Urban Adventures

While it’s true that I love the outdoors—cloaked in wildness or carefully maintained in procured natural areas—there’s something alluring about an urban setting.  There a different wildness exists; still adventurous, still with spontaneity and unpredictability, still with its own innate beauty.

In the middle of a crazy week of unstable storms, full of heavy rains leading to flash flooding and swirling winds leading to destructive tornadoes, my nephew Ethan and I headed into downtown Chicago.  He graduated from Beloit College last year with a degree in philosophy and computer science.  And while he currently is working and saving money, he is contemplating the pursuit of his Master’s Degree; perhaps in Chicago with its opportunities to major universities, public transportation, and unique cultural environment.  Our trip and Ethan’s interests were a perfect meld for a day in the city.

I picked him up early with the tailings of the previous night’s storm still playing out with the morning rush hour traffic.  We had planned accordingly, however, and after exiting I-90 on Fullerton Avenue, we headed east to The Lake—Lake Michigan; passing DePaul University on the way to Lincoln Park.  The urban gods found favor in our efforts and granted us a free parking spot along North Stockton Drive.  The only required compensation was a tight maneuver of parallel parking; miraculously nailing it perfectly after one slight adjustment and an aggressive turn of the wheel.

Although Ethan had hit some of the same attractions we were planning to visit with some of his friends during his senior year, they’re the kind of places a person can enjoy time and again, and never really tire of what can be observed and learned.  Different facets of time and experiences cut from the same diamond of a city you might say!

Through a gentle drizzle we used our ticket reservations and went to the Lincoln Park Conservatory.  It was just as wet inside as out, but warmer of course; like an easy walk through a tropical jungle.  So many unique varieties of plants exist there within the behind-the-scenes gardens; with different species blooming at various times of the year.  Ethan and I talked while focusing on the colors and patterns of fronds, leaves, and branches.  In order that my daughter could borrow our old Canon Rebel camera for an upcoming trip, I took numerous photos in the Conservatory to use up its film.

Sacred Ear Cycad

Giant Maidenhair Fern

Philodendron

Lobster Claw

Yello Alder

Once finished, we walked down to the Lincoln Park Zoo.  It too is free, and also a good one as zoos go.  I know there are some people who don’t like zoos and the fact that animals are kept in pens and cages.  Personally I see zoos as an opportunity.  If people come and see different animals from around the world, then perhaps they will bond, learn something, and care about a specific species.  And if a person cares about a specific species in captivity, then perhaps they’ll care about that same species still living in the wild.  And just maybe, if those people learn about the locales of where that animal lives in the wild they’ll be more apt to do what they can to support the preservation of those environs.  Zoos give us a glimpse of the ambassadors that represent the wilds of their species and the habitats where they live.  Ethan and I enjoyed visiting the seals, big cats, and primates—places where we could enter to escape the gentle drizzle that at that moment had escalated to a steady rain.  Despite the precipitation, the urban setting—with its many plants and flowers—was in full bloom; a week or two ahead of us back home some ninety miles to the northwest.  Perhaps it was because of the location along Lake Michigan; the third largest freshwater lake in the world if measured by surface area and the second according to volume.  I’m guessing that the water altered and escalated the coming of warmer temperatures.

We stopped back by the Jeep to shed our coats and switch out some gear as we prepared to take the bus downtown; while the weather gradually became a bit more agreeable.  At the bus stop we waited for a good half hour.  According to a few locals from the area, that particular bus route typically ran late.  As Ethan and I waited and talked, other people and buses came and went.

One woman, who had originally offered us advice on how the buses ran—and was waiting for the same bus number that we were—struck up a conversation.  She asked straight forward if I’d been to Kenya.  With the slightly warmer temperatures, and me now wearing a T-shirt, she had apparently noticed the beaded bracelet around my wrist.  I had gotten it 8 months prior when my wife and I had traveled in Africa to visit the home of our son and his young family.  The bracelet had black, red, and green stripes separated by thin white bands and was covered with two Masaai shields with criss-crossing spears.  Ironically, Ethan was wearing a similar bracelet that we had brought back as a gift for him following our trip.  Unless someone was acquainted with Kenya, and the flag’s design, it would most likely have gone unnoticed to unfamiliar eyes.

