English 380 Spring 2004--Sample Journal pages April 14-May 15

The Alfalfa Grove
This early Saturday morning around 6:00, I walk out to the alfalfa field. I turn the valve on and let the water flow. I sit on an old log and watch the birds fly above, waiting for the worms to rise and to dip down and get them. I look out across the valley as a few deer jump the fence. They come here daily to eat and drink a good meal that I work hard to provide. They approach with caution, but must know that there is no hunting here. They feed gracefully among the leaves of our 50 acre alfalfa field. They fill their stomachs, then gracefully prance off into the oak grove. I turn the valve back off and go back to weeding the alfalfa for the cattle on our ranch.

Brian Beebe

Oak Trees
My father is responsible for teaching me about Oak Trees. We had forty or fifty of them growing in our back yard when I was a child.
The Valley Oak is also known as, “Quercus Lobata.” It is a great majestic tree that lives for numerous generations. As a child I recall it being an excellent wildlife source of food, in the form of acorns. I was accountable for the watering these deciduous shade trees. My father taught me that they only required moderate irrigation and the soil had to be moderate in alkali content or they wouldn’t grow properly.
The Oak Trees that grew along Mill Creek seemed to flourish the best. My father explained to me that Oak Trees prefer to be plugged into a water source but they can’t be waterlogged. The water source doesn’t have to be huge but the trees near the creek sure seemed to be happy with their prime location. They grew about a foot more per year, compared to the Oak Trees that grew in the yard.
The dense foliage on these Oaks was another bonus. It provided excellent coverage for my tree forts and ground forts. I’m glad that we had that huge backyard full of Oak Trees. They needed the room to mature properly. My father taught me that too!

Luther Khachigian II

April 26th, 2004

Sitting outside with my back to the ground on a slight graded hill, my eyes are
distracted as two monarchs go dancing by. A third joins in, and now it seems
like a game of cat and mouse. With every slight turn, the other is a fraction
of a second behind, like two pilots in a dawg fight, never losing vision of
the other. Once again my mind drifts back to a good ole memory. It was a
somewhat cloudy fall afternoon at Montano De Oro. I was on a leisurly hike when
something distracted my eyes. I looked up at the trees, and saw nothing but
leaves. Was my mind playing tricks on me? I could have sworn I saw
something. As I stepped forward with the weight shifting to my left heel, a
branch broke underneath, like a shot in the sky, the monarch's flourished the
sky in every which direction. It was as if I was in a hurricane of monarchs,
trying to find the way to safety. The butterflies then drift from my vision,
as a call from a friend sucks me back to reality.

Eric Ott

4/23/2004 2:30 PM TV Tower Road (Cuesta Ridge), South East of Tower Hill

As I have learned in my Fire & Society class, this is the site of the “41 Fire” in the early 1990’s. After seeing pictures of gray, ash, covered ground with nothing alive on it, I am amazed at how the ridge has recovered. Although the vegetation is not any taller than my waist, it is a lush green landscape. A few oak trees show signs of the devastating fire, but they have come back and sprouted new branches right next to the dead and decaying ones. To my left are California poppies growing in the open space among the native vegetation . Short of a few birds that flew over I have not seen any wildlife until I come upon a rattlesnake slithering a few feet in front of me. The same time I spot it, it spots me. It stops suddenly to observe me and decide if I am friend or a foe. It coils up in the position to strike but then turns and slides away after I back up a few feet.

4/23/04 8:00 PM Same location
I have returned to the same spot to see differences. The temperature has dropped about 15 degrees and the wind has all but stopped, compared to the fierceness of earlier. The fog is returning to the recesses of the valley. Earlier in the day it was several miles off the coast, out in the ocean. Currently the fog is engulfing Morro Bay and Los Osos and will reach San Luis before the break of dawn. Only the mountain tops are not obscured. It makes me feel that God does not want me viewing his sacred garden below. Covering it up with a sheet of fog is his equivalent of closing time at a museum.

