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

Place Entry #5: Rejuvenation

Saturday, March 5th
2:19 PM
47°

Today, I felt none of the bitterness I experienced the last time I was at Clark Reservation. My fingers weren't stuffed into thick gloves. I could inhale without the air freezing the inside of my nose. I could see the ground in patches. Tree roots, rocks, broken branches, and little green ferns showed themselves after months of hiding under the snow.

Cracks and groans created a continuous background melody. Tree branches whined as they rubbed viciously against one another in the strong wind. Icy patches made the boulder-covered path slippery. Water rushed in small rivers beneath the icy layer. The ice squealed and cracked as it split and melted.

I walked and slid over the icy patches to view Glacier Lake. The surface was milky white. A few dark holes with creeping cracks looked like sleeping spiders on the lake's surface. Those spiders would grow and grow until they engulfed the lake.

I've mentioned Cliff Trail is made up of large boulders. The snow hid the cracks—some thick, some deep, some thin, some shallow—and created lurking traps. I had been careful with my footing ever since my fall during the first winter trip to the park. Today, I didn't need as much caution. The cracks were visible. Snow melted and ran down the rock. Tall boulders hovering over the path dripped.

I left the path and entered a large patch of land free of snow. The ground was a damp mosaic of leaves. The colors were faded reds, browns and greens. Broken branches lay crisscrossed and tangled. The wind picked up. I heard it rushing like a giant wave through the pines. I waited. The force of the wind slammed against me then roared onward.

The wind was refreshing. The sound of ice cracking and water flowing filled me with excitement. I could smell. After weeks of inhaling the same frozen air, the earth had started to thaw. With the thaw, came the smells. Each time winter faded in California, I would open my windows and let the spring-scented air fill my home. That air is intoxicating. It's hopeful. I felt those memories tumble back to me as I stood in the park. This warm day may have been teasing me. The cracks in the boulders may fill again with this season's snow. The damp leaves and little ferns may once again hide. The spidery cracks in the lake may shrink until they are squashed out of existence.

It doesn't matter. Today I heard the water rushing, dripping, and plopping. I heard the wind sing and roar. I saw ice shatter. I smelled damp earth. This was better than letting spring air fill my house. I was not just inhaling the hope of spring. I watched water melt into spring.  The hope was, at least for today, a reality.

Prompt Entry #4: The Black Squirrel

Though squirrels are a common sight, I have always liked to stop and watch them. I used to watch the brave squirrels taunt the dogs in my mom's backyard. They would run along the top of the fence, stop, stare at the barking dogs, and run away. They would run back, but this time, they would edge a little closer to the dogs. The squirrels played games. I felt they mocked the dogs with their freedom, their lack of collar and fence.

I knew there were red squirrels and white squirrels, but I didn't know a black variety existed. When I  moved to the East, I quickly spotted my first black squirrel. I saw the bushy tail from the corner of my vision. The small, pointed face looked at me. I stared at it in awe.  Were they rare? Was this one just a really dark shade of grey? I spent several walking trips looking for them, and I quickly discovered they thrived. One black squirrel seemed to appear for every five or six grey squirrels I spotted.

Black squirrels are a subgroup of the eastern grey squirrel. They contain a high concentration of melanin, which gives them their dark coloring. The black squirrels thrive in Ontario, Canada, and they are present in northern and eastern parts of the United States. The black squirrels do well in cold temperatures, since they retain more heat than grey squirrels. Prior to the 16th century, it is believed there were larger populations of black squirrels. Their dark color gave them a perfect camouflage for the dark forests; as forests declined, the black squirrels' darkness became a weakness. They were easier to spot without the shade of the trees. The grey squirrels dominated.

Black squirrels were brought into several locations that resulted in those cities' current black squirrel populations. For example, ten black squirrels were brought to Kent State University from Canada in 1961. They continued to populate on the campus and the surrounding areas.

Other than their coloring, black squirrels are no different than grey squirrels. They have the same bristly tails and body shapes and sizes. Their diet consists of the same nuts, seeds, acorns, and tree bark. They can mate with one another and produce grey or black offspring.

