Final Video Project

This semester, we learned about environmental issues, movements, and writers, and got familiar with the Fort Worth Nature Center. One particular excerpt that stuck out to us was Aldo Leopold’s A Sand County Almanac. We learned the hidden meaning of thinking like a mountain is prioritizing long-term sustainability over short-term gains and comfort. We also gained a hands-on understanding of habitat restoration by helping the FWNCR team cut back privet, later to be burned and mulched. 

We learned more about environmental issues from the documentary Before the Flood. In the film, Leonardo DiCaprio visits locations where the effects of climate change are evident, from melting ice caps in the Arctic to deforestation in Indonesia. The film connected climate change to human activities, showing how industries that rely on fossil fuels, deforestation, and unsustainable consumption accelerate the planet’s destruction. It also offered potential solutions, like calling for individuals to be mindful of the environmental impact of their purchases.

In the second half of the semester, we focused on helping the center with trail videos and social media clips. Our group was able to hike the Canyon Ridge, Oak Motte, and Greer Island Trails. The views were unmatched, and each of these hikes helped us to disconnect from the noise of daily life and get some fresh air. Our class also observed the FWNCR team catch and measure an 11-foot gator. We learned that keeping track of alligator numbers is important to monitor population health and manage the ecosystem. 

Over this past semester, cutting back invasive privet, gator hunting, spotting bison and prairie dogs, hiking, and kayaking, we have come to appreciate what a hidden gem the Fort Worth Nature Center truly is. We hope the YouTube videos and short clips we put together spread the word so more people can come out and experience everything the reserve has to offer.

Here is our video representation of our learnings: 

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1NdhZ7Gt7LCX1l37IdABzu_uNNLhOAHnK/view?usp=sharing

Final Reflection

"Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"

- Mary Oliver, "The Summer Day"

I can't claim familiarity with Mary Oliver's poetry. But evidently, according to The Poetry Foundation, Mary Oliver was an “indefatigable guide to the natural world, particularly to its lesser-known aspects.”

The question she posed crossed my eyes in the midst of graduation quotes and words of wisdom. I mentioned in a previous blog post that I do believe we are only gifted this one, unique life, so her challenge struck me and stuck fast.

What is it I plan to do with my one wild life?

Mary Oliver (b. 1935, right) with Molly Malone Cook (1925–2005)
at the couple’s home in Provincetown, Massachusetts

Oddly enough, Mary grew up in a small Cleveland suburb not far from where I spent my childhood years. She made quite a success of her one life, growing beyond her tiny town and writing about big ideas through narrow lenses. A mango. A hummingbird.  A banyan. August.

Intrigued, I started browsing her poetry. 

In 1993, she published "What is it?" And who can say what it's about? But I felt drawn to the frogs and lilies, the world I've slept so comfortably in for the past four years. It's a simple, beautiful life. Cool water and soft encasings. But maybe I've rested long enough to be rejuvenated for what comes next. Maybe it's time to be brave enough to accept a new idea; to swim away into the world beyond Pond Drive.

What is it I plan to do with my one wild and precious life?

I guess I plan to see more, do more, learn more. To let myself recognize and enjoy the wild spaces within and beyond me. To appreciate the small beauties, the miracles of natural moments that shimmer bright as diamonds, and to let them be. To look but never disturb, to admire but never lust.

I will never be a true adventurer or someone who can claim they have their toes buried in the wild and their head in the clouds. But this class pushed me to perhaps try a little harder to understand those people. (And to hate Chinese privet with a burning passion.) 

“Instructions for living a life.

Pay attention.

Be astonished.

Tell about it.”

― Mary Oliver, "Sometimes"

10 Best Photos

Here are my 10 best photos of the semester:

Sunset, Hilton Head Island, SC

Week Two at FWNC

Teamwork, FWNC

First Hike!

First Hike! Pt. 2

Path Divergence, Oak Motte Trail, FWNC

Viewing Bench, Oak Motte Trail

Yellow Flower Road

Macaroni Penguin, FW Zoo

Quote in FW Zoo

Zoo Day!

