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.