Entry #6: 11/12/23

Today I visited Observatory Park at night for the first time. I regret to inform you that that choice was made solely because I ran out of time this afternoon and ended up practicing guitar for four hours, but it's kind of poetic for my last sight journal to be at night if you choose to think about it that way. A closing on this chapter mirrored by the closing of the day. The park is pretty different at night. Mainly colder. But it's also kind of magical. The city allows for few stars, but the fifteen I counted aren't bad. I rarely notice the stars unless I'm camping. Once again, this journal is reminding me to slow down and notice. The beauty of the park is enhanced by the music I'm listening to (slower bluegrass mainly, Big Country by Bela Fleck and the Flecktones upon arrival) and it makes me think of a camp counselor I once had who wouldn't let us listen to music on a backpacking trip, presumably because its "unnatural." And sure, I too get annoyed when people are playing rock music while I'm hiking, but the idea that music is inherently unnatural is crazy to me. In my opinion, there is nothing more human than music. It has existed as long as we have, and some scientists even speculate that music predates language. Yet, it's music's humanness that makes it feel just as natural as the trees. This contradiction feels unique to music, but I feel that it's proof enough that humans are a part of nature. I've never felt so connected to other people and the surrounding forest as when I've been singing folk songs and playing guitar. The ability of music to aid in that kind of connection is mind-blowing. How can a simple melody played on a mandolin move me to tears? The idea makes me excited to return to my summer camp in western North Carolina as a counselor this summer. Actually, I'll be back in Brevard in a week, and I've been thinking all day about driving down the winding mountain roads blasting bluegrass. It's weird to have two homes now. And to love them both. I'm feeling conflicting emotions about being home for six weeks. It's funny how different and how similar my two states are. Sitting in this park, I might as well be in central North Carolina, just with drier air and more evergreens. But the mountains are so different. The Rockies' grandeur, the Blue Ridge Mountains' softness. Do the cities feel similar because they are cities? If there weren't buildings here how would the landscapes differ? I have no idea how Denver looked before all of these people arrived. Nor do I have any idea how it'll look in 100 years. Honestly, I'd rather not think about it. My toes are getting awfully cold. For some reason (they're my favorite shoes) I decided to wear Chacos and it's 45 degrees. Not uncommon for me, but I've been outside for longer than I usually am in Chacos. So I bid farewell to Observatory Park. At least for the next 7 weeks. I'll be back next quarter when I need to find some stillness in my day.  

Entry #5: 11/03/23

I walked to Observatory Park at 9am this morning. It was a beautiful morning, 50 degrees, the sun shining. It had been nearly a month since I had visited the park, and I expected to find it barren, the tree branches spindly and leafless. I was pleased to find, however, that even the deciduous trees still had most of their leaves. It was indeed a different sight than the last time I had been there: there were more leaves on the ground, a bit of snow was left from last weekend's snowfall, many of the trees were hues of yellow; but not as different as I would have guessed: I was still surrounded by life, the grass still green, the squirrels stalking me as I ate my breakfast. Seeing as there were still leaves suitable for identification, I decided to index the closest trees.

Tree 1: The hawthorn I noticed the first day I came to the park. Its leaves are turning crinkly and brown, and it reminds me of the trees at my grandparents's old farm. It has six trunks, gathered at the base, then spreading away from each other, making it perfect for climbing.

Tree 2: Northern Red Oak. Its leaves are turning orange and red; its smooth trunk is tall and straight, reaching toward the sky. It reminds me of the oak trees in the forest behind my house in North Carolina.

Tree 3: Sugar Maple. The smallest tree in the vicinity, its leaves are on their last legs, barely hanging on to the branches, like raindrops right before they fall from a ledge.

Tree 4: Elm of some sort. I couldn't tell exactly what species, perhaps a Field Elm? Its branches jut out at seemingly random points on the tree, growing in number until the crown.

Tree 5: Blue Spruce. A petite, Christmas-tree-looking individual. Its evergreen spikes have a blue hue that I am rather fond of.  

Tree 6: Littleleaf Linden. The leaves are indeed little, and if you look closely, they are surrounded by little berries. Ideal for climbing.

Entry #4: 10/22/23

I spent this weekend at the mountain campus in Red Feather Lakes, Colorado. We arrived Friday night; it was already dark so you couldn't see the campus very well. I spent the evening rock climbing in the activity center and got to know the climbing guides. I bonded with some of them over our music tastes and the places we've climbed. I climb a lot at home, but I hadn't climbed since I got to DU and I didn't realize how much I missed the sport until I got to challenge myself on quite a few routes that night. I spent most of Saturday climbing at Cliff Lake, a rock about a 20-minute walk down a gravel road from the cabins. The rock face is right next to a tiny lake and is surrounded by other rocks and evergreens. The air was crisp, at some points verging on cold, but the sun was shining and it was a really beautiful day. My favorite routes were on the far right, butting up against the lake. The first was tall and had a crack running up it, which required lots of foot and hand jams. The view from the top was beautiful. The second route was a bouldering problem that no one had completed. It required traversing to the other side of the lake, and if you fell, you would fall in the water. I made it most of the way, but you reach a point where there are no footholds, and I couldn't fully commit because I didn't want to fall in. It was still a fun challenge, though. Sunday morning I woke up at 6:45 am to go climbing once again, this time at Bath Rock, which was a 15-minute hike through the woods, on what can barely be considered a trail. It was once again a beautiful day and I got to try some harder routes, which was a lot of fun. I love climbing because of the problem-solving nature of it, the adrenaline you get dangling from a ledge 30 feet in the air, and the connection to nature. This weekend made me really excited to get back into the sport, and I'm hoping to start doing more lead climbing and learn how to set routes outside by myself so I can climb outdoors at home. I feel very grateful for this weekend; being out in nature, making new friends, and getting to climb every day.

