Prompt Entry #6: Monterey Bay, CA

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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.

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 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.