I am the editor of Appalachia journal, the country’s oldest journal of mountaineering and conservation. We take a literary approach to wilderness and adventure.
We are living through an unprecedented pandemic, something no one alive today has ever seen. This will go into the history books. Those who read and write for Appalachia journal find their true selves in the backcountry and wilderness areas around the world—but especially in the Northeast. And within the Northeast, the White Mountains of New Hampshire and wild areas of Maine especially call to us.
Appalachia journal is looking for thoughtful essays between now and May 20 in the range of 1,000 to 2,000 words on the COVID-19 pandemic. What has getting onto trails and cliffs and hills meant during this terrifying period? Do you see mountains more as life itself and less as recreation now? What is it like going to the backcountry and finding that facilities are closed and people must stay away from each other? Submit drafts on Submittable.
Looking through 20-year-old photos this week, I glimpsed the full landscape of my personal life in a true, complete way. And realized that I have neglected that landscape as a writer, creating here and in my published articles this sense that I spend all my time sitting on rocks in the backcountry. These inspire a lot of my writing, but the full story is… fuller.
Most of life vibrates in the everyday, the wiping up crumbs, unwrapping vegetables, pouring out pasta water, listening to those little anxieties of one’s children or pets. The clattering of feet defined life in our little Victorian house for so many years. From 1988 until 2009, at least one daughter lived with my husband and me, and our daily landscape was so very colorful. They dressed up in scraps of cloth. They invented stories about princesses who lived in the woods. They gave names to their tiny dollhouse figures and set them up with labyrinths of rooms on the front porch. Etc.
Mountains and backcountry lowlands seem to clear out something on my head, answering some yearning fixed in me way before I became a mother. The noisy comings and goings of my large family growing up gave me much joy. But when I left home and went on my own and then committed to marriage and motherhood, I thought that I sought quiet.
What I truly sought, and what I wanted, was a family. My family. Our family. That is, the next branch of a large tree of people in two families going back thousands of years. I told myself I wanted a peaceful family, but actually I wanted the kind of noise that I was the mother of. Rather than being part of the noisy, loving chaos as a sister and daughter, what felt like quiet to me was simply being the mother.
Well, now those sparrows have found their nests. The younger of the two, pictured above, is now 29 and creating her own special world. Her sister, 31, is doing the same. My world, and my husband’s world, now almost resembles the quiet of a windblown mountaintop. But we reminisce about the clattering of feet. That’s right; that’s how it should be.
I came across this post from Philip Werner, aka Section Hiker. Eight years ago, I tried to save a man’s life as part of a group of hikers who came upon a collapsed father on the Tuckerman Ravine Trail. He had been trying to climb Mount Washington with his two teenage daughters, one of whom sat nearby while we performed CPR. This event brought the circle of life into sharp focus, pushed away petty distractions, and proved (again) that people draw on essential goodness when an emergency demands it. The man did not survive.
The Connecticut Health Investigative Team has posted Christine Woodside’s three stories on routine sewage overflows into Long Island Sound off the coast of Connecticut. She had long wanted to understand why sewage overflows legally in some of Connecticut’s cities. She settled on the Bridgeport neighborhood of Black Rock, on Black Rock Harbor and near the promenades of Seaside Park. There she found recreation, industry, and local people who were getting tired of pollution. She went to Black Rock at least a dozen times between late March and late July. She read sewage plan documents. She scouted. She tagged along with citizen scientists collecting water. She sought out the overflow pipes with diver/boat cleaner Kevin Blagys. She wandered around the docks, streets, beaches, and markets. This gave her a sense of the residents’ anxieties and the enormity of the project to stop overflows.
The week after my mother’s memorial service, I found myself standing on the top of the first mountain I ever climbed, at 3, with her, my three brothers, and my father. Mom told me once that she had sort of pushed me up the short, steep path. I even remember how she asked me to stand by a small pine tree for a photo. The tree is still there. It pushes out of the rock ledge at the woods edge, back from the view over lake and mountains. And oh, was I grumpy. She later said how I used to complain, during family mountain climbs, “I hate this. I’m only doing this to get to the top.”
To her credit, she didn’t wave that at me much after I was climbing mountains all the time and telling anyone who would listen that the experience has nothing to do with the summit. Ha!