Entry #3: 10/09/23

This third trip, I took in the morning, after my chemistry lecture. As I walked over I noticed that the leaves were starting to change colors, just beginning to mimic the yellows I saw this past weekend in the mountains. Sitting in the park, I reflected on this past weekend, which I spent mountain biking in Fruita, and thought about how hard it is to overstate the effect being in nature can have on us. I have had an extremely challenging month: the transition to college has been particularly tough for me and I'm left with feelings of loneliness, homesickness, overwhelm, and sadness a lot of the time. This trip scared me because being outdoors without cell phone service and with only the company of strangers can be daunting. The lack of distraction forces you to be present, to face the painful emotions that were swelling inside me. This, paired with the amount of homework I had, almost caused me to bail on the trip, but I've never canceled a trip to the mountains and I knew would have wallowed in my dorm all weekend if I didn't go. So I went to Fruita and had an even more incredible time than I could have imagined. Camping truly heals the soul. Being present can be painful, but it's so worth it. I wish I could have stayed in the desert forever, because when I stepped back into my dorm all the stressors I was facing before I left came back. I felt trapped on campus. Surrounded by people, but so lonely, lacking the stillness I had found in the desert. Sitting in Observatory Park this morning restored a bit of that stillness. Having just read Muir, I paid closer attention to the wind, the leaves shaking ever so slightly, the sun illuminating their veins. Like Muir, I scaled a pine tree. Sitting among its branches, I honestly felt like it was holding me, telling me everything would be alright. Its wide trunk and reaching roots could be solid for me, even as I felt like I could not depend on other humans. If I hadn't had a class to get to, I probably could have sat up there all day. So though I longed for the mountains, to be without service and to sleep on the ground, this tree, the gentle stillness of the other trees around it, served as reminders that nature is all around, if I only choose to look for it. I was reminded that in moments like this, full of unrest and uncertainty, Mother Nature is stable, she is constant and no more than a short walk away. Even in the city, I can find tranquility in the bugs hiding in the grasses, in the soft soil I am sitting on atop I write this, in the cradle of the tree's branches.

Entry #2: 9/22/23

For my second trip to Observatory Park, I decided to go earlier in the day. I left around 11 am and when I arrived decided to sit in a different place. The park is split in the middle by E Warren Ave. Last time I sat on the Southern side of the road, so this time I decided to sit on the Northern side, which has a playground on it. During this visit, the only other people that were there were families with young children. Watching these families and listening to nostalgic music by a North Carolina band made me think of my childhood and how grateful I am to have grown up with so much access to nature. I lived in the same house in central North Carolina from age four until now and it backs up against a forest, in which I spent countless hours hiking, mountain biking, playing pretend, swimming in the disgusting creek, climbing trees, making potions from mud and leaves. I can't even begin to imagine the person I would be today if not for the time I spent among those trees, and it makes me think of the importance of green spaces. Especially in big cities like Denver, the preservation of parks and trees among the city sidewalks and buildings is crucial for the well-being of a city's citizens, as well as the upbringing of its children. To quote Standing Bear, "He knew that man's heart, away from nature, becomes hard; he knew that lack of respect for growing, living things soon led to lack of respect for humans too." Having a grassy, outdoor space for these children to play in is, in my opinion, vital to their upbringing, and therefore, the future of our society. I'm glad Observatory Park can serve as one of these spaces.

Entry #1: 9/17/23

I chose Observatory Park as my site. It was an easy 15-minute walk southeast of campus. The temperature was perfectly cool and the evening light was beautiful, the trees casting long shadows across the grass, perfect to sit and relax. After strolling around the park I chose a spot next to a small community garden and under a hawthorn tree to set up my crazy creek chair. The tree has six trunks only connected at the very base and they sprawl out in a manner that makes the tree ideal for climbing. I sat on one of its branches, looked around the park, and used a plant identifier app to identify the species of tree. There were a fair amount of people in the park. On one end, people playing volleyball, on the opposite end, football, tennis, and baseball. Lots of people were walking dogs, and twice while sitting in the grass, a tiny puppy ran over and jumped onto me and my computer. In the distance, I could hear the natural sound of frogs croaking and a little bird chirping and the human sounds of cars and laughter. There was no wind; the leaves were still. The garden I was sitting in front of was beautiful, full of huge heads of cabbage, tall kale and chard plants, climbing tomatoes, and bright orange flowers. Flies began to swarm me as I sat in the grass so I got up and moved to a nearby bench. The sun got lower in the sky, and you could see all the bugs in its light, but as long as they weren't fighting to crawl under my clothes, they were kind of pretty. In total, I stayed for about an hour, before walking back to campus for dinner. The trip made for a serene evening and a time to slow down and choose to listen and observe.