Cal Poly Ponds

I’m perched on a rocky outcrop, looking down on the pond from above at a distance. A comfortable breeze, bordering on windy, flows across the water pushing ripples to the shore. Thick tufts of vegetation border the bond at all sides, and sounds of birds come from inside. It sounds so alive, the zone of watery vegetation. What plants are these? I wish I knew.

I wonder what it would be like to push right through that all of vegetation and plunge into what lies beyond. How many steps before my shoes first meet the water? The birds would scatter, flying up from the most unsuspected locations. Soon my shoes are waterlogged and my vision is obscured by the stalks that rise above my head. I continue on, fighting through the thickness of it, and finally, the light! The pond is in front of me, below me, up to my knees. It’s the only way to see this particular pond from up close. There isn’t a single exposed section of shoreline.

My imagination takes me through the experience, to a place where I am reluctant to go. Even though I want to explore that unknown wetland habitat, the practical consequences hold me back. There is certainly someone out there who is so caught up with nature that they would willingly do what I described, unfazed by the soiled and soaked clothing that would result. I’m not that person.

Pismo Beach

A single pier extends out over the ocean, daring to reach into the untamed vastness, but not reaching far relative the ocean’s immensity. The pier is a tangle of thick timbers, and the combined strength of them battles the relentless waves that crash into the structure. At a glance, the timbers appear haphazardly placed, with the simple goal of sinking as many as possible into the earth below for support. Winds rip into the shore, bringing the slightly stinging smell of salts.

Pismo Beach is a picturesque and stereotypical Californian beach. To the north and south of the pier, clean sandy beaches extend in an arc miles long. The sand slopes gently into the crashing waves, providing space for hundreds of beachgoers. Behind the beach, vertical cliffs separate the sand from the city above. The cliffs are whitish with dark green vegetation hanging down from above.

If a cool breeze causes you to rethink a day at the beach as you park above, think again. Descending to the sand below on a sunny day can be like descending into a furnace, and the breeze is less noticeable with the bright sun above and the hot sand underneath.

The only different between Pismo Beach and an outsider’s expectations is the water temperature. I was from out of state, and when I moved to California I expected warm tropical waters. I never expected the frigid waters that stay cold year-round and necessitate using a wet suit for swimming any length of time.

Poly Mountain Oak Grove

I’m at the point this week where I can’t give much thought to nature or ecoliterature. So tired! Six, four, five, and six hours of sleep for the past nights. I could be comfortable at home in bed, or out her in the oak grove, and it makes little different; the one thought on my mind is peaceful, uninterrupted, lengthy slumber. Now let’s see if I can’t salvage this terribly un-ecolit journal entry.

The oak trees sprawl overhead in a gnarled maze, blocking the warmth of the sun from the cool enclosure below. Crunching, brittle, dry leaves litter the ground in a blanket of autumn. The leaf covered ground seems out of place with spring in full swing, but the does have a feel of separation from the world. It’s barely visible from below, and more extensive than I thought possible from the little that could be seen. The natural structure formed overhead brings to mind the Wendell Berry’s poem “The Timbered Choir”, and I imagine he was thinking of a similar grove when he wrote it.

Cool air blows constantly across the bare skin of my arms and face, and I wish I brought a sweatshirt. San Luis Obispo’s moderate climate is both a curse and a blessing, depending on the circumstances of when you ask my opinion. Right now I want to be sprawled out in the hot sun, skin absorbing the rays, eyes closed, and I drift off into blissful nothingness.

Conservation and the Robert O’Neill Lawn

As with any debatable issue, conservation in practice is a balance between the supporters and opponents. Conservationists like Aldo Leopold push their viewpoint with the help of literary exaggeration, half-truths, and unreasonable elitism. Developers and industrialists fight back with deception, incomplete environmental impact reports, and their deep pockets. Inevitably the two sides meet somewhere in the middle, where neither wanted to be but both are willing to accept.

Does it always work that way? Is it a natural progression starting with a person or party’s unchecked fulfillment of self-interest? I highly value the work of conservationists, but I could never be one myself. Luckily, today there is a growing population of advocates for nature.

