“The lake is low, the gas is high, it’s the perfect time to stop on by.”
Might as well stop driving through the North Georgia lake lands and do a little gift shopping. This is the first mention of the many months drought in our region that I’ve seen in a while. The lakes, more accurately reservoirs, were constructed by power companies and water districts during the last century. Engines of industry and growth have mostly become the playground for retirees and tourists and local anglers. The lakes are low, startlingly low. They are one of the most visible and tangible markers of the 2007, possibly 2008, drought that parched the ground and lowered water tables across the southeast. Most of South Carolina got less than half the normal rainfall last year. People spoke about Atlanta outgrowing its water supply. Legal disputes over water rights continue between Florida, Alabama and Georgia. None have yet figured out how to deal with a thirsty Atlanta. And no one wants to contemplate how thirsty Hotlanta might be if the rains don’t come before the summer.
The early months of 2008 have brought rain, but not enough to lift the drought status. Unless you spend a lot of time crossing the endless bridges that traverse these fingers of lakes or have views of your own exposed dock and lake bed, days pass without thinking about it, especially in winter. Long showers, dish washing, laundry. All the normal water uses continue without much thought. Most of the conservation during this time of drought has been voluntary although at one point the governor of Georgia embarked on a campaign of divine supplication as a drought mitigation strategy. The trees managed to put on a notable display of color in the fall. Drought, unlike tornadoes, floods and other sexier natural disasters easily slipped off the media radar once the collective memory of summer’s searing heat and charred lawns receded.
I sat on a friend’s dock the other day. The former hydroelectric power source is a perfect example of drought’s tenacity. Across this slip of a water body, muddy and shallow from decades of erosion, is a newly renovated water treatment plant for a nearby municipality. Exposed lake bottom extends beyond the wire fence separating her property from the neighbors rendering the demarcation insufficient. In some places, the pronounced and extended retreat of water has enabled pioneer plants to grow, die and now shiver in the winter wind. How many months before tree seedlings root in this new medium? How many hanging fences and exposed docks and beached pontoon boats do we need to remind us of where the water should be?
I didn't sit for long contemplating the treatment plant and not enough muddy water. The smell of the lake was different, off, like a milk gone sour. That wasn't sexy either.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
bushwhacking
It’s time to go bushwhacking. No, I’m not referring to W. Stretch your comfort zone, get off the trail, go into the wild—even if only a few hundred yards from your car and you have a cell phone and GPS in your pocket. Conditions in the South Carolina mountains are currently perfect for exploring that boulder in the distance, following a creek to its source or wandering along a ridge. Temperatures are rising but the spiders have yet to string their webs across the understory like Mardi Gras beads. The possibility of encountering snakes, scorpions and the triumvirate of itchiness: ticks, chiggers, and poison ivy remains slight.
The window of opportunity for bushwhacking in the upstate is small for all but the hardest core. The woods are starting to show signs of recovery from autumnal revelry. Those once fiery leaves now cling to rhododendrons like misplaced wine glasses. Fallen branches are tossed around like empty beer cans. A couple more weeks of rain and warmer weather will be like a shot of espresso to the sluggish forest. Trout lily leaves the size of your pinkie are already parting the crumbling leaves. Their delicate yellow flowers are one of the first signs of this extreme makeover. A legion of wildflowers and groundcovers will follow to cover the decaying browns with a carpet of greens and set the stage for the swarm of biological activity that is spring. Seize the opportunity. Tread lightly and keep an eye out for the trespassing signs.
