Entry 8: Changes

Wednesday, April 12, 2017
Temperature: 61 degrees

I stare into the pale expanse of never ending sky. The sun shines proudly overhead. There's not a cloud in sight.

I walk the trail I usually run, following the river into the heart of the park. It's been three months since my first blog entry and so much has changed. I pass budding trees. Color graces their once dull, brown limbs. As I cross the wooden bridge, I see fish darting and circling in the water's depths. There across the river is the sycamore and pine, locked in their eternal embrace.

This is not the same park I wrote about in January. It's noisy with the calls of birds, and everywhere I look is vibrant with color. I press on, making my way to the man-made lake. In the distance are the tapped maple trees and Sugar Shack. People gather on the lakeshore, fishing poles in hand, hoping for a catch. The quacking of ducks reaches my ears, as I sit at a picnic table. I silently greet them with a smile.

I look at my hand as I put pen to paper. I've changed too. Though not in ways as obvious or exciting as the spring. I've learned to embrace the stillness of quiet reflection. All I've read and written has challenged my mindset, actions, and identity. The world seems bigger now, more diverse and complex than I previously imagined.

I study the deep blue lake that was once white with ice and wonder, who am I in this great world?

Sometimes I wish for the quiet wisdom of the trees or the simple eternity of the rivers, lakes, and oceans. Sometimes I wish for the wildness of a wolf, or the freedom of a finch.

But I am me.

I am no more wise than I am eternal. Just like I am no more wolf than I am finch.

I've spent the past months reading and writing, but its the park that has helped me grow. It's the park that has inspired these thoughts and prompted these lessons. I leave with the knowledge that I am part of this world and it is part of me.

For this, I am grateful. For this, I will return.

Entry 7: The Personalities of Trees

Saturday, April 1, 2017
Temperature: 40 degrees
Skies cloudy.

It's the annual Maple Syrup Festival at Brady's Run Park. Vendors selling every imaginable variation of maple syrup set up shop on the usually vacant green space between the river and lake. Hundreds of people crowd around the stalls and wait in line for the famous pancake breakfast. Country Johnny sings covers of old country western songs to a tent filled with almost no one. A group of Revolutionary and Civil War reenactors show off their costumes and antique guns. Truly, there's something here for everyone.

As I make my way to the Sugar Shack, I pop a maple syrup sucker in my mouth. Sugary sweetness floods my taste buds.

Who needs high fructose corn syrup when you've got this stuff?

The Sugar Shack is smaller than I expected. Most of its interior is filled with a large steel vat, where the maple sugar is boiled into syrup.

Inside, Paul Farkas, a member of the Beaver County Conservation District, greets me. I have a page of questions about the maple syrup process. Paul has years of experience and a wealth of knowledge. I furiously scribble down his answers in my notebook.

Paul explains the maple trees need warm days and cold nights for the sap to develop properly. If the temperatures are too warm or too cold, this can harm the tree's sap, and the tapping process. Because of these conditions, the maple syrup season is rather short and after a couple of weeks, the trees cease to produce the sap used for syrup. "When the maple sugar turns a milky, cloudy color, that's mother nature's way of saying this sap is for the trees now," Paul says. "That stuff stinks something fierce, and that's a fact."

Paul and his crew only tap trees that are at least 9 inches in diameter.  For the health of the tree, it's important not to over tap or to use the same tap hole year after year.  In the close quarters of the Sugar Shack, Paul pauses for a moment. His weathered face crinkles into a smile. "I used to stomp around these woods in two feet of snow to make sure the taps were working and the sap was flowing." The park's tap system utilizes gravity for the sugar to drain out of the tree and into the collecting basins. Once enough sap is gathered, it's taken to the Sugar Shack and is boiled to become denser and sweeter. The result is the maple syrup many people know and love.

While the process of transforming maple sugar to maple syrup isn't difficult, it takes 26 gallons of maple sugar to make just 1 gallon of maple syrup. Commercial growers, use a mechanism that Paul describes as a "vacuum" that sucks the sap directly from the trees. It's a quicker, more effective way to gather maple sugar. However, it's clear that Paul doesn't think too highly of this approach and views the maple trees as more than just containers to be emptied. "Every tree has a unique personality. The amount of sap and the rate of sap flow is different for each tree." Paul seems to view the maple sugar as a gift from the trees.

I purchase a quart of Brady's Run maple syrup, eager to appreciate this gift myself.

Entry 6: The Brady of Brady's Run

Thursday, March 16, 2017
Temperature: 32 degrees
Skies partly cloudy.

It's been nearly two months since I started writing about Brady's Run Park. I decide today it's time to learn who this "Brady" actually was. On my way to the park center, I pass the man made lake. Patches of the water is iced over, frozen in place. Near the lake shore, the water ripples in mesmerizing patterns. It's odd to see the moving water lap against the frozen sheets, almost green against the white ice.

