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.