Mom didn’t do much hiking—let’s be clear. This one little mountain was her thing. She climbed two others with us that I know of. I’m pretty sure she and her sisters complained when their father drove up Pike’s Peak. She didn’t mention how it looked, just how scared they all were.
The coming months will unfold so that I can understand where Mom’s complete soul remains in mine. Now I can see the complete mother—and no longer have to think about the problems she had in old age, and the fact that she was unhappy as her freedom to move around freely evaporated with her strength. All that is over now. Now I’m standing in my little green pants by that gnarly pine that could keep going despite the rock on which it had rooted. Now I am trying to cool my flushed cheeks again beneath the same tree, and I can hear her voice asking me to look toward the camera.
We climbed two mountains in the Pliny Range of New Hampshire today. On the ridge, spring’s arrival was creeping upward toward winter’s exit. Low on the ridge, wildflowers reached away from the path. The red trillium is the most beautiful and amazing of them all. It grows out of a rhizome, and the leaves aren’t true leaves (the true leaves apparently live underground). It puts out a single bloom. A world that can produce something so stunning in a scrubby woods in the North Country—with no humans tending them in greenhouses, no cultivation, no planning—is a world I want to know. I will not reveal where I saw this flower. It’s too amazing.
Hello everybody. Yesterday I graduated from Arizona State University with my master’s degree in history. The program gave me so much. View my final Capstone portfolio here.
Here I sit in Phoenix, looking out on a steady rain falling on the cacti. Soon I return to my usually-rainy homeland of Connecticut. Wherever you are, let the landscape inspire new writing, new ideas, and ways that you can make those ideas unfold.
I am working this month on my series for the Connecticut Health Investigative Team on sewage overflows in Bridgeport. Tomorrow I’ll be on the water with a group of concerned citizens learning how to take samples near an outflow pipe in their neighborhood. More on this project as it progresses.
I waved away gnats, an instinct I haven’t practiced since last October. I stepped over dried mud and looked at the sticks that would offer forth raspberries in a few months.
Cataclysm has visited my life with the death of my mother last week from an unexpected, major stroke. For years I hoped that she would slip from this world without pain. I just didn’t expect it to happen that way. And yet—this is what answered prayers look like.
Living things die. People must die. Animals and plants must spring up, ripen, and then decline. The first thing a living creature or plant offers? Optimism.
Bushy Hill Lake knows more about the past than we might think. Once upon a time, it trickled as a stream at the bottom of this valley. Such changes offer a writer stories and symbols. (Pioneer Village end of the lake, mid-January 2019.)
Biologist Tom Tyning scrambles up a ledge in Massachusetts, looking for rattlesnakes he will study in his lab and then return to the wild. The snakes are rare because poachers steal them and sell them illegally. (Photo by Christine Woodside)
From Appalachia Winter/Spring 2019, published originally by the mountaineering and conservation journal of the Appalachian Mountain Club.
The rattlesnake, Crotalus horridus, is not cute. Poachers and scared people have nearly wiped them off the New England landscape in the last century or two. A few hundred years ago New England’s only venomous snake thrived. Streets, hills, and valleys are named after them. In my hometown of Deep River, Connecticut, Rattling Valley Road rambles down past outcroppings of ledge rock where, long ago, rattlesnakes lay on the cliffs. Back then you watched where you put your feet. Now cars ramble down that valley looking for a back way. A few dozen miles north of here, Rattlesnake Mountain houses television and cell antennae. Another Rattlesnake Mountain, free of snakes, overlooks Squam Lake in central New Hampshire; no snakes there, either. Rattlesnakes are so rare that biologists who study them won’t reveal the last few spots where they live lest they encourage poachers who usually know where they are, anyway.
For some years now, I’ve been on the trail of an underground rattlesnake poaching operation in New England. Snakes sell for hundreds of dollars on the internet, although harvesting and selling them in the Northeast is illegal. I set out to visit where they do thrive so that I could understand what drives small-time criminals to collect them in sacks and what fascinates those people who would buy a wild snake and keep it in a cage. And so I followed the only people who could legally show me: snake biologists.
Tom Tyning, a rattlesnake biologist from Berkshire Community College, panted as he trudged slowly up the steep side of a traprock ridge somewhere in southern Massachusetts—location to remain secret.