This college of business lawn that I set next to is an example of the inherent fuzziness of the issue. The lawn is artificial and exact, designed to be what it is and placed over the original landscape. On the other hand, it is a beautifully organized and peaceful setting, and will ensure that the vegetation has a secure home for years to come. One could argue that it is even a tribute to nature’s beauty. But the natural extremist might counter with a claim that the best and only tribute would be the original environment itself. Who is right? I believe neither group can win the debate, not in any real sense, and their opinions must merge to create workable solutions.

Oregon Forests

The forests of Oregon are lush, thick pine forests, full of wildlife. They are close to California, a long day’s drive from San Luis Obispo where I live, but they seem worlds away in appearance. California’s coastal forests are sparser, and are distinctly Mediterranean. They also have a tropical feel that Oregon lacks completely.

The Willamette Valley is stunning. One of the best times to see it is in July or August when the sun is bright overhead, but even today, in May, the valley is a sight to see. It isn’t as big as the central valley in California, but it is nonetheless massive. A drive from the south end by Eugene up to Portland takes two hours on the fastest route. Along the whole drive, mountains line either side in two parallel ranges, much like the Sierra Nevada and costal ranges far to the south.

Farms, wetlands, and forests abound throughout the Willamette Valley. A common sight is the Christmas tree farms that dot some of the hillsides near the edges of the valley. The farms contain row after row of young pine trees in various stages of development, but any given section of a farm contains trees of exactly the same age. For this reason, the tree farms look unnatural. The middle of the valley is flat, without a single hill interrupting its planar surface. It’s never truly flat though, because trees and other vegetation are everywhere. Oregon is known for its rainy weather, and the greenness of the landscape proves it. The landscape of western Oregon is a beautiful collection of wildlife and forests.

The World from Above

Landscapes, no matter what type, take on a new appearance from above. The small turboprop airplane lifts abruptly from the hold of the earth’s surface, and the transformation beings immediately. At first the experience is something akin to climbing Bishops Peak. The world sprawls around me, but no place is my base of observation. Every geographical feature is viewed from an ever increasing distance.

The manmade and natural features that seemed so familiar become part of an intricate map as I continue to rise. Poly Mountain, at first looming high to the east, takes on a pathetic size in relation to my increasing range of observation. Topography becomes meaningless, because the plane’s elevation is much greater than the changes in height below. Highways follow valleys like artificial arteries, reaching into the most remote locations, as if supplying some type of life-giving fluid.

The lakes near Paso Robles look like puddles when the ocean can be seen covering half the currently visible surface of the earth. The Pacific Ocean stretches on into infinity, to the north, south, and especially to the west. Not a single object blemishes the uninterrupted, dark blue body of water. More water than I can imagine is just beyond the horizon that reaches to ever increasing depths. It looks lifeless, but I know that the opposite is true. Marine life hides just below the surface, and reaches down to the ocean floor. Imagine the wonderment of being able to look down and see exactly where all of that life is—to see the whales and their migration, and perhaps a few solitary sharks venturing near the beaches. The godlike sight would be absolutely incredible.

Cal Poly Farms

Wendell Berry’s poem, “The Timbered Choir,” is easy to identify with in the presence of the enormous trees that sprawl overhead. The branches wind their way upward in gnarled paths, and the main trunk manages to support the enormous weight. A canopy is formed overhead. The branches form natural arches that rival the splendor of cathedrals, a fact that Berry was well aware of.

After taking time to appreciate Berry’s literature in a natural setting, we continued on to Cal Poly’s main field. Hundreds of neat, evenly spaced rows of plowed dirt extend into the distance where a hill obstructs further expansion. I always imagine farmland as uniform plots, each containing a single type of crop, with every plant more or less at the same state of growth. This field is notably different. Roughly ten rows are planted, for only half the field’s total length, and they contain a wide mix of vegetables. Carrots, lettuce, turnips and more. It looks like pathetically little from afar, but by walking down a row I quickly revise my judgment. What looks like little is actually a lot, and what looks like a small field can support all sorts of crops. I will have a new perspective the next time I drive by a farm, because I have a new appreciation for the amount of food contained in plot of land.

The trip culminated with a tour of the dairy unit. We went in through the front door, and my first view of the operation was through a series of second floor hallway windows. Rows of cows were being milked below, surrounded by complex machinery. Cold steel was the dominant impression. A runway extended straight out, sloping downward with railing on either side, increasing the futuristic and artificial appearance of the facility. I couldn’t help feeling like I was looking into a manufacturing facility, sheltered from the true experience by the walls of glass. I thought of the scene in the movie Independence Day at the secret military facility, when the president and others are looking in while the aliens are operated on. It has a distinctly un-naturalist feel, but I understand, and accept, its place in modern society.

