VA Stonewall Jackson Shrine and the Empty Beds

This weekend I attended the annual symposium of the Institute for Pilgrimage Studies at the College of William and Mary in Williamsburg, Virginia. There were many excellent papers presented and so many deep and thought-provoking conversations between sessions and over meals that I now have many new and interesting ways to think about my Camino de Santiago experience this past spring. I met up with several friends from that hike in Spain, and met new friends as a bonus! The most intriguing aspect of the symposium, however, was exploring the theme of borders and border crossings, certainly relevant to these troubling times (made even more troubling by uninformed and pandering demagogues).  

Question Mark Butterfly - leaf mimic. Polygonia interrogationis

The idea of borders and boundaries has intrigued me for some time, especially as I look to frame new ways of looking at environmental history of the Mid-Atlantic region - one of the reasons for keeping this blog. Over the years I've studied stonewalls, hedgerows, field boundaries, trails, and other tactile, physical structures that define landscape boundaries. At the symposium we were all challenged to think about our role as pilgrims and to consider the meaning of border crossing for refugees, immigrants, migrants, and religious/political dissidents. On the long drive home, I stopped for lunch and to stretch my legs. My mind was swimming with ideas, inspired by everything I had heard. I stopped at the National Park Service Stonewall Jackson Shrine. I'd never been there and was curious what a shrine to a beloved Confederate General would look like. But like on the Camino, nothing is accidental - it is all serendipity. 

The plantation office where Stonewall Jackson died.

I pulled in to the parking lot in front of a small wood frame structure and a stone marker. I was expecting to see a giant Paul Bunyan-like statue of Jackson like the one at Manassas Battlefield. I looked around a bit, sat at a picnic table and ate my lunch, then read the signs. The small white building looked lonely and empty. I thought I might get a peek inside through a window. I waded through the flooded yard (it rained mightily all weekend!) and was surprised when a ranger came out on to the porch and smiled "We're open! Please come inside!" I was the only one in the park. It didn't seem like a shrine to me - especially considering the near cult-like status "Stonewall" Jackson has among Civil War buffs. Ranger Kevin gave me a brief history of the events and the building, but I wanted to know more. He was the perfect match for my quest to relate the ideas of the symposium to this place in its time. "We use the word shrine as it was used in the mid-1800s," Kevin explained, "not like Jackson-on-steroids up the road (Manassas). So shrine would have meant a place to pay respects, not a place of hero-worship or that holds religious connotations." 

The bed where Jackson died - in an outbuilding furnished for his rest.

This is where Jackson was brought to rest and recover from serious injuries - the amputation of his arm after being shot accidentally by one of his own men at the Battle of Chancellorsville in May, 1863. The plan had been to move him by rail ( a station was only a few hundred yards away) but Union troops had damaged rail lines to Richmond. While repairs were underway and the general rested with doctors, family, and his enslaved servant in attendance, Jackson became ill with pneumonia and died.

Fairfield Plantation main house, smokehouse, and office, shortly after the war had ended. NPS photo.

The grounds of the old plantation had been a large Confederate camp at the time. Large battles were raging in the distance and skirmishes were happening  just miles away in any direction.  The countryside was awash with displaced people - farmers whose farms were ruined, city folks fleeing the bombardment of the cities, troops moving to battle, slaves escaping to freedom, soldiers streaming back to camps. "It must have been surreal," Kevin said. "There were so many dead in this triangle of war - 85,000 we think. There are so many unmarked graves, so many missing and unaccounted for. It was the bloodiest landscape in North America." I explained where I had come from, what I was thinking about. Kevin looked out the window into a meadow. "You've come to the right place to think about that."

Jim Lewis, personal servant to Jackson, slept on this rough-built cot.