I enter the park center, a building that is home to an ice skating rink, walking track, and tennis courts. Hidden beside vending machines for every food and beverage imaginable, I find a bulletin board that answers my question: Who Was Brady?

Captain Samuel Brady lived from 1756 to 1795 and spent much of his life as a frontier scout in Western Pennsylvania and Northeastern Ohio. He fought in the Revolutionary War and served in the Continental Army. Brady was also a "vengeful Indian fighter."

I pause as I read this sentence. Vengeful is not a word one usually encounters at a local park.

Brady adopted this role as "vengeful Indian fighter" following the deaths of his brother and father in skirmishes with the Munsee and Seneca people. He was well known for his violent raids on the local Native Americans.

The bulletin board also mentions all of the other places in Western Pennsylvania and Northeastern Ohio that bear his name: East Brady, PA, Brady's Bend in Armstrong County (where Samuel Brady killed Chief Bald Eagle of the Munsee) and Brady's Leap in Kent, Ohio (where he jumped across the Cuyahoga River in order to escape his Native American captors).

I stare at the drawing of the man this park is named after. I wonder why anyone would name a place after a man who's major accomplishment was "vengeful Indian killer." It's strange thinking about his violent history at a park, a place that to me represents safety. A park is set aside to protect and conserve nature, it provides a safe place for children to play, and people to walk and run. But throughout history, how many people have died in these woods? How many have drowned in this river? How many many men, women, and children died by Brady's hand or his order?

The history of this park swirls in my head as I return to my car. The gray clouds seem darker, the iced over lake is harsh and unforgiving, the crows perched in the path ahead of me seem like an omen.

Entry 5: Maple Syrup Blood Bank

Wednesday, March 1, 2017
Temperature: 59 degrees
Cloudy skies.

I remember the old saying for March: "in like a lion, out like a lamb." I wonder if today is more lion or lamb? The temperature alone is deceiving. It stormed this morning and if the weather forecast is to be trusted, it will storm again soon. The wind is fierce as it beats against my face and knocks branches from trees. Twigs crash around my feet, sending debris in my eyes and nose. I start to wonder if maybe a walk in the woods today was not such a good idea.

I press on, turning round a bend in the trail when I reach an unexpected sight. Before me, trees are connected by yards and yards of blue, phosphorescent rope. It's like a giant, radioactive spider spun its web in this place. The blue rope is such a jarring contrast to the naked brown trees.

What happened here?

I approach one of the trees and examine it closely. The blue material I originally mistook as rope is actually some sort of tube, about the diameter of my thumb. The bark is punctured in a couple of places and blue piping emerges from the tree like alien limbs. Memories of Little House in the Big Woods suddenly rush back to me. Could these trees be sugar maples? Is the piping a tap?

I look again at the scene before me and realize it looks less like a radioactive spider web and more like a blood bank.

I follow the taps down the trail. The pipes connect and consolidate to form a larger tube that stretches down the hill and into a giant barrel- like the ones people use to collect rain water. This must be were the collected sap gathers.

Smoke rises above the trees, adding more gray to the already cloudy sky. I suspect the smoke has something to do with the sugar maple trees and follow it to its source. A moss covered brown building stands in the distance. It looks like a house though it has no windows and smoke pours from its three chimneys. I draw closer. On the door is a sign that says "Sugar Shack." This must be the place where the collected sap goes to be cooked down into the sugary syrup. Another sign stands by the door advertising the "Beaver County Maple Syrup Festival!"

I recall again the experiences of Laura Ingalls Wilder and compare it to this strange industrialized production of maple syrup. But how else is enough sap gathered to fill grocery stores with maple syrup? How else do the people of Bradys Run gather enough sap to host an entire festival? Is one way better than another? I'm not sure. I think on my strange "behind the scenes" experience with the sugar maples and decide to remember it when I next make pancakes.

Entry 4: Perspective and Predators

Wednesday, February 22, 2017
Temperature: 64 degrees
Partly cloudy skies.

I stand on a wooden pedestrian bridge. A river courses beneath my feet, and in the water swim too many fish to count. They glide and congregate close to where I stand. I go to the other side of the bridge, curious. Are there as many fish waiting on this side of the river? I see none. I return to my original spot and the same fish greet me. Why here, I wonder? Is the water deeper? The food selection better?

Behind me, two bikers zip across the bridge, rattling its wooden beams. The fish scatter out of my sight. I'm slightly annoyed at this intrusion, this sudden end to the fish party. But the day is too beautiful to stay irritated for long. I stand still and wait, listening to the river make that comforting gurgling sound as water passes over rocks. After a minute, three fish return.

They circle in the water, cautiously nearing the surface. And then, so quickly I almost miss it, a fish mouth breaks through the water. Fish lips open and greedily gobble a floating insect. Without wasting a second the fish darts back into the depths.