Todd Mackie

Two Canopies side by side,
One of steel and the other of boughs, branches and leaves.
One seems unmoved,
unaffected by the wind,
while the other dynamically shifts, changing the light of its understory.
It feels enclosed under the skeleton frame,
but not embraced as under the sycamore, which softly covers its guest.
Why was the steel dome placed here where existing domes of boughs, branches and leaves so successfully cover the brook?

Lichen

I’ve taken a liken to lichen
It is unique
not quite a plant, fungus or algae
but a little of all three.
On one rock I count five different varieties,
some light green with leaf-like fingers,
another grey and scaly,
and others that appear as splatters of orange, bronze and olive paint.
It is layered on,
each type overlapping the other
Seeking the darkest moistest crevice.

A Bee

A bee just landed on the flowering bush next to me,
but it was no ordinary bee.
Big and black with four yellow lines cross its back,
soft hair gently moving from the breeze of its wings
as it slowly goes from bud to bud with a pleasant hum.
Nothing like a yellow jacket or wasp,
it is more content with its flowers than with the smells of food that come from me.
Finally it saunters off, not whizzing away,
but rising ever so softly from the bush in no hurry to move on.
Wearing a yellow crown it jerks its head from side to side searching for its next safe perch.
The wind blows the flimsy branch it rests on and yet it seems not to notice.
It looks around once more, lets out a soft tweet-tweet and then darts to another branch at amazing speed.
There its crown glistens more than yellow,
it looks like the richest gold man has ever known.
It sits for a moment
then jerks its head and flies off.

Frank Thaxter

Biking vs. Walking the Trail

We began our weekly hike at the end of Stenner Road. The trail points towards West Cuesta Ridge and I am very familiar with it after mountain biking its path many times. Mountain biking has allowed me to explore vast portions of Cal Poly’s land. As we walk comfortably up past the railroad tracks, I notice one difference from past experiences I’ve had here. By simply walking, I pick up on things surrounding me. When riding a bike the intent is to make it up the hill so you don’t fall over, but when you’re on two feet you have the luxury of going slower to look around. The scenery is familiar yet foreign. My view has expanded peripherally from the narrow strip I follow to guide my bike up the easiest path, dodging boulders and loose rocks, through streams and around shrubs concentrating on breathing rather than seeing. But today was no ordinary workout up to the railroad tracks and beyond, it was a sightseeing experience through some of nature's many wonders.

Katie Brong
May 6, 2004

8 May 2004
Swanton Pacific Ranch
Davenport, CA
There is a direct relationship between the distance you are away from civilization and the amount of time you spend with your head tilted back (almost to your shoulder blades) looking aimlessly at the stars above. Some might say that it is because there is less light in the sky to dilute the heavens, but I say that is a farce. Standing beside a raging bonfire five feet in diameter, I can still make out he blurred stripe of the Milky Way. I believe that the closer to nature you are physically, the stronger the attraction of Nature to you. When you step into the woods, Mother Nature will visit you in some way to increase your curiosity and intrigue. Again: the closer you get to Nature, the farther you are from society, the more time you spend looking. Early in the evening I was astonished at the immense number of sparkles on the surface of the Pacific ocean during the sunset; yet I am almost without words to describe the infinite points of light that now appear in the sky rather than the ocean.

Mike Pappa

“Walk in the Park” 4/18/2004
While walking through Santa Maria Park, I came across a battle of brain vs. brawn. A crow had invaded the safety perimeter of a nesting mockingbird. The mocking bird made its defense by flailing to the ground and playing opossum. The attacking crow was drawn towards the acting foe. As the crow neared, its adversary would hop further away from the nest. Finally after a safe distance, the mockingbird flew away to a nearby pine. The crow turned and made its way back to the nest. Again, the mockingbird dropped to the ground, this time to no avail. The crow continued on its conquest determined to grab a meal. The mockingbird tried to steal the crow’s attention, but the crow would not be phased. Finally the mockingbird flew up high above the trees, then turned and came screaming down towards the crow. Unaware of the kamikaze move of the mockingbird, the crow moved forward. The mockingbird plummeted towards the crow. With no regard for safety, the mockingbird clipped the unsuspecting crow and flew off. Confused, the crow spun around looking for the perpetrator. But before it could get a good look around, the mockingbird strudk again with a more ferocious intent. The crow went airborne to properly duel his opponent. A glorious dogfight broke out with each side trying to gain the upper hand. Unknown to the crow, the mockingbird was pulling it further and further from the nest. Then the mockingbird landed another blow and the crow flew away in defeat. The mockingbird unphased flew back to its lookout, ready for the next futile attack on its sovereignty.

