Mae DesTroismaisons
Nature & Culture
January 26, 2014
Professor Walter Kuentzel
The closest I will ever come to Heaven is the tops of the mountains. When I’m on a summit, I feel invigorated, yet tranquil. The air always seems fresher, the sun brighter, and the sky bluer. I live near the Green Mountains of Vermont now, but the White Mountains of New Hampshire will always be my home. I feel a strong sense of place there, and a desire to protect and preserve the land on which I was raised, as well as all of its peaks, lakes, rivers, waterfalls, and biota.
When I see a wildflower, I don’t pick it. When I catch a fish, I release it, unless it’s from a stocked fishing area. When I find a special rock, I find a special place to put it, but that is not on my shelf. It’s sometimes difficult for me to leave what I find in nature, but I remind myself that the act of discovering natural beauty—like a rushing waterfall, a hatching of butterflies, or a tiny mushroom that could so easily be overlooked—is its own reward. The only things I take from the places I go are photos and memories. I do not own the land; rather, the land owns me. After all, “we are all compost in training” (Ramshackle Glory).
As a result of being born and raised in northern New Hampshire, I’ve learned to respect natural areas, and to appreciate how lucky I am to have so much grace right at my fingertips. There is a certain tragic beauty in the development of the land, too. Seeing the highway running through Franconia Notch from atop Indian Head in Lincoln demonstrates the power and progress of humans. The cutting of trails on Cannon Mountain has given me the opportunity to recreate; snowboarding and hiking have been two of my passions since childhood. I once found section of a stream at The Basin that oil had been spilled into. It sparkled and shone gold, magenta, and cyan as the light hits the water. As I gazed into the oily water and listened to the sound of its motion, I let my mind drift off.
***
In the foreword to A Sand County Almanac Aldo Leopold describes the society of 1948 as “a hypochondriac, so obsessed with its own economic health as to have lost the capacity to remain healthy…Perhaps such a shift of values can be achieved by reappraising things unnatural, tame, and confined in terms of things natural, wild, and free” (xix). I most definitely agree with this statement. I feel guilty every day for being a privileged, white, American. I am but a cog in this consumerist machine. When I actually have money to spend, I often use it to buy things I don’t need. I stopped being a vegetarian when I came to college and now eat extremely unethically at Sodexo dining halls. I participate in protests now and then and sign the occasional petition, but I know that there is much more I could be doing to spread environmental awareness. As a society, we can all begin to “reappraise” our commodities by becoming more informed about how, where, and with what resources they are produced.
Throughout the book, but especially in “March” and “April,” Leopold describes the birds of his land in great detail. He chronicles the way they look, sound, and fly. The author is pensive in his writing, and his account of the “sky dance” is greatly romanticized. He clearly values fowl like geese, bluebirds, and woodcocks for their lissomness, and game birds like pheasants for the food they provide him as well as for the thrill of the hunt. Like Aldo Leopold, I like to watch the birds. I don’t hunt them, though, simply because I don’t need to. I like to watch the herons fly over the glassy surface of Echo Lake and the bluebirds flit around the lilacs that my grandfather planted, or hear the “Old Sam, Peabody-Peabody-Peabody” of a white-throated sparrow from my kayak in Moore Reservoir. I even like the crows that live in our apple tree. I see two perched on a low branch: an attempted murder.
In “June,” Leopold gives an account of his experience fishing in a stream near his home. Although we differ from each other in that he fly-fished while I fish with hooks and worms, I certainly think that I know how he felt during his pursuit of that colossal trout. I especially liked how he said, “What was big was not the trout, but the chance. What was full was not my creel, but my memory” (43). My dad and I do most of our father-daughter bonding when we fish, and at the end of the day it isn’t important how many we caught, or how large, but that we were together. Fishing is also very meditative for me at times, usually when I don’t get very many nibbles. Whether in a boat or from shore, I am calmed by the repetitive motion: cast, wait, reel, wait, reel, wait, reel, cast…
***
There are some undeniable ways in which my lifestyle differs from how Aldo Leopold’s was, but we undeniably have common values. Land conservation, recreation, and observation of changes and cycles of ecosystems are all ideas by which I feel connected to Leopold. I think that he would be happy to know that in my generation, there are still some folks like him.
