Geography of the James (Earth Lodge)

On Friday when I saw it was snowing I decided to walk around the lake on my way back to my dorm.  When I got to the opposite side of the lake from Lakeview I decided to sit on a bench that is located right on the edge of the lake off on the path.  This is a place on campus that I have sat a lot over the last year and a half but I had never sat by the lake in the winter, much less when it was snowing.  I noticed how quiet the lake was that day.  The surface was beginning to freeze over in parts and the ducks and geese were nowhere to be found when looking at the lake.  After a while I noticed a group of 4 or 5 ducks huddled up under some bushes sleeping or trying to stay warm and dry.  I also noticed that the trees were finally completely bare.  I noticed that in the fall many trees changed colors but not of the leaves would actually fall off.

Everything I could see began to accumulate a layer of snow and the number of people I could see walking around campus began to decrease.  I decided to finish my walk around the lake and when I reached the gazebo I noticed that someone had pushed a chair out onto the middle of the frozen surface of the lake.  I honestly found this extremely funny, it seems that even in extremely cold weather when it seems like no one is out and about, students still find ways to make the lake a central part of campus and student life.

I know it’s a little cliche, and that saying so is cliche, but for me the best place to reflect is without a doubt the gazebo.  It’s early now and I’m already there, treating myself to a cigarette because I just spent the whole night studying.  Dhall doesn’t open for another half hour, and the sun hasn’t even neared the horizon; the black sky could pass for midnight.  There isn’t any noise right now, maybe the noise of cold if there is one, yet I neglect to put on my headphones; the quiet is nice.  A think, swirling fog creeps over the lake, illuminated by the full moon. It is like a raincloud in itself, and I’m sure it could make rain if it were but a few feet higher from the ground.

It is mid-day now and I find myself back at my spot, talking on the phone to my grandmother to whom I have not spoken to in a few weeks.  I am glad to say I would not do this in another situation, but could not help but find myself straying as I’m on the phone; the lake is too nice.  A parent and her toddler are throwing bread to the ducks, as the grumpy geese make their way over to see what they can plunder.  The sun’s rays are doing their worst on the thin layer of ice on the water; it recedes ever so slowly.  A few geese who were not enticed by the bread were busy snacking their way through the slush that separates ice from water; I assume they like the texture.

I am sitting on my bed now, but I wish I were at the gazebo.  Nothing would please me more than to be able to sleep out there, every night.  Maybe when it gets warmer.  I admit to myself that my place of reflection could be more original, but there must be a reason for so many people liking it.

On Friday, we got a few inches of snow, which was very exciting and made the ridiculously cold weather a little more bearable.  That day, I only had one class in the morning and was not feeling too well (like 99% of campus), so I decided to use my spare time to rest in bed and watch the snow from my window.  I actually watched the snow for a solid two hours- which is not particularly remarkable because I often find myself focusing on little things for hours without realizing.  This was a good reflection time for me because it was the end of the week, and I was very exhausted.  On top of being sick, I was anxious about the track meet that I had to wake up for the next morning.  The snow accumulating on the ground seemed to white out all of the stressors of my week.

Anne and I were talking in the room about how the snow didn’t look like it was falling at all, just floating and fluttering like snow in a snow globe.  During the 2 hours of snow-gazing from my window, I fell into a Robitussin-induced delirium and imagined myself taking a break from a European ski vacation:

After hours of immobility, I decided that I was not dying and that it was time to rouse my senses.  I put on some boots and trekked across campus to pick up a package from the post office.  While cross-campus walks are typically burdensome, this one was not.  I instantly became Frodo during that snowy mountain scene in Fellowship of the Ring.

Walking through snow is a rare and fascinating experience for me, being from Virginia Beach.  We’ve probably had less than 10 major snows during my lifetime- and by major snows, I mean anything that sticks to the ground.

I was entranced by the powdery snow.  I ended up walking to the Westhampton Green because I had no desire to go back indoors.  I was spinning around aimlessly and alone in the -100 degree weather like a crazy person.   Looking around at all the white, snowy plushness was amazing.  It was like our whole campus had a surprise White Party like P. Diddy throws each year.  It felt liberating to be completely disconnected from my phone and other technology- it was just me and the snow (actually, texting with gloves was just difficult).

