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3/9/19

Frankly, I do not know how to even begin to interweave the natural history of a place into a assumedly free-form “journal” entry. “Journal” implies that this contains my thoughts, my reflections, et cetera. I do not find myself often thinking “the last time the Guilford woods was logged was in XXXX.” Although valid to require natural history, I have trouble “naturally” incorporating this knowledge, learned through research specific to this task, into an intentionally free form, for this transforms it from “task” to “assignment,” “assignment” to “grade,” “grade” to “value,” and I do not wish to have the value of my experience in the natural world determined by knowledge of its history. The experience of a natural space has, in my experience, relied far more on the actual experience of it than an intrinsic knowledge of its species, its general history. To claim otherwise is to say that one cannot enjoy a natural space without this knowledge.

Anyways.

The Guilford woods aren’t exclusive to the land they occupy. There’s a spirit within them, tangible or not, that often follows. Or, rather, there’s a spirit we place in the woods, and that it follows is simply us taking our own perceptions with us.

More literally, I wonder about the boundaries of a forest, and their potential for growth. It seems to me that forests are named and shrunken, and because the opportunity is never present, we never get a chance to consider the spreading of their boundaries. Given the sentimental, personification-inclined individual that I am, I find myself comparing such growth to a family dynasty. If a forest were transplanted, every species of every plant, animal, etc., to a virtually identical non-human environment that was previously infertile (i.e. unnamed) would the wilderness retain the same name?

Although entirely implausible, I find this logic sound enough to go on as truth in my mind. That being said, my room is an extension of the Guilford woods, adorned with potted plants transplanted from various areas of the woods: in one window hangs an ebony spleenwort fern, in the other an akebia vine, on my desk a wild violet, and in the windowsill a flourishing weed that took over a lavender plant.

In an increasingly technological world, one that deems blogging the most appropriate manner in which to write your reflections on the natural world, I find it difficult to make time exclusively dedicated to an appreciation of the natural world. Although I live a stone’s throw from an impressive expanse of relative wilderness, I am often subdued by the humming fluorescent lights, the glaringly pale walls, the speakers, car horns, et cetera. Transplanting the Guilford woods twenty feet, into my home— reclaiming the land developed in 1990 at the inception of where I now live— brings it closer to obtainability.

3/24/19

I sit on top of a rotting mountain of leaves with my head resting on a trash bag full of more mountain. I am alone, and have plants to pot. I watch the sky.

Over the sporadic shouts from nearby disc-golfers, I hear an earthly thunder, hoofbeats multiplied and echoed, coming from the East. I watch as a white-tailed buck gallops into view, next to the stream below, and hurdles up the hill. I turn and see it cross the trail at full speed, and it disappears into the trees.

Then another. And another, and another, until an entire herd is stampeding in front of me, careening up and over the trail, through the trees opposite.

I raise my phone to record the spectacle (forgive me, I know), and for a full thirty seconds it continues. Dozens of deer, more than I’ve ever seen at one time, hurtle through my field of vision, up, over the trail, and away.

It isn’t until they vanish from sight, their hoofbeats still fading, that the reason for their exodus is made clear: a black Labrador, large for its breed, bounds by the creek and follows, over the path, and away. I realize my phone wasn’t recording and I lower it, watch the leaves settle back into relative silence.

4/3/19

On today’s walk, I fantasize about an art show featuring the decades of student contribution to the woods. Students current and past, maybe even deceased, standing by their pieces. It’s often difficult to find a single spot in the woods completely absent of some creative addition.

Among the most notable are: the skeleton of a desk and chair, long decayed, fastened thirty feet up an oak tree; an altar-like assortment of mirrors, clay figurines, and painted glass that’s only visible in the warmer months, freed of the forest’s detritus; various handcrafted wind chimes that, like the desk, are placed at an inexplicable altitude; the ruins of some wall or dam, now serving as a canvas to the unskilled graffiti artist; et cetera.

Another gallery in the art show would be dedicated to student forts. There is Kai’s Fort, named after a former student that someone surely knew, which isn’t really a fort but more a felled tree with a fire pit adjacent. There is the Bomb Shelter, an ancient waist-high triangle of stacked logs littered with beer cans with outdated labels, the ground inside littered with long-decayed cigarette butts. Its roof is caving in and the earth below it has turned to either puddle or slow-moving stream. There is the Gnome Home, a large teepee-style structure ringed with intricately laced vines and strings, many supporting dangling bits of glass, braided thread, flowers real and fake. Its name is etched into a nearby poplar, doming the hat of an impressively detailed gnome. Recently the fort part of the Gnome Home fell, and the branches were repurposed into more secure walls.

