Getting my feet wet as a novice naturalist

So after 22 hours of instruction at the Canaan Valley Wildlife Refuge, I realize that becoming a Master Naturalist is an awesome responsibility. Not only does it involve a lot of study, both the book kind and the field kind, but I need to find the right niche for volunteering. There are enough opportunities to keep me busy day in and day out, but I don't think that trail-blazing is my speed, and I balk at the idea of working with kids, though why that is, I don't really know.
I could catalogue specimens or write for the newsletter or do presentations or plant trees, even make up my own volunteer activity, as long as it's approved and is something that allows me to give back the knowledge I gain to others in West Virginia. Already I've signed up for the refuge "block party" in June and to help with a group of sixth-graders from another county who are visiting Blackwater Falls State Park in May, as well as to make some contributions to the refuge newsletter.

The week-end was tiring and inspiring, both at once. But getting out in the field this morning, donning the muck boots and venturing into the wetlands under the experienced hand of a young, female biologist who is a walking encyclopedia about everything wetlands, was the highlight of the week-end. Just being in the presence of several species of plants that are making their last stand right here in the Canaan Valley was an almost sacred experience. Seeing evidence of the earth healing itself is exhilarating, but its got its work cut out for it after centuries of disturbances from both man and insects. And the deer damage is evident everywhere.

Fortunately for all of us, there are incredibly talented people working every day to save our planet. Some are being paid, and some are volunteers, but their dedication is inspiring. I just hope that I make the grade. When I am in doubt, I look at photographs like the one below -- done by a professional photographer, to be sure -- called "Glory." That's the sun setting in this beautiful valley. I just hope that the sun hasn't set on the delicate ecosystems and amazing biodiversity that's still hanging on here. I just want to do a small part in keeping it around a while longer. As I said, it's an awesome responsibility.

Gratitude

It may seem a bit unusual to use a quotation from the Buddha to illustrate the quality of gratitude during Christians' Holy Week. But all of the world's great religions -- and even those who practice no religion -- wouldn't survive without giving gratitude a central place. Without it, we can't begin to practice humility, and without humility, we can't begin to recognize the work and daily presence of God. Practicing gratitude daily, even hourly, will open our hearts and minds and often heal our many heartaches.


At the beginning of Lent, while at my Methodist Church, we were invited to pick up an ordinary stone from a pile of them in front of the sanctuary. While we couldn't see what had been written on the bottom of each one, we were also invited to use comtemplative prayer, centered on the word written on whatever stone we chose. Mine said, "forgiveness," and I thought, "Wow. God really knows what I need." Holding a grudge is a lot like carrying a large stone or an albatross around our necks. So I've carried that small forgiveness stone through my court hearing and all of the other flotsam and jetsam I've been wading through. 

Now I'm mentally carrying another smooth stone called "blessings," and it is a constant reminder to practice gratitude -- for getting Zach into safe harbor, for not being homeless, for my family, for my dear friends, for my church and church family, for the strangers who have befriended me and lightened my load, and mostly for God's grace and the way She has been at work in my life. 

This week began with a walk in Cathedral Park on Sunday morning, where I stood in a "cloister" of hemlocks and observed the beauty of the earth; then on Monday attended a reverent and inspiring funeral service for Mary Ellen's father at the Catholic Church in Athens, where memories are in every brick in that town and around every corner; spent some time with Rita and Don who always take me in so lovingly; last night attended a Baptist Church dinner at the invitation of my new neighbor downstairs and was surprised to find a re-creation of a Jewish Seder for Passover; and now am leaving for Shepherdstown where I will go to Maundy Thursday services at my beloved church there tonight; then attend an interdenominational Good Friday service tomorrow; hopefully see Beth the next day; and rejoice on Easter morning with both a sunrise and mid-morning service at New Street Methodist, among my dear friends there.


Gratitude comes easily for me this week. And those of you who read this are a big part of what I have to be grateful for. Happy Easter -- a time for new life and for resurrection. May your hearts be glad and rejoice with mine.