Tim Ryan

I think somehow that if I sit here long enough I will start to understand what the creek is saying. It babbles, not in any human language but in tripping rhythm and tongue given by Nature. I think the creek is a girl child, innocent and emotional, delicate and pure. She laughs and giggles and tumbles excitedly down the slope, pausing in pools of consideration and generosity, offering to share her joy one brief moment at a time.
She is beautiful, glittering in the sun and flawless in the shade, so striking that the trees bend and reach their twig fingers down to caress her smooth face as she passes by. She is so sweet that the birds, rabbits and even deer come to taste her quick cool kisses. She is so pure that one can see the pebbles beneath her, ones she has carefully collected and lovingly polished.
She babbles on, oblivious to sun or moon, or to the creatures jumping over her. If they miss and drag a foot—she jumps up, startled drops flying, then laughs it off. Her greatest charm is her freedom, for she will never age but for the corruption man brings, though I cannot imagine one so hardhearted who would enslave her to a culvert. Don’t silence her, let her babble on. She doesn’t ever need to grow up!

Sarah Speed

5-26-04
A dusty spider web. On the patio where I live, I keep a summer chair. It has leaned against the wall for the past winter, empty due to the fact that the gloomy winter months are not suited for outdoor sitting. The chair however, has not gone unused. A small spider has made its home between the back and arm rest. The web has covered the canvas folds of the chair, giving it a look of both age and fragility. I hardly dare unfold the chair now, for despite the charming weather, I would hate to think that I had disturbed the happy home of such an industrious critter. But despite my protection, the spider must constantly build anew. Dust collects in its sticky web, and renders the strands impotent. The dying fly’s last efforts disturb other strands. For all of these reasons the spider web is constantly being built anew. I think that it would be nice to have a home that was so fresh and ready to change with the seasons and time. Our homes are entirely too stagnant.

Robert Lynds

"All Summer I made friends with the creatures nearby"
-- Mary Oliver

If I could befriend animals in nature, than surely I would go back to
visit them often. Though I can't literally make "friends" with the creatures
nearby, what I can do is practice respectful behavior toward the environment
and its creation, and perhaps once in a while I may be thanked with their
presence. Right now the best friend I can
be is one who doesn't litter, one who observes but does not disturb, and
who spreads the word about the importance of protection.
Often, when surfing, I wonder how comfortable the animals around me
feel in my presence. While sitting atop my surfboard, I am
greeted with the clam-crushing sound of sea otters, who come close enough for
me to observe them in great detail. The harbour seals do the same thing,
approaching me curiously, poking their heads above water and then disappearing
below, only to return to the surface once again. This comes as quite a
surprise to me, but I view these animals from a comfortable distance. We have
a relationship which embodies the idea that we are using the same space for
different purposes, but we are going to leave each other alone because we
understand how different we are. And then like stealth
subarines, the porpoises come closer to the surf and to me, whizzing by all the while.
They are not afraid of me, and I am not afraid of them.

