Hunting Season

            When I was eight years old, I got my first bb gun for Christmas. It was a bit of a tradition in our family. My grandmother’s house was filled with trophies from successful hunting trips, ranging from antlers to mounted heads to an entire turkey, positioned as though it was a living creature poised in flight. My uncles and my father always gathered during deer season to talk and laugh and socialize before they ventured out into the wilderness to isolate themselves, hoping that a sizable buck would stroll by, or stop to investigate the sugar beets they would pile up as an invitation to walk into the crosshairs of the rifle’s scope (before the ban on baiting, of course). Sometimes my dad would take me out to his stand to sit with him. I never hated it, but I never liked it either; what seven-year-old likes sitting in complete silence for hours, in biting cold, with the flimsy promise of maybe seeing a deer as the only incentive? However, having a background that included yearly hunting shaped my perspective on it greatly.

            When we talk about nature, we inevitably must discuss what we take away from it. However, as a child, I learned we can give back to it as well, even in an act that seems so violent. When I was a child and watched Bambi for the first time, my heart broke. I knew my father was going out and shooting deer, leaving fawns like my sweet, beloved Bambi without mothers. That’s when my father sat me down and explained why we hunt. In our little corner of land, there aren’t any real big predators to hunt the deer down, besides us. Without hunting season, the deer would quickly overpopulate and destroy the ecosystem. As I got older, I also realized that there were years we ate as well as we did because my father had a gun and a good eye for meaty does. We could eat off his kills for months if we needed to. Humans often do take from nature, and hunting in large quantities can royally screw up an ecosystem, sometimes to the point of no return. But allowing ourselves to become part of the ecosystem, rather than an entity outside it, can be greatly beneficial to all sides. So when my father brings in a big doe, I eat without guilt. Even Bambi has his place in the ecosystem.

One Day of Winter

        Saturday mornings are usually lazy mornings. My bed is warm, my alarm is off, and my obligations can be put off for a few more hours at least. More often than not, when I wake up is not when I get out of bed. Last Saturday, however, was different. For the first time this winter, I work up to a world painted in monochrome. Fat snowflakes drifted past my window, lazily surfing on light wind currents to the ground, joining the millions upon millions of other ice crystals that blanketed the ground. Being Saturday, no one had to brave the new fallen snow for the sake of class, and so the snow was almost completely unbroken. An impulse to walk, to take in the new winter air, overtook me. I often get the urge to venture beyond my human enclosure and immerse myself in open space, but the urge passes with a brisk wind, or the urgent timetable most of my week is centered on. But on Saturday, I could put those thoughts out of my mind for just a few hours. I scrambled out of bed and put on warm clothes before I could think of a reason to devolve back into lethargy.

            My roommate, with whom I’ve had many an outdoor adventure, chose to join me. We wandered out of Murray and into the chill. We both knew exactly where we were headed: the Arboretum, where the trees would be iced with a layer of snow, like decorations on a cake. When the first snow falls, it’s like a completely different world. We navigate it differently, walkways and paths changing in shape with the onslaught of snow. Landmarks are different, trees and sculptures along familiar paths looking bigger and heavier as snow piles on them, forming fantastic shapes. The Lake Halls and surrounding walkways seemed almost like an enormous cathedral, the star sculpture rising in the middle like an idol and the Transformational Link making the clouds in the sky look like a grid of stained-glass windows.

The tree outside Huron, perfectly iced

            Once we made our way to the Arboretum, we made a delightful discovery: someone had built a snowman sometime earlier. He was an enormous character, surprisingly large considering that the snowfall hadn’t been more than one or two inches. Someone had put a lot of effort into that snowman, and my friend and I paused to take a few photos with him.