Blackwater Falls and other delights

After a heavy rain last night, the Blackwater River was gushing over the falls, drowning out human voices and pretty much everything else around. I was there in March about 10 years ago, when Loie and Momma and Daddy and Zach and I got a cabin and stayed there for a few days, celebrating (as I recall) Zach's release from his long detention and hospitalization at G.W. University Hospital. I never dreamed then that this winding path called life would bring me back this way, close enough to Blackwater Falls State Park to drive about 10 miles for a spring hike on a mostly cloudy last day of March.
The peculiar thing about the Blackwater River, something I've just learned, is that it doesn't end down here in the wetlands of the valley, as it appears to; but it actually begins here, rising on Canaan Mountain at an elevation of over 3,500 feet, going NNE and then turning WSW before it drops 62' over the falls in dramatic fashion and enters an 8-mile long canyon where it creates Class IV-V rapids and whitewater. Eventually, it finds its way to the Mississippi by way of the Ohio River. 

What makes it appear black is tannin in the water, leached from eastern hemlock, red spruce, rhododendron, and mountain laurel, and it's more tea-colored than black, actually.

West Virginia has an amazing array of state parks, and Blackwater is one of its crown jewels. But I discovered a new one last Saturday when driving to Aurora for the fine dinner and music Zach and I enjoyed; and tomorrow morning, on my way to Ohio, I plan to stop and take a short hike in Cathedral State Park, so-named for it's towering stand of hemlock trees.

In fact, it is "an ancient hemlock forest of majestic proportions and one of the last living commemorations of the vast virgin hemlock forest that once flourished in the Appalachian Highlands." Since I had such an excellent church service in the great outdoors last Sunday, I figure that a walk in Cathedral State Park is an appropriate thing to do on Palm Sunday morning. It may not be the giant redwoods, but from looking at this photo, I'd say it's going to be pretty spectacular! The trees are as high as 90' and over 20' in circumference, and they form "cloisters" in the park. Guess I'll pack my Bible and my walking sticks! I'm learning why this beautiful state is often called West "By God" Virginia.

Church in the wildwood

Yesterday morning, finding that the church I'd planned to visit was heavy on the concepts of "rapture" and the "Antichrist," as well as the belief that the Holy Spirit is an actual person, I decided to hold my own church service out of gratitude for ending up in a place that only God could have formed and reformed into a kind of sacred space. I headed out to hike into "the Sods" (the Dolly Sods on top of the mountain I can see from my window). It's that place often described as "a little piece of (northern) Canada, gone astray," a boreal forest with reindeer moss and other sub-Arctic flora.

Now, I'm in really lousy shape from too much sitting, eating, driving, eating -- you know what I'm talking about, most of you, so it was a real challenge to get up the steep forest road that is flanked by refuge land to the top of the mountain where the refuge ends and the Dolly Sods begin. These photos are proof that I did it -- quite a feat for an out-of-shape, elderly woman like me.
 And it was worth it to get to the top where the
sun was shining to beat the band, the birds twittering, and the path narrowing to a sort of secret passage into the Sods. I stopped to rest on a large rock before my descent, which took me under the clouds where a few raindrops plopped down, but I was rewarded by the sight of a large bobcat, walking languidly across the old forest road.


Knowing that there are black bears atop the mountains and that it might be near birthing time for cubs, I got out my keys and jangled them loudly to let any Mama Bear know that a visitor was in the area.


It was just what this lumpy body needed -- an hour and 15 minute walk in the woods. And it's as though that walk dislodged all kinds of stuff in my head that had been stuck up there for weeks. Mostly the debris of worry and anxiety, it was dumped out of the cobwebby gray matter. It didn't yield any real pearls of wisdom except for this one: Sometimes the "rapture" you need is found in a strenuous hike to the top of a mountain God made billions of years ago. And a walk in the woods is a simple thing that can rejuvenate the body and the mind.


I was glad to find my Tweetymobile waiting part-way down that steep road and thankful for the bottle of water inside.

Tree as metaphor

This old, gnarled tree is right outside my kitchen window, just a few yards from the side of the building. Its branches turn this way and that, many of them broken or missing from one side, and there are hollows inside the trunk and light brown, rough bark that looks weather-beaten and somehow worn out. It's beautiful to me, because even though it appears to be dead, it isn't. It's getting tiny bits of new growth here and there, and it is an incubator for owlets and a pit stop for countless birds.


