Geography of the James (Earth Lodge)

When we walked here last Wednesday on our lower lake walking tour, I picked this spot to write these posts. I love gardens. It’s one of the few times I think nature and civilization really work in tandem, at least when done correctly. Sometimes farming strips the land, but not on a little plot like this. And not when the gardeners garden properly. Gardening can add to the land, and help sustain civilization. And encourage peace between the two frequently warring factions.

Right now it’s quiet, but in a loud kind of way. People are mowing the golf course. The Chapel is having some sort of construction done. There’s is a man working in the garden as I type. And some patrons of the golf course are milling around, supposedly golfing. But no one is talking to me. Save my iPad which I type this on, there’s no technology to distract me. No Internet. A hawk just flew past. He’s probably the most well informed thing here with his bird’s eye view. (Yay for bad jokes.)

The dominating sound is the cicadas, crickets, various insects, and a pitch a higher than that, the chirps of what I can only assume are the little brown birds. I only picture those coming from lbbs unless I know otherwise. That outlook probably has something to do with being a product of traditional civilization, where the only creatures of flight brave eough to venture to and fro are those tiny and easily disguised enough to not be bothered.

The section of the garden I’m sitting closest to on my decrepit little bench looks fairly well off, if maybe a little neglected. The tomatoes look like they’ll be readying few weeks. Other than that the only plant I can readily identify are the fall flowers, marigolds I think? I could be wrong about the name, but I know those smallish many petaled golden orange flowers as well as I know my childhood home. Which is to say not that well since I no longer live in that home and no longer have a garden or flowers of my own. In the relative wild outside the fence are some bright yellow flowers and what looks like orange honey suckle, but I’m probably wrong about that identification. I’m not good with names of flowers or plants for the most part, which I kind of prefer. If the plants don’t need names for each other and the animals don’t need names for them, when I’m just sitting and trying to participate in nature without disturbing it, I don’t either.

I love sitting outside like this. I used to do this every night with a cup of tea in my backyard. That right there is part of the reason I wanted to do Earth Lodge actually. My backyard opens onto a forest-park with just an old wooden fence separating us. It’s beautiful and peaceful and loudly quiet at night, just like this, with the softness of the moonlight caressing the silhouettes of the trees. Contrarily, the sunlight here now if much more vibrant and lively, highlighting the bees buzzing around the maybe-honeysuckle and the mosquitoes biting my ankles. It is just as serene, but in a way that keeps me awake with the sounds and sights of so many interconnected lives.

Although, the longer I sit here, the more the sounds of the lawn mowers and construction frustrate me. The gardeners don’t frustrate me at all though. Either way, I find back home and find now that picking a sound, one that isn’t the most obvious, like the stupid lawn mower, and focusing it so all others become dull in comparison, is quite an effective way of meditating, and doing the participating I mentioned. I wanted to write this blog post first, so I wouldn’t have to have the impending work on my mind as I meditated. And with the tree insects just breaking into their late summer song, I think nows the perfect time to go off and do that. So with a warm breeze, in the crux of late summer and fall, harvest time, I’m going to go meditate by this garden. And despite the overwhelming evidence of human interruption, it will be lovely. You know what, maybe even for that. I am an interrupting human after all.

I knew at the very first mention of a “reflection spot” exactly where my spot would be: Belle Isle.  Former Earth Lodger Anne Coglianese and her co-leader, Emma Thomson, first introduced the place to me last fall through a trip with our living-learning community, Westhampton College Outdoor Adventure.  On our little excursion, we hiked through the woods on a path that took us to building ruins on a less-visited portion of the island.  We clambered onto the rocks, which, on this side, take up more space than the water does, and we snacked on cookies.  We gossiped and took in the scenery, all agreeing that it was nice to get away from the University for a little while.

However, this is not the exact place I chose to be my reflection spot.  While I know our reflection spots are supposed to be quiet and tranquil places, something I have learned about myself over time is that I do my best thinking while alone in the presence of others.  Because of this, I chose the more populated area on Belle Isle.   I walked over the bridge, veered right along with the path once on the island, and followed the path past an inland body of water and to a smaller area on the rocks that is a little more isolated.  It’s not part of the long stretch of rocks that people frequent most often, but down the path a little further so not as many people head there, but it’s still populated enough for the likes of my reflective intentions.

