There’s a TED talk I once listened to that featured Mark Ronson and a few other collaborative artists on the nature and importance of collaboration, as well as the apparent human instinct to collaborate. One of things I always remember when I am quick to question a remix or a re-imagining of something that I already love is something that Mark Ronson said which was that we are drawn to insert ourselves into that which we love. When we began briefly to talk about songs about rivers, other than The River (which is my favorite in the Boss’ grand repertoire) I thought immediately of Down By The River by the king of angry environmental folk rock himself- Neil Young.

Though I actually knew of the Dave Matthews & Tim Reynolds version before I knew the original, I have always connected with the instrumentals in the song in a way that I identify with the rush of a dammed or rocky river. The way it’s fluid but also jolting is especially evident whilst kayaking, particularly in the rippling rapid-like patches we traversed. I don’t know, I guess either version is just a treat to listen to so I thought I would leave them here for anyone who hasn’t had the pleasure of hearing them previously.

Neil Young:

Dave:

Something that nagged in my mind as I read the Walker Percy portions regarding leaving the beaten path and how that is the only real way to recover the creature is that every time I go somewhere quintessentially scenic or notorious, I push the limits of how far into it I can go. I’m not sure that makes sense in that phrasing but I think I have always been fairly dissatisfied with the structures of limitation that exist in beautiful places worth visiting. For example, if I go to the edge of the ocean, I want to touch the water. If I’m hiking a mountain, I want to stand as close to the cliff as I can without falling. It is in these places where I feel it is most possible to *feel* whatever it is you’re supposed to feel when you seek out a beautiful place.

When we continued to talk about this desire and almost necessity to be off the path, Professor Brandes mentioned Mesa Verde and how suffocating it is have to be guided or otherwise limited. This is something I have noticed mostly in family-friendly destinations in the US. The endless signs and railings and walls and fences not only disrupt the views in my mind, they also detract from the experience by forcing instruction and restriction where I feel instruction and restriction ought not be necessary. I understand that a lot of things are safety precautions and I honestly got used to them to the point where I scarcely noticed them as obtrusively as I once did.

Until my family visited Ireland a few summers ago. Nowhere that we went had a railing, and the few places that had signs bore signage that was far more common sense and far less belittling. I remember lying on the edge of a rock face at the Cliffs of Moher with my younger sister trembling with the knowledge (and the cold) that I could be blown away into the sea (and to my death) at any moment. It was a beautiful memorable moment to the core because there I was at this supremely touristy destination and yet no one was guarding it or telling me what to photograph or what not to touch or where not to be. I experienced this glory again this past summer when my family returned again to the motherland and hiked up to Dun Anghasa on Innis More, Aran Islands. The ruins of the fort are built up to the edge of a massive ocean-viewing cliff and there is nothing to prevent anyone from sprinting and leaping if they so choose. No cameras, no guards, not even a sign. Until my father made it up and nearly fainted seeing my mom, sister and I perched on the ledge, we were completely in awe at our proximity to such natural danger and beauty.

I wish that more places within my reasonable regions of access were like this at home. I definitely felt that parks were less restrictive in the Western United States but I still felt as though the quantity of people and especially children made me feel like I needed to be on guard at times. I think I would have liked to hung out with Walker Percy and learned more about his thoughts on the presence and importance of man’s relation to nature.

As we began to discuss in class today, it can be complicated to know when one is flirting with or crossing the line of cellular obsession. So often we find ourselves playing aimlessly with our phones when we don’t even know why, and more often than not this happens in the company of our friends and family. The readings made me contemplate my relationship with the natural world in connection to my technology as well as my life in connection with those around me, as is dictated by phone use in particular.

I am notorious for not responding to texts in a timely manner (or sometimes at all) and I have been endlessly chastised and sometimes yelled at for this fault. But I have always, particularly in recent months and years, wondered how this can be such a problem. When we were discussing in class how people either preferred being in constant contact or not, and the “phone game” and things of the like, I began to specifically wonder- is it more inconsiderate to text while with friends, or not to text your friends when you’re apart?

I have always been fairly comfortable with the fact that I’m slow to get back to people because I tend to think if it is urgent, the person seeking my attention will either call or find me in person. I know it can be annoying, but at the end of the day, what is the overall loss? But then I get self-conscious because I feel socially that is very frowned upon and as a generally polite person I would hate to come across uncaring or unkind.

Yet on the other hand, I feel like I am prone to becoming defensive if I am called out for using my phone too much in the company of others. How can this be? As I am still sorting through my thoughts on the matter, I would be very interested to see what others think about which is worse, and why.

When prompted to consider our favorite place in nature and what it meant to us, I was at once flooded with images and ideas of the lovely scenes and spots I visit and cherish. Above all things in this world, I love the Atlantic Ocean, so it came to mind first. But for perhaps the first time in my life, I felt this was a cop-out.

This summer I went on a 17 day road trip with my boyfriend Sacha (Lafayette ’14). For 14 of the nights we had little more than a general idea (think, state-at best) of where we would be setting up camp, and all in all we drove about 5,500 miles, visited 6 national parks, saw 12 states, and stayed in 14 different locations. It was a wonderful trip full of beauty that I will undoubtedly write about in future blog posts, but to get back to my original intention here, I will write about one night in particular that will stay with me as long as I live as a testament to the majesty of the skies.

Sacha lives in Minnesota, and when I am not at Lafayette, I live in New Hampshire, so we are always a plane ride apart. When it is frustrating or saddening not to be together, one of us will usually remind the other to look up to the sky because despite our distance from each other, we’re looking up at the same stars, the same sun, the same moon. A little cheesy, I know, but it helps.

So one of the nights on our adventure we wound up in Death Valley National Park well beyond the appropriate hour to get one’s tent situated for the night. We got our tent up around 9:30pm whilst baking in the 105 degree temperatures at Furnace Creek Campground, 190 feet below sea level. If this weren’t already wild enough, the desert winds were so strong, they threatened to blow our tiny tent away every time we left it for more than a moment (the ground was too solid to stake it in). We were comically out of place. After a solid effort of maybe five minutes trying to sleep in our tent-oven, we engineered ourselves some more refreshing sleeping quarters by pulling two campground tables together, head to head, and laid under the stars.

The sky that night is unrivaled and unparalleled by any other I’ve ever seen. I cherish the relative visibility of a starry sky in rural New Hampshire, but this felt like another world. The expanse of the black and the clarity of the visually unpolluted stars was so humbling. I have scarcely felt so small. It feels cheap to leave it at this, but it was incredible.

Despite its magnificence, I don’t know that I could consider Death Valley among my favorite places. But that moment, I can. Head to head on that table, Sacha and I looked up at the same sky together, and it was a better place than any I could imagine the next time we look up from afar.

I think the meaning I take from a moment like that is the inspiring massiveness of nature in this country. I have certainly taken for granted my ability to walk in the woods, or play at the beach, or hike a mountain at will when I’m home, but only in these recent experiences have I realized the different levels of nature, and the inspiring beauty of the actual “wild”. I feel compelled to share these experiences with others because I think they are at the core of who we as a social breed should be. Life often moves too fast, and it is the places in nature alone that can truly slow it down.