River Cities

Getting the chance to interact with the James River and learn about its connection to the city of Richmond has inspired me to look more closely at the relationship between the Mississippi River and the city of Minneapolis.

The Mississippi in relation to the James is much larger, and its watershed covers a comparatively vast area, but still, the cities of Minneapolis and Richmond are both located, similarly, strategically upriver from where they empty into their respective oceans.  And both no doubt owe their existence and survival to those rivers.

I was initially surprised at how long it took me to realize how similar, at least geographically, the cities of Minneapolis and Richmond are located in relation to their respective rivers.  If you compare the satellite images of Richmond and Minneapolis, they almost seem like mirror images of each other; the heart of Richmond is located on the north bank of the James, while central Minneapolis is on the southward bank of the Mississippi.  After really thinking about it, though, I began to realize why I had not immediately been reminded of the Mississippi when spending time on the James in the middle of Richmond.

I don’t live in the city of Minneapolis, (I live some fifteen or so miles away), so that could explain why I didn’t recognize the connection between city and river in Minneapolis more readily than I did in Richmond.  However, the more important reason that I didn’t immediately recognize the similarity between Richmond and Minneapolis is that the Mississippi just doesn’t seem to have as much importance to the city that it runs through, at least to my mind.  The Mississippi flowing through Minneapolis doesn’t seem to be such a central part of the city compared to the James flowing through Richmond.  The James seems to give Richmond an identity and a sort of vitality.  The Mississippi seems to do neither of those things for Minneapolis.

I think the reason for this is that there seem to be so few opportunities to connect with the Mississippi in the heart of Minneapolis.  When you go into Minneapolis and get an opportunity to look out over the river, you don’t see a mostly natural stretch of river like you do when you’re standing in Hollywood Cemetery looking out over the James.  Instead you see an almost absurd number of dams and locks.  There are so few places to actually experience the natural river in Minneapolis that few people do; really, the most recreation you can get out of the river in Minneapolis is by going on the bike trails that run on its banks.  The Mississippi River seems to provide a vast amount of utility for Minneapolis, but not much else.  Unlike the relationship between the James and the city of Richmond, the one between the Mississippi and Minneapolis lacks a certain level of human connection to the surrounding natural world.  Perhaps it did at one point, but no longer.  Now, after experiencing the James in Richmond, I really wish that connection was there.

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Open Reflection 1# James River – Pony Pasture

Rolling brown water. Roaring. Pounding. The coursing muddy water was everywhere and it had consumed everything in its path. This was not the same river I had affectionately called the James. There was no splattering of gray-black jumping rocks. There was no clear blue water. This was not the same river whose shores I had picnicked at. This was not the same river whose waters I had swam in. It was if it had been erased.

This muddy brown river was raw, bristling with power, and radiating strength. It was wild. My eyes found the old fallen down tree I had stood upon countless times. Water surged up against it, threatening to send it cascading away. It rocked back and forth and let forth a low creek, but was able to hold its ground.

The rapids I had gleefully jumped it had been overshadowed by bigger water. The whole river was a set of rapids.

At first I was shocked. I knew the river would be flooded, but I didn’t fully comprehend what that would entail. What I saw, was nothing I could have expected. Yet, although this was not the clear and gently flowing river I was used to seeing it was exciting and it was refreshing. It was power unleashed and truly served as a reminder that nature is not ours to control. We have constructed an illusory world in which we control the water ways. We use rivers and oceans for transportation, energy, food, entertainment, and even dumping grounds. Yet, I see now that water is a force to be reckoned with, and will not be tamed so easily. It is wholly unpredictable.

For example, against this harsh backdrop, low lying plants were sprinkled with icicles. Each branch was laced with beads of frozen water from top to bottom. This sight was simply surreal, and I could not take my eyes off it.

Nature never ceases to amaze me, not only by the raw power of the James, but that this power was used to create these delicate icicles. They are polar opposites yet one could not exist without the other.

