Damp

Over a year ago, I started a blog post (that I never finished) with the following:

"When I stepped outside after class tonight into the rainy night air, it felt so familiar that I was surprised by it. I recognized that smell, that damp, musty smell of rain on the Chatham campus in Pittsburgh. It's been months since it was warm enough to just rain, and I welcomed the familiarity and surprising comfort that it brought me."

That's as far as I got, but I had a similar experience the other night when my husband and I got home fairly late at the end of a rainy day. The moment I stepped out of the car and walked into the weak light of the garage, I inhaled a downpour of memories. "It smells like Pittsburgh," I said happily, breathing deeply. I had to explain (or rather, I wanted to explain) that it rained so often in Pittsburgh that it's a smell I automatically associate with that city: damp, wet, almost musty. The smell of earth that never completely dries.

Immediately, I was back in Pittsburgh, walking home after class. The night was heavy with water, mist clinging to my hair and skin. I walked across the mostly-empty campus and stepped down the cement stairs that cut through the side campus lawn. There was a lamp post halfway down the stairs, and it shone with a halo of moisture around it. The rain wasn't falling anymore, but water was tangibly still in the air. I walked downhill toward the second lamp post which illuminated Woodland Road, my shoes slapping the wet cement caked with leaves and debris from the overhanging bushes and trees. I hurried down Woodland Road to College Avenue, reassured by the orange glow of streetlights with their similar halos. I had spent the first month of my stay in Pittsburgh hating the humidity with every pore in my skin, but now, as Spring was returning and the frigid winter had melted, I greeted the water-air as a...well, not quite friend. Companion. Compatriot. A piece of my experience that was unique to my Pittsburgh life, and I was delighted that I recognized is as something familiar.

Spring in Utah was wet enough this year that I got to breathe in the rain-soaked air more than once and breathe deeply and remember. I wouldn't have ever thought that "damp" would be a favorite smell, but now it is something that connects me to my Pittsburgh home and I welcome it. Even if it means having to wait until May for Spring to actually arrive.

Paintings in the sky

Today's clouds were paintings waiting to be oiled, watercolored, chalked in, and swept away. I often find myself comparing clouds to paintings, and I sometimes wonder if other people do the same. The clouds dramatically billow and curl, sweeping across the sky in huge columns and curls of white against a perfectly blue background. Yet all I can think of is two-dimensional representations of this beautiful scene and the medium with which to create it.

I understand the impulse to capture beauty. I sometimes live through my camera lens, forgetting to experience what my eyes can see, so that I can relive the moment later. I suppose it is human nature to want to capture beautiful things, to own them in some way. I remember climbing onto the roof of our house when I was a teenager to snap photos of a gloriously orange and pink and gold sunset. I ached, even then, knowing that no matter how many pictures I took, I could never truly have that moment back again. I wanted to make it mine, to remember and cherish, but the full experience of the moment couldn't truly be contained in a 4 x 6 inch print.

So today, as I drove through Utah valley and held my breath while the clouds forms incredible shapes and shadows, I quieted the impulse to make it my own. I held that impulse's hand until it became still, and together we watched and enjoyed and wondered at the art being inspired before our eyes.

Nature Blog - Prompt Entry #8

I feel like this has been the perfect class to take during my final semester at Chatham. I've taken two other eco-critical courses, and in this course I finally got to take what I've learned and apply it in my writing. I think my other classes were more focused on the issues and the literature, and less on the craft, so here I was able to combine my opinions with writing. My attitudes and views toward nature, the natural world, and the environment have changed pretty drastically since I started this master's program. I was very conservative and not at all environmentally-conscious; now, I am very aware of the relationships between natural world and humans, and I'm aware of how those terms are used and by whom. I feel like I have more questions to ask of any nature or environmental literature that I come across, and I can enter into the dialogue of the genre intelligently. I feel like I've read a pretty wide spread and I'll be able to place any future literature I come across in a context. And I have been making small changes in my day-to-day lifestyle that reflect my increased awareness. I recycle everything that I can, I try not to waste water, I'm conscious of my effect on my environment. I am still conservative, but I've found ways to bridge being conservative and taking action.

I have really appreciated this course and the opportunity to write about places and things that matter to me. I truly believe that place is an important aspect of everyone's life and that exploring it is interesting and fruitful. I've also come to believe that writing about nature and place and environment can be done in really beautiful ways, and as we've talked about in our discussion boards, is a way to get information and ideas about the state of the environment to a large group of people.

Though it wasn't always easy to get down to my "place" for the semester, it was a wonderful experience to observe and examine and at least mentally engage with a single place for an extended period of time. I felt like I got to know it in a way I hadn't before, even though it was already very familiar to me. Writing about it every week was a challenge, but it forced me to get creative in my format and descriptions. The weather was also a big challenge in this assignment because the seasons didn't really change until the very end of the semester. And the blog prompts really helped me to see how many different perspectives there are in writing about any one place. I feel like I've developed a new way of thinking and looking at the whole world, and I'm excited to further this and see how it continues to affect my life and writing. Nature and environmental writing is something I would definitely like to pursue and continue to develop as a skill.

Nature Blog - Place Entry #8

Thursday April 15, 2010 6:30 pm

The hints that have been appearing for weeks--melted snow, new growth red branches, green blades of grass peeking upward--are finally starting to strengthen and grow, combining to create the next phase of Spring. I hadn't noticed the pale green haze that seemed to settle on the lower foothills of the mountains until I was driving north beside Mount Cascade, headed to the mouth of the Provo Canyon. As I drove nearer, it was as if I was zooming in on a pixilated scene, the individual points of color separating out, the defined by the brown spaces between them. Most of the mountains were still hazy with purple-brown-gray branches and bushes, but it was as if, overnight, a subtle layer of growth had seeped into the cracks and crevices.

Last week was another day-to-day battle between winter and spring, and when I had hazarded the drive to my "place," it was through a flurry of light snowflakes. Even as the chill wind hurried me away from the outdoors, I noticed the pinpricks of green raising their heads through the wet snow. The ice was melting steadily from the rock cliffs, but the trail to the waterfall still felt empty and forlorn.

Today, however, the sky was blue, the wind warm, the sun still shining, and spring was in full force. Not much of the dry colors had changed, but the altered surroundings made all the difference. My stroll down the trail to Bridal Veil Falls was almost jaunty and bouncing. I had worn a jacket, but I didn't need it. Provo River's sibilant washing rush overtook most other sounds, and I paused to watch clouds of midges hover over the water's swirling surface. The faint red haze I had detected weeks ago was expanding along the river banks, the bushes putting forth their live branches and buds.

I looked for signs of renewed animal life, but I soon realized that their traces were easier to hide now that the snow was gone. Though the snow had forced most animals into hibernation and hiding, the occasional deer tracks in the snow had been comforting reminders that life still existed during the frozen winter months. I was almost lonely without them. Up ahead of me on the right side of the trail, I noticed a tall pine tree whose branches seemed more agitated than the slight breeze necessitated. The trills and flutes of a single bird reached my ears above the noise of the river, and I felt reassured.