He has a beautiful smile

             After that, we ventured further into the Arboretum, avoiding the small groups of three or four people who had had the same idea we did. Deeper in the Arboretum, a path runs along the edge of the ravine. Three feet to one side, the ground drops off sharply. From this angle, my friend and I could see the snow lining the tree branches from a unique perspective. It looked a bit like shattered glass, with shadow and highlight intersecting one another with no distinct pattern. Other branches we observed up close, amazed; a branch no more than a couple centimeters in width often carried one or two inches of snow along its length. Branches webbed out and reminded me of cupping hands holding the snow like the tree was mesmerized by this tiny miracle. More than once we noticed snow hanging from some resilient strand of spiders’ web, appearing to hover in thin air. Snow may not be everyone’s favorite weather, but it’s magic to me.

            Since then, the snow’s all melted. Branches that we once laden as though with fruit are once again springy, reaching for the sky as though to beg for some gift, even acknowledgment. I feel like we can be different people as the seasons move on. My roommate and I, despite our love for nature, each find ourselves often too busy or exhausted to take advantage of our beautiful campus. But when the snow fell, we left without a second thought. It was as though the trees took the weight from our shoulders in the form of snow, and allowed us to shed our worries, even if for just a day. 

Those little branches are working so hard!

Thoughts at 3 am

              It’s three AM. The date on my computer screen reads November 1^st, but it still feels a little bit like Halloween. My boyfriend fell asleep a few hours ago, exhausted, and my roommates have all found themselves elsewhere for the night. I feel a little isolated. It’s warm enough outside, and with winter fast approaching I know that opportunities like this are going to be few and far between, so I open up a window to let in that autumn breeze.

              It’s that time of year when the leaves are still on the trees, but they’re drying out and just on the brink of falling. And with the breezy night, the leaves are making the most beautiful rustling noise. It’s not something you notice if you aren’t paying attention; after all, it’s just rustling leaves. Michigan is a pretty densely wooded state, and living around here, the sound of leaves tends to fall into the background. But taking just a moment to listen as the wind rises and the music crescendos like a symphony is a nearly magical experience. Fitting for late on Halloween night, when witches roam and magic flows. It really is like a mystical spell, and somehow the rustling leaves are transforming what felt like isolation into gentle, calming solitude. 

Bridging Differences

Every other day, I go over the Little Mac Bridge on my way to class, cutting across the ravines to get from Niemeyer to Mackinac as fast as I can. It’s a shortcut, a minimal chunk of my daily schedule. But, some days, I take the blinders of routine from the sides of my head and look out over the grand ditch that I’m suspended over. In the spring and summer, it’s absolutely bursting with greenery. Walking across the bridge, you find yourself hung amongst the tallest reaches of the trees, the leaves fluttering in a gentle wind. It’s a bird’s-eye view we usually miss out on. You look down and you can see the ground falling away from you, strewn with rocks and water and other natural things, undisturbed by the heavy traffic going on so far above it. It only takes a moment to appreciate years of flourishing nature.  

              At Grand Valley, we’re blessed to have a campus brimming with thriving greenery and wildlife. However, sometimes the constant presence of the natural world parallel to the busy college experience desensitizes us to just how stunning the trees, the flowers, the grass really is. Moving from class to class, I’ve noticed that the breath-taking view from the middle of the bridge too easily becomes a part of the transit in a schedule that only has time for the destinations. To combat this, I try to notice the trees as I walk by them, taking note of the leaves and the way they rustle and flutter, thinking on the climbing vines and well-kept bushes. It keeps me in the moment, preventing me from becoming too wrapped up in what can be a stressful workload looming just over my head. That’s the thing about being surrounded by the natural world; letting yourself remember where you are is immensely calming. Taking even a moment to consciously remove oneself from the hustle of the day and just look around is soothing beyond belief. Crossing the bridge, being literally suspended in the uppermost branches, is particularly perfect, and I strive to take in that moment every chance I get.

Down by the Banks

In Michigan, they say that you’re never more than five miles away from a major source of water. Water is a source of vibrancy, verdancy, and vivacity. Streams and river flow through forests, hubs of life that are vital to any ecosystem. The freshwater sources we have in Michigan support life from the smallest insect to moose and other large herbivores to bears and pumas. The entire life cycle can be encapsulated by a gently flowing stream.