I moved from room to room and observed the beds. Daybeds, rope beds, a couch, a rough wooden platform. Though few slept during the days of Jackson's dying, the Chandler family whose once-productive plantation had fallen to ruin, had moved their furniture to the farm office building to accommodate the small party of medical and military staff who would remain by the general's side. A deeply religious man, Jackson uttered his last words on Sunday May 10 at 3:10pm. "'Let us cross over the river, and rest under the shade of the trees."  Crossing boundaries, living to afterlife. Crossing battle lines. Crossing from enslavement to freedom. The theme of the symposium seemed framed by this small park, even within the walls of this old plantation office-turned-shrine.

Beds and chairs were placed in another room for staff.

Kevin suggested that at the time of Jackson's death there may have been upwards of 65,000 refugees and displaced people streaming through the rolling countryside between Richmond and Fredericksburg. With no homes, no beds to rest upon, where did these people find safety? Dr. Mark McLaughlin explained to his audience at the symposium that the empty bed is symbolic in Hindu shrines dedicated to gurus or saints that had passed on. The one who slept on the bed while living is still present after death in the absolute sense, he said. I certainly felt that here as Kevin pointed out that the bed linens, blanket, frame, pillow and case, even the rugs rolled up in the corner, were original to the event. The Chandler family, whose descendants still live nearby, carefully preserved and cared for the fabrics after Jackson's body had been carried away for burial.

This is not from the Stonewall Jackson Shrine! (Manassas Battlefield, NPS)

The loss of Stonewall Jackson was a stunning blow to the Confederacy. Across the land, as his body was carried to burial in Lexington, Virginia, a deep sadness added to the grief over a ruined land. Resources were scarce. There was sometimes violent competition for food, water, horses, and shelter. Yankee troops as well as Confederate soldiers had little to share. Large numbers of refugees begged at the camps in search of food, shelter, clothing, water. The Chandler family guarded carefully the linens and furniture from the office building. Kevin stressed that nothing much survived the months of battle, especially as farms and plantations were raided for resources. The bed frames might have been destroyed for cooking fires in the camp. The linens might have served as bandaging. But the family worked quickly to dismantle and hide these items from raiding parties and desperate people. After the war, they were cared for by family, various friends groups, and put on display in the old building as a local museum. Like Hindu temple beds, everything was placed as it had been while the beloved general lay dying. By the 1920s and 30s there were caretakers, keepers of the space, tellers of the story. "It never became a "holy" place," Kevin insisted, "they were careful to not let that happen. Just a place to come and pay respect. A shrine of beds." The National Park Service came into ownership of the site in the 1930s.

Day bed and couch in the attendants room.

As the war raged on more people fled from the terror that had become north-central Virginia. At the time of the terrible battles of the Wilderness, Spotsylvania, Fredericksburg, and Richmond,  there was ample opportunity to leave. "Slaves ran at every chance," Kevin explained. "They abandoned plantations, industry, and domestic service by the hundreds and risked their lives to forge through the conflict to find places to hide, roads and paths that were safe to travel, rivers to cross, all heading northward or westward." The plantation's seventy slaves had gone long before Jackson arrived on a litter carried atop a slow moving wagon. Jim Lewis, Jackson's personal manservant, was given a bed in the house where Jackson was laid, though he never left his master's side and did not sleep in it. "Loyal slave narratives abound in these parts," said Kevin, "Partly because of Jim Lewis, and partly because some enslaved peoples were too old or too young or too afraid to run for it. Fear of escape meant staying put. This was re-interpreted as loyalty to their masters." The loyal slave narrative, indeed, gave us the gray-haired butler (who would dance with Shirley Temple) and the rotund kitchen maid (Aunt Jemima), familiar "grateful servant" tropes in literature and films of the early 20th century.

Plantation office turned dispatch room.

