ENVRIONMENTAL JOURNAL

SIGNS OF WINTER

My family lives on a five-acre tract of land surrounded by wooded trails. We moved into
the house nearly three years ago. About a year and a half ago I hiked the trails with my
brother and his friends. We found a nearby stream located off the trail, sat down and
talked. Since then I have hardly tried to brave the wilderness trails alone.

Sometimes I think of myself as the “nature girl” in the family, but I have neglected to
maintain this supposedly pristine environment. My father and I took to the trails soon
after noon, with compass and map in hand. The wooded forest is both overgrown and
unkept, with numerous piles of litter scattered on either side of the trail. The trail itself is
in need of maintenance.

All evidence of winter appeared on the trail. Brown wilted leaves and tree branches
appear lay scattered across the trail. Patches of ice, somewhat melting in the afternoon
sun, left the path nearly impassible. Deer tracks led to a small sandy beach near the
streambed. The sand, despite the afternoon's warm temperature of 51 degrees Fahrenheit,
was cool; the stream's water was colder. Flowing north-easterly, few insects made their
debut appearance. Water spiders gracefully skated across the streambed. But neither fish
nor animal came to the stream for food or water. It was empty and quiet. Nearby birds
signaled the intruder's entrance on their territory, warning others and hiding deep in the
forest trees.

Birds were just as scarce. One bird glided past us on our way down the trail, casting its
shadow on the trees as it flew into the clear blue sky. Other birds chirped their beautiful,
individual songs, creating a beautiful melody. As I began to head back home, I began to
search for the birds. Eventually I came upon a lone male cardinal (I believe) right off the
trail. His red-bellied, grayish body gave him away. Noticing the intruder, he turned away,
hidden in the trees like a chameleon, camouflaged in the underbrush.

The majority of the trees appeared leafless and bare. An obvious sign of winter. There are
few evergreen trees in the forest. A few young seedlings grow in the path. The bark on
some of the trees were flimsy and paper-like. Another appeared to be a scratching post,
with a long vertical strike exposing an inner layer of the tree.

Unlike most of the forest inhabitants, the afternoon sun was not a sign of winter; its
warmth entered the forest. Despite the early morning freeze, by noon the sun's debut on
the crystal clear day warmed the forest, and its inhabitants began to respond to the
warming day. Despite its presence in the afternoon, it hid behind the trees. No clouds
attempted to hide the sun; instead, the blue sky opened its doors to let the sun shine
through; its warmth producing energy. And its energy synthesizing green plants – an
energy exchange.
WATER, WATER EVERYWHERE

To be honest, I don't think I've always been a “nature girl.” As a young child, Barbie and other
dolls sparked my interest. At that age, fairy-tale princesses were the epitome of beauty and grace.
Think of Disney's princesses; think of Pocahontas and Snow White. Their communal existence
extended to forest inhabitants: to birds, to raccoons, and to weeping willows in Pocahontas' case.
It was not until high school that my interest in the natural world was heightened. In Tina Turner's
poetical song “Great Spirits,” the wilderness is full of “danger and beauty.”

Every time one of us (my family members) leaves, the dogs bark. Every time I have gone onto
the trails, they have barked. We have two Shetland sheepdogs (or Shelties) – a small energetic
breed. But they are also very protective – guarding the house. I heard their distressing barks, and
they probably wondered where I was headed.

Despite the overcast skies and forecasted weather, I willingly ventured outside on the cold rainy
day. Thursday was a dreary day: it rained. The rain clung to leaves and to tree limbs. The rain
eroded the path. Young pines fell over under pressure. The deer tracks vanished, as the rain
saturated the soiled ground creating a path of its own. The ice from the previous venture
disappeared, replaced by large muddy puddles.

It was not a winter wonderland; it was a marshland – a swamp. I had difficulty getting to the
nearby creek. Once there, the sand appeared densely packed from the permeable rain. A little
estuary formed near the creek bed, as the sand began to erode. No fish nor insect inhabited the
waters that day, only the rain droplets and their ripple effect. In the woods nearby, I noticed
numerous unused building materials – moss-covered bricks and large concrete-like slabs forming
a man-made dam. The sand crunched quietly beneath me. And the fallen limbs cracked under
pressure.

