What I've appreciated the most from this course was the breadth of nature writing we've looked at and discussed. So much literature, and especially contemporary work. I liked too how it was mostly excerpts and just a few books, because now we're familiar with a wider range of authors and can pursue more reading on our own depending on our interests, instead of just having become familiar with a handful of books that some of us may already have read.
I really feel like I have a firm grasp now on what writers are the the big names in the genre, and then many others as well. Before, I knew a fair amount, but I didn't yet have the firm sense I feel I do now. The course has been invaluable for that.
The discussion boards, for me, were an excellent outlet to hammer out my opinions on the array of works we examined. Honestly, although it's excessively time-consuming, it's been a much better outlet for me to figure out how I feel on all the different books and excerpts than in-class discussion. I'm not scrambling to try and get my two-cents in because if not I'll lose points in class participation. I have time to develop my ideas, read and respond to my peers' and the professor's thoughts, and finally I can print out the discussion and keep it forever. The course has left me with three two-inch binders full of nature writing discussion. As someone who is very strongly considering the pursuit of a PhD in some part of the field and certainly hoping to produce his own writing for the genre, that's just immensely useful.
As for the nature place, my experience in the tropics was so transformative as to be permanent. Although I really do enjoy nature everywhere, I just don't think I can really love it anywhere besides in that region of the world. I really can't say the nature place exercise has affected me in any way besides confirming that fact.
However, I do appreciate the training and familiarity I've established with the blogging format. I'm planning on beginning my own blog - a literary review blog. There are a lot of fantastic nature writing books that deserve recognition, but remain pretty obscure. For many of my favorite nature writing books, I've never met anyone else that has even heard of them.
I really want to start a blog on some of these fantastic but uncelebrated books. I may even confine the scope to strictly neotropical rainforest books. Because of all the practice I have analyzing nature writing on the computer format thanks to the discussion forums, I feel really ready for this project!
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Place Entry 8
A tufted titmouse welcomed me on campus today, his song such a polite greeting. What cordial hosts birds make, although they are hardly ever acknowledged for the fact. We may walk into their woods and marshes and plains whenever we wish and expect nothing less than the most agreeable hospitality.
At the pond, a new species has arrived since my last visit. I at first did not recognize the identity of the four dull gray coats probing the soaked ground for sustenance. Then, I recalled they may be female brown-headed cowbirds. (I confirmed my suspicion when I returned home and consulted my guide.)
This past year has helped me remember the birds of the Northeast, which has been nice, although what I truly crave is to continue expanding my knowledge of the neotropical birds. Their distant calls, no matter how many thousands of miles out of earshot, summon me with an imperative so fierce it's as if with divine force, too strong to be of this world. It's a holy summons, a quest, a peregrination, to learn what I might from those achingly verdant and seductively fecund forests of the equatorial zone.
A robin has approached me. It darts among the large rocks before me, hides, then reemerges to scramble behind the oak. It departs.
Now a chipping sparrow, whose exploits are braver still, comes to within two feet of me as it scavenges the ground and thrusts its bill. I wonder how well it knows those forests where I too have migrated. I would sacrifice to do journey! To see the forests on a yearly basis? What a luxury! To make sure they are healthy, still there, not yet trampled, vibrant, still so full of life.
The pond is lovely. I must force myself to see. Dr. Sterner has told me that this part of campus used to be a dairy, where cows helped feed the students of Chatham.
The oak before me is nice. It's buds just a week before resembled fresh broccoli sprouts. Now they are full leaves the size of my outstretched hand.
I'm reminded how just a few nights before, my friend suggested that next time I am in the forest, I should climb into the tall canopies and see what wildlife I might, since so much of it concentrates there. I will, I said. I absolutely will.
At the pond, a new species has arrived since my last visit. I at first did not recognize the identity of the four dull gray coats probing the soaked ground for sustenance. Then, I recalled they may be female brown-headed cowbirds. (I confirmed my suspicion when I returned home and consulted my guide.)
This past year has helped me remember the birds of the Northeast, which has been nice, although what I truly crave is to continue expanding my knowledge of the neotropical birds. Their distant calls, no matter how many thousands of miles out of earshot, summon me with an imperative so fierce it's as if with divine force, too strong to be of this world. It's a holy summons, a quest, a peregrination, to learn what I might from those achingly verdant and seductively fecund forests of the equatorial zone.
A robin has approached me. It darts among the large rocks before me, hides, then reemerges to scramble behind the oak. It departs.
Now a chipping sparrow, whose exploits are braver still, comes to within two feet of me as it scavenges the ground and thrusts its bill. I wonder how well it knows those forests where I too have migrated. I would sacrifice to do journey! To see the forests on a yearly basis? What a luxury! To make sure they are healthy, still there, not yet trampled, vibrant, still so full of life.
The pond is lovely. I must force myself to see. Dr. Sterner has told me that this part of campus used to be a dairy, where cows helped feed the students of Chatham.
The oak before me is nice. It's buds just a week before resembled fresh broccoli sprouts. Now they are full leaves the size of my outstretched hand.
I'm reminded how just a few nights before, my friend suggested that next time I am in the forest, I should climb into the tall canopies and see what wildlife I might, since so much of it concentrates there. I will, I said. I absolutely will.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Prompt Entry 7
My favorite thing to do as a boy was search for animals in my mother's garden. Before I became interested in birds, I was most intrigued by the reptiles. The tiny brown anoles that scurried around everywhere. The brilliant green anoles that blended perfectly into the foliage. The geckos in the carport that would sometimes sneak in the house. The thin black ring-necked snakes that sometimes came out at night.
My favorite were the knight anoles. They were large, at least the length of my forearm, bright green, and had a large yellow mustache stripe and another stripe beneath their necks. I always saw them in the trees, since they never came down to the ground, but I spotted them easily. My mother told me I had a special talent for finding them. Whenever I was outside, I would often blurt out, "Knight Anole!" and point up. Then I'd spend the next minute carefully explaining to whatever adult I was with which branch they were on and how they could see them.
Sometimes, I would search for them almost everyday. Even when they saw me too and hid their bodies on the opposite side of tree limbs to conceal themselves, I could still see the tips of their claws clinging over the edge of the branch. In my elementary school, the children could bring their pets on St. Francis Day. The Father would bless them by sprinkling them with holy water. Most kids brought their dogs and cats, and some brought other pets like rabbits and macaws. I brought a photograph of a knight anole my mother gave me. Some of the other children told me I should have caught one and brought it in a cage, if I really liked them so much.
I wondered if I should start catching them. After all, isn't that what young boys do with the small animals they admire? I thought I was able, but I never did. I got more enjoyment out of just watching them, knowing they were there, and searching for them amidst the millions of leaves in the garden.
Eventually, I began naming them. I knew them so well, I could tell apart the different individuals, the subtle differences in the shapes of their bodies and sizes. The smallest one I named Spike, because I wanted a friend with a name like Spike. In truth, I didn't know Spike's gender, but I imagined he was a boy, like me. I always saw him the most. Even high up in the boughs of the live oak or the Persian lime, I could usually tell who was who, but I always recognized Spike when I saw him.
One day, when I walked in the garden looking for them, I saw Spike lying on the ground near the buttresses of the live oak. There was a thick hole in his neck with dried blood around it. He did not run away when I knelt down near him, but I saw his neck contort and eyes look away. I ran inside and told my mother. When she came out and saw him, her jaw clenched. She told me it had probably been the roofers who had been working near the oak that day. "They must have shot him with a nail gun," she explained.
I couldn't understand why someone would shoot Spike with a nail gun. I still don't. When I found him lying in the same spot the next day, I buried him in the pot of one of my mother's plants.
My favorite were the knight anoles. They were large, at least the length of my forearm, bright green, and had a large yellow mustache stripe and another stripe beneath their necks. I always saw them in the trees, since they never came down to the ground, but I spotted them easily. My mother told me I had a special talent for finding them. Whenever I was outside, I would often blurt out, "Knight Anole!" and point up. Then I'd spend the next minute carefully explaining to whatever adult I was with which branch they were on and how they could see them.
Sometimes, I would search for them almost everyday. Even when they saw me too and hid their bodies on the opposite side of tree limbs to conceal themselves, I could still see the tips of their claws clinging over the edge of the branch. In my elementary school, the children could bring their pets on St. Francis Day. The Father would bless them by sprinkling them with holy water. Most kids brought their dogs and cats, and some brought other pets like rabbits and macaws. I brought a photograph of a knight anole my mother gave me. Some of the other children told me I should have caught one and brought it in a cage, if I really liked them so much.
I wondered if I should start catching them. After all, isn't that what young boys do with the small animals they admire? I thought I was able, but I never did. I got more enjoyment out of just watching them, knowing they were there, and searching for them amidst the millions of leaves in the garden.
Eventually, I began naming them. I knew them so well, I could tell apart the different individuals, the subtle differences in the shapes of their bodies and sizes. The smallest one I named Spike, because I wanted a friend with a name like Spike. In truth, I didn't know Spike's gender, but I imagined he was a boy, like me. I always saw him the most. Even high up in the boughs of the live oak or the Persian lime, I could usually tell who was who, but I always recognized Spike when I saw him.
