Nature, Philosophy
There are several creeks that crisscross my city, rumbling under bridges during the rainy season and trickling through the cracks between neighborhoods. On the way to the park by my house I cross one such bridge and peer down into the water—it flows fast and high, still full of water from the storm we had a few weeks ago. Grapevines hang from oak branches and ivy spills down into the water. Few native plants live here, but I appreciate its overgrow wildness. It’s wild even here, in the middle of the city, just a few blocks from downtown. Often unhoused neighbors find shelter here, ignoring the city’s trespassing signs. There are hiding spots among the exposed roots of the trees that cling to the banks that try to keep the soil from washing away.
Just another couple blocks south is the park. It’s shaped like an arrowhead–baseball parks in the back narrowing into a long field and a dog park, and then the children’s playground at the peak. Surrounding the park are two creeks and they converge at the point of the arrowhead.
To get into the park you have to cross another of these bridges. The bridge is old and has been closed to cars, leaving an abandoned parking lot on the park side to rewild with weeds and grasses growing from expanding cracks in the asphalt. The water under this bridge is slower, eddying and pooling at the bottom of the steep banks. There’s a bike down there in the still water—a teenager’s Mongoose with no wheels, handlebars, or seat.
I’d never ventured down into the creek here, on account of the steep banks and the trespassing signs, but my daughter and I went exploring around the edges of the park last week and discovered that on the opposite side, hidden behind the playground, was a mini beach right on the bank.
We had so much fun stepping across the rocks and balancing on logs, exploring in and over the water. She wore her crocks and didn’t mind getting a little wet. We watched pond skippers and played the Plop game (who can make the most ploppy plop noise by dropping a rock into the pools? Try different size rocks and different throws. You’ll be amazed by the variety!)
It was incredible getting to feel so immersed in nature—no car noises, or even people. It felt like a secret place, hidden as we were by the steep, ivy-covered banks. And all this glistening, wet wealth right in my backyard!
But I was stunned by the amount of trash we found in that short stretch of creek—clothes, a colander, bottles, cups, shoes. I vowed that we would return next time and bring a trash bag. And we did. Armed with rainboots and gloves, I climbed down the steep bank and pulled that Mongoose out, as well as a laptop, a phone battery, a tennis racket, glass bottles, a shoe, a belt from Gap, some clothes, and various plastic wrappers until my bag filled up and got heavy enough that I had to struggle up that bank, the Mongoose over my shoulder. (I got rust splattered all over my clothes. Next time I will be wearing my work pants.)
I’ve been thinking a lot about littering, why I don’t litter, why some people do. I remember the last time I littered. I brought a tinfoil-covered dish to a potluck and while driving down the highway with the windows down, enjoying the spring air, the wind picked that tinfoil up and sucked it right out the window. That was a year ago. I still think about it—the fight or flight moment of panic trying to figure out if I needed to brake hard and go back and get it or just keep driving. My daughter in the back seat screaming that we littered and then both of us laughing so hard at how silly it had been to watch, helpless, as the wind carried away our tinfoil. It was long gone by then, pirouetting over the lanes of highway and probably ended up in a bush somewhere.
Outside of wind sabotage, I try really hard to leave no trace, pack out what I pack in, and track down my wrappers and escaped garbage. I feel this most acutely in wild and beautiful places. They deserve to stay wild and beautiful. Garbage belongs in the trash. It’s as simple as that. The discussion of consumption and humanity’s garbage problem can be saved for another day, but I think delving into why people do or do not litter is important.
I remember once waiting on a curb for a bus and a candy wrapper landed right in front of me. It had fallen out the window of an idling bus, so I picked it up and handed it back to the candy-eater. “Oops! You dropped this!”
I was absolutely shocked when she looked me straight in the face and threw it onto the ground. For the second time. I realized that she had thrown it out on purpose the first time.
I think like a lot of problems, we can blame poverty, and by extension, a lack of education. That education not only being in a classroom, but in the wild, learning to really see these wild places. Really see them. I mean getting on your hands and knees to get closer to a fungi you’ve never met or stick your hand in loamy Idaho potato farmland or lying under a tree as the wind moves the branches and sunshine skips across your skin. Those are the kinds of experiences that have made me feel connected to wild places, to the earth, and even myself. That connection has grown into a love for wild and beautiful places, even for urban places where gardens and trees still grow and creeks travel through the cracks of cities. I would never want to pollute these places with garbage. Why would I try to make this beautiful world uglier?
My education in littering is ongoing. I spent a day picnicking at a beach with my daughter and a partner. She dropped a piece of salami in the sand, which none of us then wanted to eat. It sat abandoned beside our picnic as we packed up. I figured the seagulls would eat it, and that was that. But my partner saw it, snatched it up, and shoved it, sand and all, in a bag somewhere. “We’ve got to make sure we leave no trace!”