Rockslide Ridge
Sitting here on Rockslide Ridge, it is obvious where the place got its
name. I am surrounded by large, oddly shaped rocks, which are composed of
different minerals. The same rocks made the hike up the ridge difficult
but scenic. I wonder what John Muir might have though of this place. To
him, it was probably nothing grand compared to his adventures in the
mountains, trees and glaciers. As I sit here atop the ridge, I look out onto
Poly Canyon and beyond. A train passes by on the tracks, its sound a stark
contrast to the quiet peacefulness in the presence of
these lifeless forms. The rocks, although not alive, are still beauty, and as
the name of this ridge suggests, still move. Even the tiniest rocks don't
escape my attention. I pick one up and think about its composition, which
creates brilliant amber, reddish tones. The rock is coarse and firm; it does
not crumble apart like sandstone. It seems that even the smallest rocks slide
down the ridge, something I noticed when walking up the ridge. At each step,
a rock or two or many were displaced down the steep hill, rolling down until
gravity didn't allow it to roll any more. This is Rockslide Ridge, where the
jagged rocks jut from the landscape like nature's sculpture, the trimmings of
its sculpting tumbling downward.

Josh Petray

5.8.04
Sunsets
Sunset is my favorite time of day. Have you ever seen so many colors that could rival any box of 100+ Crayola’s? The sunsets at home can. We have such beautiful colors that stretch from Lake Tahoe across the valley or from Carson City and go south. Tonight’s sunset is beautiful. Not the best I’ve seen, but beautiful all the same. It is coming across in the clouds over Carson City and the north end of the valley. The clouds are speckled to make one large speckled mass interspersed with sky. They are pink. Not just one shade of pink, but thousands, each individual and different. This pink is also having an effect on the sky. Periwinkle I think it is. This whole phenomenon is stretching down the valley towards the house, but all of a sudden it's gone, as quick as it started. Why can’t they last all day?

Kimberly Della Rosa

Our first stop today on our hike was at the school arboretum. My favorite thing there was the California buckeye tree. I was intrigued by its smooth branches. It was almost like the tree was bare because all the branches were so visible, yet when you look at the top of the tree it was full of beautiful, lush green leaves.

Lindsey Butts

April 29, Rockslide Ridge

The ridge is composed almost entirely of serpentine rock, at the base it looks like a most inhospitable place with rocky crags and prickly yuccas. At the top however, there are two swales where remnants of the old lodo soil, that once covered the hill slope, exist. On these two remaining swathes of earth small grassland biomes have persisted, where spiders form funnel traps and gophers form their underground communities. As I sit her on the edge of one serpentine crack, I wonder how did these gophers find themselves way up here. After thinking of how populations grow and displace certain individuals, I imagine a journey that these gophers must have taken. Being displaced from their homes they embarked on an arduous and perilous journey over the same rocks and yucca we passed over, but with the constant fear of falling prey to hawks, coyotes, bobcats, and snakes, with no burrows to take shelter in. The question also arises as to when these gophers first made this trek, because at the top there exist a rock wall constructed by sheep ranchers 150 years ago, which would have proved another obstacle for these emigrants to navigate.
On the southeastern face of the mountain is a large bowl created by a massive land slide, creating a steep rock cornice at the top constantly breaking way contributing rubble to the rock pile down below. And at this pile of rubble most of which is cobble in size, a short stretch of this sheep fencing is visible along with a wagon wheel, evidence to the source rock for the fencing. Although these fences ages are known it is interesting to notice the dead lichen that lays patchwork over the rocks they moved. Upon shifting a rock, and altering the orientation to the sun causes all the existing lichen to die, and any living lichen has just started growing after. Up on top of this ridge, on the surface of the serpentine bedrock there exist living lichen in black, orange, brown, yellow, red, and bright green. The rock itself has weathered immensely and can be broken apart by hand, but even though its age the chemical properties of the rock only permit the growth of select species, and in the whole scheme of things the development of this serpentine community is young. As this rock continues to break apart and mix with others more complex and more productive communities will form and the gophers who make there home in the isolated swales atop the ridge will be linked again to their ancestors below.

Joel Barnard

Leaf on the Water

After going to the Design Village up in Poly Canyon, I sat on the trail and just looked at the creek asking myself questions like; how much water passes by these rocks everyday and what would it be like to travel down stream on a fallen leaf? As I stare like a man searching for answers, I saw a leaf softly floating on the water. Spinning, tossing, crashing, the leaf traversed the rapids. Then calm; the shallow pool that allowed the traveler to rest, dance in the half lit pool like a bird on the breeze. Time seemed to stand still in that calm allowing my mind to wander, and the leaf to rest before the next big fall.