I plopped myself down on a rock and took in my surroundings.  I sat on a large rock at the waters edge, my toes in the cool water, and all around me children were swimming in the water, a black lab puppy struggled through some grass only slightly taller than it was as its owner snapped priceless pictures, and kayakers headed through the rapids in small white-water kayaks, pure enjoyment on their faces mixing with the bright sunlight.  I love Belle Isle for the fact that every time you go, you see different types of people all headed into the “wilderness” for the same reason: to escape for a bit.

The one most significant image that stands out in my mind the most, though, is not actually from my reflection spot, but from the journey back over the bridge and to my car.  The image is that of crossing back into “civilization,” and perhaps one of the best depictions of just how Richmond is built on the James River.

I’ve now seen Belle Isle in the early fall, before the leaves change, and during the summertime.  The prospect of visiting again multiple times throughout the year excites me because I will get to see the island go full circle through all of the seasons.

My first thought as I arrived to Pony Pasture for my first visit was “Why haven’t I been here before?!”. Just a 4 mile drive from campus along a beautiful road that follows the James River is a turnoff to a common swimming area on the James called Pony Pasture Rapids.

Pony Pasture Rapids

I spent a good part of this past summer in Richmond and somehow never made my way to this part of the river. This is mainly why I chose this as my reflection spot and I’m glad I did because it’s become one of my favorite parts of the river.

I walked a short ways down the path to a spot on the rocks away from other people. I sat down and just observed for a while. I took in the light breeze coming off the water, the feeling of a late summer evening, the sound of geese swimming on the opposite side of the river…

From the banks of the river

This part of the James River is located just upstream of the city of Richmond. Its southern banks are lined with large boulders that lead into the sandy-bottomed, shallow swimming area. Many types of riparian tree species grow between the rocks like River Birch, Sweet Gum, and Black Willow. A few tiny clam shells are scattered along the bottom of the river. A dragonfly dances around my hands as I take notes in my field journal. Across the river is William’s Island, an uninhabited 100-acre area that can be reached by swimming or paddling across the river.

A view of William’s Island from the opposite bank

Captain Christopher Newport may have passed through this area on foot in 1608 as he led an expedition in search of gold. This area was part of the land the colonists claimed for their king. Today, it’s a popular spot for kayaking, swimming, painting, and general recreation. The road leading to Pony Pasture is accessible by walking, running, and biking and the Class II rapids offer a great spot to launch kayaks, canoes, and floating tubes.

For me, this spot offered a nice way to get away from the campus and school work for a bit. I drove to Pony Pasture for this first visit, but I will definitely be biking here on a lazy Sunday afternoon in the near future.

Driving along Riverside Drive (James River to the right)

For more information about the park, I encourage you to visit: http://richmondoutside.com/destination/pony-pasture-rapids-jrps/

All pictures were taken by the author and information about the park was taken from the above website and signs posted by the James River Park System.

For a supposedly peaceful island, it sure is noisy here.

Gazebo Island has many visitors, each contributing their own sights and sounds to the landscape. Runners’ feet thump against the wood of the bridges; children and their parents chatter in the gazebo; geese and ducks squabble over the bread crumbs tossed to entice them closer; a lone, ever-patient boy swings his lure into the lake with a plop, although I can’t imagine many fish will be near to take the bait.

Then there are the multitudes of color, from light green to dark green; yellow bursting through the gaps in leaves; the reddish brown of the pine needles. And perhaps the most disheartening color I’ve seen in a while; the murky green-brown of the lake itself. From the far side of the lake it appears as if a giant had made a mirror for the sky, but up close there is a far different tale to be told. Filled with waste matter from runoff, goose poop, and algae, the lake is not a pleasant sight up close. How much of anything can live in such slow-moving and turgid water has always surprised me. Yet, life goes on for the lake residents; sliders slide, geese attack the innocent, and the occasional fish bubble meanders to the surface. Now that is a small miracle.

Humans have always considered ourselves the great adapters of the world, but perhaps a better word would be conquerors. In Western culture, at least, we don’t change our habits to each new place we encounter, instead we change the place to suit our habits. In contrast stand the species that managed to survive our more or less hostile take over. The most famous, or infamous, may be the raccoon; rummaging through garbage with ease and terrifying cats galore. But the ones who have likely encountered some of the hardest going have been the water creatures. In almost every metropolitan area there is a polluted river; beyond drinking and general cleanliness standards, interrupted by dams up and down and ripped of riparian zones. But not a single one is unoccupied. Herons still fish, frogs still croak and fish still swim. And that small miracle of adaption is demonstrated in a small scale by Westhampton Lake. It’s easy to see and hear, if you look in the right direction.