The show would feature student art at its prime. The Gnome Home would tower above its spectators, the Bomb Shelter would serve as such, Kai would explain that Who really defines a fort? A student (alum?) would work at their desk, thirty feet up. The breeze would always catch the wind chimes exactly right.

The art of the woods is the art of Guilford, and the art of Guilford is often the art of the woods. These installations, although not strictly natural, give the land much of their character as it is now known. To me, and to many students on the four-year cycle, I would assume, the state of the woods redefines “natural.” It was like this when I found it, and within four years it couldn’t possibly transform too drastically. Perhaps it is the impossibility of knowing the source of each thing’s creation, the solidity in their existence in this place. A structure, work of art, could have been built the morning I stumble upon it, and I could accept it as old as time.

4/14/19

It isn’t a symphony that I hear in the Guilford woods, as Gordon Hempton has found in the wilderness of Olympic National Park, but rather the melody of a naturalistic elevator, weaving its way in and out of the pines. I visualize the sound as a kind of blanket, gently easing down through the skylit canopy. My synesthesia finds me at a common perch, the lookout mentioned in a previous entry, flat on my back and imagining, watching, this blanket ease over the forest.

I’ve never learned the linguistic difference between “woods” and “forest,” and I do not intend to; each definition, assumedly, relies on unique geographical and biospheric details that do not appeal to my current usage. My consideration of this place solely relates to my own experience, and therefore if it feels like a forest, it’s a forest.

The sounds of the woods are many. Close by are birds singing, water flowing, the winds pushing through the trees; further are car horns bickering, lacrosse boys yelling, porch-side speakers boasting their owners’ musical taste.

I spread my belongings around me, giving place to the location: a kindle, a laptop (sacrilege, yes, but this is a blog), a journal, its pen, a nalgene. Also my drone, a recent purchase comfortably within the confines of a minimum-wage student-worker position. The drone has a camera with the resolution of deep-sea fish (read: bad), but I am nevertheless entertained and intent on using it for a purpose that could pass as productive.

The symphony fading to elevator music, I set the toy up and send it into the air. It buzzes about, careening from side to side, and the screen of my phone follows a reliable one-mississippi behind. I send it over the edge (slope) of the lookout, buzz it around a bit, have it return. I take it to Shit Hill, send it down, over the stream (why hasn’t anyone called it “Shit Stream?”), across the man-made meadow. I lose control, either my fault or the machine’s, watch it collide with a branch, drop, stay. The screen shows a beautiful landscape of leaves and the invasive akebia quinata that blankets the area, and so it stays until my companion spies it from the ground and I shake it loose.

As I do, I consider that there may be others nearby, writing a blog about the natural world, this natural space, recording its voice. That recording may now be forever plagued by the insufferable whir of my toy.

Well.

3/19/19

I’m housesitting, and a Carolina Wren lies by the window of the screen door on my grandparents’ porch. Its eyes either closed or slurped out by insects that fit through the screening. A minute pang follows that consideration; they’re closed.

I water plants, check the thermostat, make sure I didn’t track in dirt. I retrieve a newspaper bag from my grandmother’s quintessential grandmother-bag-stash. I go to the porch, my hand in the bag, a sanitary glove. Death is messy.

A shovel is in the shed, and then a hole is in their backyard. A root is severed, and it wasn’t a metaphoric umbilical cord. The wren is placed in the hole, sprinkled with birdseed and flowers from a traveling grandmother’s garden. The hole is filled in, a brick placed on top, more senselessly sentimental birdseed, more flowers, placed in each of the brick’s three holes.

A week later, when the plants need watering, the grave has been robbed. The brick lies like a desolate bridge across the grave, the hole beneath riddled with claw marks. I don’t dare search for the corpse, for its eyes were closed.

Drew Lanham killed a sparrow and I killed a dead wren. I think of blogging and take an unnotable photograph.

Later, a red ant drowns in a small, flooded pit in the woods, a sinkhole maybe. A friend and I watch it, remorselessly call it a spider. I take a video, my mind again swimming with thoughts of blogging, and rescue it in return for its performance. Do ants have actor’s guilds?

Drew Lanham killed a sparrow, Johnny Cash killed a lone rider, I killed a dead wren, and I recorded a then-dying ant. Would Lanham have filmed the sparrow’s death, if given the chance?