This was a region on the move. "Everyone was running - into battle, away from battle, to safety, to freedom." Kevin said. "You wouldn't be in one place for long before a battle swung too close, a place of rest was taken over by troops, or you feared capture." Underfed or starving, people surged across the land like skeletons. On the Camino there is a rule that in any albergue you may not stay more than one night. It's an old rule that addressed the number of 'fake' pilgrims in the Middle Ages, people who took advantage of the free and nearly free services provided to those traveling to holy sites. For anyone who looked suspiciously unkempt, dirty, underfed, or without credentials, there was often "no room at the inn" when in fact there may have been a bed. I encountered these people for myself as I hiked across northern Spain and was nearly robbed by a person pretending to be a pilgrim in need of "supplies." I remember one afternoon when a hospitalier escorted a ragged-looking young man from a spotless albergue. "Please find another place," he instructed. "I have room only for honest pilgrims." No room at the inn. Where are those honored Christian principals when the unwanted show up? From this place just south of Fredericksburg, I stand about 150 miles from the Mason Dixon Line. The price on the head of a runaway slave could easily triple or quadruple if he made it across that line. Fortunes were made recapturing fugitives or ambushing freemen above the Line to sell into slavery below it.

Plantation office front.

A pilgrim is not a refugee, however. Pilgrims choose to engage in their long quest. Refugees are launched into the journey, often without warning and with little preparation. Pilgrims will eventually arrive at a destination and look forward to returning home. Not so for the refugee who wants to go home but may not have a home to return to. We had discussed transformative journeys at the symposium. Certainly, many scholars agreed, a refugee's story can become that of a pilgrim. Francis Fredric's account of his long escape to freedom is an epic tale of pilgrimage laced with fear and uncertainty.

Last winter I read Fredric's Fifty Years a Slave (1863) and Solomon Northrup's Twelve Years a Slave (1853) after watching the film 12 Years A Slave (2013). I found the actual accounts to be powerful counterpoints to the film which, despite its hard hitting and often brutal scenes of slavery and a great story based on Northrup's book, still relaxed into the well-worn "white savior" narrative. Here is a short excerpt from Fredric's 1863 book that I thought about while visiting the Stonewall Jackson Shrine:

I had been flogged for going to a prayer-meeting, and, before my back was well, my master was going to whip me again. I determined, therefore, to run away. It was in the morning, just after my master had got his breakfast, I was ordered to the back of the premises to strip. My master had got the thong of raw cow's-hide; when off I ran, towards the swamp.

He saw me running, and instantly called three bloodhounds, kept for the purpose, and put them on my track. I saw them coming up to me, when, turning round to them, I clapped my hands, and called them by name; for I had been in the habit of feeding them. I urged them on, as if in pursuit of something else. They instantly passed me, and flew upon the cattle. I saw my master calling them off, and returning. No doubt, he perceived it was useless to pursue me, with dogs which knew me so well.

I now hurried on further, into a dismal swamp, named the Bear's Wallow; and, at last, wearied and exhausted, I sat down at the foot of a tree, to rest, and think what had best be done. I knelt down, and prayed earnestly to the Almighty, to protect and direct me what to do. I rose from my knees, and looked stealthily around, afraid that the dogs and men were still in pursuit. I listened, and listened again, to the slightest sound, made by the flapping of the wings of a bird, or the rustling of the wild animals among the underwood; and then proceeded further into the swamp. My path was interrupted, every now and then, by large sheets of stagnant, putrid, green-looking water, from which a most sickening, fetid smell arose; the birds, in their flight, turning away from it. The snakes crawled sluggishly across the ground, for it was autumn time, when, it is said, they are surcharged with their deadly poison.

When awake in the morning, I tried to plan out some way of escape, over the Ohio River, which I knew was about thirty miles from where I was. But I could not swim; and I was well aware that my master would set a watch upon every ferry or ford, and that the whole country would be put on the alert, to catch me; for the planters, for self-protection, take almost as much interest in capturing another man's slaves, as they do their own.