For the first time all semester, there were other people at the falls with me. A large family group arrived at the base of the waterfall just ahead of me, their younger boys running to see how high they could climb of the mountain's sides. A group of teenagers on skateboards passed by, a pair of joggers swung past, and the trail was full of bikers. The parking lot was still closed for the winter, but there were about two dozen cars crowded around the entrance to Bridal Veil Park. I was thrilled to be able to fully enjoy the walk and the weather, but I missed the solitude I had found while I battled the cold.

I stood looking up at Bridal Veil Falls, admiring how it finally resembled the full bridal veil that I was familiar with, the mass of icicles only a dark stain on the rocks. There was still a large mass of packed snow at the bottom of the second cataract, but from this distance it looked dirty and worn, ready to admit defeat and slink quietly away. The wind came off the falls strongly and a gentle sheet of mist-laden air caressed my face. I closed my eyes, ignoring the laughing, chatting groups of people around me, and concentrated on my senses. The sun warmed my skin, seeped into my hair. The smell of cool water made me imagine a dark cave somewhere in the mountains where the water came from. I could hear the tumble and fall of the waterfall, soft compared to the chattering of the Provo River behind me. When I opened my eyes, I saw the dark rocks, the tan and brown branches, the green grass, the blue sky, the glinting falling water, and bright patterns of light on the shallow pond at the bottom of the falls. Spring was all around me; I couldn't practically taste it.

Nature Blog - Prompt Entry #7

I grew up knowing most of the wide variety of plants in the front yard of our house. I don't know how many were there when we moved in, and how many were the careful cultivation of my father, but I learned to recognize their smells, their textures, their colors, and their life cycles. I knew that the deep pink peonies would crack open their buds, revealing a crescent moon of color, before bursting open overnight and always in time for Mother's Day. I watched as our rose bush bloomed from late June to early November some years, inches of snow freezing the pale pink petals. We had chives, thin stems topped by spiky purple balls that looked like a Dr. Seuss creation. And we had a sage plant next to the front porch, pale green leaves, textured and bumpy, looking fuzzy from a distance but rough to the touch.

This sage plant grew exponentially every year, sending up stalks of lavender flowers, star-shaped at their opening and rounding to a bell-like curve at the stem. During the summer months, huge furry bumblebees hovered around the flowers, dipping lazily and flying heavily away in a drunken circle. Sometimes I picked the long stalks to fill an empty quart jar, but usually I pulled just at the leaves. Rubbing my fingers along the rough leaves, I lifted my hand and let the minty fragrance fill my nose and mouth. I plucked the oblong green leaves and chafed my thumb along the patterned top, feeling the spine of the leaf held in my other fingers.

My dad often gathered short branches of the sage plant and tied them together with brown twine to hang up in our kitchen. I thought the small bundle looked pretty, but I was always disappointed at how quickly the dried leaves lost their smell. I loved to pluck a single leaf and carry it with me, putting it on my nightstand, but within a few minutes the delicious fragrance was already fading away, the weight of the leaf melting. It was a smell that always reminded me of home, though, and when my parents moved from Orem to Draper when I was 18, they took part of that sage bush with them and replanted it next to our new house's porch stairs. I was very glad they did; it wouldn't have truly been home without it.

When I was 22, I moved across the country to the beautifully green city of Pittsburgh. I had never been anywhere so lusciously rich with plants and trees, and I was thrilled to watch the leaves turn brilliant colors through the fall months. I was homesick, though, especially during the first few weeks. I missed a lot of things, especially having familiar things around me to anchor me.

One afternoon, I was walked home from the grocery story, two heavy bags of groceries in each hand, trying to hurry to my front door before something--either my arms or the bags--gave out. As I rounded the last corner and started up my block, a familiar pale green caught my eye. I paused, my attention completely caught by the sage plant growing prolifically in my neighbor's yard. It wasn't tall, like our sage plant had been. Instead it grow out, branches combing the ground like vines, but as soon as I reached out and fingered a textured leaf, grocery bags forgotten, I knew that it was my sage, a small piece of home in the middle of Shadyside.

I must have been there for a full five minute, sniffing, touching, breathing, and picking leaves to take back to my house. I was still in awe at my miraculous find when I put my groceries away and went to the top floor to put my leaves on my nightstand. But as I placed them in a careful pile, I could tell that their fresh smell had already dissipated, and I felt a wave of homesickness wash over me.

I knew, though, that I could always go back for more, that when I needed something from the West, I could bury my face and hands in the smell that triggered memories of my childhood, of my home. I couldn't take the fragrance with me, no; but home couldn't come with me, either. It would still be there when I went back, and then I could go back out, armed with dried sage green leaves like a talisman against forgetting where I came from.

Nature Blog - Place Entry #7

Friday April 2, 2010 6:15 pm

(Attempts at poetry...)

Spring/Winter

Monday arrived

and without warning

rained sunshine on my head

warming the earth

until I could feel

Spring.

Tuesday followed

and the earth disappeared

mountains

hills

trees

sky

in a cloud of dust

masquerading as mist.

Wednesday brought a gasp

of delight

and horror:

snow!?

Voluptuous flakes,

swinging wide,

landing lightly,

melting with the faintest trace of

Winter.

Thursday's mountains

were crystallized

and sprinkled

lightly with

powdered

sugar or

dust.

Friday was today

and the views were spectacular.

Every angle was a postcard

of snow-covered mountain peaks

and dramatic clouds

that filled and billowed until

the sky was moving.

Like pencil drawings that the artist

had attempted to erase,

their edges blurred and smudged

across the sky of paper,

rubbing until they ripped through

and dark blue spread

across the light. I meet my waterfall

in the darkened sun

and find it

changed.

Frosted

at the tips

but roaring

and rushing

and surging

and pitching forward

until it pools under snow.

It is new and yet so familiar.

Spring.

Nature Blog - Prompt Entry #5

When I think about Utah and environmental issues, I honestly can't think of much initially. I stretch my mind and memory and suddenly I can remember and think about the big things: the National Parks in southern Utah, Kennecott Copper Mine, the Great Salt Lake, proposed nuclear waste sites. I think of the winter months when an inversion in temperatures traps all the pollutants in the air and forces the inhabitants to breathe our own pollution, sometimes for a week at a time before the air clears out. When I consider issues closer to home, in Utah Valley, I start thinking about the air quality, the water quality of the Provo River, and the health of Utah Lake. I think about the fruit orchards that used to cover Orem and that are all but gone now. I think about the line of houses that creeps up the mountain sides, and the city lights that increase every year on the other side of the lake. I think about the Point of the Mountain, the arm of the Wasatch Mountain Range that divides the Salt Lake Valley from the Utah Valley, and the way it is slowly being carved away to make room for wider freeways and newer housing developments. The landscape it being adapted to fit the increasing needs of the growing population.

And yet, in spite of all these things I can think, I don't think about any of them on a regular basis, nor do I hear about them from other people or on the news. Environmental issues have never been at the forefront of the public mind here. It seems like individual issues come up and create a stir, but as a group, as a people, as a state, it isn't high on our agenda. At least, not here in Utah Valley. A better public transportation system is in the works, but so is a five-year project to widen and update the freeway. We have parks and "green spaces," but more and more land is being lost to development every year. There is a local Farmer's Market during the summer, but until recently I had never heard about it. My city's website has a list of ways to help the environment and my neighborhood just recently had a toxic waste pick-up, but the nearest full-service recycling center is in the next city. Though I'd guess that most people would agree that taking care of the environment is important, it doesn't seem like anyone is actively working toward doing that.