As it turned out, the woman had been to Kenya’s capital city of Nairobi several times through the World Vision organization whom I was familiar with—having helped raise money for them when I ran in the Chicago Marathon 3 or 4 different times.  While waiting for the bus we shared stories of our experiences in Africa, the people, and things we had personally learned while visiting.

Our bus finally arrived; guided by an experienced driver and partner in training.  How they constantly maneuvered the long vehicle through the traffic and avoided wrapping it around parked cars, poles, or any other object remained a mystery!

A hop, skip, and a jump south of the Magnificent Mile and the Chicago River we stepped off the bus across from and in front of the Art Institute.  All told, we spent a good 3 hours walking from room to room—through various displays, genres, and time periods; immersing ourselves in the creativity, message, and purpose behind each medium.  We walked through the special Henri Matisse exhibition; “Jazz: Rhythms in Color”, and then made our way through the Institute's maze of hallways, levels, and wings.

Ethan and I saw most everything.  My favorites were nature and water scenes—especially with reflections and tree branch outlines—in addition to eras long since passed.  I also felt a connection to the statues depicting body and motion.  Lacking proper descriptive and artistic wordage, I found myself enjoying smooth lines, classic imagery, and colors that lured one to take a closer look—whether dark or vibrant.  I like dreaming of walking into a painted scene.

Vincent van Gogh - Fishing In Spring
the Pont de Clichy (Asnières)

Clude Monet - Water Lily Pond

Alberto Giacometti
Walking Man II & Tall Figure

Piet Mondrian - Farm near Duivendrecht

Pablo Picasso - The Old Guitarist

Hamo Thornycroft - Teucer

John Atkinson Grimshaw
Lane Scene at Night

Grant Wood - American Gothic

With that being said, we also toured all of the contemporary and modern art exhibits.  Some of them I enjoyed; with their textures, colors, and use of abstract or unusual materials—ones that made you think.  Some remained a puzzlement, and that was okay.  Admittingly there were a couple that in trying to gain perspective and studying them up close, they would suddenly spring forth into focus and I would nervously blush and back up; embarrassed by my intent concentration and curiosity prior to the stark revelation of what I was actually viewing.  Well done unknown artist!  Your efforts were accomplished and rewarded and I can appreciate that; despite being a bit self conscious.  I’m not sure what my nephew thought—if he even noticed—crazy uncle!  It just took me a bit longer to understand what it was that I was actually viewing; yikes!

By the afternoon we were primed, ready, and hungry!  It was our intent to fully enjoy our day so we could dive into the experience of a restaurant that’s been a family favorite for as long as we can remember.  I believe the first time that my wife and I went to the Chicago Pizza and Oven Grinder Co. was shortly after college in the late 1980’s or early 1990’s—with some close friends.  Since then we’ve eaten there whenever we can and most times that we’re down in the city.  It’s become a destination for our kids now as well.

Following a bus ride back to Lincoln Park, and a walk over to Clark Street, Ethan and I got right into the restaurant and seated—something that doesn’t always happen but felt apropos for the day.  Being his first time eating in that unique “hole in the wall”, we got the traditional Mediterranean Bread as an appetizer.  It’s a lot for two people to tackle, but we gave it our best effort and knocked out most of it.  The bread with its herbs tasted great; bordering on addictive!  Next came our half pound pizza pot pies as the main course.  With the combination of crust, sauce, cheese, and sausage, the word divine came to mind.  After a long day it was well worth the wait!  After a long day it hit the spot!  After finishing, we each left with a small amount we would have for lunch the following day!

Upon walking back to my Jeep, we got situated, headed out of the city, and started back home.  As we drove, talked, and listened to music, the skies darkened.  In fact, far to the west—where we were headed—the heavens were in full display of their power and intentions.  Clouds swirled and lightning flashed in constant plasmatic blasts.  As we neared home, tornado warnings were issued and within minutes of our exit from the tollway, the rains unleashed.  We had been so close to making it!

Ethan texted home and as we pulled into his driveway the garage door opened so we could enter and spare him getting soaked.  With a quick goodbye, I drove the short distance to my home with the windshield wipers going full bore; before it got any more dicey outside!  Surprisingly it was the second night in a row with that same type of weather.  At the same time, it seemed like a perfect ending to what amounted to a perfect day.  It was a day that became an urban adventure with my nephew Ethan within the city of Chicago.