Though my squirrel sightings faded with the winter, I  have seen a few black squirrels this weekend. The shiny darkness of their coat looks beautiful against the snow. They still remind me of that sense of wonder I felt when first spotting one. They remind me of new places. They remind me of all the things I haven't seen. They remind me how little I know about the world I live in, but like the grey squirrels, they remind me to relax and enjoy my surroundings. I admire their spirited attitudes, their bravery, and their ability to prosper when their world is cut away. Squirrels still find the places and time to play.

Sources:
http://blog.cleveland.com/metro/2011/01/kent_state_university_celebrat.html
http://www.websters-online-dictionary.org/definitions/Black%20Squirrel?cx=partner-pub-0939450753529744:v0qd01-tdlq&cof=FORID:9&ie=UTF-8&q=Black%20Squirrel&sa=Search#922

Place Entry #4: Bitterness

Saturday, February 19th

4:12 PM

17°

I think I've done well this winter. I've adjusted to living in a place that gets a lot of snow. Though I've grown tired of the cold, I have still enjoyed the beauty of the snowflakes, the icicles, and the frozen bodies of water. Friends here have informed me that Syracuse's snowstorms can last until May. Learning that piece of knowledge lowered my spirits a little, but I knew I would appreciate the warm months more than I ever have before. 

Yesterday, Syracuse was 52°. My husband and I have one car, so it can be difficult to make my trips to Clark Reservation during the week. I figured the warmth would linger for today. I didn't check the weather, which is typically wrong anyways. A lot of snow melted. The ice in the parking lots cracked. Rivers of water flowed under and over the ice. The air felt wonderful. I managed to stand outside without putting on a thick coat and gloves. The air rejuvenated me. I laughed. 

Like I said, I was doing okay with the winter, but to get a taste of spring followed by a heavy snowstorm felt cruel. This morning, the snow and wind created thick, white flurries that severely limited visibility, so I waited until it calmed to leave for Clark Reservation. By late afternoon, the thick snowfall had turned light and gentle. I took the break in the storm to head out. 

Again, nobody was at the park. I've liked being the only person there in the past. Today, it added to my bitterness. I kept thinking, "I wish I had gone yesterday." Perhaps I would have seen some animals. I could have seen patches of the ground. I had missed the opportunity. 

I decided to take the Mildred Faust Trail. The park's information boards gave me some background on Dr. Mildred E. Faust. For 39 years, she was a professor of botany at Syracuse University. She created a large flora list for Onondaga County, and she contributed a large amount of data about New York State flora. She used to bring her students to Clark Reservation to indulge their botanical experiences. 

After learning about Dr. Faust, I felt better. I imagined walking around as one of her students as she pointed out the different trees by their bark. Her passion lingered in this place. I wrapped my scarf around my face and walked along the trail, her trail. The snowy lane was bordered by brittle trees. The wind howled and battered their limbs. Their branches swayed and squeaked. 

I ended up cutting through the trees to end up on a trail that looped around back to the parking lot. I passed the caves where the thick pillars of ice had been three weeks ago. The thick pillars were gone. They melted in yesterday's sunshine. Today, new little icicles hung from the top of the cliffs. I had seen patches of muddy, green grass emerge yesterday. Birds had chirped excitedly, but I was back to the cold and the silence. The water had sprung to life only to freeze once again. 

As I walked, I came across a group of cedar trees. One was broken and covered in a sheet of snow, but the others stood tall. After passing all the empty, brittle trees, this little cluster of trees brightened my mood. They looked alive. The green needles were high; I wanted to reach them, so I could breath in their scent. The other trees would brighten with color again. Their display of life would return. For now, they continued to crack and groan against the biting wind. The day of warmth had not fooled them. I erased the last of my bitterness in the presence of the cedars. 

As I entered the parking lot, six white gulls flew across the sky. I left in a far better mood than when I arrived. 

Prompt Entry #3: Sunset Cliffs

In San Diego, California, a peninsula points into the Pacific Ocean. That area within San Diego is known as Point Loma, and I went to college at Point Loma Nazarene University (PLNU), a school embracing the sea. Sunset Cliffs provide the meeting point between land and sea. Sidewalks neatly run alongside the coastline, while dusty walking trails on the cliffs allow viewers to seek the very edge of the meeting point. The cliffs continued on PLNU's property. I could hike down a steep hill to pass two dormitories to find paths winding through the sandy cliffs that hung over the dark gray-blue waters. If the days were hot, the salty breeze rarely failed to air condition my body and tangle my hair.