One day, when I walked in the garden looking for them, I saw Spike lying on the ground near the buttresses of the live oak. There was a thick hole in his neck with dried blood around it. He did not run away when I knelt down near him, but I saw his neck contort and eyes look away. I ran inside and told my mother. When she came out and saw him, her jaw clenched. She told me it had probably been the roofers who had been working near the oak that day. "They must have shot him with a nail gun," she explained.
I couldn't understand why someone would shoot Spike with a nail gun. I still don't. When I found him lying in the same spot the next day, I buried him in the pot of one of my mother's plants.
Place Entry 7
The return of the absent languages is perhaps of an even greater restorative power than the revival of color. In my mind, at least, it is more pleasurable as well. Even in the depths of suburbia, where I live, the triumphant songs are of some variance.
The robin's serenade, that patriotic hymn, is among the most easily recognized and iconic.
Di doo doo do di doo do do di doo do di doo di di doo do deeeii! An invigorating call to bury our heads in the moist green earth and tear from it the fatness, the plump, writhing serpents of the underground!
Of course, we cannot forget that boldly garbed singer of these temperate forests, who hardly fled the onslaught of winter, withstanding its chill with a vigor to match. He is a holy man of considerable rank. His humble tune can only be heard softly from the tops of tall oaks and their ilk, where even his vibrant crimson robe is sometimes difficult to see.
Tñeeeeeet, tñeeoot, tñeeoot. Tñeeoot, tñeeoot, tñeeoot. Tñeeeeeet, tñeeoot, tñeeoot. Pewt, Pewt, Pewt. His voice belies his abundant good looks.
And the marauder of this avian world! That seductive azure coat, sharply streaked with white and black, who ravages through bough and branch to wreak terrible havoc among his peers. I have not yet seen his handsomeness, but I know the jays are among us again.
Eeeñ! Eeeñ! Eeeñ! Woe and ill tidings to those that do not flee my path!
The familiar, lackadaisical murmur of the dove sounds as well, a gentle croon to sooth any of our distress.
Pwooogh, pwooogh, pwooogh. Pweeeiouough, pwooogh, pwooogh. All is well and let's relax.
Always among their own, their fiery bearded beaks belt a surprising, almost digital discourse. Gregarious fellows, they were among the first to welcome me here when I arrived.
Tsee, tsee, tsee, twaunt twaunnnt. Tseet, tsoot. They roam and gossip with ease and good cheer.
And there are others that have not yet returned, still braving the vast convexity of this wide, wide world with but claw and wing.
The robin's serenade, that patriotic hymn, is among the most easily recognized and iconic.
Di doo doo do di doo do do di doo do di doo di di doo do deeeii! An invigorating call to bury our heads in the moist green earth and tear from it the fatness, the plump, writhing serpents of the underground!
Of course, we cannot forget that boldly garbed singer of these temperate forests, who hardly fled the onslaught of winter, withstanding its chill with a vigor to match. He is a holy man of considerable rank. His humble tune can only be heard softly from the tops of tall oaks and their ilk, where even his vibrant crimson robe is sometimes difficult to see.
Tñeeeeeet, tñeeoot, tñeeoot. Tñeeoot, tñeeoot, tñeeoot. Tñeeeeeet, tñeeoot, tñeeoot. Pewt, Pewt, Pewt. His voice belies his abundant good looks.
And the marauder of this avian world! That seductive azure coat, sharply streaked with white and black, who ravages through bough and branch to wreak terrible havoc among his peers. I have not yet seen his handsomeness, but I know the jays are among us again.
Eeeñ! Eeeñ! Eeeñ! Woe and ill tidings to those that do not flee my path!
The familiar, lackadaisical murmur of the dove sounds as well, a gentle croon to sooth any of our distress.
Pwooogh, pwooogh, pwooogh. Pweeeiouough, pwooogh, pwooogh. All is well and let's relax.
Always among their own, their fiery bearded beaks belt a surprising, almost digital discourse. Gregarious fellows, they were among the first to welcome me here when I arrived.
Tsee, tsee, tsee, twaunt twaunnnt. Tseet, tsoot. They roam and gossip with ease and good cheer.
And there are others that have not yet returned, still braving the vast convexity of this wide, wide world with but claw and wing.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Prompt Entry 6
This prompt seems like such a give-away for me, I hope I don't botch it up. The epicenter of my world is a biological station in the heart of a huge swathe of virgin lowland rainforest in a very remote area of Costa Rica. It is called La Sirena, and I have visited twice. I think about it every single day, although sometimes I wake up knowing I've returned in my dreams.
After the first visit, I was forever a changed person. I had seen the vibrancy of life, the pulsation of the Earth's richest biodiversity, the daily struggle of the food web, the wetness of the true tropics. So many things I saw. It was as being born, bloody and screaming and intimate and so full of life and future and beauty.
My brain has felt since then encumbered with a great weight of information to be learned and processed. The breath of wildlife and floral species beckons me to return and learn of all their secrets with a call so imperative it cannot be resisted for long. They are willing to divulge their lessons, their beauty, their intimacy to me. It is a ballad I hear always. A daily chorus that asserts a calm and patient dominion over me.
The station is reachable by three trails. One approaches from the beach that runs from the north of the peninsula, which is known as Osa, another from the south. The third trail runs through the beating heart of the forest. Each takes at least a day's worth of hiking to reach the station, and to someone so easily distracted by the superabundance of species as myself, it is difficult to reach the station by nightfall.
La Sirena is minimal. They have running water, yes, and it is an elevated wooden station where visitors can camp. They have a few beds for some guests who reserve them and are willing to pay a premium. And then they have everything else any person with a sense of wonder could possibly need. Corcovado, which is the name of the entire forest, is a climax ecosystem. It is vast, and it supports breeding populations of apex predators.
There are five different species of cats, all abundant. I have heard the jaguar roar close to me, although I did not see him. I have encountered people who moments before glimpsed an ocelot or margay. I was one time identifying some elusive wrens that tumbled through the underbrush, and I followed them off the trail. My girlfriend, who had accompanied me on my second visit, stayed on the trail, and called me back after a few moments. When I returned, she asked if I had seen the cat. I looked desperately for it, but it had melted back into the forest in the handful of seconds it had taken me to return to her. She described it to me, I said it must have been a jaguarundi, all black and compact, a diurnal visitor. After reflecting on it, I now believe the jaguarundi must have climbed up a nearby tree, and all the while I searched for it had watched me calmly, perhaps amused by my enthusiasm.
There are birds in marvelous profusion. Kaleidoscopic parrots and trogons, the former boisterous and the later nearly invisible despite their loud color as they perch motionless in the foliage. One time, I watched one and had hardly noticed the elegant green vine snake draped around a branch just a few feet in front of me. I would not have seen it if I had not stopped to observe the trogon, itself a highly camouflaged creature.
On evening, I followed a stream through a thick gallery forest, enjoying the pleasant crepuscular murmurs all around me. A splash close to my sandaled feet startled me, and my flashlight revealed a crocodile the length of my arm scrambling up the bank. Its olive iris stared suspiciously, contracting until its pupil was a thin reptilian slit. Those sharp, alternating ivory-hued teeth glistened in the light, reminding me of elegantly arranged silverware, just as eager to bite into warm flesh. I wonder if we are cruder than we imagine, or crocodiles more refined.
The trees are of epic height, towering above the forest in a manner so stately as to be reminiscent only of the most distinguished cathedrals. The verdure is so lush, so pulsing, so misty and humid and fecund. There is much to learn.
I will return to Corcovado with only the necessities I can fit in my backpack: some clothes and food and my library. My goal is to spend a season there, a year at least I hope, so I may see it's seasons change and learn deeply about the forest. I know that is where my first book will come from.
After the first visit, I was forever a changed person. I had seen the vibrancy of life, the pulsation of the Earth's richest biodiversity, the daily struggle of the food web, the wetness of the true tropics. So many things I saw. It was as being born, bloody and screaming and intimate and so full of life and future and beauty.
My brain has felt since then encumbered with a great weight of information to be learned and processed. The breath of wildlife and floral species beckons me to return and learn of all their secrets with a call so imperative it cannot be resisted for long. They are willing to divulge their lessons, their beauty, their intimacy to me. It is a ballad I hear always. A daily chorus that asserts a calm and patient dominion over me.
The station is reachable by three trails. One approaches from the beach that runs from the north of the peninsula, which is known as Osa, another from the south. The third trail runs through the beating heart of the forest. Each takes at least a day's worth of hiking to reach the station, and to someone so easily distracted by the superabundance of species as myself, it is difficult to reach the station by nightfall.
La Sirena is minimal. They have running water, yes, and it is an elevated wooden station where visitors can camp. They have a few beds for some guests who reserve them and are willing to pay a premium. And then they have everything else any person with a sense of wonder could possibly need. Corcovado, which is the name of the entire forest, is a climax ecosystem. It is vast, and it supports breeding populations of apex predators.
