2,4-D

“No wonder my skin turns red and gets itchy when I sit on the Green,” my friend Krystal said—as if a light bulb had flashed ‘on’ in her head—the other night after I told her about the irony of my beautiful and toxic spring afternoon. After throwing a Frisbee around yesterday for hours on the Green, my roommate complained that her legs were itching like crazy.

It all began around 10:30 a.m. when I decided to take a break from morning reading of Living Downstream indoors and head outside to enjoy the warm and sunny day that was unfolding. I spread a beach towel out on the still-wet perfectly green and manicured grass outside of Newcastle Hall, and plopped down to relax for a few minutes before class. I noted that the grass had a distinct, unnatural smell, and I found it a little unnerving. Did I smell the popular herbicide Roundup? Maybe. Or, perhaps my mind was playing tricks on me?

Later, Mr. UD Grounds-I’m-protected-by-a-white-suit-man came by our Honors group spraying 2,4-D all over the grass not 20 yards from where we were sitting. This is outrageous, I thought. Here is this guy, who probably has absolutely no idea what 2,4-D actually is, or its potential harm, spraying it all over the grass in the middle of the day. Hundreds of students were outside on the grass. “Oh, but I spray where all the students sit at 5 a.m., so don’t worry about it,” he said to Mariah, as if trying to reassure her that we shouldn’t fret about being exposed (even though he’s the one wearing an ominous-looking white protective suit.) And that’s supposed to make me feel better? As if I sitting on toxic herbicide 5 hours after it was sprayed is that much better than sitting on it after one? Dubious.

Later, I was telling my teammates about the irony of the experience, and a woman walked by, overhearing my disgust and outrage and said, “Nothing to be worried about? They’re wearing protective suits! Not us!” It seems that us 10 students aren’t the only people worried or skeptical about the spraying, or should I say saturating, the grass with 2,4-D and Roundup. But, how can we effect change? It seems that education and raising awareness might be the first step.

After our group dispersed, I continued to sit in the fountain area chatting with a friend. (The sound of the water is relaxing and I’m enjoying it, but I can’t help but think how much more soothing sitting by a real stream is.) By 2 p.m., I realize I have a pounding headache. I’ve been inhaling this stuff all day, I think. Are my headache and 2,4-D related? Or, maybe it’s just too much sun. I hope it’s the latter. As I write this journal, I’m drafting an e-mail to the assistant director of the Facilities and Grounds department about the university’s use of 2,4-D. I’m interested to hear his response.

In an attempt to escape the monoculture monotony of “the Green” I head down to White Clay to truly enjoy the beautiful weather—away from toxic chemical spraying and “green space” that looks more like the backyard of some new suburban home in some new development that was constructed amid sprawl. But, I’m not really away from the chemicals. After all, during the next heavy rain I’d imagine all of the 2,4-D runs off into sewers (that warn “No Dumping: Sewer Leads To Creek”) and into the creek. I can see a variety of birds and hear a diversity of sounds and pitches and calls and songs, which is very different from the eerily quiet Green, absent of a variety of bird species. I notice a ton of white flowers lined along the path, and the field guide tells me the flower is garlic mustard, which is an invasive species (which makes sense because it is everywhere out here). As I walk by the small pond on my right, I notice tall brown reeds—phragmites-—another invasive species to the creek area. It releases a natural toxic chemical from its roots, which kills the surrounding plants and allows it to spread. Thankfully, I realize I no longer have a headache from breathing in the smell of chemically treated grass—I take a deep long breath of air, and the scent reminds me of, well, spring.

Finally... Spring

After a long Monday of class, an interview, a mind-numbing 4 hours at my internship, and a meeting, it felt incredibly refreshing to take a walk down the creek and just let my mind wander away from deadlines and due dates and just seep in everything I could see, smell and hear. Not to mention the fact that I spent the majority of a beautiful day inside and in a room without any windows, it was reinvigorating to breathe fresh spring air through my lungs and feel the warm sun on my face.