The window of opportunity for bushwhacking in the upstate is small for all but the hardest core. The woods are starting to show signs of recovery from autumnal revelry. Those once fiery leaves now cling to rhododendrons like misplaced wine glasses. Fallen branches are tossed around like empty beer cans. A couple more weeks of rain and warmer weather will be like a shot of espresso to the sluggish forest. Trout lily leaves the size of your pinkie are already parting the crumbling leaves. Their delicate yellow flowers are one of the first signs of this extreme makeover. A legion of wildflowers and groundcovers will follow to cover the decaying browns with a carpet of greens and set the stage for the swarm of biological activity that is spring. Seize the opportunity. Tread lightly and keep an eye out for the trespassing signs.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Birder for a Day
A flock of 15 or so gathers along the edges of a tiny, manmade lake. They hoist binoculars as their mostly graying heads tip alternately skyward or groundward depending on the object of consideration. The lake is not the focus of attention as the water fowl taking off, landing, swimming, and squawking are Canada Geese. Their droppings along the grass upslope of the bank are a testament to their numerous and frequent presence. The shrubs and underbrush planted in a 10-20 foot swath of vegetated buffer along the lake is a primary area of interest. Song swallows, juncos, and the twitchy ruby crested kinglet dance in the mid-size alders. A couple of swamp sparrows keep low in the dense underbrush, their rusty wings flashing between tangles of low branches and briars. We see a pair of cardinals, bluebirds, plenty of crows, and a mourning dove. Pine warblers with bright throats the color of young pine needle clusters work the upper branches of a series of pines, canvassing for remaining cones. We pause to listen to the chatter of towhees, faintly reminiscent of squawking ducks. There is a lot of other background chatter, some recognizable, most not. After scanning so intently, the shift to focus on sound is an interesting contrast. We can hear more activity than we can see. How often do we stop to listen? Nuthatches, red and white breasted, a brown creeper, a golden crested kinglet, and more than a few chickadees and tufted titmice graze along pine and oak branches. The red breasted nuthatch is a bit of a celebrity this warming morning as they’re here in greater numbers than usual this year. A Downey woodpecker moves slowly in the upper canopy of a leafless tree.
There is a bit of the hunt that likely spurs on most bird watchers. The competing urges to follow one bird from branch to branch or tree to tree, to canvass a broader range of habitat, or to stay in place and patiently wait for the action. Some capture through photo, most through their lists. A few others seem content with the privilege of peering into the lives of birds, to marvel at their movements, their forms and colors along limbs. We often think of birds as perched on branches, flying through the air. Upon closer inspection, each species moves a little differently in the trees, the motion of each individual bird unpredictable. Will he or she remain on the back side of that branch or come around? Stay on the tree for a minute or two seconds? A hawk, likely red shouldered, is heard and not seen. Another, spotted later, circles above the lake.
In a couple hours, in a small section of piney woods and lake edge we saw and heard more than I might have guessed. We gathered to watch for the national backyard bird count organized by the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. Our list and the lists of others will provide ornithologists with a nationwide snapshot of who is flying around at a particular time of year. The walking in the woods, the exchange of knowledge and anecdotes, and the attention to the sight and sound of birds of is of even greater benefit to the flocks of birders across the country this weekend.
There is a bit of the hunt that likely spurs on most bird watchers. The competing urges to follow one bird from branch to branch or tree to tree, to canvass a broader range of habitat, or to stay in place and patiently wait for the action. Some capture through photo, most through their lists. A few others seem content with the privilege of peering into the lives of birds, to marvel at their movements, their forms and colors along limbs. We often think of birds as perched on branches, flying through the air. Upon closer inspection, each species moves a little differently in the trees, the motion of each individual bird unpredictable. Will he or she remain on the back side of that branch or come around? Stay on the tree for a minute or two seconds? A hawk, likely red shouldered, is heard and not seen. Another, spotted later, circles above the lake.
In a couple hours, in a small section of piney woods and lake edge we saw and heard more than I might have guessed. We gathered to watch for the national backyard bird count organized by the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. Our list and the lists of others will provide ornithologists with a nationwide snapshot of who is flying around at a particular time of year. The walking in the woods, the exchange of knowledge and anecdotes, and the attention to the sight and sound of birds of is of even greater benefit to the flocks of birders across the country this weekend.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
lives richly lived vs.empty plans for the lives of the rich
"We only want what y'all have."