• 

• 

My time at Guilford College has been characterized by communion with diversity, not only among different people, but different animals as well. When your campus is surrounded by trees and 153 acres of woods on the property, as well as a lake encompassing over 7 acres, it is impossible to avoid our animal roommates, especially our feathered waterfowl friends. But before I regale my interactions with these surprisingly forthcoming, curious, and often, somewhat intimidating birds, I suppose I must introduce them! First, we have the eponymous Canada Goose, Latin name Branta Canadensis,with a long black neck and beak, brown feathered body, and white cheeks. It is a migratory bird, a type of mostly-herbivorous large wild goose common in temperate regions like North Carolina, and particularly found on or near bodies of water, such as the Guilford College Lake. At Guilford, the Canada Geese can be mostly seen eating blades of grass, as well as picking at the ground for other small insects. It is quite adept at living among humans, even though its scattered defecation tendencies and territorial aggression incites ire among weary college students trying to get to class, shoes and ego unscathed. Despite this, I can confidently say that my experiences at Guilford would have been less exciting, were it not for the divergence of Canada Geese from the stereotyped politeness of the people in their country of origin, Canada. During my freshman year, I had to take a First Year Seminar and a First Year Experience class, both of which are required of students in order to introduce them to college coursework and college life, respectively. Looking back, I feel I could have applied for an independent study too, given what the Canada Geese taught me about foot traffic, the right of way, and what it means to maintain decorum under pressure.

My classes were held in King Hall, the building right next to the library in front of a large long. The brick path winding over there from Founders took far too long to traverse, especially since I got into the habit of running to class at the last minute. I decided to cut across the grass in order to take a straight shortcut, as there seemed to be no prohibitions against doing so. Or so I thought. I was about to learn that, in addition to Public Safety and Campus Life, to the top of the list of individuals who could kick butt and take names was the Canada Geese. I thought they were birds, but they later revealed themselves to be stocky feathered bouncers with a taste for autocracy as they forced me onto the path with menacing hisses. I would know that noise from anywhere; when I traveled to Vancouver, Canada in middle school, I had the opportunity to witness a gander, goose, and their 4 recently hatched eggs, under a wiry tree in the winter. My mom and I, perilously, stepped a little closer as she reassured me that those hissing sounds were perfectly benign. Alas, we were not invited to the baby shower, and we were rudely shown out with a thunderous beating of wings. Five years later, there I was, having a standoff with a couple Canada Geese that were determined to try to make me late to class, or more succinctly, just turn tail and run. As students passed by me on the path with expressions that were probably a mix of derision and resigned sympathy, I was determined to stand my ground. Even though I realized the futility, I explained to the geese that I, a lowly student, had to show up on time for my first class at least. Their sentiments were unmoved. Finally, I edged around them, only to be greeted by a chorus of hisses, and suddenly from a few feet away, a goose or gander beating their wings. I prayed I wouldn’t slip in the mud as I ran for the safety of King Hall. Future excursions would involve me saying please and excuse me, and even though I would be remiss to assume that geese understand American expressions of politeness, I think we managed to strike a truce because it became easier to take that shortcut during my second semester.

But they were no stranger to tests of endurance, as I would soon find out. This past summer, much like the previous summer, I served as an Orientation Leader and Peer Mentor, helping incoming students acclimate to Guilford College, and facilitating fun activities for them to enjoy. Orientation is always a blast of energy, teamwork, and Guilford pride, but on the last day of every Orientation, we have a very special ceremony called the Passing of the Light. This tradition was borne from Quaker teachings that every individual has inner light of God, or even just what makes them unique, and this is what we celebrate during these ceremonies as we welcome students to the Guilford College community. In order to do this, orientation leaders light the candles of the first-years, who, in turn, light each other’s candles, and everyone is led in song and reflective contemplation. Following this, each student deposits their candle into the communal bonfire pit in front of the lake. On this particular balmy night, the Canada Geese wandered over to see what the commotion was, and somehow, deduced that our attempts to shoo them away was really just us trying to selfishly keep a tasty snack of flaming wax and paper candle holders to ourselves. One of them bit at the flames, and pulled back, but in the process, his wing got singed, for which we all winced in sympathy. I know I was pretty scared when the Canada Geese started trying to get me off the paths, but it is worth remembering that they are often far more hurt by our presence than we are by theirs. This is why we should try to make up for it by doing more conservation research, as Guilford’s biology lab is doing by utilizing tracking collars to analyze migratory and survival patterns.