By Friday afternoon, the rain stopped. Despite being cold and overcast, bluejays and other birds
came out of hiding. The rain thoroughly soaked the ground, creating a little stream on the trail.
One tree was uprooted. Near the creek, a marsh was formed. I spotted two small waterfalls – one
on the trail, in which the water trickled down, drop by drop; and another, which was louder and
fast-paced, entering the creek. The creek appeared murky and brown; it was carrying sand,
pebbles, and other deposits downstream.

Despite this beauty, the fields of litter become an eyesore. Tires, old refrigerators, and other rusty
appliances sit – untouched and unnoticed, it seems. And I ask myself: why would anyone want to
leave this “stuff” behind? It is out of place and hazardous. To frequently see the litter is annoying
and depressing. It would take months, maybe even years, to clean up.

The first stanza of “Great Spirits” is awe-inspiring and beautiful. She describes an ancient truth,
that “man and nature lived side by side.” But in modern society, I fail to see that connection,
especially if I must see the natural environment as an object of destruction, manipulated and
controlled for our satisfaction. Mother Nature may be fierce sometimes, but she is also beautiful.
WEATHER PATTERNS

From one week to the next, weather patterns change; last week it was rainy and cold, with
intermittent sunny and warm days; this week, it was warm and sunny one afternoon; and
the next, snowy and cold. Friday afternoon was warm and partly cloudy; nonetheless, the
sun came out, peeking through the clouds like a peeping tom. The trails looked oddly
familiar: small eroded crevices broke up the monotonous path. By Saturday afternoon,
the winter storm set in, blanketing a thin layer of snow and ice on the ground. The cloudy
overcast sky was offset by the white shimmering snow.

Friday afternoon I ventured outside around noon. By then I was restless and impatient.
The sun was out, shining brightly overhead. Once on the trail, the sun disappeared behind
the clouds. I walked down the shorter trail toward the creek. About halfway down, the
trail became muddy. It was quiet, maybe too quiet for me. Only a few birds made their
appearance, and one water spider skidded across the creek into hiding. The geese near the
pond in our backyard flew off before the storm hit.

Two animal tracks of a white-tailed deer and another smaller animal appeared on the path
on Friday. They travelled the path, meandering around the large puddles like I did There
was no sign of either animal, just their imprints on the soft, muddy path. At the creek, the
sand projected across the beach like a snake winds across a desert. One water spider
skidding across the water made small ripples from its slow and graceful movements,
inching slowly into a crevice to hide. In the same way, the wind was graceful as it rustled
through the trees. Although autumn has passed and we're two months into winter, a few
leaves haven't fallen off the trees. One leaf fell into the creek from a nearby tree, gently
flowing downstream before getting stuck. On my way back, I heard and saw a plane
flying low overhead.

By Friday morning an inch of snow and ice covered the ground. That afternoon I took a
short walk outside – it was probably below-freezing so I didn't stay out long. On the way
down, I heard the ice scraper sliding across the car's windshield, and I heard the snow
cracking under my feet. I decided to walk down the longer trail to the creek . What was
one day a marshland had turned into a white icy winter wonderland. A thin layer of ice,
probably half an inch thick, covered the puddles.

Only a few birds came out of hiding; the crows (I'm assuming) cawed, but I could not
find them. Two birds flew away after I passed. Another flew away soon thereafter. The
animal tracks simply disappeared -- hidden beneath the snow. Despite the cold
temperatures, it was peaceful outside. I heard once that “grace once lost is not easily
found,” and was reminded of these peaceful walks: of birds' graceful flight, of the creek's
gentle voice, and of the wind's gentle whisper through the trees.
SEASON’S GREETING

Weather can be unpredictable, even in South Carolina. In early winter already, we have
already experience ice, snow, and freezing rain. The chance for some precipitation is
evident. It feels as if it has rained the majority of the week: the sidewalks on campus are
flooded, the rain water thoroughly soaked through the ground, and puddles form in low-
grade areas. I can already imagine walking down the muddy path, avoiding large mud
puddles and watching the creek slowly rise onto the bank. Its progress may be slow, but it
carries away sand in its heavy-laden current.

My trek to the creek was very much what I imagined. Trampling through the woods, I
could already see the effects of the heavy rains: a little stream trickled down the path,
several small marshes dotted the path, and a large mud puddle made the path impassible.
On the trial lay thousands of thin, red-colored pine needles. I decidedly hiked off trail,
entangled in the underbrush finally reaching the creek. Already the sandy beach was
severely eroded, even a line was etched across the beach halfway up the embankment. A
small stream trickled down into the creek; only its gushing sounds could be heard as the
creek quietly engulfed the excess water.

