #7: Our Fern

I have a short, thick photo album that I keep on my bookshelf. I think I took the photos and placed them in the album when I was six or seven. I have a picture of my uncle Danny holding up a blow dryer and pretending to dry his hair. I captured multiple photos of my mom making silly faces, my dad laughing, my cousins chasing each other around the foosball table, and my grandparents playing with my dolls. The album captures my family in a time of wholeness and laughter, but there is one thing in the album that makes multiple appearances and is not a human. It's a fern plant. Our Fern. That was the label on the pictures. I remember that plant. I remember the way the flat leaves spread out across our patio. The wispy fronds ticked my cheeks when I rested my head beneath it. The plant was thick, lively, and large.

My family is large. My parents' house was a popular meeting spot. We had plenty of indoor and outdoor space to accommodate everybody. My family members loved playing jokes on one another. My  mom and my uncle created a "toy murder" who made vicious attacks on my cousin's dolls as well as my own. We'd find our dolls hanging by their necks from our fans, spinning to cool off the warm air. Looking back, it seems morbid, but I only remember the horror and excitement of trying to discover who was killing our dolls. My family was certainly lively, and my parents' house was like the fern's pot. It was the central spot. From there, everyone spread out like the fronds.

That fern lives in my photographs, but it doesn't live at my mom's house anymore. She kept the house when my dad left. I don't recall when the fern was removed, but I remember its absence. I don't know what type of fern lived in my backyard, and I doubt my mom would remember. I still should ask her.

I forgot about that fern until my recent trips to Clark Reservation, where the ferns growing out of the sides of rocks captured my interest. They look like the fern that grew in the backyard. They look like small families in their habitats. They cluster together at their bases and branch out in feathery fronds.

Several of my family members no longer speak. Divorces have ended most of the marriages. Still, I remember that fern and its wholeness. I remember its vibrant green life and the way it shaded me from the sun. I loved that fern. It was part of my family. It was my family.

That fern, as a character, represents something my family had at one time. That fern is a reminder of nature's wholeness, life, and beauty. Clark Reservation is a great spot to learn about ferns, as there are 26 different types, including the rare American Hart's tongue. My family didn't spend as much time caring for nature once they split apart. Like the fern, the fig tree disappeared. I used to mash up the figs and make "soup." While I remember the fern, and I have it saved in some photos, I would love to go back to rediscover my mom as she  used to be. I could create a story about the plant life that thrived in my mom's yard when my family was whole and lively. The fern was a metaphor of an entire life, a community of family members. The fern lives, dies, but has the promise of new life. The fronds uncurl like newborns and join the family. I am drawn to the ferns I find now because of what they will forever represent. Maybe one day, I'll fill my yard with ferns.

Place Entry #7: Hello Spring!

Sunday, April 10th
10:00 AM
51°

This week, I was joined by Greg, my husband, and Brett Mosier, a naturalist who gives tours at Clark Reservation, for my hike. We took numerous trails that led us to and from the lake, which was no longer frozen. The water had shed its ghostly paleness for a darkness that churned with the wind. At first, I thought the trees still looked sadly naked, but Brett told me to look closely at the branches.

"They're all ready to burst," he said, and I realized they weren't naked at all. Their branches were full of little plump buds. Brett had printed off a list (with pictures) of the common trees in the park, and by the end of our two-hour hike, I was surprised how easily I could distinguish the trees. The buckthorn, small and shrubby, spread across areas of the park like weeds. Their low branches tangled with one another wickedly. They weren't native to the park, but buckthorn trees are quick to fill open spots and spread. A few of the buckthorn trees still carried their shriveled berries like small weights.

"The diarrhea berries," Brett said, as he pulled a branch closer. "I wonder why this tree still has them." Why would a few trees fail to lose their berries? I pondered that question.

I've crossed from the Mildred Faust trail to the Big Buck trail before. I've come to believe I'm quite familiar with the park. I know the trails' names and where they start and end, so when Brett asked me to stop at the meeting point of Mildred Faust and Big Buck and tell him what was different about the section of forest we had just entered, I looked around for something small. I thought there might be a flower starting to make its way out of the soil or a mossy boulder near the path. 

