Sandboarding – A Dramatic Interpretation

“I recognize your look of trepidation,” said Melissa, my travel writing instructor, as my classmates and I exchanged glances. Fresh from an all-too-brief explanation of how to sandboard, I realized that my face betrayed my inner concerns. I mean, who would willingly go careening down a sandy dune on a three-foot-long piece of wood that looks more like a giant popsicle stick than a form of transportation? Oh, that’s right – I would.

On a fateful summer day, Melissa led intrepid members of her travel writing class to Sand Master Park pro shop in Florence, Oregon, where we rented four sandboards and at least attempted to leave our cares behind us. The dunes called to us, and we answered the call – with a little fear, in my case.

The concept seemed simple. Strap onto the board, lean on your back leg, pick up some momentum and coast through the sand while maintaining some semblance of balance. As we arrived at Honeyman Memorial State Park, I repeated this mantra in my head.

At the base of a massive dune, I paused and glanced up at it. The sun, unusually conspicuous for the Oregon coast, beat down on the sand, causing the crystals to glitter. The top of the dune offered blue sky and a view of the nearby lake. It all seemed innocent enough.

Toting our newly-rented sandboards, my class and I made our way to the middle of a dune, deciding the height to be sufficiently challenging for our first sandboarding attempt. The view from our sandy perch both awed and intimidated, the steep incline of the sand looking slightly more insidious than desired.

My classmates plopped down in the sand and bravely strapped their boards to their feet. For a moment, we looked at each other, wondering who should be the first to risk ingesting a mouthful of sand. Then, one by one, the brave souls took the plunge and glided to the bottom of the dune.

“It’s your turn!” my boyfriend Mario announced after his successful trip down the hill, handing me his board expectantly. My time had come.

Board strapped securely to my bare feet, I stood, bending my knees and testing the stability of the contraption. Oh good, I thought, it has no stability whatsoever.

Finally, keeping in mind the successful ventures of my classmates, I inched forward into the sand and allowed myself to begin the treacherous descent. Images from my first year of snowboarding as a 13-year-old flashed into my head while I picked up speed.

One particular snowboarding memory stuck out, in which I took a headlong tumble down the bunny hill, flipping lengthwise and landing with my face planted in the snow. I had crashed so badly that someone from the ski lift above shouted down, “Are you alright down there?”

I answered by waving my gloved hand in the general direction of the voice, too embarrassed to remove my face from the snow and reveal my identity.

Luckily for me, sandboarding treated me kindly on my trial run. The coastal wind whipped my hair out of my face, and although I participated in some arm-swinging and leg-wobbling, I did not fall to a sandy doom. The addictive sensation of flying made me smile and forget to worry.

As for Melissa, she zoomed care-free down the dunes, crashing here and there but also experiencing the exhilaration of weightlessness that the cautious boarders (like me) sadly miss. In the end, our “trepidation” was unfounded, but perhaps its very existence drove us to challenge it with bravery.

Stop the Invaders

During my summer internship last year, my mentor Tania introduced me to the complicated world of invasive species.

“Oh look, it’s Clematis vitalba!” she would rattle off in a cheery tone during strolls around Oregon State University’s campus. Finding invasive species was like a scavenger hunt to her and she constantly amazed me with her encyclopedic knowledge of invasive plants.

Tania raised my awareness of the plants growing all around me. Suddenly, a simple cluster of English ivy in my dad’s backyard warranted great displays of pointing in alarm and shouting, “Hedera helix!” before savagely attacking the invader with a shovel.

Ever since my internship, I feel a continued sense of allegiance to the battle against invasive species. For example – during a walk through Eugene’s Buford Park with my travel writing class, clusters of invasive blackberries sparked my old fervor.

The forested hillsides and open fields of Buford Park, combined with the frequent visitation of hikers, make the land a perfect candidate for the establishment of invasive species. Nonnative plant seeds are easily spread on people’s shoes or gear when they are neglectful about cleaning up after a hike.

“We deal with false brome here, something that the state has recognized as a pretty scary invasive species,” said Jessica Allison, a volunteer coordinator for Friends of Buford Park.

Jessica explained that the Friends of Buford Park and Mt. Pisgah started in 1989, when visitors noticed a herd of cows grazing all over the fields of the park. This observation disturbed them, taking into account that cows are detrimental to native habitats.

Deciding to take action, the Friends of Buford Park and Mt. Pisgah formed a team, clearing out the cows and devoting themselves to restoring the natural habitat of the park. Now, The Friends concentrate their efforts on environment-restoring projects.

“We’re focusing on restoring oak savannah habitat,” Jessica explained. “Currently, the oak coverage is less than one percent of what it used to be.”

Invasive species contribute to some of this native upheaval. Oftentimes, when invasive species settle in, native plants are outcompeted and crowded out by their foreign adversaries. Plants like false brome, a nonnative quick-growing bunchgrass, easily overcrowd native grasses and leave little room for indigenous species to grow.

In order to get the area back to its original state, The Friends organize volunteer groups to help remove invasive species and properly maintain hiking trails. Jessica coordinates these events and she encourages people of all ages to participate in volunteer opportunities.

“We engage our community through volunteerism to create future stewards of the park,” Jessica said. “We want to show what it takes to take care of the land and how much fun that can be.”

In fact, the next volunteer opportunity is this Saturday, where volunteers will meet at the onsite native plant nursery. The nursery consists of indigenous plants grown from seeds collected in the Buford Park and Mt. Pisgah area. Volunteers nurture the seeds into growth and eventually, these plants are used to repopulate areas where invasive species are removed.