At length, driven by hunger and desperation, I approached the edge of the swamp; when I was startled by seeing a young woman ploughing. I knew her, and called her by name. She was frightened, and shocked at my appearance - worn, from hunger, almost to a skeleton; and haggard, from the want of sound sleep. I begged of her to go to get me something to eat. She, at first, expressed her fears, and began to tell me of the efforts which my master was making to capture me. He had offered $500 reward - had placed a watch all along the Ohio River - had informed all the neighbouring planters, who had cautioned all their slaves not to give me any food or other assistance, and he had made it known, that, when I should be caught, he would give me a thousand lashes.

The woman went, and fetched me about two ounces of bread, of which I eat a small portion, wishing to keep the rest to eat in the swamp, husbanding it, as much as possible. When she told me that I should receive a thousand lashes, I felt horrified, and wept bitterly. The girl wept also. I had seen a slave, who had escaped to the Northern States, and, after an absence of four years, had been brought back again, and flogged, in the presence of all the slaves, assembled from the neighbouring plantations. His body was frightfully lacerated. I went to see him, two or three weeks after the flogging. When they were anointing his back, his screams were awful. He died, soon afterwards--a tall, fine young fellow, six feet high, in the prime of life, thus brutally murdered.

Abundant rain brings mushrooms.

Outside the sparse rooms was the small park that surrounded what remained of the plantation. The outline of the main house was barely visible in damp grass and it exploded with new mushrooms. The skies were gray, heavy with storm clouds. It had been a long three days of heavy rain. Tidewater areas had flooded. I remembered how miserable I was on my hike when the rains came. Blisters would bubble up as soon as my socks got wet. My boots did little to keep out the deep water. I fretted over my feet. When I came into an albergue for the night I made sure take a hot soapy shower, dry my feet carefully, sit in the sun (if there was sun), and apply pain relieving ointment and fresh bandages for the night. Pain was definitely part of my Camino experience. (I am still dealing with some pain months later - mostly from calluses that press on nerves when I try to wear shoes or boots that before the Camino fit well - and now don't.) I realized that my Keens were still wet from hiking through the flooded yard. I'd left a trail everywhere I walked in the plantation office! Embarrassed, I offered to wipe up the water and mud.

Kevin, NPS Ranger.

Kevin assured me, again, that the idea of "shrine" did not mean sacred or religious and that some water and dirt added to the authenticity of the place. Please don't worry, he said. People had been tracking in water and mud for days."Imagine the water and mud tracked by 65,000 people fleeing this area," he added. "And the care some took to erase their steps."

Notes:

Stonewall Jackson Shrine  https://www.nps.gov/frsp/learn/historyculture/js.htm

You can read Fifty Years a Slave online here: http://docsouth.unc.edu/neh/fedric/menu.html

CO Trip Log: Contested Landscapes - Rocky Mountain Arsenal NWR and Rocky Flats NWR

As my son and I drove from Denver International Airport to our first stop at Rocky Mountain Arsenal National Wildlife Refuge (NFWS), I really thought we'd gotten lost and had wandered into some suburb of the city. We had. The decommissioned WWII chemical weapons facility is surrounded on three sides by dense commercial development and housing, the most glaring neighbor being a flashy concert/sports venue named for a popular sports equipment manufacturer.  We asked our Google Maps app again where to find entrance, which it shares with the sports venue, and soon enough found the stunning plains-style visitor center. By that time we had crossed some very contested ground.

Rocky Mountain Arsenal National Wildlife Refuge Visitor Center

Built in 2010.

These are the kinds of landscapes that have, of late, captured my attention and have directed some targeted research into domestic wartime land use issues. I've looked closely at a few military lands close to home - Edgewood Arsenal and Aberdeen Proving Grounds, chemical weapons development and testing grounds begun as far back as WWI. Like many military, chemical, or radiated landscapes that humans can no longer safely use (due to contamination and health risks) decommissioned lands often become wildlife havens. In Colorado the practice of converting contaminated lands into wildlife refuges is not without its critics. Developers want some of this prime real estate as Denver's suburbs intensify and spread - it's valuable land. Environmentalists caution that aspects of the landscape here are still dangerous - that human and environmental health risks outweigh development potential. The USFWS maintains that buffer lands and former military property should be monitored and that native populations of mammals, birds, reptiles, and insects should be encouraged and protected. In effect, all three stakeholders have won a bit of the argument.