Tying has spent his life following snakes. As a kid he caught and kept snakes as if called by God. He told me that if he hadn’t picked the scientist route, he could have grown up to be a snake hunter—except that in the Northeast if you collect rattlesnakes without a scientist’s permit, you’re a poacher. Poachers have worked long careers with limited penalties. The most notorious of them was the late Rudy Komarek, who poached and killed 9,000 rattlesnakes in three states over 30 years. Komarek singlehandedly caused what researchers have called “the shocking demise” of rattlesnakes in Connecticut, New York, and Massachusetts. Tyning told me that after authorities caught and imprisoned Komarek, he remained unrepentant. From prison, as a protest, he mailed other illegal snake catchers maps marked in detail with places the rattlesnakes lived. Apparently it’s easy to help poachers from jail.
Komarek did the damage of several people. Today the secret Rudys are still at it. Tyning said, “There are always people getting arrested at airports who get caught with snakes in their pockets, tied to their legs. It’s become a really weird international ring of poaching. And it’s a huge smuggling operation. After birds and even before monkeys, reptiles, especially snakes, and turtles and lizards are among the biggest entities in international smuggling. They’re fascinating; they’re beautiful. I understand all that stuff.”
I had promised I would not say where I now trudged behind Tyning up a steep hill. The sun shone, which was vital to our quest. Sun brings out the snakes. As he panted up the ridge, Tyning joked that he was getting too old to chase his research subject. He was slightly overweight but very strong, and he pushed energetically toward the cliff where he knew a community of timber rattlesnakes lived. I would help him collect a few for his research. We were using all the same techniques poachers use. First, we would hike right to where he knew they would be basking. Then he would reach out with his snake tongs just as a snake went by. He would grab them with his snake tongs and drop them into a bag I would hold open. The bag looked like a pillowcase.
Late spring’s vegetal soil filled my nostrils. I heard a raspy hiss. A creature looking more like a black snake glided from under a rock. “Why does it look so dark?” I asked. Tyning said that sometimes their tan and black patterns seem to recede under grayish tones. “It’s about to shed its skin,” he told me. “Are you ready? I’m going to grab it, and you’re going to hold open the bag just when I tell you.”
“I’m ready,” I said, as if saying so would make it true. I had come out here out of respect and awe for an endangered reptile that could kill me with its bite. If it felt threatened, it could sink its fangs into my hovering arm. My skin would swell up and eventually turn black as the venom kills tissue so that it might be more easily digested were the snake to later make a meal of me. That would never happen. Snakes eat mice and other small rodents. They only bite humans if we threaten them. Which of course we were doing right then. Still, humans almost never die of rattlesnake bites, and antivenom available at nearby hospitals would reverse any bite’s damage quickly. I thought of none of that as I stood with the pillowcase, but Tyning’s calm demeanor washed over me.
“The fear of snakes,” a Minnesota snake information site explains, “is a learned behavior, which has been exacerbated by such things as myths and media misrepresentation.”
I would not fail Tyning; I would help him without causing new problems.
Road noise could not drown out the molting snake’s loud hissing. Tying leaned in, ready to strike with his grabber. I leaned in. He expertly affixed the two sides of the grabber around the snake. The rattling got louder.
The snake didn’t like what it knew was coming. It rattled and rattled; I felt rattled. Tyning reached out with his grabber—and the thing wouldn’t shut down. It was stuck open. The snake slid down and away and underneath another rock. That had never happened to this biologist in his entire career, and I was a witness. Something about the escape told me more than if we’d gotten the snake. I’d gotten very close and could see the beautiful shingles of its skin.
Dennis Quinn, an independent herpetologist, wore tan cargo pants and a green striped polo shirt. He might have been out for a ramble in the woods. Except he looked pretty odd. He was carrying a long snake grabber and he asked if I would take one side of a large plastic cooler. He joked that he dressed like a poacher—and that they tend to use the same collecting tactics. Quinn’s job that day was collecting snakes for a study of fungal disease. In a lab, scientists would take blood samples and make observations.
We trudged up and around a set of rock outcroppings covered by young tree growth. They were in there. We peered down. He gently poked a pole under the rock, just to rustle them up a bit. They slithered out like a slow, downhill seep. I stood by, thinking I ought to apologize. One short one I peered at from a crouch, watching his eyes, which looked like vertical slits. “Sorry, guy,” I murmured. Quinn turned to me, reassuringly, and said, “I’ll return these in a few days. Your job now is to open the cooler when I say.”