When I look online to find out what resources and programs there are in Orem, most of what I find relates to conserving and keeping our water clean. I am surprised at the focus until I remember particularly dry summers when we could only water our lawns a certain amount, trying to maximize every drop of moisture. I remember calling Utah Lake "the sludge pit" for years, even after the steel plant built on its banks had shut down. I remember learning in Elementary school to save water, even just by turning off the faucet when I was brushing my teeth. In a desert state such as Utah, it makes sense that the most vocal environmental concern would be about our water. The steel plant has been shut down for about eight years, but when the wind blows off the lake, it still smells like fishy garbage everywhere. I remember learning that before the plant was built, the city had to decide whether to build a steel plant or create a large marina, a tourist destination. The government decided to go with the jobs the steel plant would bring in, but more than half a century after that initial decision was made, we are left without the jobs and all the consequences of that choice.

And maybe that is the place to start, with the consequences. Water is not usually an abundant resource in this dry state, and it's clear what the consequences of polluting and using up our clean water source will be. There are opportunities to volunteer, to be active, but so much more needs to change for the general population: awareness and attitudes that lead to positive action, and the opportunity for change. I don't know whose shoulders that rests on. Probably all of us.

[Some of the information I found]

http://www.orem.org/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=1074&Itemid=1387

http://www.americantowns.com/ut/orem-make-a-difference

http://www.nature.org/wherewework/northamerica/states/utah/

Nature Blog - Place Entry #6

Friday March 19, 2010 5:30 pm

Hints of spring are starting to appear throughout the valley. The late afternoon sunlight shimmers on the ripples of the lake instead of glinting dully on its frozen gray surface. The snow on the mountains is beginning to show signs of wear, and on Mount Cascade, lines are being drawn down its side, winter tenaciously sticking on the north-facing sides while mud and grass appear on the south.

Spring in Utah is predictable only in its unpredictability. The days shift from freezing temperatures to weather warm enough for flip-flops overnight, sometimes within a few hours. Spring feels like the battleground of winter and summer. During this time, the two seasons fight for the upper hand, neither gaining much ground until eventually there are more days that feel like summer than winter. Until then, we are prepared for rapid changes.

As I drove from spring weather at my house to distinctly winter weather in Provo canyon, I wondered if the earth and plants and rivers and nature itself ever fear the changing of the seasons, if it's both a yearning for and hiding from the moving forward that spring demands. The past few weeks have brought both winter and spring into my life: sorrow and stress, grief and triumph, tension and tears--a lot of tears. The weight of heavy emotions has been mostly lifted, but when I find myself overwhelmed with what is still left and wanting to relieve my burden through crying, I can't. It's like I have cried myself out, used up what seemed like a never-ending water supply. As I drove up the canyon, a few specks of frozen water splat on my windshield, all the energy winter could muster, and I felt like nature was all cried out, too.

The sides of the mountains were covered in what appeared to be purple fur made from thousands of bare branches and trunks. It was a dead scene, snow's leftovers, but the grayish purple hoped for more colors. As I walked along the now-clear-of-snow trail to Bridal Veil Falls, I was surrounded by a brown-gray haze, suddenly punctuated by bright red. I looked more closely and saw red branches growing all along the sibilant river, a harbinger of life, I am sure. High above me on the cliff walls, the "Stairway to Heaven" was half gone, dark stains the only trace of the solid mass of icicles. The waterfalls were roaring strongly, and the curtain of ice on the side had broken apart and melted, freeing the water to flow. Except for a covering of snow at the base of the second waterfall, the rocky descent to the less-frozen pond was unobstructed. Spring has started to reclaim this area, and little by little, winter loosens its grip, however unwillingly. Change is necessary and good, but change also means surrendering what is past and letting go of what has passed.

The day that I found out my cousin had been killed in Afghanistan started out beautiful, sunny, and almost warm. By midday, thick, dark clouds had collected, and within a few hours, the temperature had plummeted and the snow was coming down thick and fast. When the news was confirmed to me through my sister and then my husband, there were two inches of fresh snow on the ground. It felt appropriately morose, but I was also grateful for the blanket of white that muted sounds, emotions, and pain. The hard edges were gone; there was a cushion, reassurance of a softened landing, though the concrete would still be underneath.

The snow was gone the next day, but it returned the following weekend when the funeral was held. As I stood at the grave site surrounded by family, cold rain mingled with tears, and by the time we had said our last goodbye and climbed inside the protective warmth of our cars, there was a layer of pelting snow on the roads that made driving arduous. Again, I was glad of the brief blanket, the blank that I could pour myself into and let the white wipe me away.

But the snow melts, the sun returns, and the battle continues. The seasons pull and tug at each other, pushing forward, pulling back, retreating and charging. Unwilling to let go and yearning to move forward. It just takes time.

Nature Blog - Prompt Entry #6

The air in the mountains of Star Valley, Wyoming, tastes fresh with an aftertaste of pine. Every time I stepped out of the car and onto the gravel driveway, I knew exactly where I was by the way my lungs expanded more fully and by the tingling on my tongue. The smells were familiar, though we only visited a couple of times a year at most: earth newly turned over, dusty gravel pebbles, bark peeled back from the branches, and depending on the season, moisture from recent rain or snow. And among everything, weaving in and out of all other fragrances, was the scattering of pine needles above and below.

My grandparents built their dream cabin in the mountains when I was about eight years old. Every year since then (and a year before, too), my family and I have come to this quiet haven during the summer to spend a week, maybe even two weeks, with grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins--especially cousins. There were seven of us whose ages went in order, and we were an inseperable gang of noisy, rowdy, inventive children. I was the oldest, then Mike, Nigel, Rachel, Eliot, Ethan, and Alexis. Grandma and Grandpa's cabin meant sleeping on air mattresses and giggling late into the night; card houses that covered half the living room; board games for hours; swimming and sunburning every day; fand adventures in the untamed outdoors. Each year, we begged Grandpa to take us for a ride in his 1967 Volkswagon Dune Buggy. Seated on the back of the car's frame and clinging to a safety bar in front of us, we screamed and shrieked as Grandpa tore around corners, up and down inclines, and occasionally drove straight up the mountainside along a rutted dirt road that seemed nearly vertical on the way back down. It was terrifying and exhilarating--our special treat. Star Valley became synonymous with family and with all the adventures and games and good food that came with being a member of a large and loving family.

In the early mornings, I would wake up in the upstairs loft and blearily pull myself over to one of the tall windows facing the front of the house. I watched as squirrels--our favorite one named Chester--chittered and squawked at each other, spilling birdseed from the feeders my Grandma tended. Birds flew in to peck at the seed, chirping their aubade to the morning. My favorite were the chickadees whose calls I soon learned to recognize: chick-a-dee-dee-dee. Every year, it seemed a new herd of deer had adopted the area and most mornings I watched a few of them quietly meander through the yard, ears pricking at the sounds of human life from within the cabin. One summer, we were on the alert to see the moose my grandparents claimed had wandered through several times. We caught glimpses of it through the shadowed trees and trumping through dense underbrush, but my mom was somehow always absent for these sightings and insisted that we had made it all up. It became a long-standing family joke that "faith precedes the moose." In the evenings, I sat with my mom and her parents on the porch, slathering mosquito spray over my bare arms and legs, while irridescent hummingbirds darted through the pine boughs to fight over one of the several feeders around the house. Nature, the natural world, wildness were all around us, taking away from the human worries and fears that I kept with me, allowing me just to be.