Who am I, neither native to this place nor landowner? Who was anyone assembled in the room to argue what a landowner can and can't do with his property? Any exchange of land and vegetation for cement and vinyl strikes at my core. A tired cotton field covered with kudzu holds more aesthetic value than any brick and stone or log and glass construction. But I didn't go to the hearing to rail against development and developers. As nice as it would be to see an end to all development in the South Carolina mountains, to say enough is enough, there isn't much room for that kind of talk and it isn't likely stop the march of retiring baby boomers to the mountains of the Carolinas. The developer had a point. He only wants what we have. We live in houses. Shouldn't the people he's building for have that right? Who was there to stop us when farm or forest was cleared to put up the houses we live in? His argument had trouble even making it to the base of the mountain he's planning to develop.
Many people assembled for the hearing, the rows of gray and graying heads grew up in the valley below that mountain. It's the kind of valley that I remember the first time I set eyes on it. Some places, like one I'll call Hard Times Hollow with its packs of dogs and piles of debris and tracks for offroading and windowless shacks are best forgotten. This valley, one I cannot even name for it is too precious to advertise, is a place time seemed to forget, minus the telephone poles. When I saw a white farmhouse nestled in the heart of the valley, it rekindled the fantasy that watching Cold Mountain set in motion. Rare do our fantasies manifest in real landscapes. The high cost of land there quickly dissuaded my delusions of starting an organic farm in this dreamy landscape where they could have filmed the movie. It is speculated that Civil War deserters hid out in these hills. Skirmishes were fought between the British and colonists and native Cherokees. It is easy to see why the Cherokees settled along the scenic trout waters. A member of a local tribe spoke to this issue, the implications of a gated community, and the disturbance of land that holds the bones of his ancestors. Area residents invoked history, identity and character as they spoke of family land and wild turkeys crossing roads and children learning to hunt black bear with their grandfather now that populations have rebounded.
These moving testaments to lives richly lived served in stark contrast to the empty plans for the lives of the rich. 30-something single family, residential "cabins" marketed as second homes will occupy 50-something acres in the first phase of a potentially 500+ acre development. As the planning commission moved toward their inevitable decision, they asked several points of clarification. This is a low impact development in accordance with the demands of the marketplace. The developer didn't shy away from explaining that baby boomers want trees saved. He is following the rules and county staff attested to his compliance. He made a point to emphasize how adhering to such rules (such as erecting silt fences) can be a lot of work, an effort that we didn't have to make back when our houses were built. He conveniently neglected the research that demonstrates how insufficient many of these soil and erosion control measures are, especially in fragile habitats such as this. It is easy to measure up when the standards are set so low. This is also a low-impact development because the "cabins" are spaced out on 1+ acre lots. Low impact should imply using less land. Somehow folks tend to think that the bear and deer and turkeys will prefer the spaces between yards. Gated community is code around here for classiness, an implication that a mountain is improved by such a neighborhood. In a light exchange, one of the commissioners asked the developer to confirm that no "double-wides" will be constructed. Phew! Good thing they won't be clearing a rich ecosystem for a trailer.
A road is a road. A septic system is a septic system whether it’s percolating the shit of the rich or the poor. The soils disturbed to treat the waste are rich. They have a high pH and are the result of the weathering of amphibolite rock. This fact is significant because the conditions have resulted in enormous plant diversity. There are some plants that only grow in these areas. The mountain slated for development is an extremely valuable habitat for rare plants (preliminary surveys suggest the possibility of new species). Old trees are rumored to grow in these woods. The mountain is adjacent to already protected lands and is part of a larger, wildlife corridor hosting the state's largest concentration of black bear.
The verdict was delivered, had been decided before we stepped into the hearing. It was the only option given the current language of codes and ordinances, the commission had no choice but to approve the development. I sympathize with the predicament of the citizens carrying out their civic duty on the commission. They suggested those who are concerned get involved in the process. Sometime in the next year the county council will update development ordinances. We don't use the word Zoning around here. One commissioner in an aside talked about how he doesn't like it, echoed the familiar sentiment that no one wants to be told what to do with their property. And therein the dilemma. We could get involved, try to change the language of the system so that it recognizes at least the most valuable of landscapes in our county and prevents their mindless development. But we have a fundamental problem of translation. How will we ever agree to any protections if there is such strong opposition for zoning? These thorny policy questions were beyond the scope of last night's hearing. A language doesn't even exist to describe the loss of this special place and the changes the development will bring to this idyllic valley.