During my time at Point Loma, sections of Sunset Cliffs tumbled into the ocean. After a chunk of land crumbled away, yellow tape would stretch in a large triangle across the open air and the surrounding danger zone. My favorite spot, an area below Young Hall on PLNU's campus, remained strong during my four years in San Diego. When I first walked down to that spot with a group of people touring the campus, I stood in appreciation of the beauty, but I had no idea how much healing and peace that spot would bring me in the upcoming years.

There were days when homework piles grew and deadlines drew near. The stress mounted, and I would find myself seeking the cliffs. The dust would swirl around my feet as I left footprints in the dirt. The ocean roared and splashed against the rocks. I sat on the edge of the cliffs and let my feet dangle into air. The waves drew back only to rush forward again and slap the cliff face below me. A handful of surfers typically dotted the ocean, but other than their black silhouettes and the occasional gulls, it was just the reddish brown cliffs and the water, sometimes calm and blue, sometimes angry and dark.

Alcoholism raged in my immediate family back in Sacramento. My step-dad was diagnosed with colon cancer. My mom's depression and drinking problems mounted. My phone started ringing every night with more bad news and more problems. Family members called me with differing opinions. They all wanted me to listen to their side of the story. They wanted me to take action. How? What was I supposed to do from San Diego? What did they expect? The calls, the ongoing problems, ate at me like parasites. They fed on my energy, patience, and time.

I found the ocean. The air surrounding my dangling legs gave me freedom from the burdens pressing heavily on my heart. The salty breeze on my face was a dash of relief. The dust covered my hands and jeans in a chalky layer. The waves were alive. They carried emotion. I felt my emotion in them. When the waters churned angrily, spitting white foam into the air, I felt my own anger stir and spit. The thunderous crash of wave against rock reminded me how powerless I was sitting on the edge of a cliff over a mighty ocean. Gulls would shriek and land near me. They never seemed to fear me. I was always drawn to the little orange spot on their beaks.

When I left the cliffs, I always felt better. The waves  receded, pulling away after slapping the cliffs. My stress, sadness, and anger pulled away with the waters. Once I reached my apartment, my ringing phone no longer threatened or annoyed me.

"How are you doing, Mom? How is Mark?" I was sincere. My mom answered, and her emotions were audible. She, like the waves, could be calm and mellow. She was, at times, hopeful and healing. Other times, she churned and bubbled inside, and she didn't know how to escape other than the method she was addicted to.

She pulled back.
She crashed forward.
She pulled back.
She crashed forward.

Sometimes, my roommate and close friend would join me on the walk from our apartment to the cliffs, and we would sit silently over the water, each respecting one another's time connecting to the land and sea. I love those cliffs. They were a close friend, and I miss them.

Place Entry #3: A Scar in the Park

Saturday, February 12th
5:14 PM
27°

A link to a trail map of Clark Reservation can be found
here.

I stayed inside most of the day. Whenever I looked out the window, the snow fell sideways from the sky. The sun peeped between the clouds around 4:30 PM, so I prepared to leave for Clark Reservation. When I arrived a little after 5PM, the one car in the parking lot was leaving. The trails wove visibly through the trees.  The snow was packed down from the many footsteps that must have traveled the trails today. As I walked along Cliff Trail, I heard the occasional groan of wood as a gust of wind shook the piles of snow from the heavy limbs. Chunks of snow dropped while little snowflakes drifted into the breeze and melted against my face.

The trail forked at Long Trail and later at Saddle Back Trail, but I remained on Cliff Trail until it ended. The trail ended. The trees ended. The shrubs ended. I could see where the trees started again, but I knew the trail didn't pick back up. A large space of forest had been cleared to allow power lines to cut through the state park.

When I visited the park last September, I had walked to this spot. The winter blankets the scar. When the trees were green, the cleared area looked dead and burnt. The brown nakedness stood in sharp contrast to the bushy greenery hugging the land on both sides. Still, the power lines looked wrong in the snowy landscape. The buzzing of the electricity seemed to grow louder the longer I lingered in the open.