Bison graze on contested lands that some want to see developed.

Like the chemical weapons facility near where I live, military manufacturing and testing of conventional weapons also occurred. The base near home and office is still active and not a few times have our walls shuddered (one is cracked) and windows rattled as bombs, mortars, missiles, and shells are tested a few miles from my desk. Here at RMA like at Edgewood Arsenal, the military produced mustard gas, napalm, white phosphorous, lewisite, and chlorine gas from WWII until 1970. After that the base served as a reduction facility to destroy stockpiles of munitions and chemicals. Pesticide companies leased the land following military use. Deep injection wells received waste water. These caused earthquakes - a familiar outcome as folks in Oklahoma can confirm. By the 1980s the site had been declared a high-priority Superfund site.

Black-tailed Prairie Dog, RMA NWR

By 2010 the clean-up was considered complete and lands were transferred to the U.S.F.W.S. Since decommissioning in the late 1960s, the "empty" landscape had become repopulated with animals and plants. Here were rare but expanding populations of bald eagles, vast black-tailed prairie dog towns (and all those animals associated with dog town burrows), and blacktail jackrabbits, wild cousins of the domestic rabbits used in sarin gas detection experiments. In 2011 the visitor center opened to the public. Bison were brought in from Montana. 

Blacktail Jackrabbit

Burrowing Owls.

The Visitor Center was beautiful with large windows looking out across a panoramic landscape. We followed room to room to look at the kids activity area, a bookstore, information lobby, and art gallery. I wondered if the USFWS would mention the weapons history of the site when my son called me over to the display room. It was nothing short of eerie but I was glad to see that the RMA story was an important part of site interpretive history.

Working attire at Ricky Mountain Arsenal.

As military-industrial land use concerns mount here and abroad, I am interested in how we frame our ideas of restoration and reclamation, and if "letting nature take its course" is an appropriate response to heavily degraded and contaminated ground. Rocky Mountain Arsenal is not the only landscape under close scrutiny as just miles away is the famed Rocky Flats nuclear materials development and dump site. In the case of radioactive contamination, as Chernobyl has demonstrated, the monitoring and management phase of reclamation and restoration is equal to the infinity room at Rocky Flats. But rather than abandon the city of Pripyat, our local communities such as Aberdeen, Edgewood, Denver and its suburbs are developing fast. Granted, we can't compare the scale of the Chernobyl disaster or the Fukushima plant failure during the 2010 tsunami with the relatively passive landscapes of decommissioned military landscapes like Rocky Flats and Rocky Mountain Arsenal. But for the sake of environmental history where long term degradation over decades can result in environmental effects over centuries if not eons, there questions yet to be considered as we learn our way forward in conservation treatments of sacrificed land.

Notes:

Len Ackland's 1999 book Making a Real Killing: Rocky Flats and the Nuclear West is a good introduction to the social and political response to the secretive and threatening activities of the neighboring nuclear weapons plant near Denver.  It describes the myopic dysfunction of long-term considerations for effects of domestic development and use of weapons of mass destruction during the Cold War. 

The NWR is only a short drive from Denver International Airport, but check your GPS for entry roads. We stumbled into an active building site the first try.

https://www.fws.gov/refuge/rocky_mountain_arsenal/

Rocky Flats NWR is not yet open to the public as concerns about radioactive soil contamination continue. According to plans the refuge will have a "soft and limited opening" at the end of 2017 https://www.fws.gov/refuge/rocky_flats/

CO Trip Log: Tundra Hiking, RMNP, September 10-17

Finally we were able to pull it off! My son and I were able to finally take that western hiking trip we had long hoped for! We spent the week in Rocky Mountain National Park and celebrated the National Park Service's 100th Birthday in Colorado. To make sense of this overwhelming experience, we broke up our exploration according to altitude, so this post will cover our tundra hikes at 11,000 feet and above. 