Who am I, neither native to this place nor landowner? Who was anyone assembled in the room to argue what a landowner can and can't do with his property? Any exchange of land and vegetation for cement and vinyl strikes at my core. A tired cotton field covered with kudzu holds more aesthetic value than any brick and stone or log and glass construction. But I didn't go to the hearing to rail against development and developers. As nice as it would be to see an end to all development in the South Carolina mountains, to say enough is enough, there isn't much room for that kind of talk and it isn't likely stop the march of retiring baby boomers to the mountains of the Carolinas. The developer had a point. He only wants what we have. We live in houses. Shouldn't the people he's building for have that right? Who was there to stop us when farm or forest was cleared to put up the houses we live in? His argument had trouble even making it to the base of the mountain he's planning to develop.
Many people assembled for the hearing, the rows of gray and graying heads grew up in the valley below that mountain. It's the kind of valley that I remember the first time I set eyes on it. Some places, like one I'll call Hard Times Hollow with its packs of dogs and piles of debris and tracks for offroading and windowless shacks are best forgotten. This valley, one I cannot even name for it is too precious to advertise, is a place time seemed to forget, minus the telephone poles. When I saw a white farmhouse nestled in the heart of the valley, it rekindled the fantasy that watching Cold Mountain set in motion. Rare do our fantasies manifest in real landscapes. The high cost of land there quickly dissuaded my delusions of starting an organic farm in this dreamy landscape where they could have filmed the movie. It is speculated that Civil War deserters hid out in these hills. Skirmishes were fought between the British and colonists and native Cherokees. It is easy to see why the Cherokees settled along the scenic trout waters. A member of a local tribe spoke to this issue, the implications of a gated community, and the disturbance of land that holds the bones of his ancestors. Area residents invoked history, identity and character as they spoke of family land and wild turkeys crossing roads and children learning to hunt black bear with their grandfather now that populations have rebounded.
These moving testaments to lives richly lived served in stark contrast to the empty plans for the lives of the rich. 30-something single family, residential "cabins" marketed as second homes will occupy 50-something acres in the first phase of a potentially 500+ acre development. As the planning commission moved toward their inevitable decision, they asked several points of clarification. This is a low impact development in accordance with the demands of the marketplace. The developer didn't shy away from explaining that baby boomers want trees saved. He is following the rules and county staff attested to his compliance. He made a point to emphasize how adhering to such rules (such as erecting silt fences) can be a lot of work, an effort that we didn't have to make back when our houses were built. He conveniently neglected the research that demonstrates how insufficient many of these soil and erosion control measures are, especially in fragile habitats such as this. It is easy to measure up when the standards are set so low. This is also a low-impact development because the "cabins" are spaced out on 1+ acre lots. Low impact should imply using less land. Somehow folks tend to think that the bear and deer and turkeys will prefer the spaces between yards. Gated community is code around here for classiness, an implication that a mountain is improved by such a neighborhood. In a light exchange, one of the commissioners asked the developer to confirm that no "double-wides" will be constructed. Phew! Good thing they won't be clearing a rich ecosystem for a trailer.
A road is a road. A septic system is a septic system whether it’s percolating the shit of the rich or the poor. The soils disturbed to treat the waste are rich. They have a high pH and are the result of the weathering of amphibolite rock. This fact is significant because the conditions have resulted in enormous plant diversity. There are some plants that only grow in these areas. The mountain slated for development is an extremely valuable habitat for rare plants (preliminary surveys suggest the possibility of new species). Old trees are rumored to grow in these woods. The mountain is adjacent to already protected lands and is part of a larger, wildlife corridor hosting the state's largest concentration of black bear.
