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.