On the Trail Ridge Road.

I've long been a fan of cold weather environments so our hike day above treeline was such a blast for me. It snowed, almost blew us over, sleeted. We shivered and lost feeling in our hands. Then the sun came out and we peeled back out hoods and unzipped our jackets only to have snow squalls return.

Snow poles mark the corners of NPS buildings at the top of Sundance Mountain, 11,800'

As we drove up the famous Trail Ridge Road at daybreak, the snow squalls roared across the summits of the ranges all around us. It was a raw and beautiful morning. We beat the mid-day tourists by several hours and had the tundra region pretty much to ourselves. We hiked three trails before we met another soul - on the Ute Trail. 

One other hiker on the Ute Trail on this cold, snowy day.

The tundra environment is highly protected by the NPS and there are warning signs at every trail head to stay on the path. Soils are extremely thin and repeated foot traffic can cause such damage that some fragile tundra plant communities may take up to a century to recover. The Ute Trail (above) was one such trail where thousands of years of Ute migrations over the tundra fields had worn a permanent path across high mountain passes. These post-Pleistocene hunters and gatherers roamed the highlands until the Arapaho chased them out in the mid-1800s, but members of both tribes continue to hike this trail in honor of their ancestors. 

Game wall built by Ute hunters thousands of years ago to direct big game into killing grounds.

On the Ute trail we followed entrenched paths through rocky fields far from vehicle and tourist noise. About a mile in we observed a section of a game wall system that directed migrating animals into areas where they could be harvested. All along our way were cairns of rock several feet in diameter that marked the way for animals and their hunters. Before long, with winds blasting us backwards, we came upon a high country herd of elk sheltering at the top of a bowl-shaped glacial valley. The big elk was strutting, bugling, and chasing his cows into tight formation.  I ducked down behind a upended rock and waited as he directed his harem in our direction. I could imagine the ancient hunters waiting behind their cover for the herd to pass into the funnel of game walls! 

Antlers back and bugling away, this big elk bull was driving his harem up towards us through a game way

He turned the herd around when he spied three humans on the ridge.

Hiking above treeline, in the thin air of the Rockies, took our breath away literally and figuratively. We had to hunch over a few times or slow our pace (which was already slow!) to wait for our pounding hearts to settle down. At 11,000 feet there was 30% less oxygen than at our familiar Piedmont altitudes of 500 to 1200 feet. 

12,300 feet at the summit of Sundance Mountain.

Our hikes included the Ute Trail for two miles and two unnamed trails that wandered over the shoulders of Sundance Mountain. With tundra plants, lichens, and mosses all around it was good our pace was slow so that we could enjoy the fall colors. 

Mosses and lichens in rich golds and browns.

Succulents, mosses, crust lichens, and withering cotton grasses. 

Pika!

Besides the elk, our wildlife watching was pretty much nonstop. Pika squeaked their warning from burrow entrances and watch-rocks, yellow-bellied marmots hollered "AL! AL! AL!" while ravens and red-tailed hawks played on the updrafts and squall winds.

Yellow-bellied marmots.

Sea bottom above treeline.

On the Tundra Community Trail we climbed wind-blasted pedestals of metamorphic sea-bottom to find our high summit of 12,300 for the day. We packed for winter weather so our layers of clothing and wooly caps and hoods kept us warm, but to take pictures I had to go bare-handed and - wowee! - were my fingers numb in minutes! 

Snow squall approaching our summit perch.

Unnamed trail across the shoulder of Sundance Mountain into krummholtz. 