As I walk upstream on the east side of the creek, I notice 2 guys I know off the right side of the path kneeling next to what appeared to be a standing pool of water. I stop and say “Hi,” and the closer I get to the water, the nastier it starts to look. The pool is about 20 feet by 10 feet, and I notice a gross film with an oily tint spread across the surface. There is some movement in the surface water, and to my excitement a frog jumped to the edge! After getting a closer look, it appears to be a bullfrog. I notice another frog a few minutes later, and this one is different—it was much more spotted than the bullfrog. One of the guys, Shawn, tells me he thinks it is a pickerel frog. After seeing the frogs in the stagnant, nasty water I can’t help to wonder how toxic it actually is. Is the water bad enough to kill the frogs? My eyes shift their focus away from the polluted pool, and my glance begins to wander up the hill away from the creek. Not 150 yards up the hill is the Deerfield Golf & Tennis Club, which is essentially more of a toxic waste dump than a nice piece of green, ecologically healthy land. Every time it rains, the water seeps through the fertilizers and pesticides, into the groundwater, flows down the hill into this stagnant nasty pool, and eventually the runoff dumps into the creek. The oily film on the surface of the pool is evidence of this toxic runoff. I actually start to look around the pool for signs of dead frogs—thankfully, albeit to my surprise, there were none.

I leave the stagnant pool a little depressed at the reality of pollution’s effect on the creek’s ecosystem and head toward my spot, hoping to see signs of healthy wildlife or growth. As I approach my special spot, to my dismay, I realize 8 fishermen have invaded! Thankfully none were standing within 30 yards of my spot, but 3 are standing across the stream in my direct sight, 3 are downstream past the dam, and 2 are on my side of the creek a bit upstream. I sit down on my rock and begin to watch the sole Canadian goose as it bobs around near the dam. It’s soothing, almost peaceful to be here, even right in the middle of these 8 fishermen. While sitting, I begin looking around for signs of change. About 10 feet to my left, I notice motionless water pooled in a small area trapped by rocks. The surface looks pretty nasty. Is it pollution? Possibly algae? Or even sediment that has come up from the creek’s bottom? Tiny (nasty) brown bubbles come up from the surface at the edge of the still water. Even as I basically stick my nose inches from the surface, it’s hard to tell why it is that way (not to mention I’m no scientist). Could it be a pooling of different nutrients and chemicals? It reminds me of eutrophication, or nutrient over-enrichment often caused by fertilizer runoff. Nutrient over-enrichment means too much oxygen, which leads to algal blooms. The algae suck up the oxygen and fish die. Was this eutrophication occurring—on a small scale—right in front of my eyes?

No wonder fish can’t survive in the creek here, I think. It now makes sense why the Delaware and Pennsylvania State Parks stock the creek with trout at different times throughout the fishing season.

Tornadoes in Atlanta

As I sit down to write, I’m eating two poached eggs on wheat toast, and I can’t help but think, Am I really eating hen period, Gary? Really? My eggs taste fine, but I have to admit my appetite was significantly reduced when I started to think about Gary’s speech, which left me nauseous and with no desire to eat industrial meat, eggs, cheese or milk for a while.

I seem to have picked the worst day of the week to go sit by the creek; it is about 40 degrees and 40-mph winds whip at my already chilled face. It is late afternoon, and the sun is falling behind the budding trees across the creek. The low sunlight reflects off the fast-moving rippling water and causes me to squint. Finally, some of the trees have started to bud, and flowers are beginning to sprout up. Over the weekend, I was in Atlanta for an ultimate Frisbee tournament, and every time we stopped for gas or food characteristics of springtime became increasingly noticeable. By the time we reached Virginia and it was light out, I could see that flowers lined the highways. In Atlanta the trees were in full bloom.

When we arrived in Atlanta, it was pouring rain. One of my teammates, who lived in Georgia until she was 15, expressed surprise that the weather forecasted so much rain because Atlanta has been experiencing a severe drought for a while now. When we were unpacking in our hotel room, I was really surprised that there were no notices near sinks or showers telling guests to conserve water. When I was in Australia for winter session my junior year, everywhere I went there were conservation stickers everywhere; the toilets even had two flush settings—a half flush and a full flush. I began to wonder why Georgia had not taken similar measures to attempt to conserve its limited water.

