Lake Louise

                In the summer of 2017, my family made our first trip to Canada at Banff National Park. We stayed within the borders of Banff in the south and Jasper in the north that was connected by the Trans-Canada highway. The range is the lined with mountains and glaciers that house a gradient of ecosystems as elevation increases. In the middle of July, snow capped the mountain peaks that would persist until the winter replenished the entire park. The highway, at the lowest elevation in the range, was fenced in by unperturbed Engelmann Spruces and subalpine firs who grow alongside the black bears and marmots unaccustomed to the boon of tourism Banff has recently experienced. These wild species continuously cross the highway, daring unsuspecting drivers to speed. The only roads that intersect are those winding into the woods to reach trailheads.

                On our final day of our trip, my family embarked upon the Tea House hike. Lake Louise marks the beginning of the trail. The 100 year old hotel, originally built for outdoor enthusiasts and alpinists, is situated at the forefront of the lake. Now, the luxurious rooms are frequently occupied with the affluent who scoff at the idea of exerting themselves. There’s some irony to be noted, but this is far too commonplace in the world to address with only a single anecdote.

               However, I cannot blame them. The lake sat in the basin of Lefroy Glacier, feeding fed pure ice melt as the main water source. Therefore, the crystal blue water contained little to no acidic contaminants that are usually blended within water droplets. Snow forms crystal lattices restricting the amount of sulfur oxide and nitrogen incorporated within the each flake. Over the winter, the ice builds layers and layers one after the other. As everything in the world is cyclical, the dawn of summer initiates the melting into pellucid water that can be seen as it streams down the side of the glacier.

                But there are two streams, two glaciers. The lake’s reflection doubles the scenery. The glacier’s valley forms an X at the base and elevates as it creeps closer to my view. Clouds cascade through the water from east to west, and backwards trees point the top of their trunks at the residents. The imagery is too large to be fractured by canoes and jumping fish’s ripples. It’s as if Lake Louise was so envious of Lefroy she mimicked the glacier and all her associates. It’s only a matter of time until the Lefroy is desolate, and Louise no longer mirrors her nobility.      

Camping Big Bend

When a group of six 22 year old guys who ironically call themselves the Gator Boys go camping in Big Bend, you’re bound to have a night that consists of beer and whiskey shots. I was one of the last two sitting outside the tent in lawn chairs. We draped blankets over our three layers of clothes to fight off the 40 degree wind, but there was no way to help my nose tip from getting brutalized.

                Our stories filled the void of silence and afforded a decent excuse to stay outside and observe the night sky. Clouds shrouded the moon but were highlighted around their edges by an iridescent gleam. Periodically, the moon peeked out from the overcast, shining full and bright. Dark craters contrasted the grey lunar rock. Without light pollution to invade, the features were as distinct as I had ever seen them. In the middle of the night, we pulled out sunglasses to count the craters. A respect and appreciation was established between us and the moon.

                After my friend nodded off and woke up for the second time, he entered the tent, making me the lonesome man. Left to my own devices, my tipsy self also established a pact with the moon. He would fulfill the role as protectorate if I kept him company throughout the night. A fair trade off. I constructed a lawn chair bed orienting three in a row and sank in.

                I closed my eyes to focus on the sounds of wilderness. The valley our campsite was located in must have been a wind tunnel between the two peaks. The howling of the wind was rather incessant, drowning out anything from a distance. But in the fragments the wind did stop, animals were out to play. The yelp of a mountain lion (or what I imagined) out of camp startled one eye open. Remembering the sign bearing caution to bears and mountain lions, I gripped our hunting knife a little tighter.

                I trusted the moon is a man of his word. After a couple attempts to get comfortable, I dozed off in the makeshift bed. Although a tent is a thin sheet of nylon and polyester, that barrier is enough to have peace of mind. With every little noise, I jolted up, knife in hand, but fearing what might be around. On my third wake, I heard bustle from behind my chair. Half-asleep and not truly believing my senses anymore, I turned. And down-below me, illuminated by the moon, was a skunk. No mistaking those white stripes. Better than a mountain lion. I could fight off a skunk, but if I got sprayed? The car ride home was going to be a long one by myself. Without making a peep, I sunk slowly into the back of my chair and threw the blankets over my head. I was now legitimately praying to the moon for protection. I heard footsteps raiding our campsite. The skunk wandered around my bed, stopping occasionally. The sound of his steps became fainter as he sauntered towards the tent. I waited to hear him again. And waited some more, too scared to make a run for the tent. Within my blanket fortress, I stayed up as long as my body would physically let me, pleading with the moon for help. And at 6 A.M., I was greeted by the rise of the sun and an overwhelming sense of security.

Monahans Sandhills

For the past two years on fall break, Monahans Sandhills was a required stop for our caravan heading out west. This terrain is unlike any other in Texas. As you climb the first mound, you are welcomed by an ocean of sand. All that’s visible is orange rolling hills and a singular oil well off to the side. Without a goal in mind, we set our destination towards the closest highland.