See you along The Way…

Blufftop Wind In The Boughs

It sounds like the ebbs and flows of traffic on a busy street or distant highway; but it’s not.  There’s nobody else here—upon this bluff overlooking the Sugar River.  The skies are partly cloudy, but constantly changing due to the light winds; those same winds blowing like a horde of cars through the leafless treetops of the oaks and hickory and the needled boughs of the tightly clustered white pines behind me.  There’s momentary silence but also low moans from the wind, and rattles from last year’s leaves still hanging on—soon to be kicked out of the nest once this season’s buds begin to burst forth.

I’m not deep in a secret wood, or on forgotten property, I’m right here.  I’m in plain view and out in the open.  It’s just that I have it all to myself at this moment in time.  I can hear the spring peepers and chorus frogs singing in the vernal ponds across the way—in the marshes on the other side of the river.  Wild places.  Mysterious places.  I’ve kayaked over to that side before and walked amongst the dead grasses of spring.  It’s intimate there even in its openness—before things leaf out—because you’ll find that your spirit latches onto the simplicity and complexity of it all when your senses are alert and on fire.  I can see the door stoop to that area from this bluff.  It’s comforting to know it’s there with its seasonal pockets of stagnant water, helping to warm the water and earth and kick-start into action the life that’s always there; so that we with our limitations can actually see it!

While here on the bluff I’m soaking all of this into my body; absorbing it into my memory for safe keeping.  There are a myriad of trails nearby that I could hike, and I may do so as I’ve often done.  Typically I’d have been running them as well, as I love the softness of the paths and alert nimbleness it takes to navigate the twists, turns, roots, and ruts.  But, I had surgery on my right knee not too long ago for a torn meniscus, so I’m trying to be patient; trying to slowly build a foundation of strength that will get me back to that activity that I love.

In the meantime I’m sitting here in a camp chair on this bluff.  I’m sitting here where history planted itself nearly 90 years ago when the W.P.A. built this limestone shelterhouse.  A good friend of mine once shared a story about a time when his grandpa attached half of an oxen’s iron work shoe—from the beast of burden's cloven hoof—to this very pavilion; shared history.

I love that there’s a huge fireplace both inside and outside—where the two flues are shared by the same chimney.  And while the structure is sound, it will require some tender love and care in the near future.  I can only hope that a few timbers are replaced and some tuck-pointing applied so that when I’m older, and can no longer hope to run or walk the trails, I can still sit here on this bluff and listen to both the flicker and red-headed woodpecker, and the wind in the boughs.

The Outside Fireplace Of The
Limestone Shelter Built In 1939.

Today within the beauty of an early spring day, I chose to build a small fire in the outdoor hearth of the fireplace.  Soon I’ll make a potato, egg, and sausage scramble in my old iron skillet—upon the still hot coals.  It’ll be a hearty lunch to carry me through the rest of the day; like the resonating warmth radiating off the stone work.  Afterwards I’ll take my walk on the trails along the bluff, and water’s edge, and back into the river bottom at the base of a ridge.  Like the nearby squirrel gnawing on the husk of an old walnut found in its hidden pantry, the croaking calls of the sandhill cranes in the distant marsh, and the winds off the bluff through the white pine boughs, walking will give me the opportunity to reflect on life and the important things.

See you along The Way…

Spring Beauty Flowers

A Vernal Pond

My Environmental Manifesto

I’m sitting in a grove of thorny, low growing bushes called prickly ash.  The name belies their origin because they truly are nowhere near any rendition of an ash, other than the compound leaf that most likely gave it its name.  Besides, the ash we know has been wiped out now for nearly two decades, although I walked through a marshy cathedral of their remnant trunks on my way into this grove.  They are the aftermath of an invasive species gone unchecked.  And while I do know of a micropopulation of decent aged green ash that are growing at the base of a ridge just beyond the banks of a clear flowing trout stream in Northern Michigan–hemmed in by a cedar and tamarack swamp–not many ash trees still exist.  With each species loss in a specific ecosystem, the diversity of our environment takes a substantial hit.  My prayer is that like the chestnut of yesteryear, the green ash too may find a way to rise from charred ashes as the storied phoenix bird–to grow again in our forests.  It’s a mythical story lined with hope for something different.  It’s hope that can provide fuel, especially at a time when diversity is served at a minimum and draws hisses from the forked tongues of those who claim to preach grace, mercy, and acceptance.  Diversity is the building block of our earth.  Just look around!  Do they wish to live in a world of box elders without oaks, pines, hickory, and firs?  It appears their aim against diversity is a bullseye for those who may believe differently from what they’ve deemed suitable.