The verdict was delivered, had been decided before we stepped into the hearing. It was the only option given the current language of codes and ordinances, the commission had no choice but to approve the development. I sympathize with the predicament of the citizens carrying out their civic duty on the commission. They suggested those who are concerned get involved in the process. Sometime in the next year the county council will update development ordinances. We don't use the word Zoning around here. One commissioner in an aside talked about how he doesn't like it, echoed the familiar sentiment that no one wants to be told what to do with their property. And therein the dilemma. We could get involved, try to change the language of the system so that it recognizes at least the most valuable of landscapes in our county and prevents their mindless development. But we have a fundamental problem of translation. How will we ever agree to any protections if there is such strong opposition for zoning? These thorny policy questions were beyond the scope of last night's hearing. A language doesn't even exist to describe the loss of this special place and the changes the development will bring to this idyllic valley.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
NASCAR at the stoplight
The light is red. I am willing myself to relax, to embrace the slowness of the intersection in readiness for the yoga class mere blocks away. Something about proximity to a wellness activity ramps up ones behavior. Before and after a class I'm more mindful, conscious of breath, thinking nicer thoughts. In the midst of preparing the yoga mindset, (if only it were second nature), I'm jolted by the noise and instantaneous motion of my body. I've been hit from behind. At a red light! On the way to yoga! We'd already been stopped for a minute, probably more, it didn't seem possible. It takes a second to realize I can turn my head and see what happened, that I don't need the rear view mirror. Another second and I realize I should get out of the car to see what exactly happened. It’s a sporty, not quite muscle car from the 80's that rammed my bumper. The driver: a pale, moustached boy of 16? or 18? A girl sits in the shadows of the passenger seat. Everyone's okay. Even though my Obama bumper sticker was in better shape than the lawn sign that was run over I should probably stop wearing his button on my jacket.
An important lesson for a driver new to the south is to stop at green lights. For someone raised in an aggressive driver land the truths of accelerate on the yellow, turn right on red, and gun it on the green are not only self-evident but essential for self preservation. Back in the southlands there might be only a couple cars stopped in front of the red. It turns green. You are approaching with sufficient distance to think that if you just ease off the gas the sparse traffic ahead will be in motion by the time you reach the light. You are in the process of self congratulation for your efficient mastery of the road when you realize that you are about to hit the car that is not moving in front of you. It is stopped at the green light. After more than a couple close calls you begin to reframe your rules of the road. Slow down, even when the light is turning green. Do not cruise into the shoulder to pass a car that is stopped for a left hand turn. Slow down excessively when someone in front of you has their right turn signal on because it is likely they will take that turn as speedily as syrup cane flows from an upended jar. Tempering my inner Rhode Island driver has been a slow process. If suppressed long enough the urges to accelerate, pass, and weave inexplicably bubble to the surface and I find myself randomly exceeding the speed limit or riding a little too close to the bumper of the car in front of me before my husband or better judgment step in and prompt me to ease off.
We pull into a nearby parking lot. Both still stunned. I get the sense he's afraid. I realize that with my sloppy hair and baggy yoga outfit (if only I'd dressed like those put together yoga women in their matching warm up jackets and Capri pants of perfect length and tightness, accessorized with headband and sneakers). Instead I looked a bit ragged, and sound a bit edgy, not unlike someone who might, say, walk around with a neck brace on account of a fraudulent personal injury suit. He shakily gave me his insurance card and I scrawled down the details trembling. He mumbled something about getting used to the car, about something happening to the clutch. It hadn't been a tap of bumpers caused by a distracted slip off the break pedal. It was almost as though he were trying to rev the engine, popped the clutch and lurched forward. A patrol car cruised past and I caught it at the red light on foot. Disheveled and clutching my scrap paper incident report I asked if there was anything we needed to do. It was an accident but thankfully not a real accident, no bodily damage, human or auto. The perpetually sore neck and upper back that prompt the inefficient trips from the mountain to town for yoga not unduly harmed. The cops said just take down the info, nothing to be done. I reassured the kid that I'd only taken the information in case something came loose under the car as I drove away or some other unforeseen consequence emerged soon after. He didn't seem convinced but looked relieved to be able to pull away from the scene. I watched slightly horrified as he peeled into oncoming traffic.