                After a minute of walking our breaths became deeper and our hands grasped our hips. Yes, we’re out of shape but not to this extent. The sand below was less compact than the sand you’d find on an ocean shore. Maybe the arid climate had something to do with it, but the grains glided easily beneath our feet. The reduction in friction required more effort to push off. With intermittent jogging, we eventually reached the top of the ridge.

                Just like other tourists, we couldn’t resist the urge to try sliding down the sand. First we rode on cardboard. Then we tried summersaulting and barrel-rolling, which lodged sand in every crevasse of my body. And finally, we got the smart idea to have a long jump contest off the edge down to about 15 feet of sand. In the beginning round, we landed feet first. The grading scale of distance was quickly replaced by the size and quality of the imprint left behind by one’s rear. While it may seem like fun and games, we were competitive and there was certainly an art to land squarely. With each jumper came a debate about why his marking was the best. Still to this day, we aren’t sure who won, but it’s safe to say, after picking sand out of our ears for two weeks, we all lost.

                In the midst of the competition, I walked around the opposite edge, looking at Monahans’ entirety. Peering out into the abyss was liberating. Much like looking into an open plain, the earth showcases a snippet of its vastness where an intimate relationship is rekindled with the viewer. All problems are diminished to nothing. Except one continued to plague my mind. A landscape as such is only beautiful when its formation comes Mother Nature’s will. It took millions of years for these dunes to be constructed, how long will it take once global warming becomes irreversible? Sand dunes are a rare occurrence on earth which is a blessing and a curse. They don’t harbor as much biodiversity as other ecosystems, but their scarcity, by human standards, leads us to conclude allure. Unless its evolution demanding change, we do not need more Monahans Sandhills. Yet, we’ll soon begin creating more as we propel ourselves towards the two degree Celsius threshold.

Marfa Lights

The infamous Marfa Lights have been the subject of controversy for hundreds of years. Out in the middle of Marfa, Texas three eerie lights, red, blue, and yellow, seem to dance with each other at night. There is no doubt these lights are real. People have documented their existence over centuries. The problem is no one knows what causes them.

                In the middle of a clear night, our pack stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the observer’s deck. After a couple minutes of searching, we found the yellow and red lights miles away in the depths of the forest. They sporadically lit and up and disappeared, usually in a new location. This gives the name of the “dance”. At times it looked like the yellow followed the red through the grove. And at others the two lights moved apart. As much as I wanted there to be, there was no method to this madness. Cars passing by didn’t change anything. We saw cell tower lights nearby that were clearly different. Nothing made sense about these Marfa Lights.

                All of the sudden, the blue light sparked up. He, a little less jittery than the others, jumped within a relatively small radius. But once we found him, he didn’t leave us. The three lights played for over an hour as we watched in disbelief. We shared our own conspiracy theories about what’s causing them, but the truth is this phenomenon will never be solved. The mostly likely reasoning from researchers is that cars’ lights cause them, but the Marfa Lights were documented by indigenous people before the invention of cars. I believe some atmospheric conditions such as the change in the elevation gradient or a reflection of a star creates this mirage. How else could these lights persist over such a long period of time? I’ve never seen a stranger, unexplained phenomena in nature, which makes me wonder what other unknown unknowns we have yet to see.

Mud Walk

Without any background research I can confidently say that fancy skin product connoisseurs and dermatologists have at one point advised to use mud masks as exfoliates. My skin will apparently feel cleansed as the mud peels off dirt and oils clogging my pores. It always sounded counterintuitive, and I’m here to say, I was wrong.

                On the second day in Big Bend, our pack chose a 2.1 mile hike described as a descent into the valley carved by the Rio Grande. Naturally, we dressed with closed-toe hiking shoes and socks anticipating a leisurely stroll. As with any hike, it never goes how it’s planned. Upon arrival five of the six of us realized that in order to reach the trailhead, we must cross a tributary with three-foot deep mud. Apparently, our pack leader forgot mention this description to the rest of us, even though he brought Chacos. We stood in silence in dismay, looking for an alternate route. Unless we wanted to swim down the Rio Grande with no outlet in sight, there was no other option. We untied our shoes, stripped off our socks, and formed a line to enter.

                Visually we could tell the 50 foot mud path was wet and slimy. It was riddled with leg indents from other hikers that never reclosed. I carefully navigated my first couple of steps on sun-hardened slabs, reluctant to cede my last sense of cleanliness I possessed after two days of camping. I ran trials of toe-dipping in the surrounding mud to find the best pathway. But by the fifth step, each trial failed me as my foot sunk every time. I contemplated my next move even though the result would inevitably be the same.

                I raised my right foot, slightly placed it on the cool surface of the mud, and after a deep breath, transferred my body weight forward. Instantly my ankle was submerged. The mud underneath my foot oozed around the perimeter of my leg. Committed now, I aimed for my friends ahead of me with my toes and threw my left foot forward. The mud, soft and penetrable, suctioned me in half way up my calf. As I tried to raise my back leg, I really had to work to overcome the vacuum force. Each step took us deeper and deeper into the mud as more of our legs became coated. However, the grungy plaster was therapeutic.