Did they miss school on the day their 5th grade science teacher taught the basic fundamental principles of ecology–fondly referred to as life science?  They must have zoned out when symbiotic relationships were discussed in combination to how all things are connected.  You need carnivores and herbivores alongside the omnivores, scavengers, decomposers, parasites, and hosts; plant, predator, and prey.  And while I love a good grove of scrubby scotch pine, as they have their purpose as a pioneer plant, my eyes light up when a white pine takes hold.  In short order its soft needled branches will help bring shade and coolness to the sun scorched sands its roots hold onto–leading the land towards the next stage in the succession of life and a climax community.

The idea of a sentinel white pine staking claim in the midst of fast growing, short lived, pioneer plants reminds me of new houses lining a beautiful blue lake with every centurion tree reduced to irrigated blue grass.  What of the one lake house holding on and not competing with the Jones’; hidden amongst the remnant oaks and hickories that once lined the shoreline and forests beyond?  Neighbors look on with spite at the leaves, acorns, and nuts that are seasonally dropped, while the owners revel at the cool breezes, wildlife, and natural shade–looking out past the docks at the dimpled water. One side seems sterile while the other does its best to blend.

And so I sit amongst the prickly ash.  I’d love to have a small plot of them in my own yard.  The roots send up new sprouts into available light, and their sharp thorned branches intertwine.  I am also at the base of massive oaks–of the diversified red, white, swamp, and burr.  These oaks anchor a point surrounded by the inside bend of a river, intermixed with trees such as hackberry, cherry, cottonwood, black walnut, shagbark hickory, and silver maple–in addition to low growing shrubs of gray and red osier dogwood, gooseberry, and button bush.  Each is a necessary and valuable detail of a bigger picture.  Each is a piece of our ecosystem’s puzzle.  Each is included in a melting pot for what we label as the forest.

For indeed, without the inclusion of a vast array of species, we are left with a plantation born of a monoculture.  Have you seen the aerial shots of forests planted with one species after a devastating disease or invasive insect sweeps through?  You end up with geometric shaped dead zones within property boundaries; brown year-round until they rot back into Mother Earth.  Or how about black and white pictures of quaint towns and cities shaded under massive, iron strength American Elms?  Once upon a time now passed, it was like driving through a wooded tunnel.  Orioles, in their hanging soft-weaved bassinets, raised their babies high above the streets.  That was before the disease killed off our American Elms in the 1960’s and 1970’s.  I still see lone elms growing occasionally in out-of-the-way places, for their shape is unique and distinct, but their age seems limited with an expiration date.

With the elms gone, city planners planted the green ash.  When those disappeared, they looked around in wide-eyed wonder.  Cities were left treeless due to their lack of diversification.  But since a generation of leadership had come and gone, we forgot to learn from those who lived and saw what happened before us.  Perhaps humans are more cyclical than we give them credit–but not always in a good way–making the same type of decisions while expecting different results.  They say that’s the definition of insanity.

Equity.  Each species needs the chance to grow and live unencumbered.  Nature finds a way, and can somehow heal, but it takes time; so much time–espcially after human interference.  It’s the kind of time that simply won’t make a whole lot of difference in some areas–developed to death and destruction without the opportunity to live in conjunction with humans; irrevocable as opposed to in harmony.  And in the places where various species of trees are allowed to come back–back to a point where we can look at them in awe, and wonder at their history as a hub tree–a Grandmother Tree–our time will have expired and we’ll have missed their resurrection.

Will it be enough to have set aside areas for future generations?  Imagine areas that are small like natural backyard gardens and neighborhood parks of native prairies, forests, rock, or desert flora next to playground equipment and athletic fields.  Imagine areas for future generations that are beyond our comprehension–lined with countless lakes, sprawling swamps, and extending mountain ranges.  We find ourselves now on a precipice of decision making; decisions made by those deemed responsible by a majority vote and quest for power and resources.  Somewhere in the mix of pick-up-sticks, that is chaos and despair, I hope.