The first several years at the cabin were devoted to exploring all that the Star Valley Ranch and small surrounding towns had to offer. We hiked through the mountains, discovered small streams and quiet copses. We golfed, fished, and swam in all three of the public swimming pools. We went to the RV campground and rode the "bumper boats," boys declaring war against the girls, until we were too big to fit on the soaked rubber seats. We found favorite restaurants in Afton and Thayne and we visited the cheese factory that closed about ten years after we started going to Star Valley. We went horseback riding and several times made the hour-long trip to Jackson Hole. In the winters, we went sledding every day on the mountain roads leading to the cabin. Our favorite hill was a quarter of a mile long road that ran steep and straight and gave us hours of exhilaration and screaming as we occasionally crashed into the snowbanks lining the road. It didn't matter if we crashed or made it all the way to the end of the road--we always went back for more. It was a child's simple pleasure, the pure delight of freedom.

Once the novelty of exploration had worn off, we looked forward to the familiarity of activities, places, and people. Going to the cabin was comfortable, a retreat and respite. It had become a second home. We learned the rhythms of the house and recognized the sounds of where we were. It was quiet without traffic or busyness, but it was rarely silent. There were too many birds, squirrels, and above all, clacking insects to ever be completely silent. We loved to listen to the rain patter on the leaves and trees outside and plunk! on the tin roof above us. The wind was a gentle whooshing sound as it rushed past the tall pine trees surrounding the house and covering the mountain sides, usually bringing a much needed breeze to relieve the summer heat.

Only once did I ever hear complete stillness in the forest. It was late at night and the moon was full and bright, so bright that it looked like a muted spotlight had been pointed at the forest. I crept out of bed and went silently down the stairs and to the kitchen door. I let myself out, barefoot and in my pajamas, onto the front porch. I stood next to the stairs that led to the yard and driveway, leaning against the railing as I stared up in the silvery white moon. I could see the house, the trees, the mountains almost as clearly as I could during the day. It felt almost like I was looking at an undeveloped picture and at any moment the colors would start to appear before my eyes. I cupped my hands together and imagined the light was liquid, something I could drink and take inside me. It was then that I noticed the silence. The breeze had fallen away, the birds and animals and insects were asleep or burrowing where I could not hear them. The open space was too vast for sound to echo, and the slight scraping of my pajamas against the wooden railing or the padding of my feet on the porch were almost muted by the night. I rested, listening, breathing, drinking the light. I felt a presence beyond myself, something spiritual and sacred and very real. Aware of the mountains and pine trees stretching far above me, I silently greeted the world, unseen spirit to unseen spirit. Through the pine branches, I could see stars, glinting presences around me.

Nature Blog - Place Entry #5

Monday March 1, 2010 5:45 pm

Today I saw sunlight on Bridal Veil Falls for the first time this winter. Perhaps it's due to the lengthening days and the slow turn of the earth away from the North Pole, moving the sun a little further south every day. The pale orange sunlight was not strong enough to reach me as I stood looking up at the waterfalls, but it was there, illuminating the snow with a golden tint that stood in sharp, warm contrast to the blue of shadows.

Strangely, the natural light made the icicles look more frozen than ever. The direct sunlight made them less translucent and more opaque, winter's claws digging into the mountainside in defiance. I naively expected them to be melting in the bright light that has finally come after weeks of frozen gray, but no, they were clinging to the rock face more tightly than ever, immoveable, unchangeable, glowing, solid.

I thought I saw less ice and more cracks next to the bridal veil, but it might have been wishful thinking. The same large crack was there from earlier visits, but the snowpack below the falls looked as dense as ever before. The rushing water was crunching down the mountain, eating into the snow and ice, straining against what is frozen. I imagined its impatience with the long cold months, chomping at the bit to flow freely again. I know that's how I would feel.

Late winter and early spring often run together in Utah, trading off days and hours like the best of friends. It makes for some interesting days. We can have sixty degree weather for a week and then wake up Monday morning to six inches of snow. I've seen it happen, and no doubt it'll happen again this year. It dawned on me a year or so ago that it's actually a blessing that the weather freezes over periodically. If it warmed up and stayed warm, all the snow and ice would melt all at once and Provo would be flooded. With the schizophrenic weather, the melting can happen more gradually and we can stay dry.

As I looked up at Bridal Veil Falls, sunlight and rock and watter and snow and sky combining to complete the picture, I wondered how the picture would change in the next few days, and weeks, and months. How many more days of frozen icicles and when would the snow pack below the falls disappear, and what shades of blue and gray would the sky see before summer arrived to dehydrate all the colors? When would the colors seep back into the landscape?

As contented as I am with the evening sunlight on the waterfall and mountain rock and the glimmer of spring ahead, I know that one of nature's true allures is its unpredictability. And yet, it is also remarkable the same. The seasons shift and blend into each other, but it happens consistently. The weather may be something like playing roulette, but we can count on playing, every year. And though I know that eventually the ice will melt and Bridal Veil Falls will burst forth in a rushing, roaring cascade, I don't know when or how or what it will be like when it does. Nature certainly does know how to keep us coming back for more.

Nature Blog - Prompt Entry #4

Someone once asked me why there are seagulls in Utah. The question absolutely baffled me. Why wouldn't there be? Whoever I was talking to pointed out that they are SEA-gulls, sea birds, and Utah was almost a thousand miles inland. My mind struggled to comprehend a question I had never considered before. Why are there seagulls in Utah? Because....there are. I had never wondered about the birds that flocked menacingly at parks, eyeing the food and scraps of picnickers. The white and gray birds were everywhere, their raspy cries background noise to walks around the neighborhood, trips to the movie theaters, recess during elementary school. They were like the robins and sparrows that nested in my neighbor's pine tree. Why are there seagulls in Utah? Why shouldn't there be?

In fact, the California Gull is the state bird of Utah. It was made official by state legislation in 1955, but the bird had been a part of Utah's history since 1848. The Mormon pioneers first arrived in the Salt Lake Valley in July of 1847. Without delay, they hurried to plant crops and make the most of what was left of the growing season so that the next year, they would have enough food to support themselves. The next summer, however, their fields and crops were being devoured by a plague of Rocky Mountain crickets. Without the harvest of those crops, the pioneers would starve through the winter, and all hope seemed lost when in swooped flocks and flocks of seagulls to save the day. To those pioneers, it was a miracle from God. According to accounts, the birds feasted until full then disgorged and continued feasting on the crickets for several days "until the pests were vanquished and the people were saved." (Orson F. Whitney, http://pioneer.utah.gov/research/utah_symbols/bird.html) It became known as the Miracle of the Gulls. The Sea Gull Monument in downtown Salt Lake City commemorates that event, and I'm sure that naming the California Seagull as the state bird was also a direct result of that story.