Since I knew would get bored walking the path, I risked following the creek to see what I
would find. Nearby a small den could be seen underneath a large tree by the creek bed.
Near the creek bed, I discovered impressions of a four-clawed animal, which I presume to
be our cat Patches. A few yards away from the original beach, I noticed another stream
entering the creek. The trees are moss-covered, the bark is wet, and the underbrush is
entangled in the trees. It was lush and peaceful. Another stream entering the creek
appeared a few yards after I saw the second stream. I decided to follow that stream.
Erosion already caused the stream bed to appear canyon-like. Nearby I saw a heart-
shaped leaf, which reminded me of Valentine's Day. I ventured upstream, finding a trail
and decided to take it before heading back the way I came.

Afterward, I decided to venture down the trail a little bit more only to discover another
large mud puddle in the path. Taking a risk of getting sand or mud on my shoes, I decided
to travel down the path. That was a bad decision: one of my hiking shoes got dirty and I
cleaned it then and there, soaking the shoe and ready to get home. Having to hike the
trails home was a daunting task (not really). I walked through the two-inch deep mud
puddle, which was several feet across. The cold water saturated my shoes. I was hurriedly
hiking up the trail, noticing the golden yellow leaves on the various trees. Nevertheless,
winter has greeted me. Its torrential rains echo in the wilderness: in the marshlands and in
the streams, in the mysterious tracks and winter chorus of birds. But I can never avoid
hearing planes flying by, unaware of the wildlife below.
THE HEART OF WINTER

Friday afternoon was warm, like any typical spring day. As I walked down the trail, I
could here our dogs, Lassie and Mary-Beth, barking at me – they were simply curious as
to where I was going. The pine needles that appeared red that one day had, by this time,
turned brown. Everything, it seemed was brown. It was incredibly boring and very
similar to other days. The only different, however, was that I saw fresh deer tracks – and
surprisingly saw glimpses of a deer darting between the trees. Still hiking down to the
creek, I crossed a small iced mud puddle, before reaching the two large mud puddles,
which typically takes me off trail.

After reaching the creek, I noticed some similarities and differences. The same, or
similar, raccoon tracks led down to the creek. I could only hear crows caw in the
distance. It was almost completely silent. The sand was loosely packed and easily
malleable. My shoes definitely made impressions in the sand. No airplane noise disturbed
this peaceful environment – just the presence of a curious college-aged student can send
the wildlife running in distress. After briefly exploring the small oasis, I continued up the
creek to another small oasis. There, I saw three water spiders skirting the surface. On the
tree roots below the water surface was a thin layer of mud.

As I continued on, I could finally hear the creek mingling with a small neighboring
waterfall. The water current, it appeared, created a snake-like pattern in the sand; its
artistic endeavor was successful. It had etched miniature sand dunes in the creek bed. It
was remarkably beautiful. I stopped for ten to fifteen minutes, admiring its beauty and
delighting in the heart of winter: the bitter cold water. A leaf was swept away by the
gentle current, utterly powerless in the current.

For several weeks now I’ve wanted to cross the creek and take another adventure to a
different place. It was only on Friday that I decided to take off my socks and shoes and
withstand the bitter cold water to reach another sandy beach. Without any socks or shoes
on, I felt the cool sand between my feet – it was refreshing. Despite the refreshing cold
water, I continued up the smaller stream. Sometimes off-trail, a sense of fear overwhelms
me. That fear comes when I think other inhabitants – people or animals – may be near.
That fear comes when I feel uncertain of the path to follow; and, thus, I trek back the way
I came.

It was a clear day, the sun shone brightly overhead. The trail was typically impassible,
and I maneuvered on and off-trail on a short day hike. But it was that sense of fear,
however, that drove me to run – to jog, more or less – up the steep hill towards the house
again. To be greeted with welcoming barks of Mary-Beth and Lassie – to be safe and
sound back home. Now I have three pairs of muddied shoes – some boots and some
tennis shoes – waiting to be cleaned. As I wait, in earnest, for a spring awakening.
DISHEARTEND NORMALITY

For weeks the weather continues to play games: one day it's sunny and beautiful and
another it's rainy and dreary. On Saturday afternoon, it was sunny and warm. But I could
not avoid walking through the mud and marshes from the week's rainfall. The dogs
barked, as usual. Their barking signaled a short good-bye as I entered the forest. Like any
normal winter day, many of the trees were leafless. Pine cones, however, remained secure
to the trees. Unlike any other day, though, I noticed a squirrel dart across from tree to
fallen tree and onto the forest floor.