There are five different species of cats, all abundant. I have heard the jaguar roar close to me, although I did not see him. I have encountered people who moments before glimpsed an ocelot or margay. I was one time identifying some elusive wrens that tumbled through the underbrush, and I followed them off the trail. My girlfriend, who had accompanied me on my second visit, stayed on the trail, and called me back after a few moments. When I returned, she asked if I had seen the cat. I looked desperately for it, but it had melted back into the forest in the handful of seconds it had taken me to return to her. She described it to me, I said it must have been a jaguarundi, all black and compact, a diurnal visitor. After reflecting on it, I now believe the jaguarundi must have climbed up a nearby tree, and all the while I searched for it had watched me calmly, perhaps amused by my enthusiasm.
There are birds in marvelous profusion. Kaleidoscopic parrots and trogons, the former boisterous and the later nearly invisible despite their loud color as they perch motionless in the foliage. One time, I watched one and had hardly noticed the elegant green vine snake draped around a branch just a few feet in front of me. I would not have seen it if I had not stopped to observe the trogon, itself a highly camouflaged creature.
On evening, I followed a stream through a thick gallery forest, enjoying the pleasant crepuscular murmurs all around me. A splash close to my sandaled feet startled me, and my flashlight revealed a crocodile the length of my arm scrambling up the bank. Its olive iris stared suspiciously, contracting until its pupil was a thin reptilian slit. Those sharp, alternating ivory-hued teeth glistened in the light, reminding me of elegantly arranged silverware, just as eager to bite into warm flesh. I wonder if we are cruder than we imagine, or crocodiles more refined.
The trees are of epic height, towering above the forest in a manner so stately as to be reminiscent only of the most distinguished cathedrals. The verdure is so lush, so pulsing, so misty and humid and fecund. There is much to learn.
I will return to Corcovado with only the necessities I can fit in my backpack: some clothes and food and my library. My goal is to spend a season there, a year at least I hope, so I may see it's seasons change and learn deeply about the forest. I know that is where my first book will come from.
Place Entry 6
NOTE: This entry is from two different visits to the pond. Because the season was changing so rapidly and I wanted to document the changes, I visited over Spring Break and again on another occasion this past week.
First Visit:
The day has the crisp colors of sky and earth that tempt me to hazard spring has arrived, although I do so hesitantly. The snow has diminished to tiny islands, its dominion over the land broken. Much of the grass that now emerges is remarkably green. It's incredible to consider the resilience and evolutionary fortitude of something so ubiquitous as the grass all around me. I really can't get over how green it still is.
More than any of the other indicators - the warmer weather, the retreating snow - the grass's green vibrancy triggers in me the mental note that the seasons have changed. I did not detest this winter as much as most, although it was apparently a particularly severe one. I take pleasure in winter because it gives me an excuse to don my sturdy boots, which are simply too warm and bulky to wear at any other time of year. I also love the challenge of keeping myself warm in winter months, which considering I walk everywhere I go becomes slightly more difficult.
But I welcome now the arrival of a new, warmer season. The return of the robin and the emergence of the chipmunk, sighted scurrying around the brick wall adjacent to the bookstore. It's true. There appears to be more energy with the coming of spring. There appears to be more life.
Second Visit:
Because the temperature is comfortably cool at nights now, as opposed to uncomfortably cold, I've come to the pond this evening just as the sun has submerged itself beneath the crisp line of the horizon. The pair of mallards I had observed in the autumn has returned, as gradually all the different birds are returning. One female is missing though, and I hope she was not a casualty of migration, one of the greatest causes of bird death annually (along with feral cats).
Walking to the pond from my apartment, it was pleasant to realize that I've become accustomed to the songs of the birds of the area, and I don't need to see them to know what's around. When I first arrived here I was rusty with the calls, having spent so much time traveling abroad. But tonight, I heard the robins serenading like so many troubadours, along with one cardinal, whom I could not see in the waning light but knew him to be high up in an oak tree on Woodland Rd. There were also the chirps of the house sparrows to filter. I have frequently been hearing the ballads of the white-throated sparrows, although I think there are other sparrows in the area I need to refamiliarize myself with, too. I've not yet heard the raucous screams of the jays, but not doubt their blunt declarations of their presence will soon return to the area.
The light has fully escape, and the pond is mostly dark, bathed only lightly in the artificial light of campus. The moon is at just a quarter tonight, but it's quite high in the sky already and very handsome looking. I spot from the right corner of my periphery a thin shadow dance and dart above the pond. A bat. Then another, and they are both gone. Later in the evening, I will learn that it was probably a Little Brown Bat, the most common species in the area. There are only eleven to contend with in all of Pennsylvania, and a couple are extremely rare or not yet present this time of year.
Certainly, the pond has changed. It reflects the change of season in it's freed water and the verdant grass all around it. But my perception of it has changed, too. I was already familiar with many of the fauna that frequent it, and quickly learned the others. But it's been through learning the flora that I've garnered something of a deeper appreciation for it.
I learned through Professor Sterner this week that the presence of the Japanese Laceleaf Maple is in fact a result of affluence. It was very fashionable for Andrew Mellon to collect exotic, stately trees such as this one on his property, and many of the trees on the Chatham campus, especially around his estate, reflect this (not to say that the standard has really changed). Thinking about it now, the very name, Japanese Laceleaf Maple, seems to pretty clearly convey a sense of affluence and sophistication.
And there are others, too. The Japanese Flowering Crabapple and Honey Locust, individuals closer to Mellon Hall. Their exoticism and value is neatly accentuated by the tiny placards that boast their names. They come with inscriptions of Latin beneath the common name, appropriately in cursive. There is also, of course, the Chatham seal in the corner. They were not visible when the snow rose several feet above the ground, but now they are prim and clearly visible.
The snow has revealed something else, too. Apparently, the pond is actually named in honor of Anne Putnam Mallison, a Chatham alumna who donated generously in her time. I had not been conscious before how much affluence seems to pervade the very core of the pond, but it is certainly here. Even the animals, they are the dainty species that one would expect a sophisticate would want around, gentle and comely but in no way threatening. In this way, I can claim I've come to understand the pond better.
First Visit:
The day has the crisp colors of sky and earth that tempt me to hazard spring has arrived, although I do so hesitantly. The snow has diminished to tiny islands, its dominion over the land broken. Much of the grass that now emerges is remarkably green. It's incredible to consider the resilience and evolutionary fortitude of something so ubiquitous as the grass all around me. I really can't get over how green it still is.
More than any of the other indicators - the warmer weather, the retreating snow - the grass's green vibrancy triggers in me the mental note that the seasons have changed. I did not detest this winter as much as most, although it was apparently a particularly severe one. I take pleasure in winter because it gives me an excuse to don my sturdy boots, which are simply too warm and bulky to wear at any other time of year. I also love the challenge of keeping myself warm in winter months, which considering I walk everywhere I go becomes slightly more difficult.
But I welcome now the arrival of a new, warmer season. The return of the robin and the emergence of the chipmunk, sighted scurrying around the brick wall adjacent to the bookstore. It's true. There appears to be more energy with the coming of spring. There appears to be more life.
Second Visit:
Because the temperature is comfortably cool at nights now, as opposed to uncomfortably cold, I've come to the pond this evening just as the sun has submerged itself beneath the crisp line of the horizon. The pair of mallards I had observed in the autumn has returned, as gradually all the different birds are returning. One female is missing though, and I hope she was not a casualty of migration, one of the greatest causes of bird death annually (along with feral cats).
Walking to the pond from my apartment, it was pleasant to realize that I've become accustomed to the songs of the birds of the area, and I don't need to see them to know what's around. When I first arrived here I was rusty with the calls, having spent so much time traveling abroad. But tonight, I heard the robins serenading like so many troubadours, along with one cardinal, whom I could not see in the waning light but knew him to be high up in an oak tree on Woodland Rd. There were also the chirps of the house sparrows to filter. I have frequently been hearing the ballads of the white-throated sparrows, although I think there are other sparrows in the area I need to refamiliarize myself with, too. I've not yet heard the raucous screams of the jays, but not doubt their blunt declarations of their presence will soon return to the area.
The light has fully escape, and the pond is mostly dark, bathed only lightly in the artificial light of campus. The moon is at just a quarter tonight, but it's quite high in the sky already and very handsome looking. I spot from the right corner of my periphery a thin shadow dance and dart above the pond. A bat. Then another, and they are both gone. Later in the evening, I will learn that it was probably a Little Brown Bat, the most common species in the area. There are only eleven to contend with in all of Pennsylvania, and a couple are extremely rare or not yet present this time of year.
Certainly, the pond has changed. It reflects the change of season in it's freed water and the verdant grass all around it. But my perception of it has changed, too. I was already familiar with many of the fauna that frequent it, and quickly learned the others. But it's been through learning the flora that I've garnered something of a deeper appreciation for it.
I learned through Professor Sterner this week that the presence of the Japanese Laceleaf Maple is in fact a result of affluence. It was very fashionable for Andrew Mellon to collect exotic, stately trees such as this one on his property, and many of the trees on the Chatham campus, especially around his estate, reflect this (not to say that the standard has really changed). Thinking about it now, the very name, Japanese Laceleaf Maple, seems to pretty clearly convey a sense of affluence and sophistication.