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High water on the James

On Saturday morning, Molly, Jules and I drove down to Pony Pasture to see the James after the recent rainy weather. The water was as high as I had ever seen it and the rapids were violent and chaotic. The same river that just a few months ago our Earth Lodge class had serenely floated down in tubes was now thunderous. The normally clear water was brown because of all the sediment that the extra water stirred up and from the dirt brought in by runoff. It made a loud roaring sound as it crashed over rocks and a rhythmic lapping sound as it pushed against the banks by my feet, as though it were trying to escape its banks. Further down it had managed to escape its banks, turning the paths that wind by the river’s edge into gigantic impassable puddles, one of which had frozen over during the night. There were also icicles clinging to the roots of trees and small plants by the water’s edge, still hanging on even though the temperature was now far above freezing. Many of the trees that under normal conditions were safely on the banks of the river now had their roots and trunks largely under water. For a moment I wondered if this was bad for the trees, but I suppose that the trees are probably adapted to this, they wouldn’t have been able to live so prosperously by the side of the river if they could not handle the flooding caused by storms multiple times a year.
It is interesting to see the river in a state in which I don’t normally think about it. Before taking this class, I had tended to ignore the river in the winter; only really thinking about it during the summer when it had something to offers me, namely a place for adventuring and swimming. The same could not be said of all visitors to the river. Although they were nothing to match the crowds that you see on a nice summer day, we saw many people out for a jog, walking their dogs or just come to see the spectacle of the James transformed into a large violent river.

 

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Water Sheds are Our Homes

While reading through the various new posts from today, it’s becoming evident that people hold strong emotional attachments to the bodies of water by which they live. In reflection on the James, Lauren, George and Abbie are all brought back nostalgically to their homes and the bodies of water with which they hold dear to their hearts. I love the passage Lauren pulls from Shannon’s blog, which states something similar to what I’ve said, then offers her explanation for why this seems to hold truth so universally. It is undeniable that water’s paradoxical ephemeral nature and infinite cycling inspires wonder in humans. And water’s unique utilitarian and aesthetic qualities have kept it entangled with human life throughout history. To try to understand why water vexes us so, I felt a need to consider where I come from and the water that runs through it.

I have spent most of my life in a Seattle suburb called Issaquah. I’ve always loved my city because it rests between an enormous lake and the mountains; twenty minutes from the Puget Sound, ten from Lake Washington, and saturated through and through with creeks and ponds. I suppose this is the advantage of endless rain. My city is locally famous for our annual Salmon Days Festival, as throughout the Fall our town’s streams are filled with anadromous fish at the end of their migration and our streets with the smell of their decay. I’ve always loved the festival, and out of sentimentality, the putrid smell it’s held in. It’s something about salmon returning to my creeks – the creeks I feel I was born from – something about returning to the creeks they call home despite a life away. I guess it gave me a sense of permanence, because no matter where I end up, those flowing streams of water and their salmon inhabitants will always be there.

Of course, all it takes is a little geography lesson to know that this isn’t entirely true. Not only are rivers naturally shifting constantly, they are also easily subject to human destruction and manipulation. The construction of dams quite literally destroys river’s entire ecological system, including the migration of my salmon friends. And all the pollutants we enter into our environment find their way into those creeks, into those salmon. These pollutants are then carried by the fish and the streams into my lovely Lake Sammamish, then the great Lake Washington, and finally out to the salty Puget Sound. I guess it frightens me to realize that my neighborhood, nestled in a woody mountain overlooking the Issaquah Valley, is directly responsible for the heath of my watershed. It frightens me to realize that my quaint little neighborhood, which prides itself on its environmentally-conscious development, is unconsciously responsible for the health of it’s city’s pride. I really like the idea of defining an area by its water shed divisions, because at the end of the day (regardless of any sort of arbitrary political or cultural divide), we are directly connected through the water we share. I think I feel tied to the water around Issaquah because I know its means of recreational and practical use have birthed and shaped my identity at almost every level, but also because I know that the way I live my life is tied directly to that water’s health and permanence.

I suppose, as we wondered in class a few weeks ago, if our scope of a watershed is expanded far enough, we all reside in one world-wide water system that unites us all.