The first night we were in the hotel, a 135-mph tornado ripped through downtown Atlanta causing severe damage (luckily, we stayed in the northern suburbs, which, ironically, is actually considered a tornado alley). It was the first tornado ever to touch down in downtown Atlanta, and it cut a path six miles long and 200 yards wide. Then, on Saturday afternoon, severe thunderstorms and tornadoes rolled through Atlanta’s north suburbs, where the tournament was being held and we were playing. A little later in the afternoon, another tornado went through downtown Atlanta. My weekend consisted more of running away from severe storms and seeking refuge in vans than it did playing ultimate.

I couldn’t help but wonder about the freak nature of the storms. Is climate change and global warming the culprit? On the long drive home, I set my frustration at the weather aside (we played one real game, and the other was played in 2 inches of standing water), and started to wonder about this question. When I got home, I did a little research. I already knew that there is definitely a scientific correlation between climate change and hurricanes, and global warming is certainly causing changes in the weather and the magnitude and frequency of storms.

Scientists predict that global warming increases the energy in the atmosphere, and this is a key factor in tornado formation. Warmer air means more moisture is trapped in the atmosphere, and moisture is another factor. The combination of atmospheric energy and moisture causes instability, which results in the potential for more tornadoes to form. Between 1960 and 1990 the occurrence of tornadoes in the United States has almost doubled—from 617 to 1134.

On the ride down to Atlanta Friday, I had started reading The Weather Makers. My frustration about the weekend aside, I can’t help but laugh about the irony here.

Big city, local agriculture?

On my walk to my apartment from my internship on Wyoming Road, I realize I am starving, and should probably eat something before biking out to White Clay. I open my fridge, grab my half-gallon of 1% Hypoint Farms milk and pour it into a full bowl of Cheerios. As I put the milk back, I notice a new carton of organic milk on the door. While I’m eating my Cheerios, I start to wonder about what I’m putting into my body, and if I should start drinking organic milk. With each bite, I think about what is in my milk that might not be in my roommate’s—antibiotics and growth hormones. But, if I switch to drinking organic milk, can I really be sure that I am drinking better milk? Direct health benefits aside, buying organic foods has its appeals to people conscious of the damage industrial farming has on the environment. Organic farms do not consume or release synthetic pesticides into the environment (or at least they say they don’t), they use less energy and produce less waste, so in my mind, even if it is not necessarily healthier by-the-label to drink organic milk, I just might start to buy it.

When I sit on my rock on the side of the creek, I notice a layer or silt at my feet and all around me, about a foot off the shore. Sometime during the week a storm with heavy rain and wind must have come through the area. Listening to the water rush over the rocks on the dam, I realize that in a short while I will not have the luxury of experiencing nature like this so close to my home. I won’t be able to ride my bike a few miles from my apartment in the Bronx to a quiet spot, undisturbed by traffic and people. I begin thinking about what living in New York City will be like, and even more about the students I will be teaching. Over the weekend, I was talking to my Mom and Dad about what we’ve been learning in class, and how it common that supermarkets don’t build in many poorer, dodgy urban areas. My Dad then said, “Well Maura, think about the North side of Binghamton… No grocery store. How do those people get their food?” My response? Wow, he was right. I had never even noticed. My Dad then told me that within the last year there has been a huge push to develop community gardens in Binghamton, and an increasing number of plots of land are becoming available for people to grow. My friend’s Dad is a professor at Binghamton University, and over the last few years he has led many of the community garden projects throughout the city.