Though that bit of folklore could be taken as the reason for the gulls' presence in Utah, it doesn't explain how seabirds are able to thrive in a land-locked state. True, the Great Salt Lake could act a mini-ocean, though it is much saltier than the oceans are because it doesn't have an outlet. As it turns out, California Gulls live and breed in lakes and marshes across the western United States. They migrate to the Pacific Coast every winter, but they don't need coastal climates or locations in order to survive. They eat insects and fish, but are also scavengers who forage at dumps and docks. This is the capacity in which we know the best here in Utah, and explains why they are so numerous at parks, schools, and parking lots.

It seems strange to me that a scavenger bird, often classified as a pest, would be the state bird of Utah, whose symbol is the beehive (for hardwork) and whose people are clean-living, frugal, and conservative. Yet when I close my eyes and listen to the wailing calls of the circling gulls, I can't help but remember what it is like to be far away from home. I remember what it is like to be divided between two places, two halves of myself planted in different landscapes. Year after year, the birds return to their ocean, home for a few months at least. Then back to the world of nesting and breeding and foraging and surviving. Many of those early Mormon pioneers came from the British Isles, and though they came willingly for their religion's sake, I'm sure they missed the sigh of the ocean, the salt of the air, the green of the hills when they heard the cry of Utah's California Gulls. They are scavengers, yes, but maybe they are also reminders of what is beyond, calling us back to where we have been, urging us forward to new adventures and heights.

Nature Blog - Place Entry #4

Sunday February 21, 2009 3:30 pm

February has days that are cold, gray, uninviting, and uninspiring. That is just the way of winter, and if there weren't days and weeks and months of such weather, we would be much less excited for spring. Today, however, is a winter day that promised beauty and light, making the cold glorious and the snow sparkle again. Mount Timpanogos dominates the landscape on days like this, the snow so clean and smooth on its crests and dips and the sky so evenly blue that it looks like a painted backdrop. I spend the day on the set of a movie, every breath fresh and every line even because of my surroundings.

As I drive my familiar route up the canyon to Bridal Veil falls, I watch as the mountains become three-dimensional, a process that still captures my attention and fascination. I have to remind myself to watch the road too. I notice the ridges that give Timpanogos its defining shape, the crevasses etched into the side facing Utah Valley, the carved out peaks. I remember what my husband told me after one of his geology classes.

"Did you know that glaciers flow?" He was very excited.
"What?"
"Glaciers aren't true glaciers unless they flow."
"But aren't glaciers frozen water? How...?"
"The pressure and weight moves them forward. Like, think of a river. If all the water froze but it was still moving..."
"Oh!" I exclaimed, the image and his words suddenly making sense. "Wow, that would really carve out a path."
"Exactly!" He was really excited again. "That's why Timpanogos is so disinct. It was carved out by glaciers and there might still be one up there."
"Oh yeah," I said, "when you hike up to the top, you have to cross it. Or slide down it, or something. The glacier. Yeah, it's there."
"But it's not flowing anymore. At least, they don't think so. It might just be a snowfield."

I had never before questioned the existence of the "Timpanogos Glacier" that I'd always heard about, but I did a little research after that. I found several reports of crevices that had appeared and disappeared over the years, lending substance to the case for an actual glacier that is still moving. However, during the drought years, nearly all the snow melts and leaves the "glacier" almost completely dry, which means it's probably a snowfield or a rock glacier. One site summed it up nicely: "By most definitions, Timpanogos Glacier is not really a glacier at all, but rather a snowfield. However, it has been called a glacier by climbers at least since 1916, so rather than break with tradition we will continue to call it a glacier here."

All of this runs through my head as I continue up the canyon, noticing the sharp lines carved into the sides of Timp that are mostly lacking on Cascade. Mount Cascade's sides seem convex, whereas Mount Timpanogos looks more like a bowl, steep sides with a scooped out middle, then flowing outward and becoming more gentle foothills. I can almost see where the glaciers had, millions of years ago, crunched and skidded and cut their way down the mountain's sides, leaving scars and spines and trails of jagged rock behind. It is strange to think of how vastly different this landscape would have looked millions of years ago. Strange to think it is old when it just seems timeless.

Driving through the winding Provo Canyon reminds me of the time it took to create what I see now. One of the most fascinating things about Provo canyon is the way layers of time are etched into the walls and rocks. The canyon walls and mountain sides have clear horizontal lines, compression and compaction literally shaping what I see. The darker bands where rock layer comes in contact with rock layer are thin, almost delicate, sensitive to the slightest jolt and jiggle of the earth's movement. The snow still rests on the stone sides, collecting along those linear breaks to highlight the earth's history. Just before I go around the last bend before turning off the main road, I see, as if for the first time, a curve in the mountain's lines on my right, a gigantic dip that defines the entire surface of the cliff before me. It is a geologic fold, a bending and curving of the elements. I try to put into words what it looks like: like a ribbon, like a slingshot, like frosting slowly dipping down the side of a cake. Like it is alive. Like it can be grasped, handled, stretched. If I were a demi-being, a god, a force of nature, I would be able to hold it and feel its irresistable pull. I drive past it, under the shadows of geologic forces that have been at work since before I can comprehend.

With my newfound way of seeing, I watch the water tumble down the side of the canyon, icicles still growing like lichen, and I wonder why the canyon wall behind the waterfall isn't more eroded. The flow of water hasn't stopped for winter, though it is partially frozen, and the freezing and melting of the water would be incredibly erosive, and yet the mountain looks untouched. The natural spring from somewhere above my eye line must have affected the shape of Provo Canyon, yet I can't see its fingerprints in the scene before me. I wish the snow would melt so I could see the shape of the canyon wall better.

I realize, though, that what I see is the result of thousands of millions of years of erosion and gravity and plate tectonics. The whole canyon has been carved out by the small Provo River, and perhaps once upon a time, the spring produced another river that slowly carved its way out and down until it became Bridal Veil Falls. I couldn't judge by what I saw now. Too much had changed, and events beyond knowing could really only be guessed at. If I could catch a glimpse of Provo Canyon or Utah Valley ten million years before, I probably wouldn't recognize my home.


[Here are some of the sites I found that were more useful than others]
http://www.summitpost.org/article/186144/100-years-on-the-timpanogos-glacier.html
http://www.utahtrails.com/Backcountry%20pages/Timpanogos.html
http://geology.utah.gov/surveynotes/gladasked/gladglaciers.htm

Nature Blog - Prompt Entry #3

Cascade Mountain watched over me throughout my childhood. He saw me play tag in the front yard, saw me ride my bike up and down the streets of my neighborhood, saw me climb and subsequently fall out of my neighbor's tree. Under his watchful gaze, I walked to school and later, waited for the bus. When I played imaginary games of unicorns and princesses and cloaked enemies, he indulged my fantasies and allowed himself to be the safe place, the source of magic, the eternal "far, far away." He was always, first and foremost, my playmate.

I could always gauge the weather by her looks and reactions. When she was frosty, snow catching on her sides in uneven lines, I knew to take a coat. When she was blanketed in white, I knew to wear my boots, too. When she was green, I looked forward to warmer, longer days, and when she grew tired of the heat and faded to yellow, I, too, wilted a little under the sun. She put on her brightest and finest colors for only a few weeks in the fall, but I danced with her and her falling leaves every year. She was a guide, a compass for my life.

