Age 18, Stanford University Class: “The American Wilderness”
There are many places in this world which I consider very beautiful and special to me. The Rocky Mountains, for instance, with their breakneck rivers and sweet-smelling forests, are obviously gorgeous, and quite easy to fall in love with. But one place that is quite special to me is not at all breathtakingly beautiful at first sight. It is a small patch of wilderness called Stage’s Pond Nature Preserve, located in the heart of central Ohio’s farmland, only a few miles from my home. I spent last year in research there and know many of its creatures and moods. Here one has to seek out the beauty, for it hides in the small things, the charming, insignificant details.
The main feature of the preserve is the glacial kettle, a large, oval depression containing a shallow pond. My main job was to conduct a daily waterfowl survey of the fall and spring migrations through the pond. On a summer’s day, it is completely stagnant and serene—not a ripple in the water except for the occasional carp wriggling in shallow water, its slimy black body thrashing above the surface. The richly humid, humus smell of the pond permeates everywhere—the powerful sweetness of decay blending with the freshness of living things. It is surrounded by a ring of trees and thickets, lush and cool – a single maple tree blinks scarlet in July, alone in this crowd of green. On the far side, a row of dead cottonwoods dominates the shore, like the whitened skeletons of staunch soldiers acting as sentries for the woods behind. In their friendly branches the stately patriarchs of the pond, the great blue herons, gather at dusk to roost. Whenever any danger threatens, the herons’ ponderous flight and heavy “squonk” alerts the entire pond. But most of the time the herons merely scrutinize all that goes on with a wary eye, while waiting motionless for dinner to swim by. Beyond the trees around the pond stretches the grassland, rolling soft and furry like a huge golden animal begging to be stroked. Here are the weeds, many thousands of them; strong, surprisingly beautiful, self-reliant, almost cocky—they have no doubts that they belong. The woodland covers the ridge east of the grassland. A mass of muted greens in the summer, the woods slowly shapes into a patchwork of vibrant hues by October: gold, crimson, orange, scarlet, yellow, all blending smoothly into a soft explosion of color.
In the fall I spent many mornings at the preserve, often at sunrise. The cool gray light of dawn transformed everything it touched into a mystery. There is magic when a flock of Canada geese parades royally before the other ducks, their quiet flotilla breaking the smooth gray mirror of the water. Many mornings I listened to the soft chatter of the ducks breaking the damp silence, while they either lurked unseen in the fog or loomed from the mist as indistinct shadowy shapes. But if the sun shone, the sight of a mass of several hundred wood ducks seething restlessly before take-off was incomparable—a kaleidoscope of shining color and motion. On hazy mornings the entire sky was tinged a pastel pink, trees silhouetted against the eerie glow. Other dawns were outrageously extravagant—deep fuchsias, mauves, violets, oranges blazing indiscriminately across the sky. The early sun and the dew combined to sprinkle a fortune of diamonds over everything—coarse thistles and delicate morning glories both received their fair share. But of course, this was the glory of the spider, as every strand of their webs sagged with heavy, glistening drops that radiated in the sunshine. This time of morning the grasshoppers were still asleep—perched vertically on the goldenrods, cold and dormant, round eyes tightly closed, placidly waiting for the sun to melt the dew and warm the day. I usually arrived just as the red-winged blackbirds were waking up, filling the fields with a cheeky song, each one tenaciously clinging to a tall weed while it swung back and forth perilously under its weight. The blackbirds flashed their crimson epaulets in the sun as jauntily as newly decorated admirals.
My pond, as I call it, taught me to look for beauty in small things, like the fuzzy face inside a monkey-flower and the sight of wet foxtail grass in the sun. I learned to delight in color, in shape, in motion, in the feel and smell of what was around me—the silkiness of a velvet leaf, the graceful form of a dead tree, the smell of woods after rain, the vigorous splash of a red-headed woodpecker darting between trees. It doesn’t take much perception to admire the beauty of a place like the Rocky Mountains. But my pond has helped me to look for—and find—some of the precious, hidden beauty that surrounds us all.