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.

Amon G. Carter Nature Journal

On six Saturdays on the year, the Amon G. Carter football stadium is a national spectacle where drunk fans cheer on their favorite players (who work for free) as they demolish one another to move a ball into a 10x53 yard rectangular box. On the other 359 days of the year, the stadium is my own personal getaway from all reality to compose my thoughts. I’ve laughed, cried, smoked a cigar, eaten ice cream, meditated, and contemplated my career path all within the walls of this building.

                By day, The Carter’s open interior isn’t exciting. The construction disrupts any and all tranquility. Workers wander the stadium eliminating any possibility to be alone and act without being judged. Unless it’s game day, the painting on the field fades into the grass. If it’s in the midst of the football season, like when I last visited, trash and ominous stains infest the lower bowl.

By night, it transforms itself into a sanctuary for those in search of escaping the commotion of a commonly hectic world, with a beautiful view added on. The trek to the highest corner on the west is strenuous as I climb story after story on the inside ramp. As I reach the top, exposing me to the outside twilight, I head towards section 416 seat 15 that’s only 30 more steps above. I endure my final push, and sit in my favorite seat on the entire campus.

                A couple hundred feet of elevation and without any busy streets around, the only sounds running through your head are your own thoughts. I often find myself going down rabbit holes; this time I contemplated the origin of the universe and my own purpose in the world depending on who or if there is a higher power. The possibilities are endless and my mind bickers between itself. My train of thought is disrupted by insistent gnats and my focus turns to the physical features surrounding me.

                Down below, the field, while carefully humanly maintained, provides a natural beauty amongst a concrete bowl. I lose myself imagining the spirits of the opposing team huddling on the field with our home field student section howling. But this location isn’t about the elements confound within the building, rather what I observe beyond the walls. The downtown skyline’s lights outline the buildings’ frames, piercing through the darkness into my view. The robust city now appears pleasantly calm. It stands as a symbol of prosperity and unity within the Fort Worth community. Early in the night, the moon may hover above. Two beautiful creations, one formed billions of years ago and the other constructed just a century ago, harmonize to showcase quintessential beauty of both natural formations and human establishment.

                I am sitting in a human built colosseum appreciating a city that destroyed a natural habitat for a multitude of species, yet the emotions that manifest are the same as finding my in solitude within the depths of nature. All that I have is myself if only for a few hours, a rare occurrence in today’s day in age. Maybe this is what Thoreau advocated every person experience. The Carter has become a concrete wilderness in its own sense. And as the morsel of seclusion I’ve tasted continues to call me, I will answer every time.

West Texas Landscapes Nature Journal

The drive out to Midland, Texas from Fort Worth is a 300 mile straight-shot west. The only route is I-20W. To my surprise, both sides of this two lane highway is rather filled with cars and 18-wheelers midday. But the landscape of Texas doesn’t deviate much from the general assumption, flat. But there is an overlooked beauty that comes with the nature in this outstretch countryside.

                The grass’ color fades in the ditches on either sides of the highway. A tint of yellow has befallen upon the once vivid green grass, showing signs of early winter. It juxtaposes the healthy and thriving trees and shrubs, worse indicators of the changing seasons. In this dry, barren land where water is the most limited resource, the space in between each plant is larger than Fort Worth, surely not a coincidence. The roots shoot horizontally for the widest coverage, marking territory. The only way for a new seed to take hold is by having another plant die and relinquish its resources. Contrary to media portrayals, it’s not the Wild West or even Arizona west. No cacti or dunes are in sight. The only difference between I-20 out here and I-30 between the Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex are the cows grazing in their pastures.

                Off in the distance wind turbines spin. From my vantage point it looks unnaturally slow. It doesn’t seem feasible that these massive blades are rotating due to atoms of gas colliding and ricocheting off. Yet, these particles are generating usable energy that humans have harnessed to pollute more gas into the atmosphere. When I observed these turbines, I didn’t recognize them as manmade features, but rather part of the environment. Much like the oil rigs. Is this because they seem so sparse amongst this vast country? It’s a bit disturbing considering the damage both machines have produced on Earth. Obviously, pollution and global warming can be associated with the oil rigs, but one may try to argue that the wind turbines are assisting nature and the species it houses. Sure, it’s a renewable resource and probably won’t emit as much carbon dioxide as other energy sources, but those propellers kill hundreds of thousands birds and bats each year. Even as humans try to reduce our footprint, we simply shift our influence towards another undeserving part of the ecosystem.