 

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Beware vs. Be Aware

Last week I spent some time on the bridge considering, among other things, the way our campus community interacts with the nature within its borders. In keeping with that spirit, I took a look at the river-related Collegian article mentioned in the syllabus, curious about our campus’s relationship with the James and how it may have changed (the article was written in 2010).
From the outset, the writer identifies herself as inexperienced and largely disinterested in the natural world, setting herself distinctly outside the group of people who take an active interest in the river. She admires “the science people, the hippies, the environmental people and the progressives” who explore and, particularly, help clean up the James, but has never found herself drawn to active involvement with it herself: “Sorry you’re sick, James, but let’s face it – I’ve got things to do.” She recounts a recent (and rare) trip to the river, in which she tripped on a rock and cut up the bottoms of her feet. It turned out fine, but with all the warnings she received from friends about the bacteria, rusty blades, and human remains that were likely festering in those cuts, it was the first time she felt directly affected by the pollution in the James.
Reading the article was, in many ways, a disappointing experience. It’s always disheartening to hear the outdoors positioned as an inaccessible mystery, and to see people who are clearly somewhat informed about the ways our environment is “sick” still choosing not to do much about it. She reminded me of a talk I heard recently about Nature Deficit Disorder, which we associate primarily with school-age children—but clearly lack of exposure to nature, and the excessive nervousness and even fear that result, pervade our society much more extensively. The article advises readers to wear shoes to wade in the James and a “body-encapsulating water-proof suit” to swim in it, and in so many words it encourages us not to bother interacting with the river at all.
Had the article’s author actually consulted the information her well-intentioned hippy science friends had been offering her, she would have found what we did last week: except for a few days out of the year and after big storms, the river is perfectly safe for swimming. “I was cut and internally polluted by the James River, and now I know how it feels when we do it to it,” she writes. “Not fun – so, a resounding ‘right on!’ from me to all of those active members of groups and projects that help the river. Maybe you can help it be a bit less vengeful. I’ve already paid my dues, though, and now I also have injured feet, so I unfortunately will resume my position along the sidelines.” I understand that an afternoon hopping rocks in the sun isn’t everyone’s idea of fun, but one thing the river does not deserve is to be characterized as vengeful, as something to be avoided except by a small group of enthusiasts with dreadlocks and nothing better to do. I think it’s important for Earth Lodge to keep this in mind as we become a kind of liason between our campus and the James—to appreciate, understand, and help protect the river ourselves isn’t quite enough. With good information and planning, getting involved outdoors in some capacity can be enjoyable and valuable even for students like this writer. I think Earth Lodge has a critical role to play in demystifying the natural world for our community as a whole and encouraging our peers to develop a healthy relationship with their habitat.

Here’s a link to the article: http://thecollegianur.com/2010/09/02/the-james-river-beware-of-what-lies-beneath/12778/

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The Reedy

The Reedy River: the birthplace of Greenville, home to the annual Greenville Ducky Derby, a place where I’ve spent many relaxing Saturday afternoons, and a river that has flown  alongside me my whole life.

Just as the inhabitants of Richmond have grown up tied to the James, I too grew up alongside a river. The Reedy River of Greenville is a little different from the majestic James. While the James spans an extensive 358 miles, the Reedy  spans 65. While the James begins its journey in the Appalachian Mountains and pours into the Chesapeake Bay, the Reedy arises in the Blue Ridge Mountains and flows back into the Saluda River. While the James is, for most of the year, perfectly safe to swim in, sometimes people are urged not to put their feet in the water of the Reedy (I do it anyways). While the James is filled with rapids, spanning from class I to class IV, the Reedy has very few. However, while the Reedy River is far from being as majestic as the James and lacks many of the features that attract so many people to it, the Reedy still holds an important place in my heart. In her blog post “Change of Pace” (http://blog.richmond.edu/james/2012/04/22/a-change-of-place/), Shannon says, “Anyone who’s grown up near a body of water can attest to the gradual and unalterable dependency that develops between a sea, bay, lake, or river and its denizens. Everyone has their own explanations as to why this is, but I believe it’s primarily owing to the quality of water as moving and alive, which allows those who interact with it to experience by extension its perpetual shifts and flows . . . Over the past few years, I’ve experienced significant changes in my life. At their core, these changes can be traced back to the places I’ve lived.” I don’t think she could have said it more perfectly. As I have grown up, I have developed a strong connection with my surroundings, and the Reedy has been very much included in that. The Reedy has been there throughout the flow of my life, from my childhood to my awkward middle school phase to young adulthood. From being the tumultuous ocean for my miniature raft I had to construct for challenge class in fifth grade to providing the perfect patch of grass for a picnic with my friends to offering the perfect spots for exploration and reflection.