Federal Lands, Closed

Being a student of history, especially American History, at Guilford College, I meant to visit the Guilford Courthouse Battleground long ago. One cold Sunday afternoon in late January I decided to finally visit the battlefield lands. Remnants of snow hung on the branches of the oaks a poplars guarding the heavily wooded entrance to the park, though my eyes darted ahead drawn to the traffic cones inside the battlefield southern parking lot which, in association with bright yellow caution tape, wardened off the area. In my curiosity and my haste to visit the Battlefield, I had forgotten that the park was closed due to the lengthy, record-breaking government shutdown.

Though the park was vacated, it seemed that life went on without the park rangers. Residents from the neighborhood walked their dogs and cars drove into the park’s circular access road, despite the signs posted to traffic barrels persuading visitors to leave the premises. I never thought that a government shutdown could have such a disparate effect on everyday life with the closure of a national military park, and despite the closure, the regular functions of the park continued; however, the absence of the park administrators and the park rangers led to certain issues created by the park goers. For example, many people stopped picking up after their dogs and the trashcans overflowed with trash.

It surprised me how such a little thing like an overflowing trashcan bothered me. I suppose that it since it was my first time at the park that introductory image associated with the shutdown informed my perceptions of the park. It reminded me that despite the altruistic intentions of the park administrators in preserving lands of historical significance within Greensboro, that a small obstruction such as the government shutdown could undo much of their work of preservation. Ultimately, my perceptions of the battleground have grown beyond my initial visit, and I feel that I understand the historical significance of not only the violent history that the park commemorates but also the land that the park preserves.

Changed Perceptions

The historical and biological research that I have conducted and the time that I have spent at the Guilford Courthouse Battleground provided me with an emotional connection to the history tied to the Battleground and the inevitable role that nature plays and will continue to play with the human history of the parklands. I find that I can, too often, become emotionally detached from the historical work that I do, and I feel that connecting human stories to nature better anchors the words and actions of those long dead to the physical world. Within the suburban confines of the Guilford Courthouse Military Park, both the natural and historical remain intertwined, interconnected by their association and preserved. The parklands serve as an example of the role that nature contributes to in evoking the past.

A staple of my childhood time spent at Lake Norman was Snake Island, and the sandbar that led up to it. Snake Island is a small piece of land located a little ways away from the dock attached to the lake house, and as a kid it felt like a completely different world. When we were younger, my cousins and I were so proud when we managed to swim to the sandbar by ourselves, wearing life jackets required by our parents of course. Depending on the rainfall that year, the sandbar was either completely above the water so that we could walk right up to the island, or slightly submerged so that we had to stand on our tiptoes, and sometimes couldn’t reach the bottom.  It was- and still is- one of my favorite pastimes to watch people on speedboats, pontoons, and jet skis get stuck in the sand as they try to pass our dock. Even though the island isn’t too big, or even that far away from the shore, going as a kid felt like complete independence.

The island is made up of three separate tiny areas of tree-covered land, with a little bridge between the first and middle sections. If you want to make it to the third section, which is the smallest, you have to leap a small distance over the water, which was especially daunting for an eight year old. On the rare occasions I go back to the island now, the gap seems surprisingly small compared with how I remember it from when I was a child. Though in reality it wasn’t very dangerous, in our minds, the island was filled with copperhead snakes, and we made sure to tread lightly wherever we went. In actuality, the majority of what we saw on Snake Island was littered beer cans and snack wrappers, and perhaps a harmless water snake or two. Nonetheless, Snake Island was an excellent place for an adventure if I was ever in need of a break from adults and the luxurious monotony of vacation.

As I grew older, I began to appreciate this monotony much more. I started to realize that being bored is a privilege, and treated it as such. I spent more time sitting, and less time doing. As a kid I never understood why the adults in my life only seemed to want to lay around and read, or talk to their friends, or tan in the sun. I wanted to run around, swim, explore. But through the years I began to realize that being an “adult” meant constantly running around, so that it was exciting to be able to sit and relax for a while on vacation. I began to have my younger sisters go to Snake Island without me, saying “Maybe later,” whenever they asked me to come with them. It’s not that I’m not active at all anymore while at the lake. I still paddleboard, swim, and take walks with my dog. But in a way, I miss the days where I couldn’t stand to be still for more than a moment, and went to bed thoroughly exhausted from a physically rather than mentally active day.  

It is important to watch over natural formations, I say this because with the growing population it is becoming harder and harder to preserve natural spaces. The Western Virginia land trust periodically asked staff to check the easements that they have at Carvins cove. With 39 easements in total, it is very hard to keep track of in total 6185 acres. The trust sends teams to take” snapshots” of small portions of property to make sure that the city is not violating the agreements they have set up.