"The forest is completely different," Greg said, and I looked up and around. How had I never noticed? The buckthorn had disappeared. The trees looked larger and more distinct without the buckthorn's tangled branches consuming the extra space. 

"Yep," Brett said. "This is part of the mature forest. The buckthorn couldn't invade here because these trees had already claimed the sunlight." The difference suddenly seemed so obvious, and  though I had walked on this trail many times, it became new. One tree, thick and strong, had branches that spread horizontally. Brett informed us the way that trees' branches spread out instead of up indicated it had been there before the forest. Nothing had originally surrounded it to compete for sunlight, so its branches were able to grow, bend, and twist in whichever direction they chose. Now, as we continued through the park, I noticed the differences in the mature forest, the new forest, the transitional forest (a mix of the older trees and the buckthorn), and the individual trees. 

We lifted logs and found small centipedes curled in half circles. A small wolf spider scampered away from our giant bodies. I've never been fond of bugs, yet I knelt down in the soil and watched them gleefully. We discovered spots full of little shoots. Brett said they were trout lilies. They lifted from the soil like probing fingers, testing the warmth and sunshine. 

Life thrived. Signs of growth and activity surrounded me. Since the snow was gone, except for dips in the terrain where it still carpeted the ground, I noticed a thick layer of needles missing near the bottom of a patch of Northern White Cedars. 

"The deer ate the needles over winter," Brett explained. "The bottom branches still have needles because they were buried in snow." The things I now noticed almost overwhelmed me. I found deer trails winding through the forest. Their tracks, their poop, the trampled branches, and flattened leaves were all clearly visible. I touched the twisted, raised patterns on the Hackberry trees. Shagbark Hickories stood together with their long strips of bark draping down the trunks. There was so much detail that I had missed. There was so much detail I knew I had yet to discover. 

Since I was paying such close attention to the different barks and buds of trees, I forgot to listen to the music. It was a loud hollow tapping that captured my attention. 

"The pileated woodpecker," Brett said. I knew those were at the park, but this was the first time I'd heard one. The silence of winter was over. The coldness dissolved into sunshine. The snow only clung in shaded bowls in the land. Flowers sprouted. Trees' buds were ready to pop open and unfurl. 

"Hello Spring!" I said with excitement. I'm eager to return and watch for a pileated woodpecker. I want to see how the trout lilies progress in their growth. I want to watch the trees shake out their leaves. Winter has departed (even though it is possible to get another snowstorm), and for the first time in my life, I'm really paying attention to the transition to spring.  

Prompt Entry #6: Monterey Bay, CA

http://www.atthedunes.com/At_the_Dunes/Rental/Condominiums/Shorebird_Main/S32/VISTAS32V.jpg

My dad's side of the family used to spend a week in Monterey Bay each summer. The bay is located along California's central coast. I can't remember a summer before we started going. I can only remember the first summer we didn't go. We always stayed at Pajaro Dunes Resort. The cozy rentals were nestled among rows of dunes that flattened out to meet the ocean. Shaggy grasses grew in the sand and whipped wildly with the wind. I remember the Lampranthus cloaking the dunes with their plump, waxy leaves and bright purple flowers. Audrey, my cousin closest to my age, and I called them banana plants because we thought each leaf resembled smaller versions of the fruit. We liked to pluck the leaves and punch holes in them. We'd loop them on a string and wear them around our necks.

http://www.hickerphoto.com/data/media/160/santorini_CRW_6853.jpg

 My cousins and I were best friends during those weeks at the beach. We broke into pairs and built sand castles. Audrey and I usually created large castles with several towers surrounded by a deep moat. My brother and Amy would build one towering mound of sand and stick a seashell on top. My youngest cousins would start putting sand in buckets but grow bored and splash in the waves instead.