              My family owns a fairly large tract of wilderness, and I spent my childhood clambering all over every inch of it. The entire property is webbed with streams; little things that are a foot and half deep at most, barely puddles in some areas. However, when my cousins and I played on their banks, they were vast rivers, luxurious pools, and bottomless oceans. We would sit in the grass, dangling our bare feet in the cool water, feeling it slick past our feet on its way to some unknown destination. We built forts and bases all along them, feeling all the world like pioneers along the banks of the Mississippi. Other times we were fairies, dipping our feet in the water and pretending flowers grew where we walked. These streams were a huge part of my childhood, and the life that sprung up around them shaped me as a human being. Without them, I would have grown up vastly different. I relate to the trees because I, too, grew and was nourished by the streams and ponds that flow through my childhood home. My relationship to nature was entirely shaped by the streams that I call home. 

Weaving Webs

              The separation between us and nature sometimes seems daunting. But other times, being close with nature can be as easy as sticking your head out the front door. At my parents’ house up north, it was often that easy to connect with the spiders that set up shop every year in the spring. Chubby and unassuming, they weave webs with shining strands of sticky spider lace in the kitchen window and under the eaves on the porch. The webs make a pretty addition, like monochrome stained glass designs just outside our windows. I’ve always loved them, watching them as they work on their webs, taking in a strand here or there, wrapping up a morsel for later, or sitting in the middle of their simple castle. They fascinate me to this day, and they return year after year, always in the same spots and always around the same time.

              Living in a rural area, I was able to explore nature to a greater extent than someone who grew up somewhere suburban. However, the spiders in the windows always seemed so observable to me. There was a connection between nature and my home that was so close it was nearly integrated into our lifestyle. We allowed the spiders to stay, and so the spiders kept flies, moths, and other bugs drawn to the lights within from entering our house. I scratch your back, you scratch mine. You keep disgusting and filthy bugs out of my home, I ignore the fact you have eight legs and consume liquefied innards for lunch. But more than being an example of a symbiotic relationship between a human and a tiny little creature, it seemed to me an example of how humans aren’t separate from the natural world. We often consider it a case of “us” versus “nature” when in reality we are an innate part of nature, just like the trees and the animals and even the bugs. Having that relationship with such small creatures led me to conclude that humans are just another part of nature, rather than something apart from it. To the spiders, we are not so different from them.

Getting Back to my Roots

I grew up in a rural area. My friends and I would often joke about there being more cows than people, which became even funnier when we looked it up and realized that there were indeed more cattle on a single farm than there were people in the whole town. It was the classic Small American Town, in which everyone knew everyone and everyone’s worked on a farm at some point in their life.

              Being in such a tight-knit, secluded little town, my perception of the world at large was a bit limited. It was unheard of for me to not know everyone you meet one way or another; my friends and coworkers often remark on how I seem to “know everyone.” In reality it’s just a leftover from living in a small town. I file people away in my head and while I may not remember their names or where I know them, I do remember meeting them and I’m sure to give them a hello and a smile. Kindness and hospitality are priorities, which comes from living in a place where anything you do is going to spread like wildfire. You also have to take care of each other in a small town, where community is everything. So it’s been second nature to me to offer help and get to know people.

              Because of where I live, I also feel very connected to nature. It’s part of me; my family owns a large tract of wilderness that I grew up on, darting through trees and bushes with my cousins like wild things. We would play in the dirt and the puddles, tracking through the dust with wet feet and smearing ourselves with all sorts of filth. During the summer we would spend hours rooting through blackberry bushes and gathering them in great numbers, eating a few here and there and returning most to our parents for the sake of blackberry jam and pie. Growing up in the woods gave me an appreciation for solitude, and I now value introspection and quiet. There’s something about being out in the woods that makes you a part of it, not something separate but something that belongs. It’s a wonderful feeling of belonging, and that sense of being where I was supposed to be helps me to feel at home as long as there’s a tree around.