One of Those Days

     I once read a book that kept changing its perspectives; just as I was settling into a narrator's perspective, I was jarringly shot backward or forward in time into a different perspective and a different narrator, and I had to begin putting the pieces together all over again. My English teacher called this great literature. I called it a royal pain in the ass. A matter of perspective, I suppose.
     The perspective part is what's key here. This blog is written by four different interns, and when we work in a group, we all share different takeaways; we remember different victories, different trials, nettles of pride and determination with each expedition. Thusly, when combined, I suspect we make a quirky sense of a whole. Today's post is a combination of perspectives. 

     Today, we took our canoes down the French Broad River to collect garbage left by litterers. After our very exciting adventure of collecting nets, and tires, and cans, and bottles, we made our way back up the French Broad. After five minutes of realizing that paddling wasn't taking us anywhere up the current, it was decided we'd walk the canoes up the rest of the way until we crossed back to the office on the other side. I've never been so tired in my life. --Sami

     Today, Eric tasked us with cleaning a tributary of the French Broad just downstream from our new offices; Emma creek. We set off from the boat launch that we'd built the day before and set off. We landed on the debris caught on the blocked trestle (dead possum, anyone?) before attenting to our primary project. All of this was relatively routine and uneventful; the real challenge came when we tried to turn around and make our way back upstream.
     After nearly flipping on the first rapid at the mouth of Emma, we pulled our boats to the bank and tried to approach the problem by tugging the boats along the edge of the water. We eventually had to combine all four of us to one boat or bail water out after nearly capsizing. After a strenuous hour and a half, we finally reach the end of the stretch that had been a ten minute float downstream, and hauled our laden boats onto the launch where we'd begun.
     And the day was barely half over. --Connor S.

     Personally, I think Eric gets a kick out of shaping us interns by sending us on projects that stick us between a rock and a hard place, knowing full well we can probably handle it. River cleanups I know; wear chackos, be prepared to get wet, and rip as much trash out of the river as we can to fill our canoes. Usually, that's pretty straightforward; we just float on downstream. Today not so much.
     The four of us pushed off from our beach at the office and floated for the Norfolk Southern trestle south of us; Styrofoam, bottles, a tube (still good enough for a float), and a dead possum that we didn't know what to do with. After that, we hauled out tires and bumped over a rapid into Emma, where we started hauling out tire shingles, tires screwed to what was left of an old bridge, pieces of a pipe, pliwood, and evermore tires.
     Walking upstream is hard enough when the French Broad is low; it's rocky, with sandbars, undercurrents, and random dropoffs, not to mention the snapping turtles we saw sliding into the water as we scrambled up the side. We ducked under trees, spiders crawling in our hair and and floundered in the deep ends with the canoes floating full of trash behind us. Getting past the rapid almost flipped one of our boats, and I had to backtrack to help them haul it through the first bit.
     Before we started, we had well established the trestle was a big problem; how do we get past fast flowing water between bridge supports if we can't get past a rapid three inches tall? The answer lies in engineers. When they built the bridge, they left a ledge about three inches wide three and a half feet underwater, out of sight. That's how we got past the bridge; we couldn't walk between the supports because the water had carved out the bottom, but one of us standing in front on that three inch walkway and another pushing behind with two paddling, we hauled through those rapids, dragged over a rock, beneath a sleeping bag, over a deep end, and then we cut across back to our beach.
     I love engineers, but walking upstream is a trip either way. --Julia

Discovery on the Hominy Creek

      Tuesday, June 4

began with a regular scout of Hominy Creek. Eric Bradford, volunteer leader Bob Ruddy and I set out that morning intending to determine whether an upper section of Hominy Creek was passable for volunteer groups. This didn’t turn out to be a hard question to answer. After hauling our boats up onto a steep bank and back down to avoid a rocky impasse, being forced to stop in multiple places to saw away at fallen trees blocking our way, drifting through a construction site, and getting stuck on a pipe built straight across the river, not only were we all sure this was not suitable for less experienced volunteers, Bob and I were practically begging Eric to call it quits when possible. By three o’clock, we were barely halfway through the section with the worst ahead of us and no foreseeable way out until we could manage to reach the Hominy Creek River Park much later that night.

      Imagine our surprise, then, when our adventure was interrupted by the sight of a rail-thin calf shifting uneasily along an eroded bank. I thought little of it until Eric said, “Well, looks like we may be saving a calf today.” This gave me an unsure glimmer of hope; I thought maybe this would just be another delay, dragging out our excursion even further, but there was also the chance this could be my escape.