There wasn't much in the way of shelter to escape the blowing winds and stinging snow pellets, but I noticed that for smaller animals like a few sparrows and rodents I saw scampering, the stunted fir trees or krummholtz hummocks, provided low, protected cover from the elements. I looked for ptarmigan here but every time I bent low to peak under these ancient trees my nose would bleed! The krummholtz environment is shaped by the wind and when snow covers the low tree mats, a cave-like shelter forms underneath - perfect for smaller critters, but too small for us.

A break from the wind - along with a few dozen tourists who ventured up today.

With nowhere but the car to warm up, we decided to visit the highest NPS visitor center in the country and ducked into the warmth and chattiness of the Alpine Visitor Center. The building is perched on the bowl of a glacial cirque and the views down into the valley were breathtaking. I got so warm I pulled my cap and jackets off. But I quickly tired of the people as did my son. We stayed long enough to get feeling back in our hands and headed out again. We noted the oxygen station near the door!

Moose on oxygen at Alpine VC.

Of course I had to have my picture taken with a tundra protection ranger!

Tundra plants have incredibly deep tap roots while mosses form mats of red around their edges.

Squalls lifted for the afternoon but the winds increased.

Entrenched paths demonstrate how thin tundra soils are - about two to four inches.

Higher than the glaciers ever got, these tundra-cloaked peaks are rounded and boulder-strewn.

A pedestal of volcanic ash (white rhyolite) and sea bottom (dark gneiss).

Wind is the shaping force of this landscape. It blows snow off the highest shoulders of tundra so that moisture and warmth is swept away and these places are tundra deserts that receive less than 2 inches of moisture a year. It was the harshest environment we had come into. I was glad I had pulled on an extra fleece vest under my wind/rain jacket! Rock pedestals at the edge of tundra slopes were shaped by winds blasting snow and ice up and over the rims. Not many tourists ventured up here this day!

Tundra desert above 11,000 feet. Twas' cold!

We had been above 11,000 feet for about five hours and we were both exhausted! Though there was plenty of daylight left, we had very little energy to spare. We made it back to our car and collapsed into our seats, so tired! Work high, sleep low - says a high country climber's book. We headed down to 8,500' for our dinner and an early-to-bed. 

I'm not that tall - standing on a rock for this picture. George is much taller than me!

Notes: 
Some light reading without having to endure the cold:
https://www.nps.gov/romo/learn/nature/alpine_tundra_ecosystem.htm

George and I both observed some incredibly stupid people behaviors, hence the need for a tundra protection ranger. Even with ample signage at all parking lots, pull-offs, and trail heads, people were just stupid and romped (though never far from their cars) into the fragile tundra to snap pictures (mostly selfies). One guy was even modelling his jacket for his adoring girlfriend while standing on delicate wild flowers still in bloom. I have the utmost respect for our rangers (having been one) and was certain to stop and chat with them and thank them for their service. Please do the same.

Environmental Ethics 101: Limiting Exposure

It was bound to happen. I should have been more careful about what I put into this blog and should have considered what people would do with the information I shared. I know better now. There is rule in wildlife photography that if the photographer's actions cause a change in the subjects behavior, then he or she is too close. The ethical photographer keeps a respectable distance from the subject (unless undetected  in a hide), respects private property, and conducts him or herself respectfully around all others who are seeking the quiet and enjoyment of time in nature. I try very hard to be an ethical wildlife watcher, although there have been some instances when wildlife is curious about me and initiates a close encounter - even contact! This happened recently with a close-to-home pack of coyote puppies on a neighbor's farm. I took several pictures as the pups crept closer and closer to study my walk through their ever expanding hillside home ground. I will not share the location of this den or the name of the farmer who is appreciative of his coyote family. He says they are excellent rodent catchers in his grain fields and has observed new pups for three years in a row now. He is protective of them and worries that "some yeehaw with a gun or poison will make his way back here if the wrong people find out about them."

Coyote pup peeping at me from a cornfield.