After listening to the part of the presentation in class on Wednesday about community gardens in urban areas, I searched nytimes.com for any articles. One of the first hits was an article about a co-op in the South Bronx, which ended with this:
Later, at the Nos Quedamos center, Ms. Washington reflected on the co-op movement, which she hoped would encourage a new urban agriculture movement of community gardens and locally grown produce.
“Some people say poor people are not going to buy organic,” she said. “But many poor people are from Africa or the Caribbean or Latin America. Most of their grandparents grew up on farms.
“So people of color know the taste of a red tomato that was just picked in the morning on a farm like Lenny Bruno’s!” she exclaimed. “The juices just burst in your mouth and you have that sensation of loveliness growing in your mouth.”
Compared with?
A look of disdain came over Ms. Washington’s face. “A tomato that tastes like cardboard!”

And Ms. Washington is exactly right. Thinking about bringing local agriculture to poor urban areas is exciting, and I am going to research as much as possible about the opportunities in the Bronx to do so. I hope to educate my students about local farms and community gardens and healthy eating so that they can begin to change their lifestyles and communities. After searching the American Community Gardening Association Web site, it appears that there are community gardens at schools, churches and YMCAs throughout the Bronx, which is exciting. Community gardening not only teaches people how to grow vegetables and fruits, it brings the community together and fosters community revitalization, growth and development and peaceful gathering. In my mind, not only is it important to educate according to a state-determined curriculum, educating our nation’s youth about the natural world and eating healthily as well as major issues such as global climate change and obesity is just as important. After all, if they are not aware, how can they even begin to change?

New growth, old visitors

On my pleasant mid-morning bike ride north on Creek Road I notice early growth of grass-like leaves, which I believe are probably crocuses, on the side of the road. I predict by next week these perennial flowering plants will have grown, and hopefully I will see the different color flowers in full bloom. Farther up the creek, a Northern Cardinal flies across the road yards in front of me and lands on a tree branch on the side of the road. I am excited to see the male cardinal, and wonder if they are rare in this area. By the time I reach the red footbridge, to my surprise and delight, four more Northern Cardinals have crossed my path. (I later read that the Northern Cardinal is a permanent resident in the state park and is frequently encountered by visitors.)

As I arrive at my special spot, I notice the grass around the dam station appears significantly greener this week than the depleted dead brown of the earlier winter weeks. I set my bike against the fence. A southerly breeze gives me a whiff of the strong scent of onion. The smell reminded me of a Sunday in February when a friend and I hiked out along the creek past the Nature Center, and I remember smelling a similar scent. Following the smell, we found a green onion patch sprouting from the soft ground near the edge of the creek. Curious, I broke off a scallion and tasted it. A little ways down the creek, my friend knelt down to examine what appeared to be some type of weed. She ripped a handful of leaves off the plant, smelling it. Instinctively, I warned her not to taste it. As this was all happening, a man walked by (he turned out to be my friend’s botany professor), and we asked him what plant it was. Within seconds of looking at the leaves in her hand, he said, “I hope you didn’t eat that! It’s hemlock.” He then started talking about hemlock’s appearance in Shakespeare’s plays as a poison. I found my hike that day incredibly rewarding because my friend is a wildlife conservation major and could identify all types of plants and trees. I made sure to make mental notes, hoping everything I learned would stay with me.

Back at the creek, I examine the green onion patch, which is about 6 inches high off the ground. I wander over to my rock, sit down, and begin to notice more green everywhere—weeds growing around the base of the fence, moss growth on the rocks behind me, grass growing from what once appeared to be lifeless dirt, green brush directly across the creek. Did all of this growth occur within the last week? Or is the green just becoming more and more noticeable to my eyes as spring is underway? Not only can I see springtime unfolding, I can smell it even through my congestion.