I have this weird saying. 

When the sun is streaming through the sky, interrupted only rarely by puffy white clouds and occasionally by a warm, but not sweltering heat and clean breeze, I call it "zoo weather." Most people would just say it's a nice day out, but I have a strange sensor that alerts me when a day is simply ripe for zoo adventures.

Now, I haven't been to a zoo since freshman year, and before that, probably hadn't gone since zoo kids camp in elementary school. But I clearly remember the environmental requirements of such an occasion, so when class was cancelled on Thursday, I was determined to visit the Fort Worth Zoo on just that kind of day.

With no mission other than to learn and enjoy, I let my roommate control our loop through the zoo. She beelined for the elephants (who, in my opinion, had the fanciest enclosure of the lot). Complete with stunning waterfalls and bright blue pools, the zoo's several elephants, including Bluebonnet - the first to be born at the Fort Worth Zoo - casually roamed their space, tossing dirt on one another and themselves to cool off from the heat.

Next, my roommate and I checked in on a giant rhino. The creature was lazily rolling in a massive crater of mud. It helps keep them cool and rids them of possible parasites. More interestingly, though, an older woman watching near us suddenly commented, "I wouldn't wanna be found on the other end of that thing." My roommate and I laughed politely, but she continued. "It's so huge. But I bet you could outrun it."

I scoffed under my breath, but couldn't stop my features from contorting in doubt. "I'm pretty sure rhinos are fast," I interject. "Granted, all my knowledge on them comes from Jumanji, but Kevin Hart got trampled by rhinos in that movie, so..."

The woman decided she didn't believe me and asked Siri. "Rhinos can reach speeds of 25-34 miles per hour," Siri chimed in monotone. Baffled, the woman gawked at her cell, and my roommate and I left her to contemplate the meaning of life.

Later in our adventure, we see countless birds at feeding time. Bald eagles snacking on dead rabbits, macaws nibbling on something unidentifiable, and unknown birds pecking at dead rats right above our heads. I am notoriously not a bird lover, and one of the biggest things I learned about the zoo is that everything is secretly a bird exhibit.

Wanna see the giraffes? Hike through the bird world first. Traveling through the realm of predators and hyenas, you can encounter colorful toucans and gobbling turkeys. Every indoor exhibit was part primate/reptile/cat and consequently part BIRD. Even the first creature you meet in the zoo is the pink flamingo, reeking on entry. Not my favorite, but a clever ploy to get people checking in on the ostriches and penguins jammed between lions and kangaroos.

Later in the afternoon, my roommate spotted a kids' activity. A zookeeper was holding out a small snake for people to pet. I recoiled. She leaped at the opportunity. The zookeeper asked her to place two fingers on the snake and pet him in the direction of his scales so as not to make him uncomfortable. The snake's name was Rumple. He was four years old, and according to the zookeeper, had never bitten anyone in his life.

I can't say the same of my brother at four years old, so I decided Rumple maybe wasn't that bad.

We saw the plethora of sea life and fish, and overheard a little girl shriek, "Quiero comerlo!" Ah, to be a kid shouting her desire to eat the poor pufferfish. That was half the fun, honestly. Watching kids be excited about nature, to squeal in delight and press their faces to the glass. However, bonus fun points go to this graveyard display, which made me giggle with all the poise of a bad poet:

After just over two hours, my ears were ringing, my nose was stuffed, and my eyes were red and itching. Allergies to both plants and animals had finally caught up to me, and the pair of us decided to quit the zoo in favor of my sinuses. It was certainly an outing to remember, though.

The first thing my roommate and I did on campus together as freshmen was actually go to the zoo, so it was an emotional full-circle moment for us both. Thanks for the opportunity!

 

My Grandfather's Tree

My grandpa is - was - a simple man.

He liked to draw and read David Baldacci's large print novels. He had an unhealthy obsession with popcorn and enjoyed watching calm sports like baseball and golf. He taught me how to play checkers because I couldn't wrap my mind around chess. He told me to keep my head screwed on straight, to aim high and shoot hard, and that I always looked pretty, even when I really didn't.