The path, like our driveway, continues to slowly erode away. Consistently seeing this
erosion – this permeable soil – made me depressed. Not only have I revisited the site five
times over, but it has become monotonous and normal. It's disheartening, honestly. To
take the one-hour walking tour has become a daunting task – to find something new in
my backyard. But that did not happen. Instead this micro-system behaved normally.
Planes and helicopters flew overhead. The path was gradually eroding away. And life in
these woods lay hidden to avoid meeting the stranger disturbing the peace. The creek,
though, had no choice but to meet me again.

Every time I take these one-hour walks, I travel down to the creek. The creek, like
everything else, appeared the same. The same rifts in the sand. The same gentle current.
The same bitter cold water. The same moss-covered tree roots. Twigs cracked when I
passed. Leaves rustled under my feet. The water appeared semi-translucent and slightly
murky from the previous rainfall. The sun overhead was bright and warm, but still the
mud puddles appeared on the path – immovable and impassible, again.

As I continued upstream, I noticed more tree roots were exposed. They were exposed by
the constant erosion and once-weekly rainfall. But no animal or insect would come out to
play. They were instead scared off by the near-constant gunshots echo throughout the
forest and the ever-so-often echo of airplanes and helicopters flying overhead.
Nonetheless, the creek continued in its song – unhindered. As she was writing a gentle
song, the sand created rifts in the murky creekbed. Unlike last time, though, I did not
disturb the little ecosystem. The water spiders did not appear to dance across the
creekbed. Instead, three fleas (I am assuming) hovered an inch above the water’s surface.

Instead of walking upstream at the third outlet, I continued straight, following the creek’s
winding path to another outlet. Everything looked the same from my previous visits. I
have yet to walk down to the creek without avoiding two large puddles deeming the path
impassible. Again the sand crumbles under added weight. Leaving footprints in the
malleable sand, my path continues to be visible to others until another rainfall (or
possible snow) hides them. After hiking up the eroded hill, I was hoping to be greeted by
our dogs barking, but noticed that my parents’ car was back and the dogs were inside.
The weather played nice last Saturday, but I continually have to cross uncharted territory
to avoid the mud puddles which has become a nuisance.
THE SAME STORY

Every week we get some form of precipitation. This past week, it was snow. On Tuesday
morning, the snow came pouring down like sheets of rain. Two geese frequently visit our
house, but they were not there that morning. But even a small amount of snow can cause
the trail to be muddy. One day I saw a flock of birds hover around our neighbors' yards.
These small birds were very entertaining and very majestic. Nonetheless, the story
continues to stay the same: the mud, the puddles, the gentle quiet creek, and animal
tracks. I have yet to trek down to the creek without seeing any either of these.

On Sunday, the sunset was beautiful. I have never gone walking toward the end of the
day. But that may change. After weeks of taking afternoon strolls, I may decide to change
my routine and go outside at different times during the day. Fewer animals may be
outside. The dogs won't bark. And I may be able to tell a different story. That story would
tell of a different time and of different characters. The creek, though, would continue its
long evening serenade into the night. Nocturnal animals may slowly come out.

As the sun disappears below the horizon, the temperature gradually drops. Many small
mammals – squirrels, for example – would find cover in the trees. They may dart
undercover. They may dart up the trees. Nonetheless, they would hide – hide from the
intruder, a simple spectator. They would hide from unfamiliar noises – from gunshots,
like my last visit. But the creek would quietly sing her song. The same song from
previous visits. The water gradually recedes, creating a rippling sand dune. And until
winter gives way to spring, the water temperature will continue to be bitter cold. And
trees will remain bare until spring invites a new story to be told.

Nonetheless, I trek down toward the creek – alone and restless. I wonder up and down the
trail routes, hike on- and off-trail, just waiting for another story to tell. But sometimes I
become afraid by myself and fear overtakes me and I backtrack, crisscrossing my former
footsteps – visible in the loose sand. With the sun disappearing under the horizon, stars
and sometimes the moon make an appearance. Bright overhead, they are guiding lights
home. New animals and new noises also make an appearance in a different story.

