Month: February 2018

Reilly and I are finally going to Craggy Gardens today! Working together on the project proposal yesterday was incredibly exciting in light of our trip. It has felt like spring for the past few days and I am so looking forward to visiting Craggy to explore and enjoy the sunshine.

In creating our project site, we hope to focus most of our work into sharing a narrative of Craggy Garden that weaves human stories about Craggy into the story of Craggy’s landscape. By sharing this narrative of Craggy Gardens, I hope that we will explore much of what we have discussed in class about re-envisioning the stories we tell about landscapes and people’s sense of place within those stories. I am looking forward to approaching this through the perspective of change, both from urban areas to Craggy Gardens (via the Parkway) and in time through seasonal change and from the 20th to the 21st century.

Reilly and I plan to share most of the responsibility of the project, including collecting archival documents, building our website and using digital tools. We both hope to research the ecosystem around Craggy together, with Reilly researching hemlock tree restoration while I focus on American chestnuts. We have already found information about hemlock trees in the UNCA archives, but will do more digging to see if there is archival information about chestnuts. Additionally, Reilly will focus on documenting the transition from Asheville to Craggy while I document the transition from winter to spring through wildflower blooms. I am so excited that will we be traveling to Craggy Gardens with enough regularity that we will be able to document that change.

Here is the timeline of our project:

March 1 － Contracts due

March 2 － Collect archival documents, meet with the Jackie Holt, Pack Memorial Library, BRP Forest Service, UNCA archives and UNCA Media Design Lab

March 8 － Assignment 5 (integrate writing with a digital tool to convey an aspect of Craggy Gardens)

March 9 － Digital tools (build on Assignment 5 by using other digital tools to begin to build the project website)

March 18 － Visiting Craggy Gardens (have visited Craggy Gardens during the day and night to complete nature writing)

March 27 － Rough draft (complete rough draft of project website)

March 28 – April 16 － Visit Craggy Gardens (visit Craggy Gardens to continue to document the site through writing and multimedia tools)

April 17 － Final version (complete final version of project website)

After going back and forth between locations, we eventually landed on Craggy Gardens. The mystical land of crags (yes Ken I found out there are crags indeed.) At first I was like I have no idea what to set as deadline or really what we were intending on doing at all. But after some initial brainstorming Katie and I realized that not only do we want to enhance our connection with a landscape and discover it’s “deep map” but for this to be a way for others to understand how to connect with the roots of their landscapes. That was the main point of our mission statement.

As for the tools, other than story map and a few other basic technical tools, I am lacking in that department. So I am planning on going to the mixed media lab on campus where they help you with anything technology related, especially developing websites. So I’m excited to learn more about how I can creatively express Craggy Gardens on the computer.  I do want to show the old hand drawn maps that we found in the archive and possibly draw our own as well and utilize the postcards we also collected.

As for the who will do what section, Katie and I work best together. There are a few things we can divide up like our passions for Chestnut and Hemlock trees and who will contact which person which we added to our milestones. Going over the milestones with her was a great way to envision our project, though I was a bit overwhelmed because I have’t really thought of deadlines, it ended up easing stress because we can follow a set guideline now.

Anyways I’m so excited to go to Craggy, probably late this afternoon, and experience in person what our project is all about!!

So the Olympics are on, as they are known to do every other year, and I was entranced by the phrase “captured the imagination of the nation”. Firstly, my education has shown me how terrible the Olympics can be, and now, I find nothing captivating about them. Jaded and cynical, I know, but true none-the-less. But my English minor has shown me the problem with the phrase itself. Imaginations cannot be captured. In fact, that is probably the best thing about imaginations. They can be spurred or scorned maybe, but definitely not captured. Yet there is still something that happens when the Olympics roll around. Something does happen within the imagination, and it is valuable.

In some ways, Mirror Lake was born out of the imagination, but it also acts on the imagination as well, in a kind of Durkheimian way. There is some connection between the damning of Stony Creek, the person that clears the lake for skating every year, and the millions of dollars spent maintaining the lake itself. There is some connection between the people that live here, the people that lived here, and the people that will live here. Somehow, it all goes in and out of the imagination. It is my hope that while I will not be able to capture it, I may be able to express it. Or at least, hint at it. The early archival work we have done has at least shown me that there is a connection, and now the work to come will be to try and expose and express that connection in a way that is understandable, applicable, and genuine (also, hopefully hilarious, but we will see.)

I started this course intrigued. It has begun to blossom into excitement. So now I am going to strap some wings on this turd and see if it will fly.

The Genesee Valley Greenway.