An old friend, a constant companion, he was always there. He was firm and unyielding where he stood, and though the rest of the world might change around him, he did not budge. I took him for granted for most of my childhood, never questioning his complacency or patience. Overtime, I grew to recognize the cracks and wrinkles on his wide, large face and body, and when I close my eyes, I can still see his shape, mellow peaks and shallow troughs, rocky sides and evenly falling slopes, foothills that stretch out and make him three-dimensional. He was my protector, sheltering me through his familiarity and constance.

There were other mountains, other friends, but none that I recognized so immediately as Cascade. Their faces were vague in my mind, maybe one or two distinguishing characteristics standing out to me. Cascade, on the other hand, was almost as familiar to me as my own body. Though I grew up, it seemed she never did. She was as old as the hills and stayed that way, the years doing nothing to change her except her clothes. It wasn't until I left and came back that I saw what the years had done to her, millenniums of sun and wind and snow and rain. But she's still there, right where I left her, always watching and waiting with me.

Nature Blog - Place Entry #3

Tuesday February 9, 2010 9:45 am

I was as confused by the weather this morning as the weather seemed to be. At first, I thought the translucent gray haze that hovered over every horizon was more inversion smog. We've had a lot of inversions lately, which are when the air closer to the earth is colder than the air above, which keeps the cold air from moving and traps any pollutants as well. This creates a heavy smog that can last for days and is terrible to breathe. It happens most frequently in valleys, which is why it is such a problem for our small valley here. However, as I got closer to Provo Canyon, I saw that the haze extended upward until it faded out the tops of the mountains. Those were clouds, pulled apart like cotton but still thick enough to blend the earth and sky together. They almost looked like they had snow in them, but the sun was up, though weakly filtered through the strange clouds. I wondered if it was a combination of low clouds and inversion air to make the weather so unsure of itself.

As I started up Provo Canyon, driving the winding four miles to Bridal Veil Falls, bits of cloud start to swirl around me, single pieces of white that seemed to appear out of nowhere. They had gotten lost on their way to the blizzards in the East, and looked almost like leaves falling from trees, individuals caught on the same wind. The sun was stronger in the canyon, slanting from across the mountaintops to illuminate the north canyon wall in soft light. The snowflakes were coming from the light.

I was able to spend only a few minutes outside. I started down the trail toward the falls, but the wind was sharp, freezing, cutting, and strong. When I turned back toward the car, I was walking directly into the wind and had to fight for every step. I had come to observe, experience, engage with the natural world, but I had been turned back. Nature was too much for me today.

As I drove past the overlook for the falls, I caught sight of a small brown building, dilapidated and worn from disuse. It was all that remained of an aerial tramway that had been built in 1967 and traveled to the cliffs above the falls where a restaurant had been. The tram was the only way to get to the restaurant, and was known (though not confirmed) as the "world's steepest aerial tramway," rising at a 45 degree angle and then a 65 degree angle before reaching the top. My parents could remember watching the six-passenger tram travel up and down the canyon. I had never seen it myself, because it had been destroyed by two major avalanches, the second of which was in 1996. After the first avalanche, the tramway was rebuilt but after the second, the tram station at the bottom of the falls was abandoned. Nature had reclaimed its territory.

I looked at the broken station and the bits of history left over, and I was very aware of the towering walls of the canyon, their rocky faces, their presence and weight. I watched the powerful flow of icy water pound down the mountain, and I noticed that the wall of ice to the right of the waterfall had cracked, a huge piece starting to slide away. All around me were powerful forces: ice, water, snow, rock, and the pull of the earth. Human power was so little in comparison.

And yet, as I turned my car around and returned to the hazy valley, I wondered if the inversion would affect the air quality if we weren't producing so much pollution. Maybe our power and effect was significant after all.

Nature Blog - Place entry #2

Saturday January 30, 2010 3:30 pm

Today is the first time I've come to my place when it's been sunny. Last Saturday I came during a massive snowstorm and I didn't even get out of my car; the snowflakes were rushing past the windows in white streaks, the wind was bending tree branches back and forth, the temperature was dropping swiftly. Today, however, the cold seems to settle lightly on my hair and coat and jeans, seeping so slowly to my skin that I hardly notice. The sun is already descending toward the western horizon, but it is still bright, with the snow's glitter adding to the light. I have to squint as I crunch down the path toward Bridal Veil Falls.

I am following many sets of footprints, but I'm alone on this trail. The bare branches of trees cast shadows that are lengthening as I walk among them. The air smells cold. It is crisp and numbing and distinct. I can still hear the cars speeding along the highway, but louder than that is the Provo River to my left, a sound barrier between me and the road. It's only a river by virtue of it's being in the desert--it's only ten to fifteen feet wide on average. Its rushing rustling seems louder than usual, perhaps magnified by the cold. I break a new trail in the snow to overlook the flowing water, and am fascinated by the ice skirts that have formed around the rocks. Even the river isn't immune to winter.

The mountains tower above me, lifting my eyes to the bluest of clear skies. The peaks are rocky and stark against the sky, softened only by the slanting sun and the blankets of snow. They are majestic, secure in themselves and their place. Their horizonal lines of rock speak for centuries of history and change and stability. I notice cascading levels of icicles, the "Stairway to Heaven," on a shaded cliff face. They are bold and huge and intricate at the same time, seemingly cemented to the rocks and each other. I wish I could get closer, touch their frozen sides and edges.

A new sound filters through the river's hissing: it's moving water, but higher-pitched, distant, hushed. Bridal Veil Falls is still crescendoing down the mountain from the natural spring high above. It is two levels (a "double cataract" waterfall), and while both are still flowing, the second level (the "bridal veil") seems diminished by half. As I round the last corner and face the falls directly, I can see how much has frozen to impede the normal roar of the tumbling water.

The falls trickle down into a pool that has a layer of ice over it, broken only by a few rocks and the force of water still flowing. Just above the pool, where the water slopes more gradually, snow and ice cover the rocks but the movement of the falls can be glimpsed through small patches. A subversive continuation of motion, in spite of winter's grasp. I step back and survey the whole picture, waterfalls and icicles, flowing water and frozen pond. It is beautiful, nature at its most stunning, frozen but still flowing. Fighting against the season to remain true to its nature.

Nature Blog - Prompt Entry #2

My Home Tree was an accidental find. I wasn't looking for a place to settle and put down roots; I just wanted to take a pretty picture. I am forever looking for that "perfect" photo opportunity--a walk lined with trees, blue sky through vibrantly red and orange leaves, untouched snow molding itself into drifts and contours, clouds shot through with the gold and pink of sunrise. Stourhead Gardens in England (where part of the 2005 movie version of Pride and Prejudice was filmed) was one gigantic photo op. As I discovered in learning more about the history of Stourhead, the garden was actually designed to be full of breathtaking, picturesque, inspiring panoramic views. It was one of the first of many English estate gardens that were created to look wild and natural, while actually being carefully and purposely crafted. It was an odd juxtaposition of human interference and natural world.

Regardless of how it came to be, it was beautiful from every angle. I relished my stroll around the lake, taking dozens of pictures of the early morning sunlight on the water, of the rhododendron's fuschia and violet and magenta flowers, of the perfectly still back pond reflecting vivid blues and greens and dotted with lilypads. The garden infused me with a little of its calm and stillness. I was grateful, because that was not what I felt on the inside.

