Beaver pond below horse bridge on Upper Rattlesnake
Taken by Taylor Tewksbury
"It smells like butterscotch."
After an afternoon of Nordic skiing in the Rattlesnake, I collapsed across the carpet of my new room. With a phone pressed to my ear, I attempted to describe the smell of the forest air to a friend back east.
"Or maybe it's Vanilla. I can't quite put my finger on it."
When I moved to Missoula in December of 2019, I was surrounded for the first time by forests of ponderosa pine. Mixed with the scent of fresh snow, the smell of ponderosas was novel. Yet, it triggered an oddly familiar instinct to pause. Growing up in upstate New York, I rarely disobeyed the gentle command of a mountain breeze to stop mid-trail.
"Just breath," it seemed to whisper.
As a reward, the breeze offered the aroma of balsam fir, which was simultaneously sharp and sweet as it filled my nose. Skiing through the ponderosas of Rattlesnake, I realized I was inhaling a forest rooted a thousand miles from the trees of my youth. And while I heeded that familiar urge to pause, I was still a stranger in this place.
Since moving to Montana, I've been preoccupied with the idea of "finding home" in a landscape. Exploring new trails, it initially felt strange to be surrounded by plants I did not recognize. Where were the sugar maples? Where were the oak? While I was in awe of Montana's beauty, nostalgia had taken root somewhere deep in my stomach. When I began my graduate studies at UM in 2021, I suddenly found myself surrounded by people who shared my curiosity towards the subject. In a course on restoration ethics, we discussed the force behind emotions as powerful as nostalgia for place. However, due to their highly personal nature, these conversations about person-place relationships yielded more questions than answers. What does it mean to be "from" a place? An what does it mean to know it? Can we still build meaningful relationships with landscapes we weren't born to? What does it mean to be home?
In her 2013 book, Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Kimmerer offers her own answers to form meaningful relationships with our landscape, Kimmerer (2013) challenges readers to "live as if we were staying" (p.207). She challenges us to exercise a mindset of commitment.
Since the beginning my internship with WEN this semester, "finding home" has become weekly trips to Rattlesnake Creek. On crisp mornings, "finding home" is a walk (read: skate) up the icy trail that leads to the new beaver dam. It is a crumpled photo survey protocol fished from my jacket pocket. It is an observation scribbled by frozen fingers. Through this exercise in commitment, I've witnessed the beaver dam transform through the seasons, adding layers to my relationship with the creek. In January, I saw skins of ice form across mossy boulders. I watched water rush over piles of sticks and branches—a food cache submerged by some sharp-toothed engineers. In February, that same water disappeared under a foot of snow. In March, the pool above the dam was revealed by the warming sun. I grinned upon noticing the pair of Canada geese that had returned to float. Through the noise of discordant honks, I caught the sound of a kingfisher chattering down the stream corridor. A couple of weeks ago, I watched intently as two American dippers flitted through a courtship display. The female was unimpressed. Now, as the end of the semester nears, I return each week to see another rock has been overcome by the rising water of spring. These visits to the dam have become a valued breath.
Despite the stress it induces, I have graduate school to thank for my experience with WEN. I first learned about WEN at a tabling event during the Environmental Studies program. After speaking with Deb about the organization’s dedication to citizen science, I was quickly hooked. That fall, I spent several Sundays out with stream team, back arched over ice cube trays of macroinvertebrates. Gripping a plastic spoon in one hand, and wielding a pipet in the other, we chased mayflies in circles around a white tub of stream water. The larvae navigated the little habitat far more gracefully than our clumsy human instruments could, evading the pull of the pipet with their incredible (and at times frustrating) ability to cling.
“Mayfly!”
“Stonefly!”
“Platyhelminthes!”
We rejoiced as another flatworm was spotted in the stringy organic debris. Surrounded by this community of citizen scientists, with each new identification, I felt like less of a stranger in this forest.
While I’ve learned the names of bugs and welcomed the birds of spring, I know my connection to this place must continue to grow. My family does not have historic ties to this landscape. I will never know the deep relation fostered through the time-old stewardship of this stream. However, my internship with WEN has helped me feel at home amongst the trees of Rattlesnake. All I can do is continue to learn about this place, forming a meaningful relationship with it in the process. In doing so, I hope to be able to care for the landscape that has welcomed me in. So, as I pull on my backpack and head towards the dam this morning, I am grateful to WEN (and the beavers) for allowing me to continue this exercise of “finding home.” As I walk down the trail, I pause and am surrounded by the scent of butterscotch.
Or maybe it’s vanilla?
Kimmerer, R. W. (2013). Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants. Milkweed Editions.