I sit on my rock looking, smelling and listening. I hear the sweet sweet sweet towhee tritritritri song of a Song Sparrow, but Canadian geese honk loudly overhead, and drown out the pleasant song. I look up, and see a handful of geese flying in a v-pattern upstream. Two of the geese leave their flock, and their distinct honks become louder. They are quite large, and their long black necks stretch forward and wingspan is wide as they descend toward the creek’s surface. As they approach the water, they glide gracefully about 40 yards, inches above the creek, toward the dam as they slow to a stop right before the rocks drop-off. Gently, they enter the water. One of the geese sticks its head and the upper part of its body under the water, leaving its back end and tail extending in the air above. I assume it is eating something, and later learn Canadian geese eat the silt at the bottom of lakes or other bodies of water. After thinking about how the creek is becoming increasingly polluted over time—probably because of its close proximity to large metropolitan areas, among other reasons—I realize the silt it ingests is most likely contaminated in some way. I wonder what affect this will have on the goose. I watch them for a few minutes, and one goose pulls itself up on a rock as the other follows shortly after.

Birds have returned

As I walk across the creek over the red footbridge on the way to my special spot, I notice a difference in my surroundings—birds chirping, singing and whistling. I don’t remember hearing many noises last week, except two or three geese honking loudly. It is a pleasant surprise to hear such a diversity of sounds on the sunny, yet chilly morning. I turn left after crossing the bridge and begin walking up the dirt—now muddy—path. On my left, to my sheer delight, I see two blue jays hanging out on the thin branches of a bare tree. They are restless though, and quickly fly across the still and frozen pond up the path and a bit to my left. They are incredibly vocal and sing to each other as they fly off together.

On my right there is a steep bare tree-covered hill, which I recall leads up to the Deerfield Gold and Tennis Club. A few summers ago a friend and I, curious about where the hill led, hiked up the hill making our own path as we struggled through pricker bushes and overgrown shrubs and trees. After climbing for a while, we finally reached a clearing at the top and made our way through one last obnoxious patch of pricker bushes. In front of us was the precisely manicured vast green space of a golf course.

After talking in class about fertilizers used on lawns being a huge cause of the algae problems in lakes and bays, namely the Chesapeake Bay, I start to wonder about the fertilizers the golf club uses to keep the grass incredibly perfect looking. The fertilizers we pour on our grass wash into rivers, which inevitably dump into lakes. The nutrients in fertilizers stimulate algae growth in the form of plankton blooms. When the algae dies it uses even more oxygen, which asphyxiates the fish and other organisms. As I sit on my rock looking out over the partially frozen creek, I begin thinking about how much fertilizer from the golf club had run off the grass, down the steep hill and into the creek over the years. Where is that fertilizer now? How many ecosystems have been disrupted, or worse, killed because of the runoff of fertilizer and other chemicals? Cleaning up streams and rivers, in my mind, now seems to be a much more difficult and complex task than I once imagined.

Thinking about how obsessed Americans are with having pristine looking lawns, I began to think about a point about carbon and methane emissions raised by one of the panelists from the “International Politics of Global Climate Change.” He explained that there is a monumental difference between “luxury emissions” and “survival emissions,” and that western nations must not and cannot use uncertainty as a cloak for inaction. He claimed it is ridiculous to use the excuse that countries with high methane emissions—mostly poor nations—should focus on reducing methane output before countries with high carbon emissions—wealthy nations—should focus on their reductions. Fertilizer on lawns is a luxury and is not needed for community survival. Essentially, in order to reduce harmful carbon emissions, we must change the way we’re developing as a nation.

The creek is very different today—upstream water appears to be mostly frozen over with a very thin layer of ice. Near the dam, the ice is much more patchy, and my skepticism and curiosity prompts me to toss a small rock out on to the ice. The rock hits the patch of ice, slides about 5 feet off the edge and into the unfrozen water. The water still flows beneath the ice, because it rushes over the dam just as it had last week.

I slowly stand from the rock on which I sit, contemplating. I turn to leave and see a handful of small birds dancing around from bush to bush. I begin to walk downstream along the muddy path, and on my right see the two blue jays again. On the short, maybe quarter of a mile, walk down the path to the footbridge, I see at least two-dozen birds. Many are in trees, some are hiding in bushes, and others dance across the path, while some fly off and out of my sight. In less than a week, to my pleasure, the creek is becoming full of visible—and audible—life again. Although, I can’t help but hope the lifeless looking trees will start to bud soon.