Somehow, when I look out the window at this unsightly, old tree, it's like looking at myself in a mirror and seeing an exterior that is aging and graying and gaining new unpleasantries almost daily -- yet inside, there is still some sap of new ideas, new dreams, and that all-important sense of hope and purpose rising. That tree seems to be a reflection of me.


Not only do I watch for birds to gather in the branches and enjoy the birdsong that forms a chorus, but I know that an owl (and maybe its babies) are sheltered inside. It's a tree that should grow a tongue to tell its history -- all of the stories it has collected over the long years it has stood sentry here.


The very fact that I cannot tell you what kind of tree it is was a big contributor to my desire to enroll in the master naturalist class that starts next month. I feel an urgent need to start to put names and characteristics to all of the wondrous bits of nature I see all around me, for if I can't identify what it is and where it fits into the jigsaw puzzle of nature all around me, then I can't write about it -- can't make you see it except by taking a photograph of it. And a person can't write about what she doesn't know.


So, in many ways, I owe this tree already -- for opening my eyes and ears, for nudging my curiosity, for reawakening my latent love for the natural world.


And if it should fall, that tree, and there is nobody to hear it, I know that it will still make a noise. It has already spoken to me.

Remembering where the journey started: The nation's 500th National Wildlife Refuge

This morning I thought it would be good to remember how I wound up here in the Canaan Valley in the first place. It was October of last year, and I stopped to walk this boardwalk around a small part of the national wildlife refuge, where the mighty Blackwater River that gushes at Blackwater Falls and cuts a deep gorge through the mountains sort of fans out and creates the largest wetland east of the Mississippi. There are countless trails to explore by foot, X-country skis, bicycle, horse or what have you; but I started here. Somehow it was reminiscent of the tidal flats on parts of the Cape.
This morning I could see raptors soaring, heard a sound that may have been spring peepers, and felt the first stirrings of spring down in the valley.

I looked up at the mountains, then down into the little streams and pools of water where new life is teeming and pondered my new life here, in this wondrous place where nature still dominates, where we are under no illusion that man is in charge. And I felt that old, familiar urge to learn more about every bit of flora and fauna here so that I can figure out my place in the master jigsaw puzzle of life.


On my way out, I looked over at White Grass, now devoid of any snow, waiting for next winter and for the earth to turn once more. Then I stopped to look at the notices on the bulletin board and saw that the refuge is offering a "master naturalist" program, beginning mid-April. Seems like the perfect place to start, doesn't it? For how can I write about nature if I don't know how what I see is connected, what it is, and how each piece fits to make a whole? It felt as though the refuge was taking me in like a tired stranger and inviting me to sit and stay a while.

A different kind of farming

Wind Farm Near Davis, WV

Years ago, when I first heard about the destructive surface mining practice of MTR (mountaintop removal) and saw the first photos of what these ancient mountains look like after the greedy and irresponsible coal companies are done blasting the tops of the mountains to smithereens, I had a vision of windmills riding the tops of the now-flat mountains, harnessing the plentiful winds that provide updrafts for eagles, hawks, and other birds to soar on. And when I say "vision," I mean that it was an actual, bona fide vision that came to me in a prophetic movie in my head. I didn't even know then exactly what the wind turbines looked like, but in the vision, they were whirling and dancing across the Allegheny ridges, bringing a new kind of energy to the mountains ravaged by centuries of extracting coal, timber, and any other natural commodity those companies could wring from the earth.

Aerial View of MTR Site

When Massey Energy and its CEO, Don Blankenship, were being indicted in Washington, I made repeated efforts to reach the company's marketing and PR departments, wanting to suggest to them that they consider the immediate erection of wind farms on the tops of those ruined mountains in an act of brilliant PR, retribution, and restitution. I had several call-backs from the marketing guy there, but we never connected, because the company, since purchased by another mining company with the help of Bank of America money, was under a gag order.