Mostly though, my grandpa loved being outside. He grew rose bushes and tomato plants and cared for his pristine green lawn. When I was little, before I moved to Texas, he bought a tree that was just my height. We planted it in the center of his front yard, wrapped the trunk to protect it from roaming deer, and placed a small circle of stones around the soil. It was ours.

As I grew, the tree sprouted exponentially. Every few weeks, my grandpa would send me an email with the tree attached in a photo. 

Once he figured out how to text instead of emailing, the messages were still the same. Photos of trees or clouds or flowers. He'd always comment on the ones in the background of my photos. He'd say that God does amazing work. We rarely saw one another in person, but it felt like we shared something regardless.

It seems unfair, that this tangle of branches and leaves and roots is still here when he isn't. Wrong that he's not sending me photos of our towering tree. Wrong that even though it's springtime, I don't know what color clings to it. Without his eyes to see it for me, our tree is a mystery now.

Death is a part of our reality. The cycle of life and decay, the natural order of taking from the world and giving back to it in death, is something each plant, animal, and person succumbs to. No amount of science can stop it, though we try. But just because death is a known fact, one of our few guarantees does not mean it's easier to comprehend. Death is not a smooth pill to swallow. It's prickly and harsh, sitting in your sinuses and pushing tears from your eyes before settling in your stomach to conjure a nauseating pit of emotions. 

I'm staring at that pill on my desk as I write this. I refuse to even take it because once I do, it's real. I cannot unswallow that medicine. 

My grandpa believed in Heaven, and I hope that's where he is. But I don't believe in much of anything after death. I think we get this one life - this singular, brief existence, and that the before and after and why of it all ruins the mystery. So I look at old pictures of this tree, of all that remains of his singular existence, and wonder about all the places its limbs will stretch to long after I'm gone. 

Will the roots threaten the small house? Will someone tear the tree from the ground and plant it someplace else? Will a bird build a nest amidst the safety of the treetop? Will stray branches be thrown to new dogs or used as swords by playing children? Will lost leaves catch the wind and see themselves all the way to the Great Lakes? Will the trunk eventually be chopped and turned into the same paper he used to read his crime novels on? I don't know. I'm not supposed to.

I wonder if we're meant to leave anything behind at all, or if our best legacy is one that leaves the land we walked on undisturbed. I wonder what my grandchildren will look to when they think of me. I wonder how death will take my tree and hope it is kinder than the methods many of its kin have been subjected to.

Apologies for the morbid reflection, but I had nowhere to put this besides the place we have all set aside to preserve nature together. Thank you for keeping my grandfather's tree alive a little longer. 

Take a Hike

 “Of all the paths you take in life, make sure a few of them are dirt.”

- John Muir

An interesting quote, and one I've been lucky enough to live by over the course of my life. Endless hikes through backyard canyons, bridge-side cliffs, green Colorado mountains, and Texas hill country have gifted me many memorable moments in nature. Whether it's half a mile long or a whopping fourteen, those moments with your feet in the dirt are so important.

Harvard Medical School even suggests we can simply hike our way to better health. A 2022 study claims "A jaunt through the woods can boost your fitness, your balance, and your mood." The article goes on to explain the many intricate benefits of walking on dirt:

• Uneven terrain trains muscles for stability and strength
• Cardiovascular health improves thanks to the interval-style training
• Research has shown that the Japanese practice of shinrin-yoku ("forest bathing"), which encourages a slow enjoyment of nature, produces measurable physical changes.
• Reduce the amount of cortisol (our stress hormone)

Oak Mott Trail, FWNC

It's no secret that we thrive with some time in the sunshine. It gets us off our screens and connected to the ground beneath us. The dirt reminds us where we come from, and where we will eventually return. The trees hug us around the trails to shade and protect us. We ponder if we are truly the conquerers of earth or merely annoying inhabitants.