Bishops Peak

Every time I’m here I feel like I’m ascending to the center what has been my world for last four years. Bishops Peak rises like a spire, thrusting out of the landscape, and supporting a pile of enormous boulders at its summit. The peak’s size is deceiving. At some angles it appears as a large mass, dominating the landscape. From other vantage points, and especially up close, it looks deceptively small.

There comes a time, about half way up, when I remember how striking and extensive the views are. The sun beats down, warming my skin. The clean, dry air fills my lungs as they breathe faster. My feet kick up dust from the packed dirt of the trail. Trees have been left behind, and the slopes are a maze up shrubs and boulders until the summit, where trees once again take hold. The path winds in a series of long switchbacks. This last stretch up the exposed mountain side always seems to take the longest, because the distance seem shorter than they really are. I think it’s the absence of any sense of scale that causes the effect. There are no buildings or other manmade structures for a concrete perspective.

The summit is teeming with boulders, some help precariously at the edge of a steep slope. I like to imagine pushing with enough force to dislodge one of the behemoths. It would begin slowly, the boulder reluctant to abandon its towering presence, and then it reaches the point of no return. Gaining speed, ground shaking, obliterating obstacles, the piece of mountain cannot be halted.

Every part of my life is spread out below my view from atop the highest boulder. Cal Poly, to the east, is nestled in the corner of the valley with Poly Mountain as a backdrop. Downtown San Luis Obispo is further south, and even at this height I can identify landmarks. On the other side, next to Laguna Lake lies my neighborhood and house. Beyond all of this—the ocean.

Laguna Lake

Laguna Lake has the interesting phenomenon of being almost completely ignored. Everyone knows it is there, but in a casual, offhand sort of way. It’s never mentioned in the same context as other lakes—as an exciting nexus of summer recreation. Only one road, Madonna Road, passes close to the lake, and only for a few car lengths. On many occasions I drive past without even remember a lake is there at all.

The part next to the lake is a very peaceful setting. Paths twist and turn away from the parking lot, carrying me between scattered trees. I am surrounded by fields of short, golden grasses. The lake extends into the distance, away from the road. Most of the lake is difficult to see, except from along its shores or from above.

Different times of day bring about unique experiences. There are two times of day at which the lake is especially breathtaking. Early morning, after a fog shrouded night, wisps of mist appear and fade in an eerily supernatural show. My favorite time to see Laguna Lake is during that time. Steam rises from the water, giving it a feeling of life. The other time is during late afternoon, as the sun makes its way down to the horizon. Everything is vividly colored. The greens are richer, the golds brighter, and the shadows contrast with all of them. Laguna Lake glistens in the sunlight, and the breeze sways the lazy trees in a gently rhythm. My house is a single block away from this peaceful place.

Morro Bay

The beaches of Morro are remarkable different compared to the other frequented beaches of California’s central coast. While most have lengths of sloped sandy shores, at Morro Bay the earth seems more rugged and rocky. The sand has rocks and small pebbles mixed in, and even the sand itself seems rougher. Morro Rock’s proximity suggests that the surrounding rocky terrain contributed to the beach’s characteristics. Dark grey rocks that eroded from the mountainside form a rocky shoreline, and this further supports my observation.

Morro Bay, the city, is a mirror of its surrounding landscape. The most striking feature is the coal mill—a dominant structure, out of place, and a symbol of our industrialization. Morro Rock is nature’s version. It’s too dominates the landscape, is quite out of place on the coastline, and is a testament of nature’s own industrial workings. The rock is a remnant of a long dormant volcano. I couldn’t imagine the area without Morro Rock, and its hulking mass belongs here more than any of us. The power plant is equally associated with Morro Bay, but it could disappear without eliciting any sorrow from me.

Both the bay and city have a rugged feel. The houses are strewn about on the low hillsides, surrounded by patches of coastal plants and brown packed dirt. There is a raw ugliness to it, and I see the same thing in Morro Rock. The city is a quintessential example of a settlement matching the environment in which it was built. But I don’t mean to say that the city is good for the environment, only that it matches it.