I gave a longing look to what was supposed to be as I passed the yoga studio and continued down the road to run an errand. The vagaries of traffic patterns allowed me to follow his plumes of exhaust and erratic driving. I initially dismissed the peel out as nervousness. Trailing a safe distance behind I became disturbed that the relatively slight inconvenience his negligence caused me might cause something far graver for someone else somewhere down the road. He wasn't doing anything illegal in my short window of view, nothing I could call the police about. I had actually felt a little guilty about being curt and serious in our brief interaction and questioned whether I'd have been more relaxed and don't worry about it if he hadn't looked so NASCAR. In the land of stopping at green lights I worry about a boy that can't be counted on to keep his car stopped at a red.
An important lesson for a driver new to the south is to stop at green lights. For someone raised in an aggressive driver land the truths of accelerate on the yellow, turn right on red, and gun it on the green are not only self-evident but essential for self preservation. Back in the southlands there might be only a couple cars stopped in front of the red. It turns green. You are approaching with sufficient distance to think that if you just ease off the gas the sparse traffic ahead will be in motion by the time you reach the light. You are in the process of self congratulation for your efficient mastery of the road when you realize that you are about to hit the car that is not moving in front of you. It is stopped at the green light. After more than a couple close calls you begin to reframe your rules of the road. Slow down, even when the light is turning green. Do not cruise into the shoulder to pass a car that is stopped for a left hand turn. Slow down excessively when someone in front of you has their right turn signal on because it is likely they will take that turn as speedily as syrup cane flows from an upended jar. Tempering my inner Rhode Island driver has been a slow process. If suppressed long enough the urges to accelerate, pass, and weave inexplicably bubble to the surface and I find myself randomly exceeding the speed limit or riding a little too close to the bumper of the car in front of me before my husband or better judgment step in and prompt me to ease off.
We pull into a nearby parking lot. Both still stunned. I get the sense he's afraid. I realize that with my sloppy hair and baggy yoga outfit (if only I'd dressed like those put together yoga women in their matching warm up jackets and Capri pants of perfect length and tightness, accessorized with headband and sneakers). Instead I looked a bit ragged, and sound a bit edgy, not unlike someone who might, say, walk around with a neck brace on account of a fraudulent personal injury suit. He shakily gave me his insurance card and I scrawled down the details trembling. He mumbled something about getting used to the car, about something happening to the clutch. It hadn't been a tap of bumpers caused by a distracted slip off the break pedal. It was almost as though he were trying to rev the engine, popped the clutch and lurched forward. A patrol car cruised past and I caught it at the red light on foot. Disheveled and clutching my scrap paper incident report I asked if there was anything we needed to do. It was an accident but thankfully not a real accident, no bodily damage, human or auto. The perpetually sore neck and upper back that prompt the inefficient trips from the mountain to town for yoga not unduly harmed. The cops said just take down the info, nothing to be done. I reassured the kid that I'd only taken the information in case something came loose under the car as I drove away or some other unforeseen consequence emerged soon after. He didn't seem convinced but looked relieved to be able to pull away from the scene. I watched slightly horrified as he peeled into oncoming traffic.
I gave a longing look to what was supposed to be as I passed the yoga studio and continued down the road to run an errand. The vagaries of traffic patterns allowed me to follow his plumes of exhaust and erratic driving. I initially dismissed the peel out as nervousness. Trailing a safe distance behind I became disturbed that the relatively slight inconvenience his negligence caused me might cause something far graver for someone else somewhere down the road. He wasn't doing anything illegal in my short window of view, nothing I could call the police about. I had actually felt a little guilty about being curt and serious in our brief interaction and questioned whether I'd have been more relaxed and don't worry about it if he hadn't looked so NASCAR. In the land of stopping at green lights I worry about a boy that can't be counted on to keep his car stopped at a red.
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