And there are others, too. The Japanese Flowering Crabapple and Honey Locust, individuals closer to Mellon Hall. Their exoticism and value is neatly accentuated by the tiny placards that boast their names. They come with inscriptions of Latin beneath the common name, appropriately in cursive. There is also, of course, the Chatham seal in the corner. They were not visible when the snow rose several feet above the ground, but now they are prim and clearly visible.
The snow has revealed something else, too. Apparently, the pond is actually named in honor of Anne Putnam Mallison, a Chatham alumna who donated generously in her time. I had not been conscious before how much affluence seems to pervade the very core of the pond, but it is certainly here. Even the animals, they are the dainty species that one would expect a sophisticate would want around, gentle and comely but in no way threatening. In this way, I can claim I've come to understand the pond better.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Prompt Entry 5
I've lived in Pittsburgh for two-thirds a year now, so it's high time I cultivate some understanding of the environmental ills of my immediate surroundings.
Last semester, I was able to enjoy a couple educational walks (one geological, the other botanical) in Frick Park sponsored by a local organization called the Nine Mile Run Watershed Association. My first inclination was to research their mission and goals and see what environmental issues they take to task.
The Nine Mile Run (NMR), I've learned, is a stream that flows through my very neighborhood of Squirrel Hill as well as several others including Wilkinsburg, Edgewood, and Swissvale. Most of the stream runs underground, but some of it emerges in Frick Park, which is just three blocks from my apartment.
The stream suffers pretty seriously from pollution. The problem goes something like this:
Pittsburgh is of course an urban environment, which means that there are many impermeable surfaces like blacktop, concrete, roofs, and sidewalks around NMR, the same area where I live. These surfaces don't allow water to filter into the soil. During really wet weather (I wonder if all the recent snowfall counts) the city sewer systems become overloaded with water. They dump onto the NMR, of course contaminated with lots of sewage. This is actually called a "fecal fountain." As one can imagine, this makes the NMR both unfit for wildlife as well as human recreation.
I absolutely am concerned about the possibility of a "fecal fountain" in my neighborhood, although I may have some difficulty writing lyrically about the phenomenon. Apparently, the city of Pittsburgh in conjunction with the Army Corps of Engineers has been working since 2002 to restore the ecosystem, filter out the pollution, and improve the sewer system. However, I'm skeptical of anything the Army Corps of Engineers does because of all the terrible things I've heard of their other "restoration projects," particularly the way they screwed up the Everglades. They're arrogant and always seem to make things worse.
For my part, I wonder why instead of defecating in clean water people don't just poo in their gardens or somewhere else outside. Wouldn't that alleviate the issue? I would totally do it if it was socially acceptable, and I've done it plenty of other times anyway (usually don't anymore because I'm three stories up and it's too much of a pain). Hmm, how much drinkable fresh water do we have to crap in before we realize we should be shitting somewhere else?
Last semester, I was able to enjoy a couple educational walks (one geological, the other botanical) in Frick Park sponsored by a local organization called the Nine Mile Run Watershed Association. My first inclination was to research their mission and goals and see what environmental issues they take to task.
The Nine Mile Run (NMR), I've learned, is a stream that flows through my very neighborhood of Squirrel Hill as well as several others including Wilkinsburg, Edgewood, and Swissvale. Most of the stream runs underground, but some of it emerges in Frick Park, which is just three blocks from my apartment.
The stream suffers pretty seriously from pollution. The problem goes something like this:
Pittsburgh is of course an urban environment, which means that there are many impermeable surfaces like blacktop, concrete, roofs, and sidewalks around NMR, the same area where I live. These surfaces don't allow water to filter into the soil. During really wet weather (I wonder if all the recent snowfall counts) the city sewer systems become overloaded with water. They dump onto the NMR, of course contaminated with lots of sewage. This is actually called a "fecal fountain." As one can imagine, this makes the NMR both unfit for wildlife as well as human recreation.
I absolutely am concerned about the possibility of a "fecal fountain" in my neighborhood, although I may have some difficulty writing lyrically about the phenomenon. Apparently, the city of Pittsburgh in conjunction with the Army Corps of Engineers has been working since 2002 to restore the ecosystem, filter out the pollution, and improve the sewer system. However, I'm skeptical of anything the Army Corps of Engineers does because of all the terrible things I've heard of their other "restoration projects," particularly the way they screwed up the Everglades. They're arrogant and always seem to make things worse.
For my part, I wonder why instead of defecating in clean water people don't just poo in their gardens or somewhere else outside. Wouldn't that alleviate the issue? I would totally do it if it was socially acceptable, and I've done it plenty of other times anyway (usually don't anymore because I'm three stories up and it's too much of a pain). Hmm, how much drinkable fresh water do we have to crap in before we realize we should be shitting somewhere else?
Place Entry 5
Much of the pond's ice cover has melted, and what's left is sort of weak film. Several faded and slightly decayed corpses of fish have reappeared. There are also some that look fresher, not as dead, and they have not lost as much color. About thirty or so blood orange fishes linger along the edge of the thin ice sheet and still count themselves among the living. So it is that some of the pond's fishes seem quite empowered to survive the winter.
Besides them, there is essentially no wildlife today, not even birds, and that seems best. I've decided to engage in a new quest, to pursue new knowledge regarding this place. I seek botanical literacy.
To help commence this new enterprise, I've acquired a map of the university's arboretum. It's not really an arboretum the way I think of one, that is, a stretch of land with several exotic trees very conscientiously planted for the specific purpose of appearing well groomed and mapped out in a way that suites the academic environment of whatever university or other cultured institution the trees belong to, all underscored by a bit (or a lot?) of in this case well-directed pretension.
Chatham's definition of an arboretum is not like that. Instead, the map I hold is of the entire main campus with the many different trees on campus identified by number and listed below. Sadly, and somewhat perplexingly, most of the trees around the pond are actually not identified.
But imagine this. The closest one is actually Number 1. So I begin there. It's slightly to the left of the chair where I typically perch myself, and for a brief moment have been observing the fish. I crunch over about twenty meters to take a look. I inspect the map. Yes, it must be this one.
First, I look at the tree. It's a little taller than me, maybe about one and a half me's (I'm 5'9 or 5'10ish). The boughs bend and contort erratically, yet somehow demand to be described as stately as well. Their squiggly undulations are both smooth and knobby. Despite my novice understanding of trees, this one certainly seems foreign, and I recall that having glanced down at number one passingly before, I think this one had the word "Japanese" in the title.
Yes, it is the Japanese Laceleaf Maple. Interesting. Can it make maple syrup? The tree seems something like a giant bonsai. It bears no leaves, and besides its overall exoticness, I can hardly think of what else to think about it other than how it got here. How did it get here to Chatham? Does someone have an inclination to cultivate an international garden in the English tradition? Is it here for the benefit of all the undergraduate Japanese exchange students, or to honor them somehow? Is it just as much a small banzai as it is a large bonsai? Sterner will know, hopefully.
I'll post an addendum as soon as I know.
Besides them, there is essentially no wildlife today, not even birds, and that seems best. I've decided to engage in a new quest, to pursue new knowledge regarding this place. I seek botanical literacy.
To help commence this new enterprise, I've acquired a map of the university's arboretum. It's not really an arboretum the way I think of one, that is, a stretch of land with several exotic trees very conscientiously planted for the specific purpose of appearing well groomed and mapped out in a way that suites the academic environment of whatever university or other cultured institution the trees belong to, all underscored by a bit (or a lot?) of in this case well-directed pretension.
Chatham's definition of an arboretum is not like that. Instead, the map I hold is of the entire main campus with the many different trees on campus identified by number and listed below. Sadly, and somewhat perplexingly, most of the trees around the pond are actually not identified.
But imagine this. The closest one is actually Number 1. So I begin there. It's slightly to the left of the chair where I typically perch myself, and for a brief moment have been observing the fish. I crunch over about twenty meters to take a look. I inspect the map. Yes, it must be this one.
First, I look at the tree. It's a little taller than me, maybe about one and a half me's (I'm 5'9 or 5'10ish). The boughs bend and contort erratically, yet somehow demand to be described as stately as well. Their squiggly undulations are both smooth and knobby. Despite my novice understanding of trees, this one certainly seems foreign, and I recall that having glanced down at number one passingly before, I think this one had the word "Japanese" in the title.
Yes, it is the Japanese Laceleaf Maple. Interesting. Can it make maple syrup? The tree seems something like a giant bonsai. It bears no leaves, and besides its overall exoticness, I can hardly think of what else to think about it other than how it got here. How did it get here to Chatham? Does someone have an inclination to cultivate an international garden in the English tradition? Is it here for the benefit of all the undergraduate Japanese exchange students, or to honor them somehow? Is it just as much a small banzai as it is a large bonsai? Sterner will know, hopefully.