Learning more about the James River, a river that is starting to become another important body of water in my life, has inspired to me to learn a little more about the river that has watched me grow. Some of what I found was disheartening: the Reedy River is the most historically polluted river in South Carolina. As the textile industry in Greenville grew, the river was used to dispose of waste from the factories. At one point, the river even ran a different color everyday depending on what color dyes the textiles were using, and the river was also receiving sewage and urban runoff. After a clean water act was passed and the water quality of the river began to improve, a pipeline burst and more than a million gallons of diesel fuel were released into the water. This wiped on almost an entire food chain on part of the river. However, since then the Reedy has come a long way: people are constantly working to find ways not just to improve the water quality of the river, but also to revitalize the area around the river, which gives me a lot of hope.

http://www.friendsofthereedyriver.org/

Learning more about the Reedy has shown me again how much I don’t know about my surroundings (there seems to be a theme here). It has inspired me to learn more, which I can only hope will strengthen my connection with the world around me.

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Similar Cities

As I begin to think more about how the city of Richmond relates to the James river, I can’t help but  make comparisons between my hometown of Austin, Texas. The city of Austin is split by the Colorado River.  As the river crosses through central Texas, dams turn the river into a series of large lakes. Lake Lyndon B. Johnson, Lake Marble falls, Lake Travis, Lake Austin, and Lady Bird Lake (Town Lake) wind their way into metropolitan Austin. These large lakes (up to 30 square miles) support year round recreation for people including fishing, boating, swimming and kayaking, as well as some (but not all) drinking water. Downtown Austin hugs Lady Bird Lake, and provides beautiful vistas. Surrounding the downtown section of the river is a large park for all kinds of recreation and acts as a buffer between the lake and the developed city.

However, many differences between Austin and Richmond are obvious. The James River is certainly more natural than the Colorado. Unlike the James, the Colorado is consistently dammed. The James has a pretty natural flow. If it the dams were not there, the Colorado would be much less significant and less utilized for human use. It is hard to say which is better. Additionally, the historical reliance on the James is much more significant than the Colorado. In its infancy, the James was the heart of Richmond. I cannot say the same of Austin.

Currently, another significant difference occurs between the two watersheds: rain. Central Texas is currently in a severe drought. The lakes are significantly below normal level, and has caused other significant problems for ranching, farming and ecosystems.

Is Austin a river city? Technically the lakes are part of a river, but they are definitely viewed as lakes. I would call Austin a river city. The river provides an excellent source of recreation and keeps Austin Beautiful.

Bonus points for anyone who can name who the statue is of!

News about drought: http://www.kxan.com/dpp/news/local/austin/lcra-discusses-issues-facing-central-tx

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Being a pebble

After our field trip to Belle Isle, my mind kept flashing back to our guest speaker’s description of what he did for his thesis. I found myself to be entranced by the idea of the rock cracking due to the subterranean forces at work. Over the course of millions of years, the granite slates that we had been standing on solidified and inched their way to the surface. The snippet of information that I found to be the most interesting came from his description of how the potholes were formed.

The thought of a pebble falling into a small hole, swirling around and eventually making room for a larger pebble until an almost perfectly spherical hole is cut in the granite amazed me. So much to the point where in the majority of my classes on Thursday and Friday, the thought wandered back to me at some point. I’m not entirely sure why. It could be because for the longest time, I had no idea what the holes were from. I think I assumed they were drilled in by humans for samples or something else of the sort. The spheres were too neat to be formed otherwise, right?

