A lot of movin’, A lot of rollin’
A lot of drivin’, A lot of strollin’
A lot of leavin’ here
A lot of arrivin’ there
Trying to go just about everywhere
A lot of thinking about where I’m going next
-The Avett Brothers
I have finished my 900 hours to satisfy my contractual agreements for AmeriCorps. My service at American Conservation Experience is over.
Shall I? I shall, and let’s start with the bad. The absolute worst part of ACE was that everyone leaves on you. All the volunteers are here only for three months; it was especially hard when the group with whom I arrived began to leave. But conversely, my friends were the best part of ACE. I especially loved working with the international volunteers; to learn about their culture while working alongside them. To realize that laughter and smiles are the universal language here, not English. To be inspired by how hard some of them would work to conserve the lands of a country not their own.
To work with my hands, and better yet, outdoors, has been a dream of mine. I do not sit still well, and I have always enjoyed the arts. While conservation is not an art project, it is also not an exact science, requiring creativity. And who says there is no beauty in a well-tied anchor on a fencing brace? Or the mundane rock wall which holds together the trail? I firmly believe that the best field of study before conservation work would be sculpture. To chisel rock, to twist wire, to build strength and capacity in one’s hands. Environmental studies degrees (or non-related degrees) are honorable, yes, but the study of policy does not translate as directly. I will confirm that even my study of parks for work and school was of no help when I needed to service the pionjar drill to fence up a park. Everyone should learn a manual trade: It’s never too late to become an honest person.
These past six months have tried my resolve and patience at times, as Bike & Build did, as graduate school did, as competitive swimming did. It seems an unavoidable part of life. I have always been an endurance athlete, much better suited to the long slog than the quick bursts of anaerobic activity that is rock work. On a project at 8500 feet, I struggled with symptoms of altitude sickness, most especially lassitude. I’ve had crews that don’t bond or were lazy, and I’ve had guys on my projects take tools out of my hand because I was female. There were times when I just couldn’t take communal living any longer; pray, tell me, just exactly how hard is it to do your own dishes?
But without the struggles, how can one appreciate the good? The glowing review on the work from a project partner; the cheesecake your roommate bought for you after an off-hand remark you’d wished you had some on project. Sleeping with 23 crew-mates outside on a hill just to see the sunrise. Learning to sleep in a tent, to sleep outside, seeing the stars, the sunset, the moon. Their home was the tent, and the tent was always moving. Shopping with your girl-friends at all the funky boutiques downtown or even Kohl’s, the Biff’s bagels and laundromat routine, lingering over prickly pear margaritas at crew dinner at Cafe Ole. Two-step at the Lumberyard, reunions at the Green Room. Learning funny phrases in foreign languages, road trips to Zion NP and Yosemite NP. Being in charge of a pionjar crew that drilled 89 holes in 5 days without a single stuck drill bit (beat that one!).
I cannot leave out the true main character here: the Southwestern landscape. In a land where survival is not certain, one cannot help but have the most utmost respect for Mother Nature. This is a harsh land, where the plants, animals and weather all seem to be teaming up at times, or all the time, to kill you. If that seems a bit dramatic, please join me for a 10-hour work day in 100 degree heat where nothing is taller than your knee, and probably spiky at that. You’ll see. But the rattlers, the cacti spikes, the heat- they cannot hold a candle to cedar gnats. Nothing will drive you mad faster than tiny insects aiming for your nose, ears, eyes, mouth: any place with a hint of moisture. When using two kinds of insect repellent at once will not cut it, you know you’re in for it.
The scariness and intensity of the desert here intimidated me at first. I was pretty ambivalent about the whole lack-of-water-and-shade situation. With time, I became more comfortable, even to the point of thinking it beautiful. The delicate blooms of the prickly pear, the scent of sagebrush, the elegance of the yucca, all set amongst rocks so dramatic as to outshine the flowers. The next step up, the pinyon-juniper woodland, its twisted boughs surviving fires and lightning strikes. And I cannot leave out the mighty Ponderosa, with its vanilla scent and orange bark, and the aspens and oaks nestled among them. When deciding between mountains and oceans, I might, as my literary hero Abbey would, choose desert. Maybe.
In a perfect touch of pathetic fallacy, it has rained quite a bit since I arrived back in upstate New York, my lay-over until my next adventure. I am sitting here, in the excess that is the 21st century, longing for the times when I lived out of a small duffel, or the panniers on my bicycle, or my rucksack. The simplicity that is living outdoors. I cannot help but to again resolve to do everything I can to preserve what I love – this beautiful world we have been given – for everyone else. Be it as a neighborhood planner, a park designer, a land steward or a conservation worker, the goal is the same: to protect for conservation, recreation and education.
I hope I have been able to convey what I’ve experienced this summer in this blog, and thank you for reading. In this post, I snuck in two quotes from the two authors who inspired me the most this summer: Edward Abbey and Gretel Ehrlich. Do read their work. I hope that you, too, have fallen a little bit in love with the Southwest, or even better, the concept of conservation. I don’t know where I’m going next, but let us wish for some place just as grand so I have lots about which to write and photograph.
Until next time,
The Furmanator