I have a fear of sharks and jellyfish, and I believe those fears started during one of the trips to Monterey Bay. My uncle Terry, Audrey's dad, took a group of us deep into the waves. When the waves crashed against our necks, we almost stopped. Terry released our hands and walked a bit further. A sandbar rose beneath the water, and we watched him leave the deep waters behind him as he walked further into the ocean. We followed. We gripped hands and jumped over the waves as they plunged toward us. I had no fear of the creatures that could be lurking around our legs, but that changed when Terry yelled, "Shark!"

A dark gray dorsal fin popped up just beyond the sandbar. I remember the panic crashing into me like one of the waves. I lost my ability to think. I ran. The shore looked distant as I stumbled and splashed my way through the water. My mom, who had been tanning on the beach, stood near the water's edge and laughed.

"There was a shark," I said as I struggled to breathe.

My mom pointed out to the ocean. "It was just a dolphin," she said.

I sank onto the sand and tried to laugh. Eventually, I went back out with Terry, my brother, and my cousins. Soon after we reached the sandbar, we saw a translucent blob moving with the water. Again, we ran to shore. The jellyfish had stung Audrey on her hand. We didn't go back out in the water. Every time I swim in the ocean, my fear of lurking sharks and jellyfish remains firmly in my mind.

When my mom and dad got divorced, my family still went to Monterey Bay. My grandma wanted to keep her family together and carefree. I still had fun with my cousins, but we were getting older. The beach house we always rented started to feel small. Still, despite our growing differences, the memories in the dunes and beach drew us together and brought laughter. My grandpa died on 9/9/99. We didn't go to the beach again. Our family started to grow apart. I only see my cousins at occasional family functions, and our conversations remain shallow.

If I have kids in the future, I'd like to take them to Pajaro Dunes. That place formed a bond between the ocean and my family. The ocean has remained a source of comfort. Monterey Bay also planted a fear in me that I still carry. I hope my cousins and I can return to the dunes one day. Maybe we'll walk out on the sand, and the waves will pull us back together.

Place Entry #6: Winter's Gift

Sunday, March 20th
2:42 PM
46°


In Sacramento, spring fades into summer before people flock to the parks with picnic lunches. People don't wait that long in Syracuse. The parking lot was packed today at Clark Reservation. There were only a few spots left. People sat at the wooden tables near the trail entrances and barbecued. The smoke rose in gray pillars into the blue sky. There was a large group of kids going on a guided hike through the park. Families clogged Cliff Trail with kids and dogs. Laughter, shouting, and barking filled the air. Because of all the human activity and noise, I decided to leave Cliff Trail and plug my ears. I focused on sights.

The snow was almost gone. Suddenly, everything seemed sharp and distinct. Snow no longer blurred the boundaries between trails and trees. I followed Table Rock Trail and sat down on one of the large boulders and looked at my surroundings.

The grasses were a mixture of brown and faded green; they lay flattened against the earth from the months of holding heavy snow. The trees stood like ghostly shadows beyond the trail of boulders. The stones were lumpy with small grooves covering their surfaces. In the grooves, collections of twigs, leaves, and tiny stones clumped together. The rocky surfaces were colored in varying shades of gray. My eyes were drawn to the splatters of green moss. The green, in its brightness, looked neon in comparison to the darker shades surrounding it.

As a kid, I thought of nature in simple colors. Trees had brown trunks and green leaves. Boulders were gray. The sky was blue. If you really pay attention, you discover there is nothing simple about the colors of nature. The boulders alone were a patchwork of color, and each color had many shades. 

Before I ended my visual experience, I walked up a hill in the parking lot that opened to a large clearing with more picnic tables. I hadn't noticed it before due to the snow. Dried seed pods rested on the flat grass like dead eels. I cracked one of the brittle shells open to find the small, brown seeds still in place. I sat on the grass. The ground was warm, and I imagined it sucking up as much sunlight as possible. A gray squirrel darted across the clearing. Though I've seen many squirrels in the past week, this was the first time I had seen an animal (except birds) at Clark Reservation. It felt wonderful to sit on the warm grassy ground. I've  heard Syracuse typically gets another big snow shower in late March. That still may happen, but spring is certainly coming. I'm embracing it. I've never before paid so much attention to spring's life and details. Winter has given me a gift to see. The snow, which covered the park and unified it, has granted me the ability to now appreciate the individuality of each part of the reservation. 