Pensacola Nature Journal

Bad things happen to good people. It’s a universal law. For instance, my younger sister who’s a senior in high school, tore her ACL and has to rehab for the entire season. But sometimes good things happen to good people. Like my sister’s Orthopedic surgeon works out of Pensacola, Florida, so our whole family, including me, made a beach vacation out of it.

                In late August, a week into the school year, my brother and I flew from TCU and rendezvoused at the Margaritaville Hotel on the Gulf Breeze strip. For three days, while my sister attended therapy, the other five of us reclined our beach chairs with a beer in hand and book in lap. You never really notice the sun’s migration in the sky until it effects your daily life. Every two hours my brother and I would adjust our chairs to squeeze into the shade. By 6pm, there’d be a distinct line moving from the right of the umbrella to underneath and finishing on the left side. The occasional four-leg indent could be found outside the pattern when one of us wanted to sunbathe. In the unrelenting high-90s heat, damp sweat marks would indent the sand as droplets overflowed from our bellybutton pool and slid down our stomachs.

                Sitting for hours had its benefits. Over the course of the day, every six hours to be exact, the tides became clear evident on this beach. At low tide, the waves crashed along the shore and the water drifted up against a sand ridge. With each hour, the water’s flux crept a few inches closer to the crest with the occasional towering wave sending a miniscule amount over. Finally, by high tide, the Moon pulled every single wave over the crest creating a shallow basin that pooled along with contents of the ocean water. Watching the Moon’s tug on Earth’s, one that biology teaches us generated necessary heat for life to evolved, appeased my nerdy, scientific psyche.

                As the sun began to descend, we knew it was dinner time and so did the pelicans. Out in the ocean, a flock glided parallel to coast only a few feet above the surface in shallow water. One by one, after selecting a target, each bird dove head-first, submerging its entire body and disappearing. None returned empty handed. They all shot back out with a delicious fish flopping within its beak until they raised their heads to sky and in one swift gulp, ate a nice snack. The ocean’s predator-prey selection was just fun amusement to another organism sharing the beach momentarily.

               

Blading in the Fort Nature Journal

As an adventurous child, a favorite after school activity was to rollerblade down the neighborhood slope. My mom, a rule enforcer, ensured I wore my helmet with blue flames on it, but my elbows and knees were evidence of a fair amount of wipeouts. I don’t remember exactly when the last time I rollerbladed was, which is sad, but I knew I was ready to get back on the wheels.

                The night before the set date to ride, I went over to my formal date’s house and tried on a pair of woman’s rollerblades. It was a perfect fit… I skated around the driveway as she poked fun of me. I guess it had something to do with a 22 year old man wearing rollerblades? I wasn’t sure. But I was going to shred on the expedition, this time without an embarrassing helmet.

                I drove to Woodshed, strapped up the blades, and skated onto the Trinity River trail there. The first couple hundred meters were a bit of a drag. Speed bumps shook my entire body and slowed my momentum. And periodic gates due to construction closed off the paved sidewalk and forced me to walk along the sandy gravel. It was difficult to get into a groove, but as a swung around the last gate and jumped on the path, my eyes lit up. A long, open stretch presented itself. The motions were innate. I thrust off each back leg, trying to vault forward. My arms followed along, throwing them from my hips to nose. My body was a machine in my crouch like a speed ice-skater, it never stopped. I was back in my neighborhood racing my brother down the street. Nostalgia was all I sensed on this unfamiliar trail.

                I reached my max speed I straightened my knees and stood up to coast. My quadriceps burned and my glutes were feeling pretty tight. I was exhausted after a fierce 10 minutes even with the dark, gray clouds blocking the sun and the breeze whipping around my face. I took a few moments to appreciate the Trinity off to my left. Every so often rock dams created small waterfalls within the river that managed the water levels. I crossed under multiple bridges for cars and one pedestrian crosswalk. In between each, many bikers and walkers passed me on my left midday on a Wednesday. The city was up and rumbling, enjoying the October weather, just like I was learning how to do during my senior year. I’m excited that this class provided the motivation to get back into my rollerblades, because, just three days out, I’ve already bought my own pair from Academy.

Paddle Boarding on the Trinity Nature Journal

An overused, cheap joke in Fort Worth is a one-liner about the nauseating water floating within the Trinity. While it may be ranked the third most polluted river in Texas, the surrounding scenery and downtown skyscrapers are worth a moment of appreciation. You just have to be wary about the water you’re floating on.