He grabbed first one, then another, then another snake with his tool and quickly placed them into giant pillowcases. These are the tools of the poacher. He said, without irony, that he guessed scientists gathering snakes for lab studies could easily become snake hunters if they didn’t have their work. The hissing went on and on as I held open the green plastic lid.
A few days later, as he promised, Quinn returned alone with the cooler and set his research subjects free. I imagined them sighing (or the serpentine equivalent of sighing) and making fast time back to their big ledge rock. I felt awe by now. I cared. Many people do care about rattlesnakes now. Connecticut’s wildlife biologist Jenny Dickson told me later that the days of hysteria and fear have passed. “The public is more understanding,” she said. “You’re going to get the occasional intentional killing of the snakes. But they’re probably going to think twice before they pick up the shovel and just randomly whack something.”
A few years ago I thought I might see what else I could learn about the poacher Rudy Komarek, so I sent an email to the office that had secretly investigated his crimes in New York State:
“Dear office of environmental crime,” my letter started awkwardly. “I am working on a story about rattlesnakes and their incredibly low numbers due to poaching. I would like to interview someone who can talk about the problem of poaching timber rattlesnakes and who was involved with Operation Shell Shock a few years ago. Please let me hear from you.”
I did not hear from them. I will venture a guess why. The battle goes on. Any publicity might expose the last of the dens. I know well that reticence to tell a writer about endangered snakes. Poaching continues by quiet, strong criminals wearing hiking shoes and carrying pillowcases. They know where the snakes live, and they sneak in, take them, sell them illegally, and go back for more.
Stealthy small-time poaching in southern New England and New York State threatens a species that has retreated in the parade of civilization. This tragedy continues silently. People have crushed their land and them, losing important predators of rodents and disease-carrying ticks. If I got my wish, and it were no longer rarer than a lightning strike to see one, I could then fear them, and even hate them. To save the timber rattlesnake, we must preserve or recreate the conditions that led to our fear and hate. And we must learn not to act upon that fear.
I’m working on:
— a project for my master’s degree from Arizona State University about farming in southern New Jersey in a place most people didn’t know exists.
— a story about plastic pieces in food, water, and marine animals.
— an investigation into untreated sewage outflows on the coast of Connecticut.
— a book of wilderness essays.
— running more in the woods.
— building fires every night.
— loving my neighbor.
— appreciating the day-to-day instead of worrying ahead.
— not shopping this holiday season.
Saturday afternoon my husband and I walked by the town landing in Deep River, Connecticut. High tide had encountered more rain. Two rowboats normally overturned and chained to driftwood on a small beach now bobbed like lost flotsam. Sloshy waves lapped at a bench by the boat ramp. A wrack line of debris curved several feet up the asphalt. What essays should I be writing? What books should I be reading? What housework beckons? What conversations should I initiate? Water’s power creeps up into all of it.
A few days ago, our car mechanic died in his sleep. A few days before that, a great Appalachian Trail pathbuilder and leader died of late-diagnosed cancer. A man in our church died of cancer only a few days after he’d finished editing his essay about the priest who’d been killed in World War I. Life is so temporary.
There is nothing in which the birds differ more from man than the way in which they can build and yet leave a landscape as it was before.
ROBERT WILSON LYND, The Blue Lion and Other Essays
Here in Flint, Michigan, where the public water supply’s lead levels created a huge public-health crisis a few years ago, I walk along the Flint River and marvel at what birds can teach us. Every day they do what they need to do to feed themselves and their offspring. They go where they need to go. I’m not suggesting a direct connection between lead levels in municipal water and birds in the river here. I’m merely saying that birds never become sidetracked with the wrong goals or values. They just want to live. How much that can teach me, every day.
Quotation source: http://www.notable-quotes.com/b/birds_quotes.html#BWeKGyk2mxoZyYD5.99
Tutoring. It’s a part of my world right now as I finish my master’s degree in history. I tutor graduate students at Arizona State University in writing. I enter an online world for 10 hours a week, helping social workers and nurse practitioners and criminal justice students and English students and etc. write more clearly. I help them with grammar. With organization. With theme. I help them feel a little less frantic. Today I’m working on a final paper for my course in historical methods. I am remembering my own advice. It will be OK. And this nice award from the Graduate Writing Center arrived in my inbox. Hooray.