On my way back up the trails, I remain watchful – uncertain of what might come. But
then again, through various mediums such as movies and books, the forest continues to
be a place to be feared – a death trap. But that stereotype may never diminish. But
nonetheless, I am close to home and safe. I can run up the trail and be home in minutes.
Our dogs and our cat stand watch outside, sometimes playing and sometimes patiently
waiting for excitement: for some movement, for some change in their routine. It is not the
same story, it is a different story – every day I take an hour stroll in the forest.
SIGNS OF SPRING

Several weeks ago I was waiting for a spring awakening. Last week I felt like I was in the
same story again. This week I got to see the gift of spring in Columbia and at home.
Although I did not go to a nearby park, I visited and admired the campus. Around the
campus, many dogwood trees blossomed, pink flowers in full bloom. At my house, the
trail appeared the very similar. On our road down to our house, patches of small purple
flowers began to grow and blossom. Although we have no dogwood trees, a few oak trees
began to blossom.

One afternoon this past week, I went on my ritual walk out onto the backyard trails. I had
hardly noticed the tall switchblade grass in the clearing. It was a clear, sunny day. Planes
were visible, flying overhead. There is a small local airport nearby. This time I took
neither my phone nor my watch. This time I wasn't I walked down the same storm-
beaten path toward the creek. There was a light breeze that day. Deer frequently pass by
our property, finally reaching the creek and fresh water. On the trail appears several deer
tracks showing their path down to the creek, and even across the small trail.

The birds were lively, even chatting. While I sat on the soft sand bed by the creek, the
birds sang songs. As I waited, observant as always. I noticed the rhythmic design etched
in the creek bed. Of course, that rhythmic design was the same weaving pattern I've seen
time and time again. While on the small sand bed, I realized that the rain and the wind
created a small ridge in the sand.

I can honestly say that I didn't spend that much time out on the trail. Maybe I was anxious
to go back home. Maybe I was ready to see a maintained wilderness – whatever that is –
without left-behind garbage, without beer cans and other junk. I can only imagine
something better – something more pure, more natural. But that, I can safely assume, is
nearly impossible. Few places within the United States have remained pristine
environments – untouched by human culture in some way.

Despite my routine visits down to the creek, I have become accustomed to seeing the
same scenery – the same leafless trees, the same eroded path, the same mud puddles in
the path. Despite these similarities, I did notice tire tracks on my way back up a different
trail that leads to my house. Despite the trail erosion, I could visibly notice tire tracks of
some two- to four-wheeled vehicle. I could remember the times I biked down those same
trails, but then realized the possible harm that recreation caused – not to me but to the
ecosystem. Maybe it's more sustainable. Maybe there's a chance to reverse the damage.
Maybe there's some hope. Maybe there's still time.

With each new season – spring, summer, fall, and winter – comes a new beauty. In
winter, snow is highly anticipated. Each season offers its magnificent beauty in various
ways, nonetheless.
A SAFETY PRECAUTION

Last week I debated going to the Greenway. I was hoping to go on Tuesday, but did not make it. I
did, however, make it to the Greenway before it closed at sunset and got a trail map. I didn't,
however, make it down any of the trails, as planned. Instead, I could only see the tree groves
(which were blossoming) from the highway. Afterward, I went home disappointed. But both of
my parents were concerned for my safety, if I went alone. Although I feel confident that I could
go alone, the expansive park could have been intimidating.

So, instead, I settled for less.

On Friday afternoon, I went to college the usual way and parked in one of the commuter parking
lots. I decided to walk the mile down to the Gardens, and briefly saw a friend planting and
growing herbs and spices for a garden across from the YMCA. Among the herbs and spices he
was planting were thyme, pumpkin, and mint. Each herb or spice was in a different stage: from
seedlings for the pumpkin plant to small stocks of thyme and mint. Despite the short detour, I
arrived at Gardens soon thereafter.

Within the first week of spring, the gardens seemed near perfect. Only a few trees and flowering
bushes were in blossom, but some flowers fell onto the concrete path. As I walked down the
various paths, several things caught my attention: the two ponds connected by bridges and the
three to four waterfalls gently flowing downstream. Even the landscape seemed slightly artificial:
the landscaped lawns with artificial grass and pine needles lay in designated spots around trees
(like at the nearby college). Despite this beautiful setting, cars frequently passed going to and
from downtown. The wildlife, especially the songbirds, was also active. The weather was a
different story: despite being slightly breezy, the overcast clouds signaled that it might rain that
day.