I haven’t managed to get out to walk the trail yet, but Natalie and I have chosen to work with the Greenway. It poses an interesting question about time and scale (the Greenway was proposed in the 1990’s, but the history of this trail starts in the 1830’s). After Tuesday’s conversation, we were interested in aligning this history with the history of the U.S. to see how we’ve progressed from a canal to a greenway.

I think Natalie and I are both interested in exploring boundaries and transitions as well. The picture from her post a few weeks back, of the back porches of houses against the Greenway, is one example of the boundaries that exist currently: built home with a yard and nature path. We’re also asking whether or not the Greenway fully “counts” as a nature path, if it only exists due to the abandonment of a man-made feature. This project offers a way for us to look into the anthropocene writing influence and see where/ if we draw lines between developed area and nature, and, if we do draw that line, what does it take to reclaim nature from the developed.

Since our project spans a large area, Natalie and I are leaning toward using a lot of maps, both modern and historical on the website to place the reader as they read about the area. In our proposal we suggested a fairly basic website layout, but we’re also considering doing something a little more whimsical. I found this artist website where the main page is drawn city and the different building link to different projects the artist has done. While we’d need to figure out the logistics of doing something like this, we both like the idea of a hyperlink Greenway map that would allow a reader to pick on locations to read about them.

In terms of tools, we’re likely going to use StoryMap and/or ArcGIS (I have experience with it from different classes) as a way to create/show our maps. We also want to record audio/video to include alongside our writing on the website.

There’s a decent amount of material in our college archive, from diaries that mention the canal to sources that give the canal/railroad/greenway history. Additionally, we’re planning to visit the Livingston historical museum, which is located close to campus. We’ve also found a railroad museum in the area that we might go to, if we’re struggling to find information on the Genesee Valley Canal Railroad. Natalie is interested in doing an oral history component for our project, and, of course, we’ll document our experience and observations on the trail.

Lastly our timeline:

Timeline:

• March 1st- Skeleton version of website
• March 8- Finish looking through archival information and scanning all relevant photos and letters and everything else we plan to use on site.
• March 16- Finish TimeLine.
• March 27- Rough draft of website
• April 5th- Finish Map
• April 17th- Final website up

Our timeline is still a little bare bones, since Natalie and I are still rooting through the college archives to see what threads of the story we want to pick up an write about. That said, we’re both super excited to see where this project goes!

I’ve finally visited Hoosac Tunnel and I’m itching to go back. Standing before the tunnel, imagining what it was like when the work for the tunnel first began… Imagining the conversation that needed to be had when the initial plan failed… Imagining how many people were just trying to do their job but ended up never making it home at the end of the day… Are they still here? In the tunnel?

There are so many stories within and around the Hoosac Tunnel, waiting to be told. It doesn’t seem fair to present them in a singular way when there are numerous tools to help. To simply layout the land with words alone wouldn’t do it justice. The tunnel calls for layers– photographs, story maps, video, audio, and timelines to accompany the words.

We’re lucky to have rich material to work with. With the help of the North Adams Public Library and the North Adams Historical Society, we have extensive information on the tunnel at our fingertips. The library not only has extensive information on Hoosac Tunnel but they also have physical artifacts tucked away somewhere in The Vault. With our differing busy schedules and limited, and sometimes inconvenient, hours at the library it’s a bonus that most of this material has been cataloged online for easy access.

 

Though are dates are not entirely solidified we have made a schedule of our upcoming goals-to-meet as we start organizing our material and starting up our blog:

• • February 22nd– Compile list of names of those who have died in the tunnel
  • February 22nd- 25th– Pulling relevant material
  • Sometime during the week of February 26th–  Visit the library to see the artifacts
  • March 3rd- Visit to Historical Society between the hours of 10am-4pm
  • March 4th– Visit East Portal; nature writing on site, documentation of the area

 

We plan on sharing the experience of maintaining the blog and writing pieces to post as well as researching and visiting the site together. But we have also designated other responsibilities between the two of us as this project progresses:

Erica: Filming and editing videos.

*Driver / navigator extraordinaire.

Cassie: TimeLineJS, StoryMap.

*Positive affirmation guide / spotter of beavers.

 

—

I’ve always described North Adams as “falling apart” and I’ve heard others doing the same. But what if there was another way of seeing it? What if it was just nature reclaiming abandoned man-made structures that we’ve given up on? What if nature was having a comeback in the Berkshires? Maybe we can start to live with nature instead of destroying nature. Maybe instead of moving on to destroy more land to replace something that has fallen apart… we can try to fix it first…

…like the beavers.