Occasionally a buzzing bee or leggy spider will cross our path. We'll swat at it and shriek and immediately be overcome with guilt. We're trespassers after all - visitors at best - and we just crushed a local between our thumb and pointer finger without a second thought. Perhaps dinosaurs felt quite the same in regard to us.

A bunny will race across the trail, too quick for a picture. We watch it through leafy bushes as it hunkers in the shadows. Time urges us onward but we think of the adorable face and twitching hind legs for another five minutes at least.

Mostly though, we admire the flowers. Patches and clumps and clumsy gatherings of Bluebonnets stretch along the dirt. They are fluffy and bright and sacred. Bea reminds us it's illegal to pick them, not that we contemplated it. They seem to thrive here in the grassland, unlike their highway-side counterparts. Bea laments the privet creeping nearer to the blooms, its greedy thorns eyeing the flowers without the laws we humans abide by. 

After two hikes through the nature center trails, I am thankful for my brief exit from the world. Senior year is simply a longer list of to-do's than ever before. Some good, some bad, all stressful. It's nice to flex a muscle beside my mind for a few hours every week. To sweat and work for nothing other than myself.

Here are a few more highlights from the last few journeys:

Spring Break Thoughts

I rarely have the opportunity to see the beach. While Texas isn't *technically* landlocked, a series of college party houses along a browning eastern coastline isn't exactly the ideal scene. The few trips I've taken to Galveston or South Padre were all covid-driven, please get me out of my house or I'm going to die excursions, not let's go look at the beautiful ocean vacations.

A recent summer in Miami reminded me of the beauty of the beach, so when spring break planning rolled around for my friends and me, I reluctantly decided to forgo my usual ski haunt for a sandy setting. 

As anyone with a sense of geography (a group I sadly cannot figure out the entry fee to) may have 

predicted, Hilton Head, South Carolina was rainy, windy, and on a good day, a breezy 65 degrees. We figured we'd make the most of the weather because regardless, there was the mother freaking beach. Sand that wasn't oily or littered with solo cups. Couples at the ripe age of 70 taking two-handed photos of their spouses.

We decided to drop some cash on a local boat tour. Captain Spike and his not-so-cheery tour girl whipped us around the water, spewing facts about the special pluff mud that never settles in the bay (because, evidently, the water would be "Bahama clear" without the swirling stuff) and the oyster economy Hilton Head ran on for years. 

Halfway through the tour, the boat came to a slow stop. "Now, if you'll direct your attention to two o'clock," Spike announced over the microphone, "You'll see our dolphins." The small kids on the boat looked in every single direction because they had no idea what an analog clock was, but my friends and I watched in wonder as one, then two, then three dolphins lazily arced to the surface. They were pink and grey and charcoal. Their slippery skin gleamed in the sunlight. We stared and took no pictures.

We also watched several sunrises on the trip, waking up before the literal crack of dawn, mumbling to the local coffee joint and bakery, securing sustenance, and settling with our toes frozen in the sand. We stared and took many pictures.

Selfishly, one of my goals for the trip was to go horseback riding. I spotted it on a list of activities to explore and couldn't let the idea go. We visited Lawton Stables, essentially a local retirement home for horses, for an hour-long trail ride. I rode a sassy horse named Flicker, and my friend mounted a significantly more relaxed Cinder.

Our small band rode through the Sea Pines Forest Preserve. It's been a protected area since 1970, and the trees were stunning, tall, willowy things surrounding small bodies of water. We spied two alligators - one that was only a few feet long, and another that rivaled our catch from last class.

                         

My horse made several desperate attempts to throw me off the front, but we eventually settled into a mutual, tentative agreement that basically allowed Flicker to do, well, whatever she wanted, and in exchange, I got to live for the rest of my vacation.

All in all, my spring break consisted of sunshine, foliage, fish, and horses, accompanied by sand and salty water and that briny sea breeze. A different outdoor scene than I'm used to, and one I was happy to visit. Back to Texas skies, oak trees, and dyed-green grass, I suppose.