                Hunter, Thomas, and I rented our paddle boards on Panther Island and pushed ourselves off the sandy riverside. Rocked my body forward and threw it back with each oar stroke. The rhythm came naturally, one stroke on the left, one stroke to the right. The board, gradually gaining momentum now, glided above the water. I was winning this imaginary race between the three of us as I hooked a left at the fork splitting the river. An arbitrary bridge ahead became the unofficial checkered flag. A sweat stream cascaded down my forehead to the tip of my nose. Now, every alternating stroke included a smooth wipe across my face. This lasted all of about 50 meters until the shoulders, back, and biceps pleaded for relief. A quick glance revealed of my opponents multiple board lengths behind me, and I unanimously crowned myself winner.

                My thrusts slowed, now just letting my inertia carry me and allowing the Trinity’s serenity the allotted time it deserved. The water that lined to the descending sun glistened a yellow tone. The reflection rippled with small waves formed from the headwind that funneled underneath the bridge. The front of the board made audible pats as it climbed and crashed with each wave. Between my relaxed pace, the headwind, and the energy being used downwards, I stalled in place and spun in a circle. The trees lining the bank were lush and full that complemented the grass filling the space to the river. As a newcomer, the Trinity’s allure grew on me.

                But then reality set in. Refreshed, I began paddling again with Hunter and Thomas on either side. As we journeyed down the river, a floating conglomerate of green scum washed by. And then another. Then three. We steered straight into a bottleneck of debris that tainted the tranquility of the river. The sources of the filth became quite clear. Multiple drainage pipes snuck out of the embankment to discreetly release its toxins. I was fully prepared to discover a mutant double-headed fish swimming under my board. Immediately, I stuck my oar off to the side, rotated in a 180, and rowed towards our dock.

                With the tailwind on our side, we spent the trip back sitting on the boards with an occasional paddle but mostly cracking jokes and taking pictures. The pristine scenery on the outskirts rivaled the polluted water that I avoided at all costs. Our outing on the Trinity River presented promise at first, but now, I’ll just be another patron making the same bad jokes about the quality of one of Fort Worth’s drinking sources.

Botanical Gardens Nature Journal

            The Fort Worth Botanic Garden is quietly curated every day as traffic flies by on University Drive. Upon entering, any visitor can be sure they’ve reached a nature extravaganza as a rose garden clock ticks in the median greeting the arriving cars. The purchase of a $12 admission ticket undermines the raw, primitive aura one comes for, nonetheless I swipe my card and begin.

            The first door opens up to the rainforest greenhouse. The manmade conditions mimic those of the Amazon to enable non-native species of plants grow. The humidity grossly intensifies producing a soupy, viscous air that is warmed by the sun shining through the glass panes. The exhibit shapes around an oval pathway with vegetation along the outside and in the center. A river meanders through the middle leading to a waterfall whose crash sprays a mist on to any plants around it. Above, irrigation-like pipes release a slow drip of water imitating the hundreds of inches of rainfall per year. Like any rainforest, this room marks the pinnacle of diversity. Much like the forests depicted in Jurassic Park, ferns and rhubarbs coated the floor as each leaf fought the others for the prime position for sunlight. Only the sparse trees that would form the canopy resided safely above the eternal struggle for sunshine.

            I left this enclosure and made way for the garden outside. A stone road opened up to a lush assortment of plants each with a plaque labeling their genus and species. Vines weaved in and between arches that circled above my head as if I was departing from an old world and warping into a new.

            A worn down wooden bridge carves into woodland with indigenous Texan species on the right side and migrant on the left. This deeper depth of the garden provided a sanctuary from the urban world. Cars’ background noise was drown out through the trees. No building in downtown Fort Worth was visible. All that stimulated my five senses were Mother Nature and the occasional, intrusive airplane flyby.

            I crossed through the lifeless rose garden but stumbled into the majestic hedge garden. A small pool and soft spraying fountain made ripples in the foreground. Two staircases with a slight incline gradually climbed only about 15 feet high to a shelter house. Forming the perimeter on the outside of both staircases were three squares of neatly trimmed hedges. Silver gumdrop plants overflowed along the edges coinciding with the October breeze rustling through yet contrasted a potted succulent center in the brush. The medial portion of the staircases featured pairs of triangle hedges with each hypotenuse parallel with its partner. Finally, a stream of mini waterfalls split the entire terrace into two halves.