I don’t know if I really ever gave you a chance. When I first stepped foot on campus, the end was already in sight. I knew I would finish in two years. I knew this was the homestretch. I knew this was the end of my degree. Three years at Lethbridge and I understood my strengths and weaknesses enough to know I could finish on time. I had planned to at least this point in my future, the point where I sit now. What lies beyond remains unknown, but I’m not sure you will be part of it. Augustana, you were to only be a season in my life, the in-between progression towards an end. And that’s the only chance I ever gave you.

Everything is snow covered. I feel like this is your natural state, the spring leaves and summer greens so far and distant in my memory as if they hardly existed at all. Was that a version of yourself you keep hidden, not letting anyone close, or was it my distance that kept us apart? Your blank openness echoes a dormancy at this time of day, dusk at 5:15, no voices to break the liquid silence. As if you sit with your back turned, waiting for me to speak first. So I, too, turn my back and listen. There is the odd squeak of doors in the first year dorms as students rush away towards supper, the far-off squeak of snow.

I came outside seeking to know you better, but why do I think the goodbye would be any more genuine outside when I spent 80% of my time here within the halls and classrooms. 80% of the school year in winter. Twilight ebbs to dimness, void of sunset, draped in clouds. Snow sits static on tables and benches, still barren branches texture the immediate sky. I sit on the steps of Founders Hall – like those old pictures, seeking some sense of past connection. The wooden steps a little warmer than the concrete everywhere else, the only cleared space apart from paths.

Has anyone else taken the time to know you? Do all these transient students take you for granted? The snow covered lawns lay glittering and untouched in the outdoor campus lights. No one this age plays in the snow anymore. The cleared paths hide the sheer number of footsteps which traverse them, mask the routine and mindlessness of racing between buildings to class. We are here to absorb the knowledge within, but we stop at that which we can easily sift from your surface. The depth remains uncharted, unexplored, the present pressing the history further down, but for the signs in the hallways. Those seedlings surfacing leaves from the loam below, the past enriching our growth which we hardly recognize and simply step past.

As the light continues to fade, contours in the snow reveal contrast and texture. I find it pressing to know what lies below. Will the snow melt before I leave for good? Or shall I cast off my myth of adulthood and play once again in the snow? The mystery calls to me, but not enough to lure me back from what the future holds. So as I stand, my last look back is my final goodbye.

Letchworth park is known as the “Grand Canyon of the East,” which almost makes it sound like a roadside attraction. Something that should be placed besides the “World’s Largest Kaleidoscope” or “World’s smallest church,” and touted as a knock of version of something better. Of course, I can’t speak to how Letchworth Park compares to the Grand Canyon, since I’ve never been to the Grand Canyon. I can say, however, that, if I ever want to feel small against the scale of nature, Letchworth can make me feel that. The main outlook in the park is at the top of the canyon wall and looks across to the other ridge, where trees grow on slopes and scree gathers near the river. 

Now, I have to confess two things. The first is that this picture is nearly four years old, taken from when my first visit to the park. The second is that the day I was meant to go to the park to do my nature writing, I wasn’t feeling well enough to go, which means this post will be a collage of sorts, taking threads of different memories and times together into one experience.

There are three geologic processes that can generally be found in Western New York: glacial erosion/ deposition, rivers, and small amounts of uplift. Letchworth is the perfect combination of all three. The valley was shaped by both the Genesee River and glaciers going through it, and the canyon was formed by those things in conjunction with regional uplift. These processes are also what formed Letchworth’s greatest attracts: the waterfalls.

The Lower Falls, I see on a geology field trip. They’re not falling parallel to the river, which is weird. You except waterfalls to face you, but this one sits at a solid 45 degrees.  I’m told is due to the trending directions of the faults in the area. The faults, of course, are a better and easier way for water to travel. Of course, yes. Of course. The type of language every geologist has at the top of their head.

The middle falls are the hardest to find, as they are tucked away behind bushes. When my friend Laura and I found it last August, we found the best gap in the branches by listening to the water crash, calling us closer to it.

And lastly, the crowning jewel of Letchworth is the Upper Falls.

As I stand near these falls, recording the water tumbles, a mist rises to meet my camera lens and I. The air smells like water, which is to say is smells clean and sweet and slightly like shale. I can image the times I’ve walked these paths, how times have changed between visit.

 

My freshman year, I was part of a group of thirteen students, who were all close and did everything together. In November, we decide to visit the park to see the falls. There are a lot of group pictures, detailing the ways our lives ran into each other. Two years later, the path hold only two— a friend and me. My friend, Laura, is from England. They don’t get waterfalls where she lives, because the geologic conditions aren’t quite right for it.