                Our kidlike personalities came out. We pointed at each other’s legs mocking how deep some of us sunk. The drive of our feet in the mud popped air pockets sounding like passing gas that we then began to imitate with our mouths. We pushed each other causing the victim to topple over while their legs were stuck. From a distance an onlooker would have seen a group of 22 year old men acting like children, playing in mud and making crude noises, but in the moment we were too busy to care. It was just us and nature.

Swimming in the Rio Grande River

                Impenetrable walls skied above us as we followed the trail on its descent. The cobbles of quartz, chert, and volcanic, metamorphic rock materialized together over millions of years only for the Guadalupe River to slice right through it. In nature, the two sides are the rift between populations, a barrier separating flora and fauna. In ecology we use it as a prime example of allopatric speciation, and there is no doubt the burden of truth lies fossilized in these walls. In 1836, Santa Anna and Interim Texan President David Burnet signed the Treaties of Velasco declaring this natural landmark as the dividing line between the new country Texas and its former empire, Mexico. 183 years later, the Rio Grande River, a topic of political controversy, citizens who value the unharmed scenery are united by its grandeur.

                At the bank at the end of an arduous, barefoot hike, hikers stood at the foot of the river on the American side, peering over just across the river to Mexico. The air was still, water calm, and atmosphere tranquil. Pictures cannot imitate the breadth, much less capture the aura that seemed to saturate the valley. The local and foreign visitors observed in peace.

                And then our pack strolled on in. In defense, we conducted due diligence as we admired this godly creation. But as I stood ankle deep in the muddy bank, three of my friends tiptoed by me in nothing but compression shorts. Many sets of eyes were drawn away from God’s creation and onto these imprisoned butts and thighs. Without hesitation, the three still dry dropped to our boxers and scurried into the frigid water. The serene moment was ruined, yet a playful one replaced it. Soon, families, elders, and foreigners followed suite as they wadded into the water to join us.

                At this section, the river only rose to our knees, but with each step my foot sank through a couple inches of mud. The water, while it is ice melt from Colorado, collected enough sediment to turn an opaque green. Stepping into the unknown was frightening. While it was probably cold enough to subdue cold-blooded reptiles, our minds ran through scenarios of snakes slithering next to our feet and plotting their attack. We picked up the pace. Walking turned into jogging, jogging into high-kneeing towards the Mexican border. The six of us grabbed the ledge and scaled a couple feet to the base of an opening.

Just like that we crossed over the border from the US to Mexico. Now, there was no way to scale the cliff to continue south, but for a few minutes sat in our neighboring country. And it felt just like our own.

Walk to the Library Nature Journal

                My mornings start out much the same every day. The phone alarm blares at 6:30, I groggily smash the snooze button about five times, and sleepwalk into the shower, wondering why I set my alarm so early. I never found meditation to be effective but rather another form of solidarity to enhance my own self-awareness. My 675 step walk from Waits Avenue to the Mary Couts Burnett Library sets the tone for the rest of the day.

                As the year closes in on the winter solstice, the mornings are becoming increasingly darker, with the frequency of a moon sighting growing. An iridescent glow rims the horizon, but the aura’s beauty is mitigated by the street lamps’ disseminated photons. Rush hour headlights add to the light pollution while shining on my squinting eyes with each passing car, all with only one passenger. No regard for the current state of the environment. My focus is diverted momentarily from the city in motion to crossing Berry Street safely. My headphones sit tangled in my pocket, listening intently. But to no avail. The cars’ rumble engulfs the sounds of the natural world.

                These morning walks have required me to cypher out the extraneous noise and sharpen my senses to the organic elements fighting for their rightful recognition. In the moments between urban clamor, crickets fill the gap. Lying low in the brush, their stridulations are one of the few panther city-like enactments that continue to persist today.

                By now, half way into my walk, I’ve crossed West Berry Street and am strolling along the sidewalk behind University Strip. As I scan the vicinity attentively, I notice nothing but gray. My feet follow a gray sidewalk. I count 5 gray parking lots with hundreds of gray parking spaces. Gray pebbles occupy the cracks in the pavement. And gray advertisements are stationed in front of the restaurants. Only do I cross eight trees in what must be a 100 yard stretch. For the first time, my notion that TCU is a green campus with abundant vegetation is fractured. There is no conservation here, this architecture sells to incoming students and families. One may argue that the commons provides an outdoor escape, yet when one truly considers it, the perimeter is shaped by three story buildings enclosing the area. This isn’t the only example either. TCU just expanded the academic plaza’s sidewalks and reduced the space for grass. The campus is slowly but surely transforming into a concrete jungle as the board continues to prioritize profits by expanding the student population over the natural brilliance the campus could have.