The was very beautiful; I saw a few couples and one family weave through the various paths in
the neighborhood park. While many of the couples carried on in conversation, the one family I
saw took photographs. The couple with the infant child was creating memories. Something I have
done with this journal – with the exception that the journal is written not photographed. Despite
the park's landscaped beauty, it did not appeal to me. This time last year I thought the park was
beautiful. But that was before I took this class.

The neighborhood park is small in comparison to Anne Springs Close Greenway or even to a
state or national park. But nonetheless, wildlife appears content, enjoying some sort of pseudo-
wilderness. The small-scale gardens only recreate a part of the natural environment: its landscape
being somewhat natural – the wooden benches – and somewhat artificial – the black metal
benches. Every park, either local or national, will be somewhere in between both a natural and
artificial setting. The Greenway is probably more natural than the Gardens. And the Gardens is
probably more artificial than the Greenway.

Despite my dislike of walking down muddy trails week after week, I have realized that rain
nourishes the plants and trees. Frequently seeing the resulting marshes and puddles made the
seemingly ritual experience very mundane – even boring. Seeing the overall effects of weekly
rainfall towards the beginning of spring made me realize the beauty of rain.
MY LAND ETHIC: PART I

Land is a foreign concept to capitalist, free-market societies such as the United States. It's a
concept that challenges the beliefs in 'manifest destiny' and of 'private property'. In the United
States long, dark history the federal government granted thousands of acres of land to pioneer
settlers -- and thus creating hostilities with the Native Americans. Nonetheless, the land is not our
own. It is a valuable, precious resource: sacred to some (like the Native Americans) and
manipulated by others. We may not understand the concept of land, so we begin to study it --
with geology, geography, and lithology among others.

During my weekly ritual nature walks, I realized that maintaining any natural area is difficult.
There are several choices we can make: we can (1) conserve, (2) preserve, or (3) sustain the
environment. Whichever one we choose, it must be a wise choice. Historically, both conservation
and preservation ethics began in the early to late twentieth century. The national parks were
created as a conservation measure. John Muir initially intended these parks to preserve natural
beauty -- to be left untouched by humans. Only recently have other fields such as sustainability
have become prominent. Now we have another choice: to sustain the environment. As we
continue to use these resources, it is our choices that ultimately determine the future of life on
Earth. Our choices begin first, and foremost, on an individual basis.

The Native Americans and other indigenous tribes around the world can set an example in our
modern industrial world. Nonetheless, sustainability is the future. Conservation, in its various
forms, has worked to some degree. Preservation, likewise, has helped protect the natural
environment from human interference. Although I originally believed in conservation (especially
with the creation of the national parks), I have realized that my appreciation for the natural
environment has changed.

Although I still appreciate the natural environment, I understand that conservation is not the best
choice. We may save hundreds to thousands of species with conservation initiatives; but with
these wildlife initiatives come with another price. In my opinion, preservation is a better choice.
Preservation offers Mother Nature a chance to heal herself.

Preservationists like John Muir challenged the conservation ethic, acknowledging the various
aesthetic values of pristine natural environments. I have, for the majority of my life, viewed the
natural environment aesthetically. On Outward Bound, I travelled well-known trails in the Pisgah
National Forest. Only recently did I discover that biblically 'pisgah' means 'fortress' -- something
awe-inspiring and strong. Because it is a national forest, people can use the park for recreational
purposes -- for backpacking, hiking, canoeing, and so on. As much as I love outdoor adventure, I
have begun to realize that "natural" does not mean pure or untouched.

We can, however, learn a few lessons from our ancestors and Native Americans. We have a
choice to make. We can protect numerous endangered species (conservation biology), we can
restore habitats (restoration ecology), or we can adopt a new method to protect both habitats and
species. That method is yet to be found. Until then we have to settle for something less --
something counterfeit even.
MY LAND ETHIC: PART II

I began my land ethic with the a discussion of basic theories in environmental ethics in United
States history. First I discussed the conservation ethic theory, and then compared it to the
preservation ethic before I argued for a happy medium between conservation and preservation. I
also briefly discussed my opinions on both of these theories, and then I considered sustainability.
However, now I want to discuss the importance of a healthy, sustainable environment.