Jessica made the opportunity sound so interesting that I considered joining in on the invasive plant-bashing. Tania would be so proud.

Buford Park and Mt. Pisgah are southeast of the Eugene/Springfield area, off of I-5 by Exit 189 and Seavey Loop Drive. More information can be found at their website.

For the Birds

My first impressionable encounter with birds happened when I was growing up in the country. A flock of turkeys decided to take up residence near our house, in all their wing-flapping and gobbling glory. This apparently amused my dad, because he started feeding them birdseed, which forever branded our backyard/ forest area as a permanent restaurant for the turkeys.

Sometimes they were irritating, but most of the time they were just entertaining. When they would arrive, bickering and pecking at the ground, my parents and I would cluster around the window and watch them (I know, I had a super exciting childhood).

Admittedly, this encounter did not elevate turkeys to Ben Franklin status, but it left an impression on me. Their silly-looking movements and social interactions differed so greatly from those of mammals. It was easy to see how birds evolved from dinosaurs millions of years ago – sometimes birds can look strikingly prehistoric.

When I visited the Cascades Raptor Center on Saturday, I saw the incredible diversity inherent in the class Aves. Since it’s much easier to watch turkeys out the back window than come face-to-face with a bird of prey, my visit introduced me to a completely different kind of bird experience.

The center is set up to hold a vast menagerie of rescued birds, all in separate holding pens that fill out the perimeter and interior of the facility. Bald eagles, peregrine falcons and turkey vultures all perched calmly in their pens, wings outstretched and mouths open as they tried to combat the onslaught of the 90 degree weather. As a fellow warm-blooded mammal, I felt their pain.

As I journeyed through the center, using a map that allowed me to conduct a self-guided tour, I passed by a group of children who were attending a birthday party at the center. I hung back, smiling at their enthusiasm for the trainer and her owl. Later on, I listened as they dissected owl pellets and laughed over their discoveries.

My visit also brought me in contact with many varieties of owl, which hold a special place in my heart after I saw this video about a year ago. I don’t know what it is about them, but with their large, blinking eyes, aura of elegance and graceful pattern of flight, they may be my favorite bird. Particularly eye-catching was Archimedes the snowy owl, who politely disdained me throughout the duration of my visit.

The best thing about the Cascades Raptor Center, in my opinion, is that they only keep non-releasable birds, due to injury or human influence. Every time I visit a zoo or safari, I feel a sense of guilt because oftentimes the animals are being kept for no reason other than human entertainment. The concept of a rehabilitation center appeals to me because the birds are being rescued, still allowing people the benefit of seeing the beautiful creatures up close.

As I walked away from the last terrarium, I heard a flutter of wings behind me. Turning, I saw a red-tailed hawk gazing curiously at me, pressed right up against the wires of his enclosure. We studied each other for a moment and I realized how grateful I was that someone cared enough about this bird to save him. 

The Earlier the Better

 Although it pains me to admit this, I am not a morning person. I always have good intentions. I optimistically set the alarm for 7 a.m., cheerfully imagining all the things I’ll do with my morning. I hear the birds and their idealistic chirping as I picture myself sipping tea and basking in the glory of having the entire day ahead of me.

And then the alarm rings. Barely awake and still half-immersed in a dream about learning to tap dance, I scramble to my feet in a clumsy, frantic manner, swiping at my earsplitting cell phone in desperation. Half the time I end up knocking it on the floor, which is why it’s a miracle that my phone is still functioning. The other half of the time, I manage to hit the “dismiss” button (why is that even an option?) and end up sleeping until the absolute last second possible. So much for tea-sipping and glory-basking.

I often wish I would exercise a little more self-control, and here’s one reason why – shopping in the morning is divine. My recent excursion to the Lane County Farmer’s Market on Tuesday proved this to me.

I left my apartment at 9:20 in the morning and arrived downtown around 9:45 a.m. This may not seem early to most, but when it comes to shopping, I usually fail to get anywhere before noon unless someone is dragging me by the arm. The overhead clouds were starting to clear and the Farmer’s Market was also just beginning to stir with activity.

Usually when I attend events like this, the bustle of commerce is already in full swing and the commotion is somewhat overwhelming. The vendors barely have time to answer questions about their produce, let alone stop and chat. In the morning, that all changes.

When I approached a booth called “Berg’s Berries," I was greeted by the smiling face of Fanny Berg. Because of the slow morning pace, I talked with Fanny about her business and learned of her fondness for the Farmer’s Market.

“When it’s winter, I miss coming to the market,” she said, standing behind a colorful display of blackberries, strawberries and other brightly-colored fruits. “I’m friends with my customers and they even come to my house. We’re all very friendly, no pretention.”

Berg’s Berries come from an organic farm in Alvadore, Ore., where Fanny and her husband grow and harvest fruit during the summer and fall months. Before leaving the booth, I scored a complimentary strawberry, which tasted of perfection.

Encouraged by my first encounter, I moved on to Eugene City Bakery’s tent, where buttery pastries accosted me. A few customers lingered by the booth, choosing a roll here, a Danish there. Inspired, I jumped into the conversation.

“Which one is your favorite?” I asked of Alicia Sparks, who began working for Eugene City Bakery a few months ago.

“Probably the Schnecken,” she answered, gesturing to a hazelnut-laden, gooey pastry. The prospect was tempting, but after some deliberation, I selected a gigantic blueberry-peach scone.

Around 11 a.m., a crowd started to accumulate around the market, a more familiar sight to me than the lightly populated atmosphere from earlier. As I walked away, munching on my scone, I felt for just a moment like a morning person.