Nature & Culture
January 26, 2014
Professor Walter Kuentzel
The closest I will ever come to Heaven is the tops of the mountains. When I’m on a summit, I feel invigorated, yet tranquil. The air always seems fresher, the sun brighter, and the sky bluer. I live near the Green Mountains of Vermont now, but the White Mountains of New Hampshire will always be my home. I feel a strong sense of place there, and a desire to protect and preserve the land on which I was raised, as well as all of its peaks, lakes, rivers, waterfalls, and biota.
When I see a wildflower, I don’t pick it. When I catch a fish, I release it, unless it’s from a stocked fishing area. When I find a special rock, I find a special place to put it, but that is not on my shelf. It’s sometimes difficult for me to leave what I find in nature, but I remind myself that the act of discovering natural beauty—like a rushing waterfall, a hatching of butterflies, or a tiny mushroom that could so easily be overlooked—is its own reward. The only things I take from the places I go are photos and memories. I do not own the land; rather, the land owns me. After all, “we are all compost in training” (Ramshackle Glory).
As a result of being born and raised in northern New Hampshire, I’ve learned to respect natural areas, and to appreciate how lucky I am to have so much grace right at my fingertips. There is a certain tragic beauty in the development of the land, too. Seeing the highway running through Franconia Notch from atop Indian Head in Lincoln demonstrates the power and progress of humans. The cutting of trails on Cannon Mountain has given me the opportunity to recreate; snowboarding and hiking have been two of my passions since childhood. I once found section of a stream at The Basin that oil had been spilled into. It sparkled and shone gold, magenta, and cyan as the light hits the water. As I gazed into the oily water and listened to the sound of its motion, I let my mind drift off.
***
In the foreword to A Sand County Almanac Aldo Leopold describes the society of 1948 as “a hypochondriac, so obsessed with its own economic health as to have lost the capacity to remain healthy…Perhaps such a shift of values can be achieved by reappraising things unnatural, tame, and confined in terms of things natural, wild, and free” (xix). I most definitely agree with this statement. I feel guilty every day for being a privileged, white, American. I am but a cog in this consumerist machine. When I actually have money to spend, I often use it to buy things I don’t need. I stopped being a vegetarian when I came to college and now eat extremely unethically at Sodexo dining halls. I participate in protests now and then and sign the occasional petition, but I know that there is much more I could be doing to spread environmental awareness. As a society, we can all begin to “reappraise” our commodities by becoming more informed about how, where, and with what resources they are produced.
Throughout the book, but especially in “March” and “April,” Leopold describes the birds of his land in great detail. He chronicles the way they look, sound, and fly. The author is pensive in his writing, and his account of the “sky dance” is greatly romanticized. He clearly values fowl like geese, bluebirds, and woodcocks for their lissomness, and game birds like pheasants for the food they provide him as well as for the thrill of the hunt. Like Aldo Leopold, I like to watch the birds. I don’t hunt them, though, simply because I don’t need to. I like to watch the herons fly over the glassy surface of Echo Lake and the bluebirds flit around the lilacs that my grandfather planted, or hear the “Old Sam, Peabody-Peabody-Peabody” of a white-throated sparrow from my kayak in Moore Reservoir. I even like the crows that live in our apple tree. I see two perched on a low branch: an attempted murder.
In “June,” Leopold gives an account of his experience fishing in a stream near his home. Although we differ from each other in that he fly-fished while I fish with hooks and worms, I certainly think that I know how he felt during his pursuit of that colossal trout. I especially liked how he said, “What was big was not the trout, but the chance. What was full was not my creel, but my memory” (43). My dad and I do most of our father-daughter bonding when we fish, and at the end of the day it isn’t important how many we caught, or how large, but that we were together. Fishing is also very meditative for me at times, usually when I don’t get very many nibbles. Whether in a boat or from shore, I am calmed by the repetitive motion: cast, wait, reel, wait, reel, wait, reel, cast…
***
There are some undeniable ways in which my lifestyle differs from how Aldo Leopold’s was, but we undeniably have common values. Land conservation, recreation, and observation of changes and cycles of ecosystems are all ideas by which I feel connected to Leopold. I think that he would be happy to know that in my generation, there are still some folks like him.