The darkness sank into the trees as I hurried back. The snow became a faint shade of gray. Snow pelted from the sky like thick mist. I had kept warm, but now the cold started reaching its way from my face down my neck. Goosebumps rose on my arms. I could see the twinkling lights from civilization beyond the park. I welcomed the thought of those places, warm against the cold and bright against the darkness. Minutes ago, I had felt saddened by the sight and sounds of the power lines, yet I was already thinking happily of the things electricity would bring me: light, the washer and dryer (which I needed to use), the stove, and my laptop. My own thoughts were a contradiction. How can I hate what I love?

On my way out I noticed some holes on tree trunks gathering a deeper darkness than the sky. I stopped at the information boards at the end of the trail and looked for any information on woodpeckers in the area. The pileated woodpecker is among 140 species of birds that make their home in the park. This particular bird is the largest woodpecker in North America. I hope I'll spot the triangular, red blaze atop their head in the future. As I left to head back to my home filled with the marvels of electricity, I wondered how many woodpeckers had lost their homes when that strip of forest was skinned for the power lines.

Prompt Entry #2: A Trail of Homes

Why do I feel at home at Syracuse? That has been a question on my mind this past week. When I first arrived here, I spent the summer (what was left of it) and autumn weekends on hiking trips. I found creeks full of pebbles and calm lakes. The gray squirrels scampered across the grassy fields. I attempted to sneak up on the first black squirrel I saw. I didn't know they existed. Because I had some time before Chatham classes started, I spent several days at Onondaga Park. The grass bathed in sunlight and glowed green. A few fisherman sat in chairs by the lake's edge with wide-brimmed hats shading their eyes. The trees shimmered in the humid heat. Those early days spent in the park brought a question to my mind: Do you feel at home yet? The weekend hikes spent in the state parks confirmed my answer: Yes.

Onondaga Park in Summer

When I think of a worry-free childhood, I remember wading through creeks with my brother. We placed water shoes on our feet and carefully maneuvered around crumbling rock piles to rile up the minnows. I remember running out into our flooded street after a rainstorm to look for the rainbow and splash in the water. And of course, there are the regular walks I took with my brother and cousins from the library to our grandma's house. One day, we were explorers, attempting to catch a wild rabbit. Another day, we were treasure hunters pretending our little slice of nature was a jungle, filled with poisonous snakes and quicksand. Those days remind me of my family when it was knit together like a warm blanket.  

When my husband I lived in Sacramento before moving to Syracuse, our apartment rested across the freeway from Lake Natoma.  We tried to spend parts of our weekends (and some weeknights) crossing the bridge across the freeway and entering the wooded area that held walking and bike trails. Deer, Canadian Geese, and turkey flocked the area. When I was there, attempting to drown out the steady hum of the cars from the freeway, I felt that sense of home that had faded over the years. We walked the trails, and memories of my mom leading us through those same dirt pathways came to me. 

My demands aren't high when it comes to feeling at home in a place. I don't feel the need to return to Sacramento; rather, I feel as if I can make connections wherever I go, as long as I can find those little slices of nature tucked away. The memories of my relationship with nature as a child remain strong, yet I love the opportunity to find exciting, new things to explore, such as black squirrels and a real winter. Even if I never again live in Sacramento, I know that if I learned the areas I spent my youth, including the paths around Lake Natoma, were paved or uprooted, a little piece of me would crumble away with the land. So, though I am excited to spend my life in no specific place, I can't deny pieces of me will left behind in each city or town that holds place in my memories. I'm making a trail of homes, connected by nature. I'll see where it leads me next. 

Place Entry #2: Finding Life in Winter

Saturday, January 29th
11:03 AM
25°

In between my last trip to Clark Reservation and today's trip, I did some research on Glacier Lake. The lake is meromictic, which means the bottom layers don't mix with the surface layers. I discovered from an information board at the park that it is one of the few such lakes in the United States. To learn more about the properties of meromictic lakes, you can go to this link (I liked Wikipedia's layout of information):  
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meromictic_lake

I decided to head down to the frozen lake. When I carved my own path through the snow to reach the stone steps that lead down to the lake, I found a discouraging sight.

The stairs leading to the lake had transformed into one slick sheet of icy snow, so I headed back to the spot I visited last week. When I reached the trail that wrapped around the cliff, I realized how different this trip was going to be from my last. Instead of facing a landscape full of virgin snow, I found paths trampled by feet and dog prints. On Monday, Syracuse experienced negative thirteen degree weather, so the rise in temperature clearly sent people outdoors. Instead of the icy silence I encountered last week, I heard kids laughing, people talking, and dogs barking. I could hear footsteps stomping and dragging through the thick snow. 

