My father’s backyard holds a broken-down pool that functions now as a small pond. Over the past decade, the pond has hosted a small, assorted fleet of turtles, every spring a mountain of freshly-hatched toads, and, in turn, a particularly hungry heron. Joining them have been two bullfrogs, one water moccasin, a growing school of minnows (a university, perhaps?), several stranded ducklings (and their worried parental unit, squawking above), and the particularly vicious snapping turtle with the misshapen shell that devoured them. etc.
It was late afternoon, and we were hiking back down the mountain after a full day of work. It began to rain, and as we walked we saw wisps of fog cover the hills through breaks in the trees. Everything was green and wet and misty and beautiful. I felt a sense of accomplishment and peace that I hadn’t for the past month as I had struggled to acclimate to my new environment. Our group had been chatting as we made our way down, but as the rain started we grew quiet, listening instead to the sounds of the forest on a rainy afternoon in the Smoky Mountains.
At the National Parks they tell you if you see a bear you should steer clear. I did not take heed of this advice. Much to my mothers dismay, I walked right underneath a tree where a bear was hanging out. In order to get a better glimpse of this beautiful animal, I walked in to the clearing and came within 30 feet of the bear who was high above me in the canopy. While my mom continued to yell at me to come back, I snapped a picture and then stood and admired the young bear before turning around to give it the space to descend from the trees and take off into the woods.
A particular experience in the natural world that was meaningful to me was the beautiful and breathtaking night skies of the winter. The sunsets and the different colors the sky illustrates a life-like painting.
One of my favorite memories in the natural world is swimming at DuPont State Forest near the waterfalls in the mountains of North Carolina. As a kid I would go to a camp in the mountains in the summer every year, and it was a tradition there to visit DuPont. While the water was always freezing, the hike and the scenery surrounding the falls was beautiful. Certain memories there aren’t so good, such as the time that I broke my leg, but I still remember DuPont as a place of natural beauty.
Hooker Falls at DuPont (Source: Waverly Inn Waverlyinn.com)
I don’t go out in nature much, but when I do, it’s pretty cool. My trips to Hanging Rock State Park are always memorable. The rock formations and the sky are unique and seem to change with each visit. i love nature <3
A summer morning on the Eno River. The water was freezing and the sunshine was barely beginning to feel warm. I waded in with bare feet and icy toes but reveled in the ripples tickling the tops of my feet.
On the opposite bank there is an elevated path. Every couple of minutes, a new person with a new dog wanders past, and they wave to me standing in the water with pursed lips and a stiff hand. The dog sniffs in my direction.
Soon I draw my feet out and hike back up the small, sandy path to level ground, where my hammock hangs low between two slender trees.
I was looking out my window a few months ago outside my home looking at the snow falling down. At my place, there are many trees and open fields. I recall snow falling from the branches and seeing frozen cycles stuck to my window. The experience was meaningful because it was the first snow since the warm past months. It reminded me how we are never stuck in one sense of scenery; nature changes with the weather and time. It gives me the perspective that nothing will stay the same.
Gentle droplets of rain sprinkle down amidst the forest floor. Overhead, the cacophonous sounds of blue-capped mot mots and bell-birds seemingly direct the very gospel of the place. I remain crouched in the under-story, counting every breath and remaining as still as possible. The only way to be effective is to be cautious. Suddenly a spark of blue erupts before my eyes, springing into the comfort of an open leaf. I watch the small poison dart frog shuffle slightly before settling into the greenery. I begin to lean forward on my feet, pivoting slightly as I outstretch my hands. With the speed of a spring box, I leap forward and snatch at the frog. She tries to leap out as my fingers close around her slender body, but to no avail. Grasping her leg ever so slightly, I carefully turn her over and stroke the back of her head. In the forests of Bocas del Toro, Panama, frog and human share an intimate and personal bond, one that almost superceeds time and space.
The mountains around Burnsville, NC. (Photo by Ben Clark)
August 2018; it was a week or two before the Fall Semester was going to begin. My family took the closing opportunity to venture away from my rural nesting grounds of Colfax, North Carolina, for a more mountainous scene; Burnsville, North Carolina.
Burnsville is a small but tight-knit town nestled in the Appalachian Mountains. My mom has ties to the town, which stem back generations. My sister and I grew up among the giant towers of green, soaking in the fresh air and sunlight like one of the local plants. What struck me the most upon my arrival last Summer was how different the air felt from my normal stomping grounds around the Greensboro area. The air buzzed with the richness of oxygen. It felt cleaner; felt because I believe you can experience air beyond smell.
During my family’s return to Burnsville, we decided to brave the frigid waters of the Toe River. Although it was summer, the water felt like January. My sister and I could only submerge once or twice, while our dad channeled the likeness of a breaching whale and frolicked magestically throughout the icy waters.
My sister and I braving the Toe River. (Photo by Diane Clark)
While it took me around two hours to regain normal body temperature, I felt closer to nature than I had all summer, and it was a wonderful treat to return to my old stomping grounds with my family and remember what has always sparked my love for the mountains.