Westward expansion, even then at a great expense, no longer exists.  The millions of First Nation people past and present could tell you stories.  It wasn’t a blank slate without a cost.  We now know the ends of the Earth.  So what is left that greedy eyes hope to conquer and consume?  The legacy of our values and decisions becomes the heritage our bloodline will receive.

While I wonder at the diversity of species, equity of lands preserved, and the inclusion of environments allowed to work together, I have to also wonder about the Earth itself.  Will resources always take precedence so nothing is sacred?  Will nothing be set aside and left untouched?  If I look at how land and water have been treated, both here at home and abroad, I gasp.  Natural resources the world over have been treated as a commodity.  And when it's gone and destroyed beyond recognition, it’s deemed “not my problem” and shelved as a historical archive.  It makes you wonder if people truly believe that “might makes right”.  It’s not how I was raised.  It’s not how I was taught to treat people or the earth.  It’s not how I spent 35 years teaching students.  It’s not how my wife and I raised our own kids.

Shouldn’t the core of how we interact be the attributes of respect and responsibility regardless of our differences?  It’s been my badge and personal mantra–both for our Earth’s creation, as well as for our fellow global neighbor.

Today in the forest surrounding me I’ve been serenaded by chickadees, nuthatches, blue jays, canadian geese, sandhill cranes heading north but confused by winter’s fake spring, barred owls on the tail-end of their mating season, pileated, flicker, and downy woodpeckers, mallards, and ironically the cries of the bald eagle; our nation’s symbol.  Those are the diversified feathered species I am familiar with and can identify.  There are so many I don’t yet recognize.  I could stay ignorant and call these surrounding members of nature the generalized label of trees and birds one is apt to do–by someone who lacks a deeper understanding–but I choose understanding, while knowing it’s an ongoing process.  I choose the fairness of opportunity to include all the pieces of the environmental puzzle–to live and let live.

That’s not to say I don’t fish, hunt, or gather; but only within personal boundaries.  If I take, I give back.  I believe the buzz word for that is reciprocity.  I like the relationship it takes to build such a thing.  With my students and my own children I used to say, “If you kill it, you need to eat it.  If you don’t want to eat it, then don’t kill it.”  That goes for northern pike, gray squirrels, or a spider you find in the corner of your living room.  Would you say that’s a philosophy that highlights respect?  Would you say that’s a philosophy that recognizes that everything has a purpose?  I feel that it’s an important aspect to bring up, because the sheer number of people and their monies that are invested in hunting, for instance, can help purchase and maintain public lands and their restoration–if those funds and their directive are used for good and not evil by the entrusted governing body and the ensuing policies under that governing body’s leadership.

“Nobility is not a birthright” was a line used in the 1991 film, Robin Hood: Prince Of Thieves.  It was spoken by the protagonist Robin of Locksley.  It reminds me that leadership should never be followed simply because of a person’s flex of power.  If I am to personally listen to or be guided under one’s leadership–respect will have to be earned.  How does their integrity stand up to time and pressure?  How do they act?  What do they say when they speak?  How do they treat others?  Do others follow out of desire, or out of fear?  Does the leadership at hand work to be a voice of the people they represent or fall under the agencies at play around them–those who have the most money and sway?  What happens to those who deviate ever so slightly from the leadership's beliefs–including those who helped them get into that position?  Will the leadership forge ahead and do their own thing regardless of wise counsel?

Who else will speak for the trees?  Who else will reserve the land and treat it with respect if the community at large doesn’t step up to the plate?  I also used to teach my students that whatever we do to the land we do to the water, and whatever we do to the water we do to the land.  They are inseparable.  They work as one.  Nature as our teacher.

Although both are non-living entities, soil and water–in conjunction with sunlight, air, and rock–are the very ingredients that allow for the living here on Earth.  To say non-living aspects aren’t important or necessary is similar to yanking the table cloth out from under a set of your Grandma’s finest china; something in the realm of the living is going to come crashing down.  You can’t have the living without the non-living.  You can’t influence the land without affecting the water and visa-versa.  Thankfully, with an environmental mindset, the hope is that the land and water can also help heal each other–if just given half a chance.  As Rick Bass stated in With Every Great Breath, “Nothing exists long without the support of another thing.” (277)

What are the logistics behind the hope for a healed Earth; a better Earth?  What is the next step?  Do we wait until the water at our kitchen tap is making us sick?  Do we wait until the air in our community’s AQI rating is over 300?  Can we save the wood plot a few roads over?  Can we prevent an entire field from being covered in solar panels and direct the powers that be to instead use the large rooftops of existing corporate buildings?

