During our hike at Henricus Park this past weekend, what struck me the most was that humans had found a way to directly alter the flow of a major waterway like the James River, to literally bend such a significant landform to better serve our transportation needs. I’ve seen dams, mountaintop removal sites, and countless other illustrations of the edits humanity makes to its natural surroundings by sheer physical force—but after a semester focusing on what an integral role the James has played in shaping our area’s history and identity, witnessing firsthand the way we’ve exercised our own forces to alter the shape of the James itself was bizarre and illuminating. In class, we’ve discussed the paradox of life centered around a river, but we’re constantly encountering new manifestations of it.
The power dynamic between a community and its river is ambiguous and endlessly intriguing. We rely on the James for our most fundamental survival, but we impose our technological superiority over the natural forces that shape it, so that its movements and ours become inextricably tied. Living and studying in a community like this, it’s easy to recognize the river’s significance in our lives, and our significance in its life, and begin to take that mutuality for granted. But we can’t lose sight of how far away even a city like Richmond remains from a widespread, genuine understanding of our place in the James River watershed. In one of my blog posts, I responded to a Collegian article about one student’s relationship with the James. It’s a stunning example of the trepidation and fundamental misunderstandings with which many Richmonders approach the James. Not everyone looks forward to an afternoon out on the water, but to leave unacknowledged the integral role the river (and water, more broadly) plays in our community’s livelihood is like denying the importance of infrastructure, or air, or light—counter-productive and counter-intuitive.
We can’t study our watershed community’s relationship with its river without considering its relationship with water in general. Our reading on The Science of Hydrology points out that in developed nations like the US, we take potable and accessible water almost entirely for granted. Not only does this mean that we don’t tend to acknowledge our dependence on these resources, but it also leaves many of us with minimal regard for our own actions’ effect on the water that surrounds us. I see it all the time from my reflection spot on the bridge—casual tosses into the lake of cigarettes, half-empty beer cans (not to mention half-full beer cans), and bicycles, and everything in between. And even beyond our more visually obvious acts of destruction to Westhampton Lake, it seems clear that our campus has a long way to go before it achieves a truly harmonious relationship with its liquid environment.
Working at ETC, I have a rare window into the general UR student mind, which seems not to understand very clearly where its water comes from. I don’t think there’s a single item I sell more frequently than giant plastic bottles of SmartWater, because it contains magical delicious electrolytes that will render the drinker, yes, smart, and because it comes in a shiny package and is therefore much cleaner than tap water. “I can taste the difference,” customers say. “I can feel the difference. Tap water is dirty. Tap water is dangerous.” SmartWater’s label boasts that its product is taken directly from the clouds, pure as can be. Where do its die-hard fans think the rest of our planet’s water comes from? And why are they convinced that our city’s tap water is harmful? Municipal water sources are quality-tested multiple times a day—I’ve been chugging tap water since I arrived in Richmond and I feel pure as can be. Rural towns in developing nations feel incredibly fortunate to have one public source of potable water for the whole community to share, and here in an environment in which we have virtually limitless access to drinkable water we regard it with fear, spending extra money and adding harmful plastics to our watershed’s burden to avoid it.
I hope I don’t come off as indignant for indignation’s sake (I generally work mornings at ETC so every water bottle I sell is also infused with an all-pervading grumpiness that’s entirely unrelated). Part of the value of this course itself, for me, is recognizing how little I truly understand about hydrology, about the concept of a watershed, about place. It can be easy to feel like I walk among the enlightened ones around here (We Terracycle, my friends. Fight the good fight.), but then we stroll for ten minutes around the campus I call home and I discover a creek I’ve never heard of before. I’ve got so much to learn about my place, and about ways we can conceptualize place itself—I’m really looking forward to developing in my understanding of our identity as watershed inhabitants as the semester goes on.
One facet of this continuing discovery of my habitat will be the final project we’re about to start working on. I’ve signed up to focus on bicycle trail options. I’m not a serious cyclist by any means, but I’ve grown up spending my summers in a tiny town in which bikes and feet are truly the primary modes of transportation. I love that atmosphere, and I hope I can contribute to the development of more bicycle and pedestrian resources in RVA. But one aspect of the project that really excites me is the opportunities a more extensive trail network could yield for UR students to discover their natural surroundings, to question their role in their habitat’s continued healthy functioning, and to grow as a campus community in our understanding of water and watersheds. I can’t wait to see where this project will lead, beginning this week with our discussion with Jakob Helmboldt, the city’s coordinator for bicycle and pedestrian initiatives.