The Path Less Traveled

The quiet revelation that came of my trip to Heritage Farm has turned out to be the only one I would have time for, as the Universe does not run on my time schedule and has seemed to judge my whiny cries for contemplation a nuisance.

But I'm getting ahead of myself, and this story requires a short trip into the past.

My love for the outdoors can be blamed on a handful of people: My grandfather and uncle who showed me how to fish in my aunt's pond, and my parents who took me to Dillon Nature Center in my hometown.  Every summer I was signed up for Adventure Camp and spent my days rarely seeing the inside of a building.  I wrote a short post on it in December if you need more of a backstory.

Flash forward twenty years, and I'm two weeks into the summer season at Effigy Mounds when by luck, chance, and/or planetary alignment, a former director of DNC comes walking into my Visitor Center.  His wife would later describe this event as synchronicity, and I couldn't agree more.  The former director of DNC is now the current director of Indian Creek Nature Center in Cedar Rapids, which became my next destination on this little self-imposed journey of (re)discovery.

The visit was everything a gal could hope for, and I not only got to meet up with The Director again, but also met a lot of the wonderful and friendly staff.  Then I got a personal tour of the major restoration projects, starting with the hillside. 

There are a lot of pictures of wooded hillsides out there in the world, but this one is special because the trail is actually an important boundary of intense ecological restoration proportions.

The best way  to see the difference is to compare the left side of the photo with the right side.  The right side, which is the sunnier side, is the result of years (possibly decades) of prescribed burning which has kept back a lot of woody growth and made it more of an oak savannah.  The left hand side has not been subject to burns and so has more shrubs, bushes, and shade-tolerant trees like maples.  Regular burning is quite a project, and turning a dense wall of tangled shrubs and trees all trying to choke each other out into an open space dominated by oaks is pretty impressive. 

And easy on the eyes.

But not quite so impressive as the restored prairies.

You've heard my rambles on prairies before, so I'll only say this: It took a decade to get the pictured prairie to look like it does today.  Collecting and planting seeds, burning year after year, and keeping those fingers crossed. 

As the old saying goes, If you burn it, they will come. (or something along those lines)

Aphrodite Fritillaries on Common Milkweed

There were dozens of these flying around a patch of milkweed, it was a little surreal.

Purple coneflower

Daisy Fleabane

Rattlesnake Master (super badass)

Twelve-spotted Skimmer (female)

Tallgrass prairie plants are well-adapted to disturbances like fire, grazing, and wind, and it can be said that they may even thrive on periodic destruction.  With this in mind, the folks at Indian Creek have come up with an absolutely ingenious way of bringing both disturbance and people to the prairie.

A Prairie Labyrinth

As much as I'd love to delve into the philosophy and history behind labyrinths, I'll simply let the nearby sign do the talking:

I really liked the labryinth, and it might have even been my favorite part.  In so many places, a prairie trail is straight, and you only get to see what's on either side of you.  Here, your path goes into a prairie, winds around, turns in on itself, and allows you to see more of the plants than you would with a traditional straight path.  And the red-winged blackbirds have more opportunities to dive-bomb you.

After having my fill of scenic beauty, the Director and his wife invited me to dinner at a Vietnamese restaurant in Cedar Rapids (where I had some of the best spring rolls of my life!).  Afterwards, I headed homeward.

Stone steps over part of a slightly dried out wetland area.

Maybe it was the quietness of woods, or the prairie pulsating with life, or maybe it was the inward circle of the labyrinth where I didn't have to choose a path, but somewhere along the way, a sense of calm and assurance crept up on me.  As I drove home my thoughts drifted to where I want to be in five years, and I finally felt myself pulled more in one direction than the other.  I had begun to almost imperceptibly lean towards going, rather than staying.

This shaky insight was tested the next day, as it was brought to my attention there was a small chance my term would be extended to two years.  The emotional hurricane that followed as I decided whether I would even be interested in something like that left me both exhausted and resolute:  For my own sanity, I will choose the path(s) that lead to permanent employment in environmental education/outreach, preferrably closer to my family in Kansas.

Or I'll just build myself a house in a prairie and call it good.

As things worked out, the extension was deemed unneccesary, and I'm fine with it.  My boss/mentor, who by then was aware of my hesitation, called me into his office for a good ol' fashioned talkin'-to.  I'll only relay one line from the hour-plus conversation, but it might sum up his advice fairly well: "...it seems as though you know what you want to do, but you need a kick in the butt to do it, and if this is it, well then so be it."

So there it is folks, a cautious step forward on a new path, followed by waves of intense fear and unsteadiness, and a swift kick back on the trail from someone who has traversed those mountains before.  I know now that one day I will pack my bags and not return, and while that makes me very sad, it means that I'm ready to let go of the Driftless and find my new place in the world.  The rivers and bluffs may no longer hold the same sway over my heart as they have in the past, but the Driftless will always, always be a part of who I am and who I want to be.

The next stage is, of course, deciding exactly where to go, but I as I look through job boards and graduate programs alike, I can't help but feel the small spark of excitement that comes with knowing you're headed into the unknown.


Or headed right where you're supposed to be. 



Heritage Farm and the Best Museum I Never Saw

I had this whole trip planned down to the hour.  One day, four stops:

9:00am: Seed Savers Heritage Farm outside of Decorah, IA
12:00pm: Lunch at the Angry Pickle
1:00pm: Vesterheim Museum
3:00pm: Dunning's Spring Park

But in true Drifter fashion, I made it through exactly half of that list, before abandoning the Vesterheim and Dunning Springs to another trip scheduled for sometime in the future.  I know, I know.  No trip to Decorah is complete without a stop at the Vesterheim, and Dunning's Springs is the little-known jewel tucked away in the town.  For all my talk of exploration, how could I just not go?