Jeff Navarro

Friday April 23, 2004
The guava or as I grew up calling it “guayaba.” The guava trees at our house were a sign of love in our family. Every year there were plenty of guayabas. My sister and I loved to pick them from the trees. They were for eating, playing, and giving away. Everybody knew the time they would be ripe and ready to eat. Our uncles and aunts would go home with a bag full of guayabas and be back next week for more. I loved the pink ones the best! There are two types the green ones which are a littler bitter and the pink sweeter ones. My mom sure enough loved the green ones most of all. Our garden was also full of fig trees or “igos.” Every summer my mom climbed on a tall ladder while my sister and I held the ladder steady at the bottom. She would get on the tree branches like a monkey and reach all the figs on the top. Because if she didn’t the big ugly black birds would get to them before we did. The fig trees were huge and created the ideal place to sit under and cool off on a hot summer day. The shade they created was enormous; the huge fig leaves created the best place in the yard. The leaves were green, big, and sticky to the touch.

Rosie Jimenez

May 1, 2004
Today my girlfriend and I decided to spend the day on the waters of Bass Lake.
Come to find out we picked the worst weekend to do so. We quickly learned that
there was a fishing tournament going on and the lake turned out to be littered
with boats. Finally, we managed to weave through the mess of floating
fiberglass and aluminum and were able to find a small secluded cove to anchor
off in. In no time we were greeted by a couple curious mallards. We watched
them circle our boat a few times and admired their features. They had so many
magnificent colors in their makeup, from glossy green, to ocean blue, to
brilliant white, to citrus orange, to dull gray, and sleek black. It made me
stop and wonder why our creator shortchanged our species so much. Why are our
colors limited to pale, tan, white, brown and black. We started feeding the
two ducks and before we knew it we were surrounded. Finally, a huge goose
joined in and ruined all the fun and fiesting. The ducks scrambled away with
fear. The dictator greedily gobbled up the last couple pieces of bread that
hit the water. This simple situation started turning the wheels in my head and
for the next few moments all that I could think about was capitalism.
Gabe Filipe

Horse Canyon, what a smell. The horse unit that surrounds
the base of horse canyon is radiant with life. From the restless horses
chasing flies buzzing around their backs, to the squirrels
eagerly sitting next to the grain trough hoping that a small remnant of grain
may fall. The old broken down fence seems to have just enough
strength left in it to hold the horses in captivity for a couple more
years. Black birds splash restlessly in the water trough. The wind blows
across the stable and seems to bite the horses behinds and
sends them in a rambunctious gallop across the arena, until that
old rickety wood fence stops them. There is one horse though that seems
accustomed to his surroundings for he hasn't moved an inch in the last twenty
minutes. Maybe he already knows there is nothing to get excited for. As a
cowgirl slowly approaches the pen all the horses eagerly meet her at the gate.
They wait like patient soldiers, each hoping it will be the one that is
chosen today to be exercised. Maybe
horses like seeing new landscapes.

Jack Hurley
June 1, 2004

Dion Gussner

Stupid Fly
Look at this fly. This fly bugs me. Maybe that’s why they call it a bug. Buzz buzz buzz. Get away from me stupid fly. You make me itch when you land on me. I don’t like what you do when you’re on me. Keep to yourself stupid fly. I have nothing for you, no food. Go away stupid fly. Go bug someone else. What is your purpose for being here, I don’t smell bad, I’m not good to eat, I’m not a female fly. Go away stupid fly before you die. One more time stupid fly. Buzz buzz buzz. Slap! You're dead stupid fly.