Those coal companies have clogged our Bureau of Mines with so many spurious appeals and lawsuits that we'll all be dead and gone -- just like the mountains -- before anyone is held responsible for the destruction wrought upon the land, the communities, and the individuals who live there. I gave up, figuring my vision must surely be shared by others who knew better than I how to bring wind farming to the Alleghenies.


When I went back to Canaan Valley in October, I rounded a bend in the road along old Route 50, and there they were!! Wind turbines -- scores of them -- riding along the ridges and dancing against the sky, just like in the vision I'd had! I was entranced by them, and Bob and I got as close to one as possible to make sure they were real. Every time I see them, I feel hope rising in my chest -- hope that once every ton of coal has been ripped from the mountains of this beautiful state, these wind farms and other alternative forms of energy will continue to provide cleaner power to West Virginians and others in nearby states.


To be sure, these wind farms are not yet on the flattened mountaintops that are now long gone -- creating "valley fill" that chokes off streams and causes flooding and black, toxic water in the valley bottoms. But I did see the wind farms so close to active surface mines that they seemed to be taunting those mine owners, dancing to a new tune that will bring us into a brighter future.

Peace in the valley

Canaan Valley at Dawn

In the lyrics to that wonderful gospel song most famously sung by Elvis, it says: "Well, I'm tired and so weary, but I must go along, till the Lord will come and call, call me away. Well the morning's so bright, and the Lamb is the light, and the night, night is as black as the sea, oh yes." Then comes the refrain, "There will be peace in the valley for me, some day. There will be peace in the valley for me, oh Lord I pray. There'll be no sadness, no sorrow, my Lord, no trouble I see. There will be peace in the valley for me."

That song -- and the fact that the Canaan Valley was named after the Biblical "Land of Canaan," though pronounced differently -- just might explain why this region of West Virginia has such a profound effect on me. I remember first going to Blackwater Falls a decade ago and wanting to return as soon as possible, which I did, going soon after with some of my Athens girlfriends. I saw photographs and artwork of the Dolly Sods, drove down into the valley along the Blackwater River gorge and marvelled at the incredible beauty of the place. I never forgot about it.

Blackwater River in Autumn

Then, in October, I returned and came home rejuvenated enough to start writing on Ajax Rock again, feeling that some part of me had been restored by hiking and visiting the valley and the Dolly Sods. But it didn't end there. The valley has beckoned me back two more times since then, and now I am hooked. I'm going back with Zach next week. It has given an all-new meaning to the term "Valley Girl," which described a materialistic and sort of empty-headed girl from California. This valley is almost by definition non-materialistic. It's where people get high on nature, where most of the land is either a national forest or a national wildlife refuge -- where people are drawn together to hike, fish, ski, tube, snowshoe, golf, climb, ride horses, whitewater, walk -- or simply to contemplate the beauty of their surroundings, read, paint, take photographs, weave, sculpt, or otherwise create things that mirror what surrounds them.

As far as I can tell, life is fairly simple there, as it often is where busy highways and consumerism and electronic gadgets are practically non-existent. The information superhighway has arrived in the Canaan Valley, but it's easy to forget you have a cell phone and even easier to snap that laptop computer closed in favor of going outdoors to see what surprise nature has for you -- wildlife, a spectacular sunset or sunrise, an early snowfall, a view that can't possibly be captured even with the most expensive Pentax or Nikon camera -- though people try.

View of the valley in summer

I did my Wiki research and found this: Canaan Valley is an oval, bowl-like upland valley in northeastern Tucker County, West Virginia, USA. Within it are extensive wetlands and the headwaters of the Blackwater River that spills out of the valley at Blackwater Falls. It is a well-known and partially undeveloped scenic attraction... In the Canaan Valley region, the Blackwater River began carving into the underlying sedimentary rock layers of Mississippian and Pennsylvanian age (345-270 millions years ago) about one million years ago.

Canaan Valley was designated a National Natural Landmark in 1974. The National Park Service citation indicates that the Valley is "a splendid 'museum' of Pleistocene habitats ... contain[ing] ... an aggregation of these habitats seldom found in the eastern United States. It is unique as a northern boreal relict community at this latitude by virtue of its size, elevation and diversity." Since 1994, almost 70% of the Valley has become the Canaan Valley National Wildlife Refuge, the nation's 500th National Wildlife Refuge.