In my opinion, healthy environments exist only in the past. Few old-growth forests currently exist
in this capitalist world. And fewer natural environments remain untouched by humans. Although
there are hundreds of local and national parks to preserve natural environments or historical
landmarks, they are managed by park rangers and volunteers to maintain a pseudo-natural
environment. Within these local and national parks, winding roads (sometimes gravel, sometimes
paved) etch artistic designs in a pseudo-natural environment. Madeleine L'Engle, the author of
Walking on Water among other books, wrote that health reflects healing. The environment,
however, is not healthy: it is not whole. To be whole is to be healthy. But instead, it is
fragmented. It has been redesigned -- recreated. The environment may be healing, but it is not
healthy. It can still sustain life.

A sustainable environment, according to a basic definition of the word, supports life. The amount
an environment can sustain depends on various factors including its geographic location. Tropical
environments typically sustain more life than polar environments; nonetheless, natural
environments around the world are fragile.

Both of these concepts -- health and sustainability -- are important in developing my land ethic.
The environment may control its ability to sustain life. If Earth was a patient, its vital signs would
be low. Due to the near-constant struggle to maintain herself, thousands species compete for
scarce resources. Homo sapiens, humans, have continuously altered their environment. Until the
nineteenth century and the Industrial Revolution, the human race left a small ecological footprint.

We must, however, re-evaluate our current ecological crisis. We must begin to consider
alternatives to combat this ecological crisis. Maintaining healthy, sustainable environments is
difficult We have two choices: to manage our lands graciously or to allow nature to take care of
herself. If we choose option A, it takes away nature's ability to take control; and if we choose
option B, we look lazy and ignorant. Generations ago, people made choices that forever changed
the landscape of the world. The pre-modern, pre-industrial world only saw select innovations and
discoveries. The modern world is, however, inundated with new inventions and discoveries,
which have forever altered the world's landscapes. Sometimes I am reminded about the future
consequences: some movies speculate various causes for natural disaster -- and even if some of
those movies portray local struggles, the global community is just as much at stake.

I can only imagine the true effect our environment has on us. The cultural and physical
landscapes that surrounds us echo different sentimental values: for some, protecting and
supporting the Environment is important; and for others it is not.
MY LAND ETHIC: PART III

While I began my land ethic with comparisons between conservation and preservation
and sustainability, I would like to conclude my land ethic with a discussion of an
aesthetic value of the environment. I have spent a variable amount of time outside -- in
the wilderness. I don't know if I've always had an aesthetic value for the environment, but
I know that I detest large metropolitan areas like Miami, Fl. where I was born. While my
aesthetic value for the environment has developed over the years, each experience I have
in the wilderness has improved this sense of natural beauty.

Within the past five years I have visited several notable national parks, took pictures, and
remembered those trips out West. Sometimes the trips were short; sometimes they were
not. We spent three hours in Yosemite National Park in California. We spent a week in
Yellowstone National Park in Wyoming. We have driven through many national parks.
But I would ask for more time -- more time to experience God's creations, more time to
enjoy the peace and tranquility. But I haven't been given that time, yet.

According to the dictionary definition, an aesthetic "pertains to a sense of the beautiful." I

often admire the aesthetically-pleasing photographs of nature: of the awe-inspiring
sunrises and sunsets and of majestic animals and of picturesque landscapes. I have yet to
capture this beauty in my own photography. I appreciate these photographers who
capture nature's grace and fury. I appreciate their creativity.

I have spent the past eleven weeks walking the trails behind my house: they are not
maintained and disheartening to the not-so frequent visitor. Maybe I imagined something
more beautiful. Every so often on the trials I found something to brighten my spirits: the
snow, the graceful flight of songbirds, the silent whisper of the creek. But as I noted
earlier in my land ethic, my local environment -- the trials in my backyard -- does not
have any aesthetic value. Other local parks nearby may have some aesthetic value. While
I missed an opportunity to visit the Greenway, I am somewhat intrigued by its organized
beauty: the orchards, for example.

But maybe I am more appreciative of the interpretation of the arts of nature: the nature
photographers, an interpretation of urban sprawl by a sculptor, the writers who
passionately explore animal behavior. Nonetheless that appreciation stems from a time
and place, from a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I could imagine working on the
conservation of different feline species. I love cats, big and small. I also prefer to visit the
mountains than the sea. The mountains loom on the horizon, majestic and ridged.

But I will be honest, before taking this class, I preferred conservation and thought that the
creation of national parks was an ideal step to take to preserve natural wonders of the
world. Now I am not so sure. We continue to manipulate our environment. We continue
to destroy forests worldwide. What few hundred thousand acres we conserve are like
isolated islands, as I read once in Essential Environment. But I continue to be inspired by
these natural wonders.