I love the idea of preventing urban sprawl by carving wilderness from previously developed spaces; now in disarray and in need of a healing hand willing to lend tender love and care.  Tearing down, fixing up, or repurposing spares the wild while bringing community pride and a fresh hope to areas otherwise forgotten.  If I was that space, it’s how I’d want to be treated.  Just give me a chance–I’d say–and I’ll show you what I can do!

I also love the wild; plain and simple.  Some are afraid of it and do all they can in their power to tame it and to subdue it; squelch it.  Yet there are so many facets and spider webbed aspects of the wild.  The wild out there is the wild within.  Do we not realize that by destroying the diversity of the wild and its inclusion of living and non-living components destroys us?  The wild’s inclusion of all things–the living, once living, and non-living components–is what brings equity to all within an ecosystem’s limits.  And I’m not sure there really are any distinct limits–margins maybe–but the areas between ecosystems mesh like a zipper even in those zones.  Granted, there are ebbs and flows–flucuations in the populations–but that’s the way a system works.  It’s why each entity belongs.

Certain members of society would say the demise of the world is a sign of the end times and clap together in apocalyptic glee while celebrating that something better is offered beyond this life; following Armageddon.  And while I wouldn’t argue against any sense of restorative hope, I also call bullshit.  "What about now?”  What about the present?  I believe the quote people use for such a circumstance is, “Are you going to fiddle while Rome burns?”–with a no-care attitude.  I learned at a young age to take care of my toys.  Personally I feel as if we should show respect while taking care of this creation we’ve been given–that we’re a part of–that we are guests of while here.

To take a step forward we need hope.  It’s what moves us forward; mentally, physically, spiritually–individually, nationally, globally.  Each of us has a unique talent based on our gifts, our available resources, and our locale.  What is your niche?  What is your super power to help?  Do you have talents as a civic planner, teacher, grant writer, engineer, construction worker, real estate agent, leader, public advocate, surveyor, advertiser, organizer, fund raiser, or even a rah-rah person?  You always need someone to cheer from your corner!  I like Brene’ Brown’s spunk when she states in Braving The Wilderness, “Imagine an organization where a critical mass of people are leading and innovating from a wild heart, rather than following suit, bunkering up, and being safe.  We need a wild heart revolution more than ever.” (162)  Amen sister!  We can’t do it all. And we often are already stretched thin.  So sometimes we start small to learn the facts and recognize what’s going on around us.  Sometimes we must start small–have to start small–to avoid burnout and despair.

In her book Braiding Sweetgrass, Dr. Robin Wall Kimmerer states:

“Despair is paralysis.  It robs us of agency.  It blinds us to our own power of the earth.  Environmental despair is a poison… But how can we submit to despair while the land is saying “Help”?  Restoration is a powerful antidote to despair.  Restoration offers concrete means by which humans can once again enter into positive, creative relationship with the more-than-human world, meeting responsibilities that are simultaneously material and spiritual.  It’s not enough to grieve.  It’s not enough to just stop doing bad things.

We have enjoyed the feast generously laid out for us by Mother Earth, but now the plates are empty and the dining room is a mess.  It’s time we started doing the dishes in Mother Earth’s kitchen.  Doing dishes has gotten a bad rap, but everyone who migrates to the kitchen after a meal knows that that’s where the laughter happens, the good conversations, the friendships.  Doing dishes, like doing restoration, forms relationships.” (328)

These things I’ve pondered today.  While sitting in a grove-like thicket of prickly ash, at the base of a white oak, and a stone’s throw from a flowing river, I’ve wrestled, debated, and thought about the ideas swirling around our world.  I’ve also cooked a meal, sat still, and observed–but I’ve also pondered.  In some ways these ideas are nothing new, but with the limitations of space and growth of selfishness, our environment and world yearns for healing while exercising the Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion of the species and systems that have been churning along on Mother Earth for quite some time.

See you along The Way…