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.”