Quite simple, really.  The weather was perfect for strolling downtown, window shopping, and people watching.  And supporting the local Co-op, of course.  The Vesterheim and Dunning's Springs aren't going anywhere for the time being, but days like that are quickly slipping behind as we move into the heavy-hot days that are the hallmark of an Iowan summer.

But let's start from the beginning, shall we?

At this rather remarkable place

Heritage Farm is part of the Seed Savers Exchange, a collection of gardeners, farmers, and heirloom enthusiasists who are devoted to the practice of keeping the seeds from their garden produce for planting the following spring, and consequently preserving the genetic biodiversity of garden species.  A tomato is not just a tomato, you see.  Hybrids are sometimes sterile, and incapable of producing fruit the next year, and some species of plants are genetically altered so they will only produce one time, forcing gardeners to rebuy stock year after year.  Heirloom species are different in that the seeds can be planted and will produce year after year. They have been preserved by their keepers for generations, and Seed Savers created a large seed bank of those species and varieties and distribute them to others. 

Just one of the many gardens on site.  My visit was quite early in the season, but in the next
 month or two there will be a proliferation of greenery and blooms and produce.

The Farm is a kind of demonstration, with gardens full of more kinds of tomatoes, peppers, eggplants, squashes, and beans then I thought possible. 

Like these really pretty Christmas Lima beans!

They also are keepers of a decent herd of the ancient White Park Cattle, which apparently was prevalent across Britain over 2000 years ago, but now are so rare they must be carefully managed in order to maintain their genetic diversity.

I learned all that from this interpretive sign, but then had to slowly back away.

Note: This is not a petting zoo, this one was huffing and gruffing
and freaking me out.  Plus, one of the office buildings was
right behind me, and I didn't want to be accused of enraging
ancient cattle.

We were maintaining a safe distance from one another.

Baby cows! Really adorable.

In addition to preserving the diversity of food plants and pre-Christ cattle, they also have a few pigs and chickens.

The above sign scared me into not taking pictures or even spending that long looking at all the baby chickens in their coop.  But they are there, and they are very cool.

But the sight-seeing doesn't end there.  There are miles of trails, including one leading to their orchard with hundreds of varieties of apples.  I went on a few of the shorter treks and was blown away by the idyllic scenery at every glance.

Along the Valley Trail.  Perfect weather.  No bugs.  Slight breeze that smelled like flowers. 

I imagine this is what the land must have looked like before our population exploded.

This is what lined the path along the Oak Woodland trail.

Overlook along the Oak Woodland trail just to the east of the Lillian Goldman Visitor's Center.
And yes, that is one of the white cows in the left-hand corner.

Before I knew it, three hours had slipped by and my stomach had begun trying to eat itself.  I made one last stop in the Visitor's Center to buy a few tomato plants (Black Krim and Gold Medal), peppers (Purple Beauty and Orange Bell), and the Dark Opal basil plant I've been coveting for some time.  After all, I should do my part to enhance biodiversity at every opportunity, right? I also somehow ended up with free seed potatoes which are now resting in a friend's garden.  Then, a last gander through the flower garden.

I left the Farm and headed back into Decorah, and it took a couple of spins around the main drive to locate the Angry Pickle, and then a few more to find a parking space.  Inside, only a few tables were occupied, and I spent a leisurely thirty minutes munching on my Jump & Shout sandwich with a side of the famous spicy pickles and perusing through the pictures on my camera.  Sometimes (okay, all the time), I wish I could get paid for being a tourist.

My plan was to go to the Vesterheim, the museum dedicated to the Norwegian immigrants coming to America, after lunch.  But, if you'll remember from the intro, I didn't quite make it in there.  Well, I mean, I was there, but I just didn't go in.  I can't decide if I metaphorically rejected my Norwegian heritage by walking away from the imposing building, or embraced it by pioneering into the unexplored downtown.

I did, however, go to the nearby museum gift store, and had something of a museum-esque experience as I looked around at books, carvings, jewelry, dishes, toys, and specialty food items in a silence only broken by soft music.  Emerging back into the bright sunlight, I took myself on a tour of downtown Decorah, and was happy to see so many people out and about.  Of course, I had to stop in at the local food co-op, because who can pass up buckwheat flour sold in bulk? Or freshly baked bread? Or raspberry struesel?

Not this girl.

So did I learn anything about myself, the whole reason for this series of trips, during this particular meandering?
 

Besides that I want to live here.

Kind of.

I was sincerely hoping for a bolt from the sky spelling out what where to go from here, or if I should go at all.  But no such luck, and I drove home more depressed than when I had left that morning.

It really wasn't until a few days had passed and I was planting the tomato plants that I let my mind go back to what part the Farm had to play in my little, temporarily dramatic, life.

What finally came, was not solid direction, not a decision to stay or go, but a very simple and obvious revelation:  I don't have to save the world.  I used to really want to, and I'd still like to, but sometimes saving it is a simple as planting a tomato plant that hundreds of others have planted that year, and that thousands of others have planted before me.

No, nothing earth-shattering. But, it does take some of the pressure off of the inevitable choices I have to make.  I used to think I had two options: stay where I am, or go back to school for something else.  I had somehow forgotten there are other paths.

Whatever I decide, the sun will still rise in the east, the birds will still sing, and the Black Krim cares naught what I do, as long as I keep her watered and in a sunny spot and promise not to forget to plant her daughters again next year.  That's something that is immensely comforting.