The day before, I had had a chance to check my email and found an email from my dad. The surgery from six weeks before hadn't caught all the cancer; there would be more drugs and probably some radiation treatment in the near future. I was glad to be kept updated, but I was on the other side of the world from my family. I didn't know when I'd be able to check my email next, or when I could call them. There was absolutely nothing I could do to help. Even if I were home, there wouldn't have been much I could do anyway, but being so physically separated from my family highlighted my helplessness.

As I reached the far end of the lake, I looked across the water at the Temple of Apollo situated on a hill and surrounded by trees. It was stunning--as I'm sure the garden's architect meant for it to be--and looked so very sturdy and settled. That was how I liked my life to be, and it was. I had my family as a support system, I had my religion to structure our lives. My father's continuing cancer felt like a break down of not only my family's solid relationships, but it felt like a betrayal of what we believed in as well. I had always been taught and believed that if I did everything I could do, and then prayed in faith, everything would work out and be taken care of. This felt like the opposite of that. I could see the Temple of Apollo reflected in the lake, the glassy surface broken by only a few ripples that managed to distort the whole image.

I continued my sojourn around the lake, thinking, feeling, pausing to take pictures every few steps, until I reached a part of the path shaded by a tall tree. There were tall green bushes with purple flowers--more rhodondendrons?--that bordered the lake. The early morning sun slanted through the leaves and branches to stripe the tree's trunk and roots with gold. It seemed sheltered somehow, and I stopped walking altogether, recognizing a beautiful picture. I snapped a few photos of the scene, then set the timer on my little digital camera and perched it on some rocks across the path and ran to get in the picture.

As soon as I settled my back into the curve of the tree trunk, leaned my head onto the mossy bark, and found natural bends in the roots for my feet, I felt something slide away from me. A release of weight, a lifting of fear. I smiled at my flashing camera, but didn't get up. I was not just comfortable, I was at ease, at rest. Somehow, the tree had absorbed my anxiety, my displacement, my doubt. Not only had something slid away from me, but I had slipped into place--my place. It was the center of the universe, the eye of the storm, my safe harbor, my refuge. The tree asked nothing of me, only that I sit and be myself. It was home in the truest sense of the word.

Nature Blog - Prompt Entry #1

I grew up in the small, conservative Mormon community of Orem, Utah. Orem is one of the two cities at the heart of Utah Valley (the other is Provo, where Brigham Young University is). Utah is a desert, so the valley floor is wide and flat between the bookends of the mountains that make up its border. Half of the valley is taken up by Utah Lake, but I never thought of myself as living next to or near a lake while I was growing up; it wasn't part of my life the same way the mountains were.

The mountains the surrounded my childhood were the boundaries for my world. They made up the horizons on every side as the sky reached down between the dips and rises of their peaks. The Cascade Mountains on the east were the closest to my house, and every morning the sky lit up with a kind of backlighting as the sun peeked out over the mountain. The other side of the valley would be bathed in bright, clear light before the sun got high enough to warm those of us who were closer to its base. The mountains on the other side of the lake and the valley were the Lake Mountains, and the Oquirrh Mountain range (OH-ker) was just beyond them, layering the distance. Mt. Timpanogos was to the north, the king peak of the valley at some 11,000 feet. I always thought that it looked rather like a stately throne, somewhere I could sit and rest my back against its side as I surveyed the whole of the valley.

My relationship to the mountains was one of security. They had my back, literally. So long as I could see the mountains, I knew where I was in the valley. They were my guideposts, my guardrails, a protection from whatever lay beyond them, and I loved my mountains. I loved feeling sure of the world's dimensions, of having definite boundaries.

The Mormon religion of the valley dominated the culture as well, and it is a culture made up of boundaries and guard rails, commandment and rules, black and white. I think the valleys were originally attractive to the first Mormons because of the offered protection--the Mormons had been driven from state to state, and finally settled in Utah to escape persecution. Mormons also believe in being self-sufficient and self-sustaining, and so being enclosed and somewhat isolated from the rest of the world suited them just fine. Utah Valley is so predominantly Mormon that we call it the "Bubble," even amongst ourselves--encased, protected, able to see out but not leaving.

For me, there is a strong connection between the mountain-surrounded landscape and the straight and narrow Mormon culture. I don't know that the one necessarily influenced the other, but it's hard to imagine Orem staying so entirely Mormon in a location less isolated. I grew up to be someone who enjoys some isolation and who depends in the security of her surroundings to be secure in herself. The mountains, though ever changing in the light, the season, the weather, were always there, always stable. Secure. Sure. And it is stability that I look for and need most in my life. Though I grew up sheltered, surrounded as I was by people and mountains who guarded me from the outside world, I never felt smothered or confined. I gloried in the freedom that came with knowing I was safe.

Nature Blog—Place Entry #1

Thursday January 21, 2010 10:30 am

When I decided on Bridal Veil Falls for my chosen "place" this semester, I hadn't gone to see it yet; what I forgot to take into account is that it is winter and though the snow may be melting in the valley, it's twice as deep and frozen up the canyon where the falls are. I also forgot that the falls would be mostly frozen, though that was actually a pleasant surprise because I've never examined them closely while frozen, and it's truly incredible. I'm excited to try to capture that translucent blue ice color in words. The last thing that didn't even cross my mind is that access to the falls is closed off because of the possibility of avalanches. And while I can't imagine a more up-close-and-personal way to encounter and experience nature, I'd rather not get caught in one.

So, that being said, I may spend more time in the parks next to and across the highway from the falls since the falls themselves are somewhat dangerous right now. I'm really hoping winter doesn't last too long, but it's Utah, so you never know. Two years ago, we got snow in the valley in May, so anything is possible.

As I drive to the canyon for the first time since beginning this class and choosing my "place," the heavy clouds of a fresh winter snow are still wrapped around the mountains. The western part of the sky is clearing, blue contrasting with white wisps still moving across the sky. As I drive toward the veiled mountains, I feel like I am driving into a shroud, something mysterious and familiar at the same time. The mountain reveals itself to me a little at a time, becoming more defined through the mist as I get closer. As I come near enough to make out the mouth of Provo Canyon (the space between Mt. Timpanogos and the Cascade Mountains), everything becomes three-dimensional: instead of being surrounded by a wall of gray-white, the mountains take shape, their foothills projecting from their bases, the steep sides of the canyon opening up. I can't the number of times I have driven this road, but today, it is new.

The road is winding but clear of snow and slush, and I watch for the turnoff to Bridal Veil Park. As soon as I turn off the main highway, however, the snow is four inches deep and even my snow tires are sliding around the corners. The parking lot has been blocked off with warning signs about avalanches, but I park my car next to the sign and get out to walk. Though the snow-covered branches of scrub oak remind me of Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening," the air is not silent. The sound of cars on the not-very distant highway fade in and out, and there is another rushing sound up ahead: Bridal Veil Falls. I'm not sure how far I would be able to go without snow boots, so I simply stand and look and feel the cold seeping into the fabric of my clothes, undoing the warmth of my skin.

When I get back into my car, I keep going up the canyon, wanting to see the waters that usually look like a wedding veil, narrow at the top but widening to a lacy pattern on the cliff face. They don't look like that now; most of the water is frozen. The water is too powerful to freeze entirely, but part of the upper level and most of the right side are icicles. The snow piled just off the road prevents me from getting a good look at how far the icicles descend down the mountain. There is something about the frozen motion, the stop of flow and rush and roar of half of the waterfall, that is the most mysterious and shrouded thing of all.