I guess I had two reflection spots this week:  one was my bed and the other was the Green.  They were both very important for me to reflect and escape to a magical winter wonderland.  It was great that I ended up feeling well and was able to enjoy the snow first hand, not just from my bed.  I am a true believer that reconnecting with nature is an effective way to relieve stress.  It was a truly wonderful thing to experience the snow the way that I did.  🙂

The stream is barely more than a thin thread after it leaves the spillway, so the fact that it grows to about twelve feet in width just a couple of hundred feet from the road surprises me greatly. There is no doubt that the sudden change in size is due partly to the constant stream of water flowing from a nearby drainage pipe, but the difference between the two parts of the same body of water is still remarkable. The pipe that feeds the small pool on the edge of the stream seems to run directly under the facilities warehouse and parking lot, and I wonder if it simply collects any water that cannot seep through the impervious surfaces of our campus’s infrastructure, or if it is the end section of a smaller stream that starts somewhere on the southern side of our campus. I am guessing that the latter assumption is the correct one, even though I have never seen any hint of a stream on that side of our school’s grounds. I was, however, unaware of the two streams that feed our lake, and so it is entirely possible that there is a part of our watershed that I do not know.  Whatever the case, it is an excuse for exploration!

The stream itself slows dramatically when it reaches the small pool, although that is probably due to the fact that its depth seems to increase at this point as well. Just a few feet further down stream, the tempo of the water picks up again as the riverbed shallows, and as the water shallows out and rambles over small rocks, it begins to make noise. The noise from this section of the stream and the constant rush of the water falling from the drainage pipe to my right are the only consistent sounds in an otherwise silent environment. Every once in while, a bird will make its presence known or a car will growl as it trundles up the nearby hill, but these noises are rare.

The only thing more perceptible than the steady gurgle and rush of moving water is the striking visual dichotomy of the landscape. If I keep my head down, and focus on the stream, all I can see is the water and surrounding flora. As soon as I look up, however, I can see the abrupt lines of the parking lot and warehouse, along with several cars and pickup trucks, perched right on the edge of the stream’s steep bank. How much do of these seemingly separate environments influence each other, for while they appear drastically different, they are clearly connected not only by proximity, but also by the water that runs from one down into the other.

The water flowing from the parking lot into the stream no doubt carries traces of pollutants, and is perhaps part of the reason that I see no signs of animal life in or around the small pool. The visible lack animals, however, could also be due to the fact that it is still winter, and perhaps as spring rolls around, I will get the chance to actually see some animals scamper about or drink from the stream. While there is currently no evidence of animal life, plant life is clearly abundant. The banks are crowded with an intense and complex tangling of brambles, vines, grasses, bushes and even small trees. I unfortunately do not recognize most of these species, but I do see the stark white of a sycamore, the lingering brown leaves of a young oak, and the fuzzy vine of poison ivy.

After today’s observations, what stuck with me the most was just how dynamic water is, and how quickly it can shape the landscape around it. The stream changes shape so rapidly after it leaves the dam, and as it falls out of the drainpipe, it carves a deep pool in the steep hillside. Its noise overpowers all others sounds in the area, and it has the ability to connect two seemingly dissimilar environments.

Our first field trip inspired me to go back to my newly discovered inflow to the Westhampton Lake. I thought seeing that miniature waterfall that flowed into the lake was a powerful reminder that the lake was a real, flowing body of water. I decided to go back for a second visit. A wintery combination of cold weather and a touch of snow significantly changed the landscape. Much of the previously brown forest floor was covered in a light blanket of snow. Patches of leaves and moss protruded from the snow like small islands from the sea. The cascading water receded since my last visit, but still produced a noticeable flow of falling water. The creek shores drew the frozen water about halfway out on each side. The landscape had slowed down.

The presence of the snow and ice might be unsavory for many people, but I relished it. Blue skies and mild winters typically categorize my hometown this time of year. I found myself taking in all the intricacies of the ice and snow. Watching melting snow in the sun even seemed interesting. Finding a large rock at the water’s edge, I was able to get adjacent with the iced creek. I spent time seeing how strong and think the ice was. Despite the simplicity of the activity, my perch by the creek entertained me.

Although I was clearly on campus, sitting at the creek made me feel like I was elsewhere. I almost temporarily forgot I was on campus. Facing away from campus, I did not see the baseball fields. I saw the creek and everything else off campus. The road propelled cars one by one through my line of vision, oblivious to my presence. Their significant distraction was buffered by my fascination of winter weather. Besides the cars, I surprisingly felt very much like I was in nature. The proximity of the road and houses surprisingly did not detract from my experience.