Sometimes my posting photos on FaceBook attracts attention and folks will message me to ask where they can find the subjects I photograph. I don't mind sharing how and when to look for unusual species like the incredibly wild looking Butternut Wooly Worm I photographed in my own forest garden. This raggedy shaggy little caterpillar can be found on its favorite host plants in the heat of summer, but, I warned the eager photographer - be respectful of delicate woodlands if you wander off trails or cross on to private property! I gave him the location of a nearby state park and local trail system where I have observed these wispy little cats. He messaged me later to say he'd found them along the Mason Dixon Trail right where I said they would be. And, he said, he never stepped off the path. Good man!

Butternut Wooly Worm

I've written about our favorite fossil collecting sites in the Mid-Atlantic region and will share with interested readers where these are. For Maryland fossil hunters, it is good to remember that most of the shoreline known for fossil finds is privately owned. We may however, search for and collect up to the high tide or wrack line. Knowing when the tides go out and where to find the safest beaches to tie the boats is important on open Bay exposures. More important (in our book) is taking care of the beaches we use. Take a trash bag. Clean up as you collect. So far so good...

August 2016 Randall Cliffs trip for fossil hunting.

Then it happened. A while ago I had posted details about a kayak trip up a local river. I had observed a bird species not rare, but uncommon for this area, while walking along the bank and posted this in my trip log. I didn't say the species was uncommon. I just happened to mention it along with the other species I saw that day. A few days later I was contacted by a birder about the location. He'd read my post, didn't know me, but knew he wanted that bird on his county list. It was private property, I said. In fact, the property owner had been fishing nearby and was none to happy about me being there. I made my observations and had moved quickly on. Recently I was back in my kayak to check on the site. I had no intention of getting out my boat - just float by and look. There was the property owner again, standing on the bank that now sported a dozen No Trespassing! signs. Word got out I suppose? He must have had a few visitors. I felt awful. It started with a careless post. He glared at me. "NO BIRDWATCHING!" he yelled. I turned my boat around.

Big Henry Island.

So, the lesson of this post is that I need to be more careful about what I write and how I write about it. Whether coyote pups, interesting insects, uncommon birds, or special places, I have to consider how some people may use the information I share. And that's too bad for all others who enjoy learning about the biodiversity of our region and want to experience these places for themselves. The Mid-Atlantic is heavily populated and much of our landscape is private property. But at the same time there are incredible public lands (and waters) that contain a wealth of natural history for our study and enjoyment, not to mention the opportunity to study the rich human-nature history that our region holds. So to avoid future problems with private landowners I will no longer post or share rare sightings unless on these happen to occur on public lands, and I will not share locations of those special places, whether privately or publicly owned, if doing so endangers the animal, plant, insects or which disturbs sites with important historic / prehistoric artifacts with increased human presence.

Muddy Creek.

I was watching the activities of a large group of kayakers this weekend as they made their way up a local creek ravine. They were loud and rough. My kayaking friend and I made a quick exit after an hour of beautiful creek snorkeling and floating in deep, cold pools of turquoise water. The access to this site is easy enough from the river, but one must pass many private homes and docks to reach the deep recesses of the ravine. I was sure the noise and commotion of large groups of people must be annoying to those who live along the creek's banks at its entrance from the river. This is ethics too, to respect those who live where we like to play. 

 

Two arrowheads in the gravel. No further information available.

A birding friend listened to my story, how I intended to leave information out to protect places and the beings that live in them (including people). "But what about your reputation in the birding community that requires accurate information to confirm your sightings?" he asked. I thought about the farmer who entrusted me with not giving the name of his farm and the fisherman who owned the property where I saw the uncommon bird species. I replied that what good was one's reputation if I'd broken a trust or caused, indirectly, unethical behavior that disturbs people, fragile places, or creatures? I'd rather my reputation suffer with a few info hungry people than contribute further to the very real possibility that private lands be posted off-limits, owners angered, and the integrity of natural communities compromised by all too eager listers or collectors. I'm just limiting exposure.