I'll post an addendum as soon as I know.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Prompt Entry 4
In late January of 2006, I had just begun living in Costa Rica for the first time. I was part of a study abroad program, and as part of that program, on the second day the directors had packed our group into a private bus heading to a highland region of the country called Savegre. While other students socialized between themselves, my face was plastered to the window. The scenery was unbelievable. The mountains were soaked in vibrant greenery, and as our bus ascended the narrow and uneven roads (Costa Rica has some infamy for its rough infrastructure), they were increasingly ringed with clouds. Eventually, we too passed through a cloud. I could not believe it. We had driven through a cloud. I was surrounded by rainforest. It all seemed too serene.
The program director's name was Zaida, and halfway through the three or so hour trip stood at the front of the bus to speak. She told us a little about Savegre, how it was a cloud forest that had only been settled fifty or so years before, and that there were many birds there. Although it was only my second day in Costa Rica, I knew from my research that the cloud forest was the home of the resplendent quetzal. I immediately asked Zaida if there were any in Savegre.
"Yes," she said. "I believe so, but I've never seen one. You'll need a lot of luck, since we'll only be there for three days, but it is possible." Zaida then asked me how I knew about the bird. I, of course, had brought the field guide I'd bought for my stay, the legendary Stiles and Skutch. I flipped to Plate 26, the trogons and jacamars, and showed Zaida. She smiled and held it up for the entire bus to see.
The resplendent quetzal is itself a trogon, but it's beauty, especially of the male, far exceeds that of each member of an already remarkably attractive family of birds. The majority of its plumage is a crisp, glittering green, including the head, which sports a spiky mohawk, most of the wings, and tail feathers, except for the lower retrices (tail feathers visible only from the front), which are white. The lower breast is a deep maroon that shades to a bright crimson on the belly. I read later that there's a legend that after a battle between Mayan warriors and conquistadors, the quetzals emerged from the forest and wept over the bodies of the fallen Mayans, forever soaking up the blood.
The most noteworthy of its physical features are the four tail coverts that extend into long, wispy streamers. They can reach the length of up to 11 inches, and place the bird in a realm of beauty that surpasses all its peers. It's widely regarded as the most beautiful bird in the western hemisphere, and perhaps the world.
When we arrived at Savegre, we ate a lunch of Costa Rica's ubiquitous gallo pinto, which is essentially just rice and beans. Some of the students teased Zaida about how they planned to spend the rest of their time in the hotel drinking, and they were only partially joking. After the meal, we had some free time, which I chose to spend hiking around the area. It was very forested, damp, and slightly cold, as is unexpectedly the case in the montane areas of tropical America.
Another member of the group, whose name was Ezra, joined me, and we spent some time talking and walking around the premises. The abundant hummingbirds were gorgeous and exciting to watch as they sped by. I identified several, including mountain-gems, violet-ears, and sabrewings. The names of hummingbirds are almost as much a thrill as they are. There were also flame-colored tanagers, which do justice to their namesake, and healthy flocks of shrieking barred parakeets.
We had walked very slowly through the adjacent forest, which is often my habit, as I become easily engaged by my surroundings and often make little forward progress along a trail. We turned around when we realized it was nearly time for us to meet again with the entire group.
We turned a bend as we approached the hotel, and like a bolt of lightning, my arm shot up and pointed ahead of us. A resplendent quetzal. I knew it from the very moment I saw it. It remained completely still, perched on the bough of a large tree, and blended in exceedingly well with its surroundings, despite its bright red belly. But for some reason, it jumped out at me from far away, and I saw it as clearly as a rose in a bed of daffodils. I should have known then, right at that moment, that the forests of the neotropics were eager to disclose some of their closely guarded secrets to me.
After marveling for some time at the beauty of this remarkable creature, which remained perfectly still as we observed it from a respectful distance, we returned to the hotel. As I approached Zaida, she made eye contact with me, and I blurted out, "I saw one! I saw a quetzal!" She laughed and smiled. She thought I was one of the jokers. Slowly, her face twisted into a stare of disbelief. I asked her then, "Would you like to go see him?"
The program director's name was Zaida, and halfway through the three or so hour trip stood at the front of the bus to speak. She told us a little about Savegre, how it was a cloud forest that had only been settled fifty or so years before, and that there were many birds there. Although it was only my second day in Costa Rica, I knew from my research that the cloud forest was the home of the resplendent quetzal. I immediately asked Zaida if there were any in Savegre.
"Yes," she said. "I believe so, but I've never seen one. You'll need a lot of luck, since we'll only be there for three days, but it is possible." Zaida then asked me how I knew about the bird. I, of course, had brought the field guide I'd bought for my stay, the legendary Stiles and Skutch. I flipped to Plate 26, the trogons and jacamars, and showed Zaida. She smiled and held it up for the entire bus to see.
The resplendent quetzal is itself a trogon, but it's beauty, especially of the male, far exceeds that of each member of an already remarkably attractive family of birds. The majority of its plumage is a crisp, glittering green, including the head, which sports a spiky mohawk, most of the wings, and tail feathers, except for the lower retrices (tail feathers visible only from the front), which are white. The lower breast is a deep maroon that shades to a bright crimson on the belly. I read later that there's a legend that after a battle between Mayan warriors and conquistadors, the quetzals emerged from the forest and wept over the bodies of the fallen Mayans, forever soaking up the blood.
The most noteworthy of its physical features are the four tail coverts that extend into long, wispy streamers. They can reach the length of up to 11 inches, and place the bird in a realm of beauty that surpasses all its peers. It's widely regarded as the most beautiful bird in the western hemisphere, and perhaps the world.
When we arrived at Savegre, we ate a lunch of Costa Rica's ubiquitous gallo pinto, which is essentially just rice and beans. Some of the students teased Zaida about how they planned to spend the rest of their time in the hotel drinking, and they were only partially joking. After the meal, we had some free time, which I chose to spend hiking around the area. It was very forested, damp, and slightly cold, as is unexpectedly the case in the montane areas of tropical America.
Another member of the group, whose name was Ezra, joined me, and we spent some time talking and walking around the premises. The abundant hummingbirds were gorgeous and exciting to watch as they sped by. I identified several, including mountain-gems, violet-ears, and sabrewings. The names of hummingbirds are almost as much a thrill as they are. There were also flame-colored tanagers, which do justice to their namesake, and healthy flocks of shrieking barred parakeets.
We had walked very slowly through the adjacent forest, which is often my habit, as I become easily engaged by my surroundings and often make little forward progress along a trail. We turned around when we realized it was nearly time for us to meet again with the entire group.
We turned a bend as we approached the hotel, and like a bolt of lightning, my arm shot up and pointed ahead of us. A resplendent quetzal. I knew it from the very moment I saw it. It remained completely still, perched on the bough of a large tree, and blended in exceedingly well with its surroundings, despite its bright red belly. But for some reason, it jumped out at me from far away, and I saw it as clearly as a rose in a bed of daffodils. I should have known then, right at that moment, that the forests of the neotropics were eager to disclose some of their closely guarded secrets to me.
After marveling for some time at the beauty of this remarkable creature, which remained perfectly still as we observed it from a respectful distance, we returned to the hotel. As I approached Zaida, she made eye contact with me, and I blurted out, "I saw one! I saw a quetzal!" She laughed and smiled. She thought I was one of the jokers. Slowly, her face twisted into a stare of disbelief. I asked her then, "Would you like to go see him?"
Place Entry 4
As I approach my faithful chair, always waiting for my beside the pond, I notice that the snow is of a far different quality that it was last week. It's stiff and icy, and breaks off in chunks now. It's also dirtier and has streaks of gray in it. The last snowfall has not come for a few days, although there is still plenty of it because Pittsburgh received so much. No one else has made their way to my chair, I can tell, since the only other footsteps appear to be the rounded and not partially filled in ones I had made a week ago. I'm starting to feel some ownership of the chair, and even the pond, and I'm amused by this notion, since it's rather ridiculous considering that not only does it obviously not belong to me but because of the sheer magnitude of people that pass close to it everyday.
It's late in the afternoon, and not as cold as it was last week. Unfortunately, I'm wearing a few layers less clothing because I knew it wouldn't be as cold, and because of that poor decision actually feel colder.
The crows are, as almost always seems to be the case, flying overhead in groups of 5 or 7 and sometimes larger groups of up to 30. There are no other animals, even birds, anywhere near. No turkeys or doves. No sparrows, not even house sparrows. I've been seeing several white-throated flitting among the house sparrows recently, and I prefer their song.
There are no small charismatic mammals like squirrels or bunnies, the latter of which I was surprised to see a completely eviscerated individual on Woodland Road close to Wilkins just the other day. A squirrel had been near the carcass and repeatedly uttered a prolonged squeak that, to my ears, actually sounded like a lament. It seemed rather strange behavior, although I'm aware this is a terrible projection of human values, and I couldn't help but wonder to what if any degree these two different species were capable and inclined to mourn for each other.
But by the pond today, there is nothing, besides the steady passage of murders above. The pond is still frozen except for the area immediately around the fountain, although the ice is no longer covered in a beautiful layer of white snow. Now, it is gray, dirty, and uninviting. There are no fish, neither dead or alive, to be reported this week either.
It seems strange, this blatant deficiency of life. Since it's late afternoon, a time of day nearly as productive as the morning for wildlife viewing, I'm surprised by the absence. My other visits have been much more lively and social, since a healthy degree of creatures had often passed by and saluted me. The colors of everything, the trees, snow, sky, are subdued and grimy. It's a rather depressing scene.