I was about to leave when I met a man named Brett Mosier. He's a naturalist who gives hiking tours at the park; he had been leading the group of kids I had seen upon arriving. He gave me his e-mail address, so I could meet up with him next weekend. I'm excited for the new resource. Before I left, he told me I should look at the stump of a Sugar Maple that was recently cut down. He informed me it took 40 gallons of the Sugar Maple's sweet sap to make one gallon of syrup. The stump was right at the start of Cliff Trail. The sap covered the top of the stump. It looked like a thin layer of water.  I quickly realized this was no longer going to be a day focused just on the visual sense. I covered my finger in the liquid and tasted it. The sweetness was subtle, yet as I left the park, it lingered. 

Prompt Entry #5: The Wound in the Emerald City

Before arriving in Syracuse, I met a man from the city. I remember him praising the family-friendly environment and state parks. He only stopped praising the city once; he paused and  informed me Syracuse has one of the most polluted lakes in the nation.

Shortly after arriving in Syracuse, I visited Onondaga Lake. Two walking trails led around the lake's edge. Joggers stretched in the shady patches of grass. Bicyclists steered around solo walkers with their dogs. A fuzzy, yellow caterpillar inched its way along the sidewalk. The activity was all on the land. Nobody was swimming. Nobody dipped their toes in the water. I suddenly remembered the man's remark concerning the polluted lake. I looked into the murky water and wondered what harm had been inflicted. Syracuse had struck me with its greenery and state parks, but this lake had been betrayed and damaged. Would it ever be clean again?

Discharged waste material from Allied Chemical Company was a large contributing factor to the pollution. Between 1946 and 1970, an estimated 165,000 pounds of mercury were dumped into the waters. Sewage overflows bled into the lake. Nonpoint pollution, which comes from a variety of sources, such as street litter and the failure to properly rid of household wastes, has also been a problem. Fishing was banned for awhile due to the mercury levels found in the animals; now it is currently recommended that catch-and-release fishing is performed at the lake. Fishing guidelines can be found here.

While clean-up projects are underway, the waste material continues to damage the lake and wildlife. Every Syracuse citizen I have met knows about the lake's pollution. People want to save the lake. Honeywell International Inc. is working on restoring the lake by ridding of the contaminated sediments on the lake's bottom. Onondaga Lake Partnership, a group devoted to restoring the lake, encourages individuals to conserve water, reduce the use of pesticides and fertilizers, pick up trash, and rid of household hazardous materials. Because of the severity of the situation, I think people are willing to do their part. The lake's story is a scar on the city's reputation.

Syracuse doesn't want that scar. I have been surprised by the city's attempts to embrace an environmentally friendly lifestyle. Syracuse's main mall, Carousel Center, advertises its use of clean, renewable energy sources through Destiny USA. Syracuse longs to be known as the Emerald City. This article from 2009 discusses Syracuse's efforts to embrace their nickname and aid the environment.

I plan on returning to Onondaga Lake soon. I'll sit on a park bench and look out over the damaged lake waters. The damage lingers, but there is hope. This is a place that longs to be known as the Emerald City for their environmental efforts. This is a city that informs its people of the disaster at Onondaga Lake. It's a destructive slice of history, but there are large efforts going into place to cure the lake.

This winter, a population of bald eagles returned to Onondaga Lake. I believe this is the third year they have been seen at the lake. I feel hope. The eagles are returning to the lake. The fish are multiplying. The animals are visible signs of healing. I hope the city continues to work towards a cure. I hope the city can heal the wound they created. I hope the wound continues to disrupt the city enough to remember how precious the environment is. I hope one day the water is cured. I hope the city never stops fighting to protect the land. Onondaga Lake cannot be forgotten.



http://www.onlakepartners.org/index.htm