      We climbed up the bank onto the pasture above and Eric checked the GPS on his phone, and realized that, against all odds, this was in fact the property of Mike Crowell, with whom he was well acquainted. Eric called Mike, beginning a short wait which I chose to occupy by fretting over whether one of the cows in the pasture would hear the calf’s whimpers and feel the need to “protect” it at our expense. Fortunately, the farmer came before too long to haul the the calf up the bank by its ears. We all hopped into his truck, I with the calf straddled across my lap, and left.

      According to the farmer, the calf had most likely been born the day before, had never eaten, and would have died the next day. However, he said he would be able to get the calf some formula and save it. Eric did let us call it a day; even so, it was already 5:00. As we were leaving, Eric remarked it may be a while before he ate beef again.

Got Tree?

Today, a three year old asked me what environmentalism was, and I told him that it was like keeping his room tidy, restoring things to a better sense of order, cleaning up the messes made by the use of the land, and maintaining that tidiness. The thing is, 'environmentalism' -as we like to call it- is a messy, fiery, grueling process with a definition that is different for every individual. But you can't explain that to a three year old.

As for those of us that aren't three, what is environmentalism? Is it sitting in a hundred year old redwood as loggers look on; buying organics at the grocer's store or choosing energy star products (tax benefits included); maybe it's a bunch of dirty hippies who don't use deodorant (and should) protesting business deregulations that encourage foreign business investments. Either way you slice it, Environmentalism is the study of the use of the world's resources.

For me, that means conserving, reusing, and carefully allocating new resources. But then again, I was raised by recovering hippies who have only just begun to be respectable middle class citizens. Environmentalism has very gritty, dirty images included in my definition; raw sapling trees dripping mud on my hands as I scramble up a riverbank and plant it, tires pressing raw edges against my shoulders as I slip and slide through mud, and the smell of compost in local lunchrooms (believe it or not, someone does actually sort those, and it's usually me).

So whether you're an environmentalist or not, I strongly advise that you plant a tree. Maybe in your back yard, perhaps in that abandoned lot next door, or even in front of your offices to spruce things up in the spring. It doesn't make you an environmentalist, but it does put you on the side of the land, and defines you as a champion for free oxygen (which trees produce for me and you) - Conor 

On Digging Holes...

     The thing about holes is that they tend to fill up, whether it be with dirt, rock, litter, or in today's case, mud. One of my projects this week was a tree-planting at our soon to be offices, with hole-digging and planting staggered over a few days, and the rain decided to cooperate by pro-actively filling my nicely dug spot to the brim with water.

     Mud slogging, finger digging, jean-staining mess ensued, with one dogwood in the ground and a redbud waiting to be planted. Word of advice: don't plant a tree in a hole filled with water. They don't like it that much, and good luck trying to bail that sucker out. So, when you dig a hole, fill it quickly, before mother nature finds some nefarious purpose for it that's probably pretty messy.

     Now, if you happen to dig yourself a hole and have no intention of filling it, then don't count yourself lucky yet; water does not count as proper filling, and it'll take years of filling before it's done.

     In other words, if you're going to plant a tree, do it like these guys, in the sunshine. 

Eric Bradford (Volunteer Coordinator & all around awesome guy) & Win Southworth (long-time volunteer) planting a tree.

The Ruckus Ensues

     Being an intern has the unique ability to suck, enlighten, demean, and inspire its victim. That being said, I highly recommend it to anyone considering the possibility of interning. The experiences and skills learned as an intern are irreplaceable, and the responsibility provides an insight with which to study one's self. But that's a lot of fluff and introspective that no one really cares about.

     There are three of us interning with Asheville GreenWorks -a 501(c)3 environmental non-profit located in Asheville, North Carolina-, and we all three have different views, but here is mine: it's a very dirty job, and we do it for a great cause.

     As interns, we're involved in all the GreenWorks things, (Curious?) but we're also there behind the scenes at board meetings, sitting round tables brainstorming fund raisers, and staying after cleanups to repair broken tools and sort the bags of trash. This blog -in theory- is a way for us to talk to you, but also a way for us to reflect on just what it is we're doing everyday, because when you're down and dirty in the muck, it's kind of hard to see the garden you've been planting. Or whatever it is we're planting; at this rate, it must be one monstrous garden.