The only flurry of activity to report is what appears to be the complete troop of on-campus MFA professors suddenly emerging from Mellon Hall to my left. There must have been a meeting. I begin to wonder about Mellon Hall, and remember that it had been my intention of researching some of its historical significance to Chatham. I've recently made Dr. Lenz's acquaintance, so perhaps I can ask him for some guidance and insight before my next entry.
It's late in the afternoon, and not as cold as it was last week. Unfortunately, I'm wearing a few layers less clothing because I knew it wouldn't be as cold, and because of that poor decision actually feel colder.
The crows are, as almost always seems to be the case, flying overhead in groups of 5 or 7 and sometimes larger groups of up to 30. There are no other animals, even birds, anywhere near. No turkeys or doves. No sparrows, not even house sparrows. I've been seeing several white-throated flitting among the house sparrows recently, and I prefer their song.
There are no small charismatic mammals like squirrels or bunnies, the latter of which I was surprised to see a completely eviscerated individual on Woodland Road close to Wilkins just the other day. A squirrel had been near the carcass and repeatedly uttered a prolonged squeak that, to my ears, actually sounded like a lament. It seemed rather strange behavior, although I'm aware this is a terrible projection of human values, and I couldn't help but wonder to what if any degree these two different species were capable and inclined to mourn for each other.
But by the pond today, there is nothing, besides the steady passage of murders above. The pond is still frozen except for the area immediately around the fountain, although the ice is no longer covered in a beautiful layer of white snow. Now, it is gray, dirty, and uninviting. There are no fish, neither dead or alive, to be reported this week either.
It seems strange, this blatant deficiency of life. Since it's late afternoon, a time of day nearly as productive as the morning for wildlife viewing, I'm surprised by the absence. My other visits have been much more lively and social, since a healthy degree of creatures had often passed by and saluted me. The colors of everything, the trees, snow, sky, are subdued and grimy. It's a rather depressing scene.
The only flurry of activity to report is what appears to be the complete troop of on-campus MFA professors suddenly emerging from Mellon Hall to my left. There must have been a meeting. I begin to wonder about Mellon Hall, and remember that it had been my intention of researching some of its historical significance to Chatham. I've recently made Dr. Lenz's acquaintance, so perhaps I can ask him for some guidance and insight before my next entry.
Prompt Entry 3
On one rainforest excursion, I had set up my tent and slept adjacently to a biological field station in a very pristine swathe of lowland jungle known as Corcovado. The night was very humid, and I slept only in a thin pair of shorts. There were many sounds in the jungle night, but one grows accustomed to them anyway and eventually I fell asleep. I awoke sometime later to the sound of the most horrific shrieks. They were not quite human, but clearly belonged to animal being killed in the night. I felt as if electricity had surged through my body. I was suddenly wide awake, and I needed to investigate the screams.
I strapped on my teva sandals, and slipped out of my tent. Although my boots would have been a safer option, considering there are some venomous snakes like the fer-de-lance and bushmaster that are more active at night in those areas, and feet are particularly vulnerable to them, I was in such a hurry to investigate that I only had time for the tevas.
I was practically naked, robed in only my thin blue shorts and sandals, plus my flashlight, and like that I set out on a trail I had explored earlier in the day that seemed closest to where the screams had come from, which had by now ceased. I suspected that they belonged to some primate, four different species of which occurred there, and were quite common. No doubt the aggressor was some jungle cat, of which there were also many present.
There was little or no moon, and of course no artificial light, so the night was almost impenetrable. The way my flashlight, which was quite powerful (I'd brought it for these occasions), only illuminated a small area further magnified the grandness of the forest. Death was fresh in the air. Everything was hot and humid, and in truth I was quite exposed to an environment that, while not being directly hostile, is not without its dangers, especially in the night.
I searched in the canopy with the light, hoping to illuminate some foreign eyes that belonged to the killer. I was fairly certain I stood near the spot of the monkey's death. The trees were several stories tall, as one might expect, and loomed over me. They were not menacing, but they were imposing figures.
Not seeing anything, I decided my final hope was to conceal myself in the darkness, and perhaps the cat would be lured into exposing itself. I turned off the light. It was incredible how quickly the darkness swept over and all around me, completely enveloping everything. It evoked the strongest sense of insignificance. I couldn't see anything at all, and the little bit of hum and distant noises I could hear only added to the intensity of the moment.
I consider myself a fairly intrepid visitor of the forests, but it was impossible to not feel some fear in that moment. There is something incredibly unnerving about the sensation of one's eyes being wide open and seeing only black. It was primal human fear, and although I was not overcome by it, I felt it keenly. It was exposure. It was vulnerability. It was biology. Truly, it was genetic memory.
I tried my hardest to count to ten before turning the light back on and searching again, but I always fell short the few times I tried it. The darkness was too much, too debilitating.
I did not see the cat, did not see anything at all, but the experience ranks highly among my most cherished rainforest memories. After much contemplation, I've come to understand that the reason for that is because of the magnitude of my exposure, my vulnerability, which was perhaps never higher in a wild place. To some degree, my actions were a little reckless, although I do not think terribly so.
By exposing myself, I achieved an incredible degree of intimacy with a location I'm terribly enamored of. Just like love, it seems vulnerability is a prerequisite to any sort of real connection to a place.
I strapped on my teva sandals, and slipped out of my tent. Although my boots would have been a safer option, considering there are some venomous snakes like the fer-de-lance and bushmaster that are more active at night in those areas, and feet are particularly vulnerable to them, I was in such a hurry to investigate that I only had time for the tevas.
I was practically naked, robed in only my thin blue shorts and sandals, plus my flashlight, and like that I set out on a trail I had explored earlier in the day that seemed closest to where the screams had come from, which had by now ceased. I suspected that they belonged to some primate, four different species of which occurred there, and were quite common. No doubt the aggressor was some jungle cat, of which there were also many present.
There was little or no moon, and of course no artificial light, so the night was almost impenetrable. The way my flashlight, which was quite powerful (I'd brought it for these occasions), only illuminated a small area further magnified the grandness of the forest. Death was fresh in the air. Everything was hot and humid, and in truth I was quite exposed to an environment that, while not being directly hostile, is not without its dangers, especially in the night.
I searched in the canopy with the light, hoping to illuminate some foreign eyes that belonged to the killer. I was fairly certain I stood near the spot of the monkey's death. The trees were several stories tall, as one might expect, and loomed over me. They were not menacing, but they were imposing figures.
Not seeing anything, I decided my final hope was to conceal myself in the darkness, and perhaps the cat would be lured into exposing itself. I turned off the light. It was incredible how quickly the darkness swept over and all around me, completely enveloping everything. It evoked the strongest sense of insignificance. I couldn't see anything at all, and the little bit of hum and distant noises I could hear only added to the intensity of the moment.
I consider myself a fairly intrepid visitor of the forests, but it was impossible to not feel some fear in that moment. There is something incredibly unnerving about the sensation of one's eyes being wide open and seeing only black. It was primal human fear, and although I was not overcome by it, I felt it keenly. It was exposure. It was vulnerability. It was biology. Truly, it was genetic memory.
I tried my hardest to count to ten before turning the light back on and searching again, but I always fell short the few times I tried it. The darkness was too much, too debilitating.
I did not see the cat, did not see anything at all, but the experience ranks highly among my most cherished rainforest memories. After much contemplation, I've come to understand that the reason for that is because of the magnitude of my exposure, my vulnerability, which was perhaps never higher in a wild place. To some degree, my actions were a little reckless, although I do not think terribly so.
By exposing myself, I achieved an incredible degree of intimacy with a location I'm terribly enamored of. Just like love, it seems vulnerability is a prerequisite to any sort of real connection to a place.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Place Entry 3
Before I could begin any deep ruminations or piercing observations, my first task was to wipe off the wooden lawn chair that rests under the oak tree by the pond of the foot of snow on the seat. Beneath the few inches of snow delicately resting on its arms, there was also a fairly thick crust of ice. After brushing off some of the snow and nestling my feet in front of the chair, I sat down to discover my two layers of pants would not resist absorbing some of the frozen moisture beneath me.
The snow had been a very polarizing force these last few weeks, pun intended. After the initial snowfall, many people emerged and frolicked in the bountiful powder, despite the great inconvenience of buried cars and halted bus service. But the swollen ranks of those who loudly professed their love for snow just days before had been gradually eroded by the inevitable attrition of continued snowfall, until their numbers had been whittled to a beleaguered minority.
I still counted myself among them, but I'll admit it was quite cold that late afternoon. The sky was just one shade lighter than the gray color of the snow that was absolutely everywhere. I believe I saw Sheryl St. Germain walk out of the Lindsey House, but she did not turn to face me and I cannot be sure. I did note that she walked quite coolly, and so perhaps she had not yet switched allegiance as well. Three mourning doves were perched above me in the large branches of the oak that craned over me, their feathers puffed up in their own attempt to block the cold. To my right, there were two more doves in a smaller tree. A steady stream of about a dozen or so crows flew overhead every minute, approaching from behind me and then gliding away.