A footpath led left from the cliff trail. I decided to go follow it. I passed by bare trees poking out of the snow like dead weeds. I've heard of seasonal affective disorder, a depression that typically stems from the winter months, and as I walked, I wondered if people felt their cheeriness slip away because of the lack of color. After a season of orange and red, winter can seem cruel and long. I haven't felt depressed at all, yet I do miss seeing green in the trees and hearing the sound of wildlife communities. I heard a crow caw, and I looked up to see the black bird fly like a silhouette against the white sky. 

I heard some sharp laughter, and I turned to my left to find some cliffs draped in ice. Two kids picked up long, broken tree limbs and slapped the ice pillars. They bashed the wood against the ice, and I wanted to run over there and ask them to stop. The ice was beautiful, and I didn't want them to ruin it. The ice won. The kids couldn't even crack the formations, so they moved on, and I headed that way. 

I heard the stream before I saw it. After staring out over the frozen lake, I didn't expect to see water, gurgling and alive. 

The water bubbled over the rocks, and I stopped to simply listen. The water beneath the snow sounded like it flowed faster, as if rushing to reach the open air again. The water drifted through the open sections, as it dribbled over rocks and branches. The sound of movement, of swirling liquid, created sweet music. I tried to capture the sounds in my memory as I headed to the ice pillars.  

Behind the thick ice, the ground revealed itself. Dried leaves, still faint with color, piled on the dirt, and I remembered autumn. I walked behind the ice pillars to crouch on the ground, and it felt nice to see my boots in dirt. I looked out at the world from my winter-free patch, and again, the snow captivated me.

It temporarily cloaks the earth, and as a result, it makes us appreciate the warmer seasons when the white starts to melt away. It hides the color, so that when we see it again, we love it more. I trailed along the cliffs and bent down to observe smaller ice mounds.

They looked like miniature, frozen cities clumped together under a fortress of stone. I gazed around me for any sign of wildlife, but I didn't hear any sound beyond the human voices carrying loudly through the air. Right as I left the wall of stone, I found myself confronted with green.

I found a few crumpled spider webs dangling from branches and tucked in cracks. The moss felt bright. As I enjoyed the sight of life, I thought that people, if depressed, should find the spots I had seen: a lively creek, rushing to live under layers of snow, wispy spider webs, leaves still adorned in faded colors, and green moss spreading across the rock. It's nature's promise that life is surviving through the winter months, thriving under the quilt of snow and waiting until the right moment to reveal itself in its full glory. While winter freezes water, shakes leaves from branches, and carpets the earth, the patches remain that give hope and proof that spring will come. 

I pondered these thoughts as I walked back to my car. As if in response to my musings, two birds started singing. One bird sent forth shrill cries in sets of three. The other bird responded with a deeper, longer call. I looked through the bent branches, but I couldn't see them. They didn't stop singing, and their sounds stayed with me on the drive home. 

Prompt Entry #1: Growing Up in the City of Trees

I was born in Sacramento, California. I grew up in Citrus Heights, a suburb in Sacramento County. When I think of the landscape that nurtured me, I think of my Grandma's house, my mom's backyard, and Folsom Lake. Behind my Grandma's house, a creek gurgled over rocks, and my cousins and I spent hours searching for rabbits, frogs, and ducks. The memories bring back feelings of simplicity and unity. 

My mom would drag a lawn chair into the middle of our backyard and sunbathe while my brother and I gathered the fruit under the fig tree and mashed them together to make "fig soup." My cousins and neighbors came over to play "Sweeper." My dad would roll around on the grass while we ran from our designated checkpoints- a lawn chair, a loose board in the fence, the trunk of a large Oak. While we were in between checkpoints, my dad would try and "sweep" our feet from beneath us, and we would tumble in the grass. Folsom Lake's northwest side neared my mom's house, and we would visit with towels, sunscreen, and picnic baskets. When my family was whole, everybody seemed to enjoy one another's company outdoors. After my parents' divorce, life seemed to increasingly move inside. 