This visit to my reflection spot was a rare one. Seeing this spot covered in snow and ice is likely an event I will not see again. It certainly contributed to feeling separated me from campus. I look forward to seeing the land change as the seasons pass.

**I have some cool pictures, but I cannot upload them for some reason. I am working on it.

My reflection spot is in the woods behind the tennis court. After wandering through the woods, my boots crunching over gravel and snow, I settled on an upturned piece of a log where three gravel paths come together. I sat and fidgeted and tried to think of something to say, restlessly demanding of myself to come up with something worth blogging about.

I was reminded of one of my favorite places back home, Lake Conestee. Lake Conestee is a small nature park near my house. All through high school I volunteered there with my environmental club, where we fought a never-ending battle against trash and kudzu. If you kill the vines of kudzu it will grow back. Instead you have to dig deep into clay and yank up the node, whacking at the roots with metal tools. It was exhausting and itchy, but satisfying. When I first got my car I would go to that place a couple afternoons a week on my way home from school. I would climb the trees to do homework and walked on the trails till I could find my way without a map. At the heart of the park the sound of cars became indistinct. Although I didn’t put a name to it at the time, this was my reflection spot.

Sitting in the woods on campus I contrasted the places in my mind. The vegetation was similar, similar trees and shrubs. Behind the tennis courts the cars are not muffled, you can see them flashing down the road and when you turn away you hear them whip past periodically. But, when I force myself to pay attention, I can hear the sound of a woodpecker and the wind blowing through the trees. It takes a conscious effort to notice nature on campus.

From where I was sitting I could see a fallen down tree chopped up by a chain saw. It had fallen across the path and lay with its roots unearthed and sticking up into the air. The trunk had been chopped by a chain saw, broken disjointedly into sections. It wasn’t until I had been sitting there for a while that I realized that the wood I was sitting on had once been a part of the tree, the part that had lain across the path but had been moved across to allow people to cross.

I though about the tree that had fallen outside of Lakeview during a snow storm just a few weeks before, and how quickly it had been taken care of and removed by maintenance. What would our campus look like if we didn’t hire people to take care of its upkeep? If we allowed the grass to grow brown, the kudzu to crawl in and the bodies of dead trees to decompose where they lay? How quickly would we return to a state of nature?

Oak trees hum softly behind me as a cool breeze rustles their crackling brown leaves. After the past week of freezing weather this gentle breeze feels almost warm. It smells almost like spring. Various birds sing, some emit soft quick chirps, others let loose more elaborate melodies. Squirrels chatter loudly as if entangled in some sort of argument. Cars thunder past in the distance, emitting a low rumbling roar, which reaches a peak as they pass, and then fades softly away. Ice stretches out before me, enveloping the lake, like a starch winter blanket. Near perfect ovals perforate this deep gray cover wherever a fountain is found. Dark regions of ice reach out spidery arms, which (look remarkably like the neural cells we cultured last semester – shout out to cell bio!). Did these patterns form when the ice was pierced by human interference, or did this occur naturally?

Closer to the shore the ice is slowly retreating. There is a curious geometry to the ice. Straight lines, shards, lay parallel and perpendicular creating transient shapes. They remind me of the math blocks kids used to play with in elementary school

I take a closer look. Pure white air bubbles lay trapped beneath the surface, along with an oak leave collaged with multiple shades of brown, sandy colored pine needles, and a green spotted piece of bark.

Though I try to focus on the ice, I cannot help but be drawn to a majestic loblolly reaching out over the pond. Bands of light race across its bulk, traversing from branches to needles, as if choreographed to some primordial pulse. My eyes sweep the lake, searching for the source of this ethereal cadence. Ahah! It must be the reflection of the sun glancing off ripples from the lake. I smile slightly at my discovery.

From afar the ice is beautiful, yet up close it is breathtaking. Walking along the path to D-hall I appreciate how it glistens as the sun dances off its surface. Yet, I miss the little things; leaves half frozen, and the intricate patterns created as the ice freezes and refreezes. It seems natural to sit here and write, yet I wonder if I hadn’t been given this assignment would I have still had this opportunity for discovery and reflection?

It’s easy to say I will sit and reflect, yet it is another thing entirely to take the time to follow through. There is so much beauty in the world, but many times we are too focused on the big picture to notice the small intricacies life has given us. Take the time. It is truly worth it.

I had several questions as I was sitting outside, yet wasn’t able to work them into the body of my post. If anyone else is curious here’s one below!