They began go so far as taking aerial views of the cove just to make sure nothing is being built that the team didn’t see. Even though they do all of this their goal is still for people to partake in the nature of Carvins Cove, ”We’re still promoting and allowing people to use it — we’ve got almost 40 miles of trails there — but we don’t have the funding at this time to expand on other opportunities,” Buschor said.

      One of the conservationist Mr. Holnback said that, he expects city officials may eventually decide to build some small structures to provide an educational experience for students and residents, but otherwise expects the land to look much the same as it does now:

“The cove is probably for the foreseeable future going to be a relatively pristine wilderness-type area with some really fantastic trails — a great place for people to go hiking and horseback riding, mountain biking, kayaking, canoeing — and that will be most of its use.”

Although the space should stay natural to me, I think that in order to entice people to use and take advantage of nature it has to have something that will bring them back to it so if that means educational aspects. For example if they modified some of the trees to be an obstacle course or some type of gym area like the presidential fitness playgrounds they have at schools where it is only for the enrichment of the body and not unnecessary attractions. Although the Cove already has activities like kayaking and hiking and biking for professionals as well as beginners in my opinion the cove could still use some type of deeper interaction with its space. I understand that watching over the cove is important that doesn’t mean that they shouldn’t do things to entice people to come to the cove. 

It could be something as simple as boat races or Family triathlons are something to bring people to the cove as well as have them interact with the natural space that they’re in.They could even use the idea of protecting the natural space as a way to keep people enticed bring children to help them do the team work on the ground to see if they find any structures or violations. Not only will this help the community it would breed new conservationist and environmentalists that could keep the cove a natural space where people come to relax and play.

All quotes were taken from:https://www.roanoke.com/webmin/news/from-land-and-air-teams-work-to-preserve-carvins-cove/article_f88460fa-747c-514a-a8a7-cd5074e07c76.html

One unexplained phenomenon of Lake Norman is the lake monster, aptly named “Normie.” Normie lives deep in the lake, and only comes out at night. Bearing a strong resemblance to the Loch Ness monster, Normie is serpent-like and huge, and somehow remains undocumented by the over 7,000 residents that frequent the area.

On a summer night in high school, my friends and I went swimming a bit farther out on the lake than usual. Sitting in a circle on our floaties in the warm water, we decided to tell scary stories. Or maybe we were playing Never Have I Ever, or Truth or Dare, or another one of those young adult to teenaged games. Regardless, one of my friends decided to tell the story of Normie the lake monster. My friends and I teased her, saying we only believed in Normie as kids. But she continued, and a few minutes later, I felt something brush my leg under the water. I assumed it was my friend sitting beside me, but her feet were above the surface. I felt it again, right as my friend across the circle said “Hey, is that you touching my leg?” I said that something had touched me as well, and suddenly the entire group was swimming back to the dock like our lives depended on it. Once we were out of the water, we all started laughing, thinking our friend had successfully scared us. But she swore it wasn’t her. Clearly, the only logical answer was that Normie the the Lake Norman monster wanted to give us a little nudge to believe.

Other creatures that inhabit Lake Norman are just as intimidating as Normie (to some), but not quite as much of a mystery. My family and I do not have a great track record with the insects we interact with at Lake Norman, though they clearly have more of a right to exist there than we do. A lifelong fear of spiders has made me cautious of walking onto the dock unless armed with a stick or pool noodle to fend off potential webs. Though dragonflies are harmless and beautiful, my sister’s screeches can be heard for miles around anytime one gets within three feet of her. The mosquitoes hardly need mention, as they are a common annoyance in any part of the southern United States. Water striders, or Gerridae, also known in the South as “Jesus bugs” for their ability to float on the water’s surface, cause pointless distress for my sisters when the surface of the lake is particularly calm.

One summer our trip to the lake was timed perfectly with the emergence of what seemed like millions of mayflies. We woke up one morning to the entire dock and porch covered in the odd looking little insects, with their thin, transparent wings and long, threadlike tails. It seemed like the apocalypse to myself and my younger sisters, until my father explained why they were there, along with the somewhat tragic life cycle of the mayfly. Waiting nearly a year in their immature phase, otherwise known as the nymph stage, mayflies sit in freshwater and do largely nothing. Most then live just one day in their mature phase, coming out in droves in order to pass on their genes, not even bothering to eat. I remember feeling bad for them, but still wishing they didn’t have to do that around me.