I study the fish. I wish I knew enough to identify this one. It's hard for me to get a complete view of them from this perspective, but they look similar in length and color, 4-6 inches and light brown. I'm more used to looking at fish, "eye to eye," in an aquarium or in a nature show. Looking from above is an entirely different feeling. It's like I'm a predator, quietly observing the fish's movement. It's a strange sensation.

And then I remember, I am a predator.  Though I mean these fish no harm, I've preyed upon fish in the past. I've caught fish by hook and line. Reeled them out of precious water only to release them a couple seconds later. I've never killed a fish, though I've eaten plenty. And I've liked the taste. I'm a predator alright.

I ponder this role I've been assigned and consider the responsibility, the power. It's not right for me to ignore or forget it. As I peer into the water, watching the fish swim, I wonder what I look like from above.

My perspective

Entry 3: Of Trees and Friendship

Wednesday, February 8, 2017
Temperature: 38 degrees
Skies cloudy and gray.

Usually, I run beside the stream, but today I sit.

The water is noisy as it pulses beneath a wooden bridge and out of my sight.  Years of erosion have worn away its muddy banks, exposing the roots of a sycamore and pine tree. I feel special seeing what's usually buried deep beneath the ground. It seems like a secret, one the trees trust me to keep.

The roots are curvy, knotted, and thick. Thicker than my forearm, thicker than my thigh. Pine and sycamore roots overlap and intertwine as they search for water and nutrients. Though woven together, their bark is distinct, and it's easy to trace root to the right tree. The gnarled bunch of roots captures discarded trash, an empty water bottle, metallic candy wrappers, and a styrofoam Cup of Noodles.

The trees are similar in height, though the sycamore beats the pine by a foot or two. I search their branches for signs of wildlife. Maybe a bird or even a squirrel? I see nothing. The tree's only company is one another.

How long have the sycamore and pine stood tall together along the stream's bank? Silent witnesses of the world that was. I try to imagine the trees decades younger, trunk the size of their thickest roots. Did they grow up together? Watch the seasons change their forest, as they grew tall and strong? How has this world changed in their lifetime? And how much more will it change before they're cut down or die?

The sycamore leans over the stream, like it wishes to catch its reflection in the water. As it stretches over the water and into the sky, it crowds the pine. Skeletal sycamore branches jut through verdant pine needles. Does the pine ever feel claustrophobic? It's rooted in place, eternally bound to the sycamore. Does it ever wish for privacy? Or maybe personal space isn't a concern nature shares with me.

The sycamore tree wraps a long branch around the pine, like an arm around a shoulder. A gesture of familiarity and friendship. And if not friendship, then what? Are they strangers? Indifferent neighbors?

No, I believe it's friendship.

Hushed and observant, trees would make for great listeners. I sit in silence and try to learn.

Entry 2: I Make Way for Ducks

Wednesday, January 25, 2017
Temperature: 40 degrees
Skies overcast with some rain.

Today I'm feeling adventurous.

I break from routine to explore a new trail. One that winds around a man made lake, the effects of a river dammed years ago. Brady's Run Park keeps the lake stocked with trout and offers free fishing for all. If the weather was warmer and the day drier, the trail would be crowded with people. Fishing lines, glittering in the sunlight, would extend into the water, hoping for a bite. But today I'm cold and alone, my only company the red warning signs posted every one hundred feet that read Do Not Swim.

I feel a wet drop of rain rest on my nose. And another on my cheek. I look out at the surface of the lake. Its once smooth reflection bubbles like someone set the water to boil. I stand still, eyes fixed on the troubled water. Watch as the rain drips from the sky, ripples across the lake surface, and joins the larger body of water. The movement is mesmerizing. The pitter-patter of rain drops is calming.

A shudder shakes my shoulders. I imagine the dry, warmth of my car and wish to call it a day and head home. But I force myself to be still and quiet. To observe and listen.

Across the lake, pine trees mingle with their deciduous brothers. Their vibrant green is a sharp contrast to the otherwise stark background. A quiet "quack-quack" reaches my ears, and I spy two ducks sailing towards me. Undeterred by the weather, they swim smoothly through the water, their heads (one brown and one green) bend slightly forward. Beneath the water I imagine four orange, webbed feet paddling forward. I wonder if they're on their way home. Come spring will ducklings follow in their wake?

I smile. Childhood memories of feeding ducks returns to me. The feel of a smooth duckbill pecking at the bit of bread in my palm. The boisterous "quack-quack" as one happily gobbles up the snack. I pat my coat and pant pockets hoping for some food to share and find only a used tissue and my car keys. I shrug my shoulders. Enriched flour product probably isn't an ideal component of the average duck diet anyway.

The ducks reach the lake shore and waddle onto the path. I watch as they shake the water from their bodies, tail feathers swaying back and forth, back and forth. They preen, and primp, and set off towards a small grove of bushes. With a final "quack-quack" they disappear from my sight. I wave goodbye and continue on the trail.