A shrub in the valley's habitat

You can see why this special place calls me, can't you? In fact, I'm now thinking that when this house finally sells, I will be moving there where there is so much beauty that it will fill me up, inspire my writing, and give me the peace I'm searching for.

Returning to the lyrics of that lovely old gospel song, I offer this as a kind of prayer that this is where I am meant to be -- where I belong.

"Well, the bear will be gentle, and the wolf will be tame, and the lion shall lay down by the lamb. And the beasts from the wild shall be led by a child, and I'll be changed from this creature that I am."

Amen.

The pedestal house

In the Canaan Valley, my favorite part of the great state of West Virginia, is a lovely little development called "Black Bear Resort." It's close to three ski areas, including White Grass, and borders on a national wildlife refuge. It has an inn, swimming pool, tennis courts, and other amenities. But what gives it a special kind of charm is that all of the houses are variations on the one pictured here: the pedestal house. Compact and able to fit onto almost any building site, no matter the slope or terrain or composition of the soil, pedestal houses are ideal for mountain retreats. The vast majority of them are one-bedroom mini-houses with a living room that opens to a small kitchen and eat-in area, a small master bedroom, a spacious bathroom, and an upstairs loft for extra overnight guests. Here's a view from the loft in the nicest pedestal house currently for sale:

These are cleverly designed vacation homes with no wasted space, and at a distance, they look a bit like little spaceships on a launch pad or like big treehouses.


They are all arranged around a sort of common area with a lovely view of the refuge and the mountains and ski slopes in the distance. Hey, I am certainly not a resort person, but I find these little houses irresistible. Bob and I spent hours looking at the ones for sale (and for rent), finding one that is listed for only $122,000, all furnishings included. Rental income, when it's not in use, would likely cover a big chunk of the mortgage payment.


Of course, I'm in no position to even think about buying a house, and there is the issue of where Zach would or could live, but these little spaceships gave my creativity a jump-start. There's something enticing about being forced to pare down and live small. And a view like this one helps a lot.

So I have found a little dream-spot, a place I can envision myself living, never mind that it's not now on the list of real possibilities. And leaving Shepherdstown would be hard, trading in the sense of community here -- not to mention my church and friends I've made. What I think is calling to me is the same thing that called to my dad all those years -- the whisper that around that bend, over that mountain, across that meadow might be a place to call home. I once thought it was the seashore that beckoned me, but life in New England was a life devoid of the mountain people -- what Irene endearingly called my "peeps." It's that sense of place I wrote about years ago, that sort of genetic memory that pulls like a magnet back to a place where you feel you belong. It probably isn't Black Bear Resort (or any resort), but it's got my imagination soaring and my feet itching to travel, especially as I have to prepare to vacate this house where I've lived for 12 years and find another place to hang my hat. It's out there somewhere, and I just need to be open to where God leads me.

As the new year dawns, there are things we need to let go of and things we need to take up -- roads we have to follow. I just pray to know what they are and to discern the difference between my will and what God has in mind for me. This is as close as I come to making a new year's resolution.

Dropping the ball

No, I did not stay up to watch the ball drop (or as my Australian friend asked with bemusement in 1980, upon hearing about this odd tradition for the first time, "You watch what? Good on ya', mate.") Nope, I was by then fast asleep, having tired myself out organizing a close-to-home event at my church: the "Early-to-bed, potluck and board games New Year's Eve party."
It was fun! Good, clean fun. Good people, good food, good music, good decorations, good games. My team played Michael Feldman's "Whad' ya know?" and Norleen won the game, edging me out by two purple tokens. For that, she got a gold-star tiara in addition to her red one.

The tiaras and funny hats added just the right touch of silliness to our night. Kathy's looked especially cute, and some of the men wore cardboard top hats. With a silly hat and a blower, you've practically got a New Year's Eve party in the bag.
It's 2012, folks. Time's a'wastin!