When she sees this waterfall she freaks out, gushing about the way water rushes to the cliff edge and breaks along the steps of rock.

What I like about Letchworth is how it’s a place of connection, between freshman friends trying to find their people, internet friends spending their first day in person together, and, even, couples whose wedding reception tent dots the green lawn above the waterfall.

(Video is for atmospheric sounds and me speaking what is below. You can either watch video or just read below! Same thing!)

Cassie and I walk through about three inches of snow and ice, up a windy hill to the state park both of us have been to before. The last time I was here, it was summer. Myself and two other friends, packing water, snacks, and towels, wearing bathing suits, preparing to travel into the gorge to go swimming.

It’s February now, a new year. Every inch of every surface is covered in a fine layer of powder.  Footfall amplified a thousand times by the tiny crystals of crunchy ice. An inch of snow today, and twelve inches tomorrow. We bundle up: hats, three layers of jackets, two pairs of socks, pants, scarves. We make sure to bring gloves. It’s below freezing, you can feel your skin drying, hardening, when it’s exposed too long.

Two dogs greet us before we get to the top. The second becomes our guide, weaving in and out of our legs, bringing us to the place we wanted to go, the stairs that lead up to the bridge.

The stairs get steeper as the sound of rushing water gets louder. Inside the gorge the water carves paths in the stone, eroding the walls, changing the course of the water.

The stairs connect with every part of the gorge and surrounding area. The land is manipulated by human hands. Like the water, the land is changed with it. A dam, cutting the river in half, ice piling up like sugar amidst the snow, ice, slush. An abandoned mill, the foundations still standing, signs proclaiming the land is not longer safe. To the bridge: the stairs and pathways floating above the stone, fences cutting the picturesque landscape into pieces.

The water is endlessly gushing, gushing, gushing.

Away from the bridge, from the dam, the sound fades. Again the sound of our shuffling, crunching footsteps return, the laughter never ceasing. Walking over ice, lamely dancing on the slick pavement.

Human hands have touched everything. A crumpled, half soaked pile of brochures, proclaiming, “It’s your nature” makes me uneasy. The quiet, empty land meant for cars next to a building with a sign out front that says, closed for the season, just reminds me of Cassie sending an email to this state park only to receive one of those “this address does not exist,” automatic replies.

This place feels abandoned in the off season. Empty. The only people coming are those who bring their dogs, unleashed, letting them run free among the old quarry. For some reason I like it better in the winter. Seeing it appear untouched it brings me back.

I remember why I came here, visiting the area for the first time when I was still in high school. Driving over the hairpin turn, overlooking the mountains that aren’t actually mountains and thinking how this is a place that feels like home.

So documenting Mirror Lake over the weekend proved challenging,  because of an event that was going on. I unfortunately didn’t get a video of it, but I feel like this youtube clip really captures the emotion of the whole thing:

It was so cold that I didn’t want to leave my room, let alone my house (granted, that’s a heating issue best left for another day).

Further complicated in my quest by my own stupidity, I wanted to experience the lake late at night and in the early morning. I have never experienced the lake in winter when no one else is around. The dead silence of a heavy snow, or the vibrant pulse of air well below freezing, are some of the most magical moments I have ever lived. I took notice of none of those characteristics as I was brutally assaulted by a metric tonne of satanic frigidity.

Life is still lived in the body. That was what I experienced. Maybe it’s a product of my seemingly accelerating ageing process, but I seem to watch idealisms morph into realisms, and my mythic journey to discover myself on the shores of Lac Miroir became an almost comical struggle for survival as I dreamt of a hot shower.

It has been an interesting season for me as I come to understand what can sort of be described as perspectivism. Pulling from a Religion and Conflict class, Neitzchean Phenomenology, and some dead guys diary that talks about the London Fire, this idea of perspective keeps coming up. Seeing the world through the body. I experienced it at Mirror Lake… as the abominable snowman repeatedly punched me in the face. I couldn’t think, I couldn’t over-analyze, I just watched this guy clear the ice in a cute little snow plow. I sat on a bench, where six months early I had sat with three friends, drunk off our recent bocce-ball championship.

I thought about summer. I adore summer, even more so because I remember winter. That’s part of perspective. Living in the body doesn’t mean that I ignore the past, but rather I can use it to shape how I see the present. Partly because I think perspective really is the only thing that can change. I doubt winter will stop hurting my body. My only responses are to bundle up like a five-year-old child and learn how to skate. The hope is that I can have a different experience of winter, and therefore eventually craft a different perspective of winter.

Or move to Mexico