A chilly, windy February afternoon

My bike ride in to White Clay Creek State Park is less than enjoyable. It is a cloudy and chilly Tuesday afternoon. After riding my friend's bike—mine was stolen—for about a quarter of a mile, I realize the front tire is in dire need of air, but I continue onward regardless. For my entire 3.75 mile ride—out of campus, down Creek Road, past Wedgewood Road, across the red footbridge, and north up the path along the creek—I fight a terrible headwind, which naturally makes the ride even more challenging. As I approach my spot, on my right I pass a small pond, although "pond" might not be the correct word to describe it. I notice three geese floating around in the still water near the far bank.

The weekend before, I hiked through the same area with a friend, and she and I were lucky enough to see two long-necked and long-legged birds perched on a tree on the far bank of the same pond. After watching them for a few minutes, they flew gracefully toward the creek. (I thought the birds were great blue herons and my friend wondered if they were egrets, so we referred to the field guide that informed us they were in fact great blue herons!) I hoped I would see the beautiful herons again, today.

My legs are screaming at me by the time I reach my spot (although my most recently discovered favorite spot is a few more miles up the creek, which unfortunately is a little too far). I dismount the bike and set it up against a fence near what appears to be some type of power station for the dam, although I could be incorrect. I walk about ten yards away from my bike downstream and sit down on a rock that edges the slowly eroding creek to catch my breath. For a few minutes I just sit, attempting to soak up everything around me. But, it's too much. There's so much to see and hear that I try desperately to make mental images of everything. But then, I allow myself to relax and let everything flow through me. I feel calm. My legs no longer hurt, I can breathe easily, and I begin to really enjoy being at this spot. It's serene. Peaceful. Seemingly undisturbed.

I can tell the wind is picking up because I notice the water upstream—once quite still— is now rippling fast toward me to the dam. The ripples flow methodically and almost rhythmically, and it is beautiful to watch. A ray of sunlight manages to peek through the clouds and it reflects off the crest of each small ripple. The water pouring over the dam creates a loud rushing sound. It's powerful and forceful and somehow incredibly soothing all at the same time. At once, the sound evokes memories of my childhood—memories of Crescent Beach. I can picture myself—much younger now—lying awake in sandy sheets. The windows of my room are open wide and the breeze cools the once unbearably hot room. I lie awake listening to the waves pound into the shore as an imminent late-July storm approaches the bay.

I hear another sound that I am drawn to. Behind me I hear a gentle trickle of water—water that evades the dam—running through the rocks. The sound is captivating.

A blue heron flies elegantly from my side of the creek, a ways down shore, across to perch on a tree on the opposite bank. Is it the same blue heron I saw over the weekend? I wonder if they stay here through the winter. I wonder how they survive. The shore erosion is notable, and seems to be the worst I've ever seen in the creek. The roots of the trees lining the shore are visible, and I wonder how many have fallen into the creek during the winter. I wonder what causes the erosion. Flooding from snowfall and winter precipitation? Wind? Is the erosion natural, and does it keep the ecosystem healthy? (Probably not, I think.) Or, is the erosion a negative effect of human actions and the degradation of the land surrounding the creek, which leads to storm water runoff?

I see no animals other than the single blue heron, which I only managed to catch a fleeting glimpse of. I can hear geese flying above and behind me. Some of the bare trees strike me—they are mostly white, except near the bottom where bark still covers. I can't tell what type of trees they are, as I search through the field guide. Uprooted trees have fallen over the dam, and downstream I notice trees are down everywhere. I wonder why so many have fallen—it almost looks as if a fierce storm ripped through just that spot. It looks like a site of destruction. Upstream, however, no trees are down.

On my bike ride home, I realize why I am so drawn to my particular spot. Water. The sounds of flowing, rushing, trickling water are incredibly soothing. Any anxiety or stress is suddenly washed away if I am near water—whether at my grandma's cottage on Lake Erie or at a beach house on the Outer Banks or canoeing in Brown Tract Pond in the Adirondacks—water has always somehow acted as a force that allows me to drift away.