The best way to spend a holiday weekend

This past weekend, I went with my husband down to Torrey, Utah, which is just outside of Capitol Reef National Park. My family has a small cabin in Torrey and it's the perfect place to relax, which is what we did for three days. This picture is the view from the back porch--it's amazing! My photography skills don't do justice the richness of the red rock and blue sky that make the winter landscape seem alive. Torrey is a very small town, and it gets even smaller in the winter when tourism dwindles. This weekend, there were hardly any cars, hardly any people, hardly any noise beyond the cries of a few lonely birds. The absence of even the wind made the stillness complete, and though we didn't get to see any stars while we were there, the silence of the landscape gave us room to breathe, think, be.

Flash Fiction Story #6: Dancing

Dancing

    The consequence of it all was that the jeans never made it to the dryer, the sink was still full of dishes covered in spaghetti sauce, the dog's food bowl was empty, and the TV was left on. Water dripped through the open doorway and the wind blew the mismatched curtains away from the rain-spattered windows as laughter echoed through the open garage.

Flash Fiction Story #5: Empty

*Note: I did not write the original story, I only added the two middle paragraphs posted here. If you're interested in reading the whole story, it's called "Baker's Helper" by Cynthia Anderson and can be found in Flash Fiction Forward, edited by James Thomas & Robert Shapard.

Empty: Baker's Helper

    The next afternoon, the girl does not appear, which doesn't surprise you. You hate yourself, waiting, but she never shows up.

    You find yourself watching customers, examining them, weighing their smiles and frowns. You don't know what it is you are searching for, but one time you think you find it. You are crouched at the back of the display case, transferring éclairs from tray to shelf when you glance up. A pair of hungry eyes gaze at you from the other side of the glass. You stare at them, wide and unblinking. It is a minute before you realize the eyes are your own, separated from you by the bright glass barrier.

    That night, you dream about the park steps again, empty of sparrows this time.

    On the third night you're leaving Jimmy's after work when from the street you spot her inside Carducci's. The girl stands apart from the espresso drinkers, holding a basket of pizzelle. She brings the wafers to her nose, and you inhale anisette with her. You are dizzy, there on the dirty sidewalk, not knowing whose longing you are feeling, yours or hers.

Flash Fiction #4: Touching

Touching

    Their breathing was almost a tangible presence in the dark room, something separate from the two bodies lying close and warm. Their hands were touching, fingers entwined even in sleep. Their breathing was just out of synch—rising rising, falling falling. As the woman started to roll to her side, the man's hand instinctively tightened, keeping her in place. There was a pause in the breathing, like the silence after a slap.

Flash Fiction #3: Life Reduction

Life Reduction

Take some clutter in your life that is taking up space. Cut it in half. Cut it in half again. What you're left with is the essentials of the life you have lived.

(295 Words)

The piles of Liz's stuff were everywhere: a lanyard with a Jefferson High School logo, blue and gold Mardi Gras beads, a pencil holder that used to be a soup can, a coin purse in the shape of Big Ben, two decks of cards with pictures of Yellowstone on the back, a bouquet of fake roses, a dozen half-burned candles, Trader Joe's receipts from four years ago, plane ticket stubs from all of her flights in the last ten years (New York City to São Paulo, London to Prague, Venice to Madrid), a teddy bear from her father, photo albums for each trip she had taken, a box of more recent wedding photos, books that were falling apart from age and use—Nancy Drew, Black Beauty, Alice in Wonderland, Treasure Island—and paper of every size and color and shape: bookmarks, quotes, magazine articles, maps, journals, shopping lists, museum pamphlets, calendars. All of it surrounding a cross-legged Liz sitting on the living room floor.

George watched Liz rediscover each long-lost and utterly useless treasure with his arms folded from the edge of the room. "So, you planning on opening an antique shop?" he said, tempering his sarcasm with a half-smile. "Or maybe a junk yard." He eyed a pile of homemade Christmas ornaments. "You could sell some of this, maybe online. We could use the money. Save it up for later. If you don't, we're going to need a room just for stuff we don't need."

He was always talking about later, planning their future, worrying, watching. "I can't get rid of my memories," Liz said. She looked up from a box of dried leaves, brittle and breaking with age. Their eyes met briefly before George walked away, avoiding the piles of stuff between them.

(145 Words)

Liz's stuff was everywhere: gold Mardi Gras beads, Big Ben coin purse, decks of cards from Yellowstone, half-burned candles, plane tickets from the last ten years (New York to São Paulo, London to Prague, Venice to Madrid), teddy bear from her father, photo albums for each trip, Black Beauty, Alice in Wonderland, Treasure Island, maps, journals, museum pamphlets, calendars. And Liz. All on the living room floor.

George stood with his arms folded. "You planning on opening an antique shop?" he asked. "Or maybe a junk yard." He eyed the Christmas ornaments. "We could sell some of this. Save up the money for later."

He was always talking about later, planning their future. "I can't get rid of my memories," Liz said. She looked up from the box of their wedding photos. Their eyes met briefly before George walked away, avoiding the stuff between them.

(74 Words)

Liz's stuff was everywhere: gold beads, Big Ben coin purse, Yellowstone playing cards, plane tickets (New York, São Paulo, London, Prague, Venice, Madrid), teddy bear, photo albums, Treasure Island, maps, journals.

"You opening an antique shop?" George asked. "You could sell some of this. Save the money for later."

Liz looked up from their wedding photos. "I can't get rid of my memories." Their eyes met. George walked away, avoiding what was between them.

Flash Fiction Story #2: Missed Messages

Missed Messages

He said: Where have you been?

She said: Do you like my new shirt?

He said: You should have called. I was starting to get worried.

She said: Forty percent off.

He said: I've been waiting for you to get home to start dinner.

She said: New pillows, too.

He said: I was going to make candied chicken.

She said: The colors reminded me of that little B&B we stayed in on our honeymoon—remember?

He said: Your favorite.

She said: And the most adorable throw rug.

He said: What rug? You wanted to eat at six.

She said: Or was it a blanket?

He said: You always do this.

She said: I never buy pillows.
I'll go back tomorrow. I think we need one more.

He said: Can you return them? They look like the pillows in your mother's guest room.

She said: I always go shopping on Thursday, you know that. Except today I went to JC Penny and Dillard's instead of just Sears.

He said: Can we at least talk about it?

She said: What do you think?

He said:

She said: I didn't say six.

He said: I'm tired.

She said: You're not going to make the chicken?

He said: You know, we're still paying off that vacation to Hawaii.

She said: So?

He said: It's too late for chicken.

She said: Maybe I'll get my hair cut while I'm out tomorrow.

He said: I'm not even hungry any more.

She said: What about me?

Flash Fiction Story #1: Hit and Run

Hit and Run

    None of it would have mattered if the dog hadn't died. Not the soured milk left out all night or the missing sweater. Not the broken sink faucet or the fight over breakfast. Not the fact that Rob had lost his car keys and took Cindy's without asking, or the fact that Cindy had left the gate open when she rushed to catch the bus. But after they found Max on the road in front of their house, it all seemed to matter very much.