Why don’t some oak trees lose their leaves in winter?

http://northernwoodlands.org/articles/article/why-do-some-leaves-persist-on-beech-and-oak-trees-well-into-winter … the text below was copy and pasted from the article

“Retaining leaves until spring could be a means of slowing the decomposition of the leaves (they would rot faster if on the ground) and that dropping them in spring delivers organic material (think compost or mulch) at a time when it is most needed by the growing parent tree. Even small amounts at the right time could shift the competitive advantage toward these species on poor sites.”

“Others suggest that retained leaves, particularly on young trees and the lower branches on bigger trees, is an effective means of trapping snow like a fence, leading to more moisture at the base of the trees come spring. Still others have hypothesized that persistent leaves might provide some frost protection for buds and new twigs over winter. And at least one study suggested that marcescent foliage could be a deterrent to browsing by deer and moose. Buds hidden by clusters of dead leaves do not get eaten and thus live to become new shoots and leaves in spring.”

I walk across the first half of the wooden bridge, pass the gazebo, cross the second half and come to my reflection spot; a dirt path to the right at the end of the bridge.  I realized that I have never set foot on this path even once since going to school here.  Now that I think of it, it is one of a few places that I have never fully explored on campus.  I decide to take a few steps up the path, until I get a good view of the portion of the lake cut off from rest by the bridge and gazebo.

There is a thin layer of ice that stretches across this part of the lake.  From what I can see, it is currently the only part of the lake that seems to be icy.  The ice is pockmarked with cracks and holes.  Each of them individually seem to originate at a point, a single hole in the ice, and then branch out cracking in all directions.  They remind me of something, but I can’t place it at first.  Then it comes to me, an image washed in pink on an overhead projector in biology class.  They look like neurons.

I look across the lake at the remnants of the snowfall on its banks.  Behind me into the forest I see trees with bare branches that seem to scrape the reddening sky.  They remind me again of those pink neurons, jutting out from the rigid trunks.  To the left of me across to the opposite bank are two willow trees; their drooping branches look stringy and dry.  Eventually my gaze falls inevitably upon the squarish object floating in the lake, trapped by the ice.  It is a familiar gray trash can that can be seen in almost every building on campus, and… it’s in the lake.  I can’t help but wonder how strange this is.  Seeing trash in the lake is bad enough, but seeing the thing that you put trash into in the lake?  That’s like littering to the second power.

Something pops into my head, a bitter, sarcastic advertisement, a slogan, as well as the person who stupidly followed its direction:

Westhampton Lake, not only a good place to dump your trash, but also a great place to dump the trash!

So this evening I pulled on my puffy jacket and found my one left glove (no idea where the right one is, besides definitely not in my room) and walked down to the lake to pick out my reflection spot. I started walking back towards the creek we examined in our first class because I liked that I had never really been there before that class. I ran into George who was also looking for a reflection spot. Well actually he had found one, now he was just throwing some rocks onto the frozen creek before starting. I was pleasantly surprised to see the creek had frozen over and decided I wanted to sit as close to it as possible. I saw a tree sticking out of the bank that had the perfect spot for sitting between a place where the trunk split off into 3 large branches. I worked my way down onto the spot, dangling my legs over the frozen creek and staring at the road before me.

I tried to tune out the sound of the cars passing by but was unable to do so. I wondered why that spot had appealed to me so much, and if I should move to a quieter spot. But then I realized why that spot was so attractive to me; it reminded me of the tree in my backyard at my old house. Before we moved in 4^th grade we lived in a house that had a huge (well what I thought was huge) tree in the backyard that was perfect for climbing. Several times my mom would walk outside and find me reading books up in a branch of the tree. I was never a huge tree climber, but I ALWAYS climbed this tree because it felt so natural to me. And that’s why this new spot by the lake appealed to me so much; it had a very similar sitting spot that reminded me of my old memories.

As I let these thoughts pass through my brain I got increasingly frustrated with the cars. I would not let them ruin my spot. Why hadn’t they just turned into background noise like most traffic does when I’m sitting somewhere on campus? Finally I decided to turn around and put my legs up on the bank and lean against one of the 3 large trunks. And like magic the cars faded into the background noise I was used to. I realized that because I was looking at the road the added visual stimulation made me focus on the cars more than just the whooshing sound does when I can’t see the cars. I was satisfied with my spot finally, just in time to see George emerging from the woods and heading back to Lakeview.