My brother, family friend, and I eating fresh plums

My parents were both raised in Sacramento. My whole family (except for a few distant relatives) remains there. In California's capital city, the suburbs are surrounded by trees. In fact, Sacramento is known as the "City of Trees." The American River and Sacramento River meet and offer swimming spots, wildlife areas, and hiking trails. I took several school trips to Sutter's Fort, where I learned about the Gold Rush. In childhood, Sacramento carried prosperity and familial unity in a city that still clung to its trees and rivers. 

As time passed, the housing developments started to sprout in any open land. The huge houses all matched one another; they fit as many as they could in a designated space. One person could easily climb from their window to their neighbor's. The yards shrunk until they could barely hold a small garden. As my family fractured, I felt the city start to fracture its identity. The city started to join a uniformity that lacked individuality. I still try to visit the nature spots I spent time in as a child when I'm in Sacramento. The areas where my parents, aunts, uncles, and grandparents live bring back a taste of that unity and simplicity I felt as I child. The houses in their neighborhoods have flavor; each house is unique and holds thousands of memories in their imperfections. When I'm in those spots, I remember what it felt like as a kid—at home in a place that cherished family prosperity while hanging on to its trees and roots. The outdoors gave me a wholeness, a sense of peace, when I spent my youth among the creeks, lakes, and trees. Even though Sacramento has broken from the unity I felt as a kid, the nature there and everywhere still holds it, and every time I'm surrounded by nature's beauty, I feel the peace and freedom wrap around me once again. 

Place Entry #1: Reintroducing Myself to Clark Reservation

Friday, January, 21st
2:53 PM
19° (according to weather.com, it felt like 2° with the wind)

I dressed in several layers in preparation for heading out to Clark Reservation, a spot I visited once in September. I had found myself acquainted with bustling critters, orange and red leaves, and calm, lapping lake waters. Winter transformed the park, and it was time to reintroduce myself. After pushing my pants into my snow boots, I stepped out of my car and onto the trail. My car was the only vehicle in the parking lot, which had been recently cleared by a plow. The hiking trail I picked sent me up the rocky terrain to a cliff that overlooked the lake. I looked down upon a white, sleek disc. 

Despite my layers, the wind had me shivering quickly. I didn't see any shoe prints from other hikers as I tried to guess where the trail led. The terrain is full of boulders; the trail consists of large rocks with deep cracks. As I climbed over boulders, I hoped I wouldn't slip in a crack hidden under the blanket of snow. The wind cracked and groaned through the leafless trees. A few leaves, crispy and curled, hung on and rattled as the wind swirled through the crooked branches. The pines, a touch of green in a white and brown world, swayed. While the wind blew, I only heard the gusts and rattles. My nose stung from the freezing wind, and when I tried to catch a scent, I only breathed in icy air. The air seemed to freeze my senses until everything was one: frozen, numbing, stinging. 

I decided to keep moving to stay warm. I carefully found footing up another set of boulders. 

At the top, I found some animal tracks and several little burrows, deep holes dug into the earth. I crouched down and wondered what small creature was struggling to survive through the winter. Perhaps it wasn't struggling at all. I was struggling. My fingers throbbed under my mittens. As I followed the tracks, I found a whole network of burrows. I guessed the prints were left by rabbits, since the prints fell in a straight line; the creature must have been hopping from one spot to the next. 

I looked behind me at the rows of prints. Though I had walked carefully, my bulky footsteps had marred the scene. The snow looked chopped where I had walked between the burrows. In front of me, the white landscape gleamed pure, nature without a trace of human. The snow seemed to forgive the years of trampling and ruination humans had given the land, even this land, a state park more preserved than most. I decided to halt my forward progress. My boots had already turned up the ground around the "rabbit" community. Their prints left soft trails that barely pressed into the snow. Their prints were soft. 

I turned back and felt the ground give away under my boot. My entire leg slipped through a crack between two rocks. While one leg dangled in air, my other leg lay submerged in snow. The white fluff found its way into my gloves and coated my fingers. By the time I stopped laughing and pulled myself out of the crack, nature had defeated me. I retreated faster as my wet skin helped the numbness spread through my jaw and cheeks. I left the rabbit holes and saw snowflakes, soft and round, drifting lazily toward the ground. A snowstorm is expected tonight, and I know my boot marks will get covered, frosted in yet another forgiving layer of white.