            I stood in the shelter house and gazed over the hedges for a peaceful 45 minutes, trying to bask in the glory that was this garden. Squirrels tussled, birds sang, and Hunter Ricks texted on his phone. For a moment, my desire imitated Claude Monet’s in his own garden, “My wish was to stay always like this, living quietly in a corner of nature.”

Garden Spider

Both hands rubbed against my eyes as I meandered towards the backdoor to let my golden retriever outside, the same as any morning. I cranked the knob, but jumped back at the sight just sitting there, menacingly. A yellow garden spider hung upside-down on his web through the glass pane. The silk was woven the entire five-foot width of the door, essentially barricading Wrigley and I from the backyard. The nocturnal arachnid crept on all eight legs when the door moved but now lay motionless at the center of the circular web. Underneath his body a thicker, zig-zag of silk a couple inches long was sewn. Its function was not clear (maybe web stability), although it became the base while the spider waited for his prey.

Two enlarged palps protruded on both sides of his gray colored head, distinguishing his sex. He, Bruno we named him, was large, yes, but quite beautiful. His first leg tip to last leg tip measured the size of my own palm. But he was harmless; the Araneidae family of spiders are neither aggressive nor venomous to humans meaning the yellow-black patterned abdomen serves as a pseudo intimidation method for predators. And it worked for me. A black streak coated central portion of the body beginning at the head and moving to the spinneret only interrupted by a square of four white circles at the halfway point. Lateral to this segment, brighter yellow blobs arranged themselves lining down the back, each accompanied by stripes that ran their way to its underbelly. Nothing felt arcane about Bruno’s legs. The forth were the two longest making is obvious that the third were the shortest.

Bruno, by just being, became a specimen for observation and education in my own home. I thought our connection was real, but by the next day he moved spots never to be seen again. I just hope Bruno is doing okay.

TCU's Flowerbed

On a crisp 75 degree Fahrenheit morning in early September, the sun begins its ascent over Tandy Hall on TCU’s campus. The sky is illuminated with a blazing yellow hue. The rays peer through the gaps of the trees and organization signs that line the sidewalk as they guide wide-eyed freshmen towards their first classes. In the path of the route lies the picturesque flowerbed recognized by every student on campus. It has become the basis for meeting, gathering, and beginning of walks around campus. The flowerbed is subjected to a copious amount of pictures taken mindlessly by students to post on social media, boasting the eloquence of their home. I, for one, cannot say I am any different. By year four of strolling past, I’ve become numb to this flora, so I came to investigate why it receives such distinction.

The entirely of the garden is shaped to a perfect circle held by a multicolored stone base. The earth tones are more reminiscent of withering rock rather than a landscaper’s first choice. In the foreground, evident at every angle, awkwardly stands an iconic TCU garbage can. Pebbles molded together surround the cylindrical shape, hiding the dull scrap of metal the lies beneath. The brown, triangular lid on top is pristine, obviously cleaned daily, yet it remains as a reminder of the human footprint, ultimately muddling the harmonious flowers’ display.

Today’s bed contains an even mixture of rose pink and white flowers. They bloom from each plant that rises a foot from the soil. The stems are thinner than my own finger, bending under the weight at the top. Two groups of leaves protrude from the plants, a small cluster growing half way up the stem with another, larger conglomerate forming near the apex. Eight well-defined veins on each leaf emit a lighter green than the rest. They symmetrically jut out from the center-vertical line seeming the define the left and right side. The leaves hang over, either from the morning dew adding undue weight or from the lack of life they're suggesting. Yet, green still saturates the view of the entire ground. 

The leaves do their job, setting the stage for the blooming flowers to radiate vibrantly from their peak of the stem, fully encapsulating the moment. Yet, the petals do not. A batch of new stems sprout only to bloom leaflets no bigger than a fingernail. The five petals on each pedicel are young, too modest to garner any length attention. The colors, while bright, are overpowered by the greenness of the plant. From the distance, the sad garden looks uncared for with wild flowers overtaking valuable space in the soil. Around the sprinkler heads are dying plants drooping over, unable to fight against the constant ambush of water ricocheting off of them. They never stood a chance to survive, but did accomplish a greater good. Protected are the flowers directly behind them in this enactment of war. One hopes these poor blossoms will prevail and the others are just beginning their journey into adulthood or else this flowerbed, on the second week of school, is more than underwhelming.