Fox Tail
My life as a piece of grass. From as far as I can remember I was a foxtail that got caught on a sock of a human. I wandered off several miles from where I first started until I was such a problem the human pulled me off and threw me away. Luckily I landed in some very moist and fertile soil. It was wonderful. I embedded myself into the ground where I got the nutrients that I needed. Shortly after that I started to grow. Photosynthesis, from the sun, the water from the creek and the nutrients from the soil, spring time made me grow and be tough. I finally began to germinate and grow a new foxtail, but oh no wait what’s that. Oh no not a cow. Stay away. Here he comes. Ah! Munch munch. I got eaten. Wandering through his digestive system I finally come out the other end. Full of fertilizer it all will start over again.

Block P
A block P is something you receive for playing Cal Poly athletics. I received one. I can remember the day a friend from the football team came by my dorm room for a jog. He was older and had more experience. We played football together and he taught me a great deal. The jog we took that day was on the same path we took on this hike today. As I look back on my life 5 years ago I realize I have changed immensely. I can remember sitting up here talking to my friend after we calmed and caught our breath. I realized my friend and I were worlds apart, ages 18 and 23. We went to school together but looked at life differently. I felt like there was much he could tell me but he chose not to because he knew I had to experience it myself to truly understand it. It is big jump from 18 to 23 and knowing I am 23 boggles me. Now I feel like I am the older friend to many here at school. Being at the cusp of la la land and reality is scary, but I feel able to make a positive impact in this crazy society. While it is so easy to get caught in cars, houses, and money one can always fall back on God. God and nature can often go hand in hand and many times outdoors I feel the same sensation I would receive from sitting in a cathedral. This is the first time I’ve thought of that friend in more than two years. People you meet shape and mold you along the odd path of life.
I once had a good friend in high school. His dad played football here at Cal Poly in 63, a good player, an All American. He told me that the team would climb the mountain during summer camp. He was one of those guys you could talk to for hours. I couldn’t wait to hear what he had to say, a wonderful being. He passed away about a year ago from cancer. I hope he is watching me sitting right in the same spot he used to catch his breath after a team run. Hey Bob how you doing up there?

Ryan Bianchi

The land grows greener as it deepens into the canyon,
marking its own water trail. The intersecting
indentations and creases in the hillside bubble up
with oak and laurel. Within these riparian
ribbons life congregates- from mosquitoes
breeding in the stagnant pools of the creek to the doe
licking the side of the state water aqueduct to our
own hiking trail zigzagging across the flowing water.
We all meet along these topographic paths; we connect
through our bodies' polar attraction to one other.

Briana Holen

Brenda Grijalva
4/20/2004

In order to truly take a break from school means to truly take a break from life, and in order to do that I must emerge myself in nature. I ponder this idea as I watch those young minds with heavy back packs head off in this direction and that. So content are they in their direction that what sent then on their way is of no concern to them. But not nature. Nature and all that it encompasses remains stable and untainted. The only direction it has is the circle in which all that has become will end and once again re-live. What a beautiful sight. Even from its beginning, creationism is alive and certain. Explosive and outstanding. Serving a real purpose nature shows us where all directions lead. So eager we are to reach our destinations, but not nature…there is no ending here just its own perfect paradise. So with this we must conclude that nature is not like humans. We are direction-driven and fast. Nature, all of what it is, belongs to a perfect order, a perfect pace and within the only purpose it knows – TO EXIST!

War Bird
05/07/04

Off in the distance the hills of greater discovery fade into the haze of this late spring afternoon. The time of day, just where the heat of the sun is not so blistering and the breeze is faintly whispering through the chartreuse seed heads of foreign grasses. Balancing my comfort zone is far easier now. By simply changing my seating orientation, or stretching my legs out could make such a distinct change. Now is the time where the mind can take faith in the passing day. For tomorrow is close enough that your worries can be let fallow til sunrise.
It is the same grass that tickles my back that reminds me of the season to come. Where the heat bleaches my dark hair and turns hillsides back into wilting golden slopes of the central grasslands. Soon the transformation will return this place back into the desert. Where the hawk will celebrate the coming of open season. Young rodents have no cover to hide anymore. In a time of drought, it is the war bird that wins and stuffs his fat breast.

Benjamin Green