Tuesday reflection

Tuesday after work. I am
camping with Stephen at Shinleaf,
on the Mountains-to-Sea Trail,
after he has spent much of his day
slowly moving himself and many
surprising (to him) pounds of gear from
Bayleaf Church Road, about
ten miles away. Tomorrow,
he will walk another thirteen to
Rolling View and await pickup
after I finish work. An experiment
in carrying everything you need and living simply.

He is tired and sore, but clearly pleased with
his accomplishment. Yet he’s puzzled to also
feel somewhat disappointed, and I see it
gnawing at him. I let him talk
but don’t say much, allowing him
space to think more and return later.

As for me–I sit outdoors at 8:45 pm
watching the waning sunlight,
an early bedtime whispering the
sweet promise of rest before the
sun rises on Wednesday. And I can
tell you that I feel content
with this ordinary
yet extraordinary
evening.

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FORECO Daily: Whiteside Mountain

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Alan Weakley asking our crew of 8 students to assess the unique seepy rock face below the Whiteside summit. This unusual community has too little soil for trees and takes a constant beating from rain and ice, but it makes an ideal habitat for other species, some of them rare. In the foreground you can see stately Turk’s cap lily, aptly named Lilium superbum. The hula hoop was my idea for a teaching exercise and so far has raised some hilarious questions and looks from fellow hikers.

2017 Forest Ecosystems

For the next 2 weeks I’ll be teaching my summer field course, Forest Ecosystems of the Southern Appalachians, at the Highlands Biological Station with my friends and colleagues Julie Tuttle and Alan Weakley. It’s my 7th time here: 1999 as a student with Tom Wentworth and Dan Pittillo, as a teacher in 2005, 2007, and 2009 with Tom; and 2013, 2015, and now 2017 with Julie Tuttle and Alan Weakley. There is always at least as much learning as teaching in this course. As always, we have what looks to be a great cadre of 8 students from a mix of backgrounds and experiences; we’ll also have several guests with us who will contribute their knowledge of ecology and conservation.

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Field notebooks from 1999, 2005, 2007, 2009, 2013, and 2015, with a new one for 2017.

Field courses are fun and intense. We often have 10-12 hour days in the field and students will earn their 4 credits in two weeks’ time. Our evenings (as instructors) are spent reflecting on the day’s teaching, what worked and what didn’t, assembling gear and planning for the next day, and checking directions. It is pedal to the metal.

We are leaving for the Smokies early tomorrow for 3 days. I’m especially excited about the second day of our trip, which Julie planned, to see some of the sites that burned in the severe fires that hit Gatlinburg, TN last fall with Rob Klein, the leader of the Fire Effects crew for Great Smoky Mountains National Park, and hike a new elevation transect on the Trillium Gap Trail.

A few stats from past courses: ~900 miles driven, 13 days in the field, 27 sites visited, 40 miles of hiking, 80-page field notebooks filled by each student with their take on the day’s events and each site visit.

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Sites we’ll visit, color-coded by day. We project a good illusion of organization. 

I need to get to other tasks and the wifi is sketchy here, but I do hope to post a daily photo like I did in 2015. To find those, search Forest Ecosystems in the search box.

There’s always something new in Forest Ecosystems: the new sites we’ll visit above, a neat cove forest I found outside of Franklin, trying out a new assignment and teaching strategies. I love the dynamic teaching and knowing that things will happen that we don’t expect and we’ll be adjusting accordingly. Stay tuned!

 

 

Summer plans

This summer will be how I always intended to live,
Mapped out neatly in my notebook next to the scribbled to-do lists,
Allowing me to breathe in the sauntering, unstructured days of summer.
Filled with possibility and unmarred by the daily grind.

I shall go to bed early and sleep until I am rested.
I’ll nurture my family with meals we make together
With the summer bounty from local farms.
We’ll eat and laugh around our table, sharing our joys and woes
With space for deeper conversations, too.

I shall ride my bike to work, and give away things I no longer need;
Walk gently on the Earth, with pauses for wonder.
Appreciating my abundance with austerity and generosity,
Recalling that time is the only currency worth seeking.

My neglected summer garden
Will be raucous and beautiful, yet unsullied by weeds–
For I will work in my garden for an hour each day.
[I shall call it “happy hour.” Or maybe “half hour.”]

I will read a new book every week, and they will all be worthy
With thoughtful words, fiery ideas, and deeper meanings.
Words will flow from my own fingertips, and they will be precise and uncluttered,
Arranged with perfect balance and cadence and clarity.

I shall run any day that I wish, and soak in the company of friends
Like roots pull nourishment from the soil, and we will linger
Over jokes and earnest conversations with steaming cups of coffee
In the humid early mornings, just after sunrise.

I will seek joy and deliver it with intention to others,
Open my heart, to allow love to wash away the shattered bits
Love without expectation or fear for tomorrow’s woes,
Like drinking deeply from a clear mountain stream
Remembering only the cold wetness the moment it touches my lips.

Then I will awaken and notice the goldenrod flowering
The last brood of Carolina wrens has fledged,
And the sticky days of August are upon us.
Summer days stole by on silent yet swift feet,
Gathering into weeks that were surprisingly busy
And months that disappeared without a trace.

I’ll shake my head and laugh at my Quixotic optimism,
Roll my eyes at my silly, navel-gazing privilege
That enables such dreams and noble intentions.
Nonetheless, I’ll treasure those found moments, and promise myself

That next summer will be different.

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Sick Day

Creeping out my back door on a perfect day in May,

Body aching, still in sweat-soaked pjs at 10 am;

Weak and dizzy from an unplanned, day-long fast,

Screeching red-shouldered hawk pierces my pounding brain.

 

Wind moves the tender spring leaves of white and red oaks;

I sit in filtered shade, cool wind evaporating sweat on my forehead;

I hear chickadees, Carolina wrens, and a pair of barred owls;

Raucous, joyful noise surrounding a quiet body and throbbing head.

 

I watch two blue jays share a tasty morsel;

For me, a piece of toast, no jelly,

Plus half a cup of black coffee—enough to prevent a headache crescendo,

Austerity seems best for a raging belly.

 

A gorgeous day for working in my garden, or running on trails,

Meanwhile my muscles ache like I’ve done both;

[I haven’t, of course; I’ve been in bed for the past 15 hours.]

Frustrating, to waste this perfect day.

 

Instead, I sit quietly (and queasily),

Listening to the drum of a red-bellied woodpecker,

Watching for the upside down nuthatch,

Absorbing the soothing green canopy and cooling breeze.

 

I don’t feel much better, but perspective helps.

Maybe patience is the lesson nature is teaching me today.

From my chair, I can see tulip-tree flowers, high in the canopy,

Sighing, I know that it’s a lesson I won’t remember long.

 

The shifting sun aims its rays on my face,

My head can’t take the blinding brightness, so I head back inside;

Pausing to scan a nearby sweet gum for the cardinal I just heard calling,

Accepting, reluctantly, the gift of stillness, and the healing pace of nature.

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