To anyone hoping for a new dispatch concerning the pond fish saga, I am sad to report that I cannot provide an update this week. The pond is almost entirely frozen solid, except for a small area by the fountain, and is completed blanketed by a layer of snow. It is impossible to see what lies beneath.
The good news is that a new saga can now begin, for as I sat in the cold, I observed a large rustle of feathers across the way and behind Dilworth Hall. A hawk, I thought to myself, until I noticed the large avian form hop through the boughs in a manner completely unlike a raptor. In fact, it moved in much the way I have observed cracids like guans and chachalacas move through the rainforest canopy in warmer climates. It could not have been a cracid because their family is not represented in Pennsylvania, and so I knew what it was. As I watched, another of its race made itself visible in a slightly lower section of the tree canopy, hopping about the large branches in a similar manner.
As the night approached and the dim light grew even fainter, a steady stream of mourning doves began perching in the trees that surrounded me, preparing for the coming night, until there were dozens of them all around. But my eyes remained locked on the two large fowl that were still faintly visible.
Two Wild Turkeys.
The snow had been a very polarizing force these last few weeks, pun intended. After the initial snowfall, many people emerged and frolicked in the bountiful powder, despite the great inconvenience of buried cars and halted bus service. But the swollen ranks of those who loudly professed their love for snow just days before had been gradually eroded by the inevitable attrition of continued snowfall, until their numbers had been whittled to a beleaguered minority.
I still counted myself among them, but I'll admit it was quite cold that late afternoon. The sky was just one shade lighter than the gray color of the snow that was absolutely everywhere. I believe I saw Sheryl St. Germain walk out of the Lindsey House, but she did not turn to face me and I cannot be sure. I did note that she walked quite coolly, and so perhaps she had not yet switched allegiance as well. Three mourning doves were perched above me in the large branches of the oak that craned over me, their feathers puffed up in their own attempt to block the cold. To my right, there were two more doves in a smaller tree. A steady stream of about a dozen or so crows flew overhead every minute, approaching from behind me and then gliding away.
To anyone hoping for a new dispatch concerning the pond fish saga, I am sad to report that I cannot provide an update this week. The pond is almost entirely frozen solid, except for a small area by the fountain, and is completed blanketed by a layer of snow. It is impossible to see what lies beneath.
The good news is that a new saga can now begin, for as I sat in the cold, I observed a large rustle of feathers across the way and behind Dilworth Hall. A hawk, I thought to myself, until I noticed the large avian form hop through the boughs in a manner completely unlike a raptor. In fact, it moved in much the way I have observed cracids like guans and chachalacas move through the rainforest canopy in warmer climates. It could not have been a cracid because their family is not represented in Pennsylvania, and so I knew what it was. As I watched, another of its race made itself visible in a slightly lower section of the tree canopy, hopping about the large branches in a similar manner.
As the night approached and the dim light grew even fainter, a steady stream of mourning doves began perching in the trees that surrounded me, preparing for the coming night, until there were dozens of them all around. But my eyes remained locked on the two large fowl that were still faintly visible.
Two Wild Turkeys.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Prompt Entry 2
Recently, I spoke with Sheryl St. Germain about my plans for my thesis next year. I told her how I wanted to write something about why I'm so intrigued and fascinated by the neotropical rainforests, and why I enjoy exploring them so much.
Knowing that I'm from south Florida, what she asked in response was, "why are you not engaged by the Everglades or some other landscape close to home?"
My response was that I've always enjoyed the Everglades when I've visited, and for a few years in high school I went quite frequently. I've also had wonderful experiences in other natural places, like the Adirondack park and the greater Yellowstone area when I lived out there one summer. But I just liked those places. I didn't love them.
A voice summoned me to that part of the world, and beckons me to return even now to continue discovering its secrets. The voice is as clear as a clarion call.
And so I wish to make sense of that summons, to better understand why it sounds so imperatively in my ear. One reason I'm aware of is that I'm completely enthralled by the biological diversity of the region, the highest in the world. There's seemingly no cessation to the wealth of creatures to be discovered personally and observed. I am a biophile, and this stream of life is extremely nurturing for me. Though I understand that desolate landscapes can earn the love of people too, for me I crave the bounty of life observable in the equatorial forest.
Somewhat contradictorily, I love the violence of the forest, a confession I'm aware has a very macabre ring to it. Just among the animals, there is much daily violence, and I think it's healthy for people to accept that animals hunt and kill each other. Too often, I think, nature is thought of as a place of complete serenity, of safety. In truth, it is not. I was once camping in the forest, and I heard the death howls of a monkey in the canopy above me in its final throes. Surely some jungle cat had killed him in the night, and it was a terrifying sound, but I was completely absorbed by that mortality. In just my shorts and sandals, I went searching in the jungle with my flashlight to see what I could see, but there was only darkness.
The jungle is such a mysterious force. It's not like other ecosystems farther north or south that have clear seasons and easily observable natural phenomenon. The rainforest is difficult to understand, and that makes it more engaging for me, more challenging.
I love, too, the exploration involved with visiting the forest. I love disappearing into those seemingly impenetrable tangles of verdure, and reemerging triumphantly. And finally, I love exploring internally why I crave that exploration.
Knowing that I'm from south Florida, what she asked in response was, "why are you not engaged by the Everglades or some other landscape close to home?"
My response was that I've always enjoyed the Everglades when I've visited, and for a few years in high school I went quite frequently. I've also had wonderful experiences in other natural places, like the Adirondack park and the greater Yellowstone area when I lived out there one summer. But I just liked those places. I didn't love them.
A voice summoned me to that part of the world, and beckons me to return even now to continue discovering its secrets. The voice is as clear as a clarion call.
And so I wish to make sense of that summons, to better understand why it sounds so imperatively in my ear. One reason I'm aware of is that I'm completely enthralled by the biological diversity of the region, the highest in the world. There's seemingly no cessation to the wealth of creatures to be discovered personally and observed. I am a biophile, and this stream of life is extremely nurturing for me. Though I understand that desolate landscapes can earn the love of people too, for me I crave the bounty of life observable in the equatorial forest.
Somewhat contradictorily, I love the violence of the forest, a confession I'm aware has a very macabre ring to it. Just among the animals, there is much daily violence, and I think it's healthy for people to accept that animals hunt and kill each other. Too often, I think, nature is thought of as a place of complete serenity, of safety. In truth, it is not. I was once camping in the forest, and I heard the death howls of a monkey in the canopy above me in its final throes. Surely some jungle cat had killed him in the night, and it was a terrifying sound, but I was completely absorbed by that mortality. In just my shorts and sandals, I went searching in the jungle with my flashlight to see what I could see, but there was only darkness.
The jungle is such a mysterious force. It's not like other ecosystems farther north or south that have clear seasons and easily observable natural phenomenon. The rainforest is difficult to understand, and that makes it more engaging for me, more challenging.
I love, too, the exploration involved with visiting the forest. I love disappearing into those seemingly impenetrable tangles of verdure, and reemerging triumphantly. And finally, I love exploring internally why I crave that exploration.
Place Entry 2
As I sit in my chair beside the pond, I begin observing a female cardinal foraging in the retreating snow to my right with seven or so house sparrows behind her even closer to the road. I believe they're house sparrows because of their overall color and disposition, but I can't be entirely certain. Twice in the past couple weeks I've observed at least one white-throated sparrow on campus. In the time it takes me to squint and wish I had brought my binoculars, a white-throated sparrow actually does land next to the cardinal, now close to a large rock, and joins it in it's search for food. Then another. I clearly make out the black stripes along their skull and the even clearer distinct white throat that distinguish their race.
In the background, there is the song of more house sparrows emanating from somewhere behind me towards the Mellon Building. There is also a black individual of the gray squirrel species, which before arriving in Pittsburgh I had only observed in Ottawa, rummaging through the small section of woods immediately behind me and towards my right. A morning dove, previously concealed in the boughs of a tree despite its winter bareness, alights across the field, only to veer around and join the party of foragers on the grounds close to me.
I am wondering what companionship, or perhaps camaraderie, these birds might feel for each other, when a flash of familiar color catches my eye from beneath the ice in front of me. Half the pond remained frozen despite the increased warmth of last week, and that half is covered in some snow. The other half has refrozen and the ice looks different, clear and veiny. Beneath that second half, close to the fountain, there is orange beneath the ice. I forget the birds and focus on the orange fish-shaped wedge vaguely visible in front of me, and wonder why I hadn't noticed it before. There are three other oranges slightly closer to the fountain. As I puzzle over them, wondering if they were perhaps frozen solid under the ice, the single wedge lunges forward a half foot or so, undoubtedly by its own industry.
They live! I had been convinced the fishes were dead, but here there was irrefutable proof at least some members of their race soldiered on beneath their frozen world. I stare at all four, awaiting the next outburst of activity, but they are still. I resolve to survey the perimeter of the pond as I had done before and see if the bodies I had observed were still there. In the section closest to the road, there are ten corpses close to the surface. All the individuals I see are of a mix of orange and gray complexion, curious considering that the four I had seen beneath the ice just moments before all seemed starkly orange, although perhaps I wasn't able to see them clearly beneath the ice. As I swoop around and check the rest of the perimeter I count nine more corpses before reaching my chair again. I sit to ponder why some fish have died while others seem perfectly healthy, and notice that the four orange wedges from before are gone.