As I’ve reflected more on the creation of these potholes, I’ve come to realize that in the same way they are formed, organizations and human interactions are born and flourish. Whether it is social interactions or the sprouting of an individual organization, it all starts with one person as the grain of sand to make a bigger gap for others to fill. In our latest SEEDS meeting, we met with one of the people who had been with SEEDS the first couple years of its existence and was “instrumental in where SEEDS is today.” He described it as being a simple service project the first couple of years, and then after they realized its importance in the community, they worked to make it a lasting project—which was comparable to taking on another major according to him. The work and dedication he and others had to put in to make it a lasting project was the first step of erosion on the hard surface of the community. Without that drive, SEEDS wouldn’t be where it is today—an organization that keeps looking to give back and educate themselves and the community.

I think in the end, being the sand or the next pebble to fill the hole is what we all look for. We all look to make a difference by either starting our own pothole or making another more spherical on the large slabs of society. In that way, we are no different from the particles of earth floating down the river innocently looking for their place.

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Proud to be a Richmonder

I’ve lived in RVA since I was in kindergarten and yet since I came to the University of Richmond, I realized how little I knew about my own hometown.  I’d gone to some of the museums a few times on field trips and with family, I went to baseball games at the stadium when the team was the Redskins instead of the Flying Squirrels, and I had only been to the river a handful of times.  Now that I am living in the heart of Richmond, I realize how much this city has to offer and I’m proud to be a Richmonder.  Although I grew up on the West Side in Short Pump, I’m now getting to know the great city and river that are just beyond my comfort zone and I love it.

For one thing, there is so much culturally that goes on in the city.  Carytown abounds with artsy and eclectic shops and the VMFA is stunning.  Also the sense of community is amazing, with annual events like the Ukrop’s Monument 10k and the Watermelon Festival that bring the people of Richmond together.  The history of Richmond also fascinates me and now that I’m in the city, I see the places of historical importance and monuments of historical figures that I learned about back in elementary school.

One of my favorite parts of Richmond, however, is the nature that runs through it and the river that is such a large part of it.  I have been to Maymont Park is a part of Richmond that I always love to visit.  The hills, trees, animals, flowers, and waterfalls in the middle of an urban setting is such a welcome sight.  Also, a few minutes away from that piece of the natural world is the James.  I’d been to the river a few times before coming to college, but now I’m learning so much more about it and how it is such a large part of the Richmond community.  People come to the river to relax, to go on adventures, to fish, to have fun, and to be inspired.  Now it is easier for me to see how people’s identities can become tied up in their environments.  I feel connected to the river in a sense, because I realize how much my fellow Richmonders and I depend on it and I see the crucial roles it plays in the city of Richmond, as a natural resource, as a source of insight, and as something to be explored.

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Changing Identities

On Saturday morning, Meeps, Nat and I decided to go down to Pony Pasture to see what the James is like when it’s flooding. What we found was this: The James River- February 2nd, 2013

I was absolutely amazed. I can’t count the number of times I have boulder hopped/swam at Pony Pasture, and the river had completely covered any and all boulders my friends and I have lounged, played and picnicked on. Only a few months ago a few Earthlodgers and I boulder-hopped and swam across the river relatively easily. Now anybody who tried would have a death wish. Rivers by nature are ever-changing, but it astonished me exactly how different the James looked in my eyes.

As I sat by the river listening to the roar of the rushing water, I couldn’t help but flash back to Jenny’s presentation during our last class, when she talked about the river’s various identities to the native American tribes that lived by it. There was no one name, no one role the James played in each of the tribes’ lives. The river initially had no fish, but when the fish came, the role of the James shifted for all of them. It seems to me that though we all see the James differently, when it changes drastically and turns from a peaceful, serene part of our lives to a slightly scary one, we align for a little while. That trend also seems to be followed during other, more destructive events. Hurricane Sandy, for example. It equalized the New Jersey inhabitants whose lives it affected. The earthquake in Haiti in 2010 is another example. Plopped down beside the rushing James, I felt humbled. All it took was heavy rainfall to transform my favorite spot in Richmond into something that terrified me. I felt small. It was a wonderful yet nerve-wracking reminder that there are things far beyond our control, and that those things have the ability to shift our visions to align. Which is something amazingly powerful.

 

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