In the background, there is the song of more house sparrows emanating from somewhere behind me towards the Mellon Building. There is also a black individual of the gray squirrel species, which before arriving in Pittsburgh I had only observed in Ottawa, rummaging through the small section of woods immediately behind me and towards my right. A morning dove, previously concealed in the boughs of a tree despite its winter bareness, alights across the field, only to veer around and join the party of foragers on the grounds close to me.
I am wondering what companionship, or perhaps camaraderie, these birds might feel for each other, when a flash of familiar color catches my eye from beneath the ice in front of me. Half the pond remained frozen despite the increased warmth of last week, and that half is covered in some snow. The other half has refrozen and the ice looks different, clear and veiny. Beneath that second half, close to the fountain, there is orange beneath the ice. I forget the birds and focus on the orange fish-shaped wedge vaguely visible in front of me, and wonder why I hadn't noticed it before. There are three other oranges slightly closer to the fountain. As I puzzle over them, wondering if they were perhaps frozen solid under the ice, the single wedge lunges forward a half foot or so, undoubtedly by its own industry.
They live! I had been convinced the fishes were dead, but here there was irrefutable proof at least some members of their race soldiered on beneath their frozen world. I stare at all four, awaiting the next outburst of activity, but they are still. I resolve to survey the perimeter of the pond as I had done before and see if the bodies I had observed were still there. In the section closest to the road, there are ten corpses close to the surface. All the individuals I see are of a mix of orange and gray complexion, curious considering that the four I had seen beneath the ice just moments before all seemed starkly orange, although perhaps I wasn't able to see them clearly beneath the ice. As I swoop around and check the rest of the perimeter I count nine more corpses before reaching my chair again. I sit to ponder why some fish have died while others seem perfectly healthy, and notice that the four orange wedges from before are gone.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Prompt Entry 1
The culture that nurtured me is the displaced Cuban exile culture of Miami. Both my parents are Cuban. My mother is from outside Havana, and left as a young child, and my father is from Oriente, the eastern side of the island, and left I believe as a young man about my age or maybe a little older (I don't know exactly because he doesn't talk about it).
Importantly, unlike many other immigrants from Latin America, they never return to visit their homeland, partially because they can't and partially because they would never want to. Unlike many other Cubans, they don't romanticize what Cuba used to be like before 1959, and have no illusions it can somehow go back to being that way. They have devoted themselves entirely to becoming Americans, and proudly think of themselves as such. Although their home definitely retains certain strongly Cuban characteristics, like a lot of their principles for raising children for example, it definitely has many more typically suburban American qualities as well.
The landscape that nurtured me is really nothing more than my mother's garden, which she's always been very devoted to. There is much to say about her garden, which has gone through many different phases from orchids to herbs to butterfly gardening to now fruit trees. That small perimeter of our house was where I got essentially all of my natural exposure as a child, and even though her garden is very small, it may have been enough! There were many interesting animals that would visit, my favorite being these rather large lizards called Knight Anoles.
The interesting parallel that can be drawn between my own cultural upbringing and the natural landscape that surrounded my childhood is the fact that one of my mother's favorite things about her garden is that it happens to straddle the line between tropical and temperate. What this means is that she can grow some trees from the temperate region that can only grow in Miami as part of their southernmost territory, like Magnolia. Meanwhile, she can also grow some tropical trees in their very uppermost northern territory, like Lignum Vitae and Guanabana.
A fact which perfectly coincides with my own upbringing. While I'm as American as anyone else, part of my upbringing and identity now and forever is that my family is Cuban. Not only that, they are Cuban exiles, which is a whole unique circumstance, especially among Latinos in the United States. Just as my mother delighted in growing Live Oaks next to Papaya trees, I straddled both my Cuban ancestry and American identity, and even now still do.
While I don't under any circumstance wish to identify that as my predominant and most important defining characteristic, it is a huge part of who I am, and I don't shy away from being Cuban. Just like my mother's garden, I am a hybrid.
Importantly, unlike many other immigrants from Latin America, they never return to visit their homeland, partially because they can't and partially because they would never want to. Unlike many other Cubans, they don't romanticize what Cuba used to be like before 1959, and have no illusions it can somehow go back to being that way. They have devoted themselves entirely to becoming Americans, and proudly think of themselves as such. Although their home definitely retains certain strongly Cuban characteristics, like a lot of their principles for raising children for example, it definitely has many more typically suburban American qualities as well.
The landscape that nurtured me is really nothing more than my mother's garden, which she's always been very devoted to. There is much to say about her garden, which has gone through many different phases from orchids to herbs to butterfly gardening to now fruit trees. That small perimeter of our house was where I got essentially all of my natural exposure as a child, and even though her garden is very small, it may have been enough! There were many interesting animals that would visit, my favorite being these rather large lizards called Knight Anoles.
The interesting parallel that can be drawn between my own cultural upbringing and the natural landscape that surrounded my childhood is the fact that one of my mother's favorite things about her garden is that it happens to straddle the line between tropical and temperate. What this means is that she can grow some trees from the temperate region that can only grow in Miami as part of their southernmost territory, like Magnolia. Meanwhile, she can also grow some tropical trees in their very uppermost northern territory, like Lignum Vitae and Guanabana.
A fact which perfectly coincides with my own upbringing. While I'm as American as anyone else, part of my upbringing and identity now and forever is that my family is Cuban. Not only that, they are Cuban exiles, which is a whole unique circumstance, especially among Latinos in the United States. Just as my mother delighted in growing Live Oaks next to Papaya trees, I straddled both my Cuban ancestry and American identity, and even now still do.
While I don't under any circumstance wish to identify that as my predominant and most important defining characteristic, it is a huge part of who I am, and I don't shy away from being Cuban. Just like my mother's garden, I am a hybrid.
Place Entry 1
I fear I might have been a little too interactive with my nature spot this first week.
As I made my way to my nature spot for my first prolonged sit, I could already see dead blotches of orange on the edges of the pond. At first I saw just two, but as I got closer I noticed two more, then three more, and so on until I could see dozens of their floating bodies on the edges of the pond. Most were about six inches long, white and orange, and there were more closer to the fountain part of the pond, where the ice had melted. Around the edges, the ice had also melted about three inches deep.
I guess the fish froze, but really it looked more like some environmental catastrophe that should be blamed on an oil mining corporation. In a few places, I could see orange beneath the ice. Even though I was really 90% sure they were just more dead fishes, I resolved to find out. Since there wasn't even that much snow left on the ground, I looked around for a rock I figured I could toss and would shatter through ice. First I gathered about five small rocks that could fit in my palm, and tossed them hard onto the spot in the ice where I could see the most orange. They didn't even really make a dent, so I looked for something bigger. I got a rock about the size of my fist and threw that one hard too, but it still didn't break.
So, in my final attempt, I picked up a flat stone about the size of my chest that may or may not have been part of the walkway that runs between the pond and the driveway, and chucked it. This time, the rock actually cracked into three pieces that spread out on the ice, still not penetrating the sheet, although there was finally a small dent.
Well, I shrugged and figured the mysterious orange blotch beneath the ice would remain a mystery, and sat next to the oak tree. I noted the muted color of the emerging lawn, the obnoxious squawks of blue jays, and the other students ambling by (two of which stared quite intently, no doubt wondering why I was out in the cold). But my eyes kept being drawn to that orange beneath the ice...
As I made my way to my nature spot for my first prolonged sit, I could already see dead blotches of orange on the edges of the pond. At first I saw just two, but as I got closer I noticed two more, then three more, and so on until I could see dozens of their floating bodies on the edges of the pond. Most were about six inches long, white and orange, and there were more closer to the fountain part of the pond, where the ice had melted. Around the edges, the ice had also melted about three inches deep.
I guess the fish froze, but really it looked more like some environmental catastrophe that should be blamed on an oil mining corporation. In a few places, I could see orange beneath the ice. Even though I was really 90% sure they were just more dead fishes, I resolved to find out. Since there wasn't even that much snow left on the ground, I looked around for a rock I figured I could toss and would shatter through ice. First I gathered about five small rocks that could fit in my palm, and tossed them hard onto the spot in the ice where I could see the most orange. They didn't even really make a dent, so I looked for something bigger. I got a rock about the size of my fist and threw that one hard too, but it still didn't break.
So, in my final attempt, I picked up a flat stone about the size of my chest that may or may not have been part of the walkway that runs between the pond and the driveway, and chucked it. This time, the rock actually cracked into three pieces that spread out on the ice, still not penetrating the sheet, although there was finally a small dent.
Well, I shrugged and figured the mysterious orange blotch beneath the ice would remain a mystery, and sat next to the oak tree. I noted the muted color of the emerging lawn, the obnoxious squawks of blue jays, and the other students ambling by (two of which stared quite intently, no doubt wondering why I was out in the cold). But my eyes kept being drawn to that orange beneath the ice...
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