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The Enchanted Rock

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And so we climbed the Rock—the Enchanted, intriguing Rock. As we climbed, we left behind the sandy soil and evergreen Live Oak trees; the trail was a solid rock beneath our feet. We could pick our own path, like scampering mountain goats, exploring the rugged terrain. Island ecosystems of Prickly Pear and grasses defied the reality of growing on solid rock.

When we turned around, we could see how far we had already come, and the way to the top looked deceptively close in the bare expanse of rock.

The wind became so strong it took our breath away. It was hard to hear anyone talking, and we used our heavy adult-sized bodies to anchor us to the rock with each footstep. We wondered how a child would even be able to walk without being blown away. The steep upward climb was made harder with the incessant push of the wind, and sometimes we sat or lay on the rock just to get a bit of relief from the gale.

It was like a moonscape on the huge dome—craters and cracks and crevices, and there was a sense of just how ancient this rock-of-a-planet Earth is that we live on. Humbling.

As we neared the top, weathering pits filled with the previous night’s rainfall glimmered in the sunlight. The footprint-like craters have spawned myths about eternally wandering ghosts, but in reality, they are the probable reason for the ethereal glow on a moonlit night, which induced someone to name it ‘Enchanted Rock.’

The larger weathering pits that retain water for weeks are called vernal pools. These delicate ecosystems are pioneer communities that contain minute plants and animals that will develop over time into an oasis of life. Tiny fairy shrimp are found and studied here, and a moss-like plant named rock quillwort is unique to this environment.

As bits of soil, seeds, and small creatures build up in the vernal pools, over time it transforms into a little island of life—willows, grasses, yucca, and prickly pear cactus—shelter and food for wildlife who live on the Rock.

The view from the top of the Rock was stunning in all directions!

The geographical high point was marked by an official survey seal, and we marked our climb with an official high point selfie!

We walked toward a pile of huge boulders on the northeast side where there was a cave. We were below the summit enough to be out of the strongest wind. Two lizards were warming themselves on the south-facing rock—a Texas Spiny Lizard and a camouflaged Crevice Spiny Lizard. What cool creatures!

Some of us climbed into the cave—not to the crawl-on-your-hands-and-knees part—but through to a secret garden area where a couple of wind-swept, twisted-trunk trees grew.

After climbing out of the secret garden—and a few moments when I thought I may be stuck on Enchanted Rock for eternity—we began our descent.

We chose a different side of the rock to hike down—an area with huge cracks and large boulders scattered in random spots.

The dome of Little Rock shows the exfoliation caused by expansion and contraction of the rocks and how broken chunks of rocks slide down the side of the dome.

A rift of amber bluegrass and one of green, grew in the nearly vertical cracks as we climbed down Enchanted Rock.

Down from the dome, down to foliage, down to Earth.

Even though we didn’t see the vernal pools of water glowing in the moonlight, I understand why this place is called Enchanted Rock. It was unlike any place I had ever been before; it had a grounded, solid feel of ancient wisdom at the same time as an other-worldly, ethereal feel of life-affirming Spirit. The wind with all its power was mesmerizing. The sunshine sublime. The patches of plants growing on rock, enthralling. It is a place to base our lives on—the quest for body-regulating grounding wisdom and for exquisite, joy-filled Spirit. The challenging trek to the top of the Rock was individually fulfilling and profoundly enhanced by our experiencing it together. The very real yin and yang of our lives—these opposite forces that are complementary and interdependent. Our interconnected earthly-divine lives living on an enchanted rock.

For the first part of our Enchanted Rock adventure, go to At the Foot of the Rock.

At the Foot of the Rock

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I can see the light of a clear blue morning/ I can see the light of a brand new day/ I can see the light of a clear blue morning/ And everything’s gonna be all right/ It’s gonna be okay –Dolly Parton

There’s something to be said for being able to clearly see what lies before you, what your task is, even what path you will choose. The first time I heard about Enchanted Rock in the Hill Country of Texas was when our daughter Emily worked at The Outdoor School in Marble Falls. It sounded, well, enchanting—a huge dome of granite rock that bubbled up as magma a billion years ago, then slowly began eroding. It is a place that humans have camped at and called home for more than 12,000 years. There are stories and legends of spirits and sacred spaces from explorers and Native Americans and of how the mammoth rock glitters on clear nights with ‘ghost fires.’ I wanted to see it, and I wanted to climb to the top. Enchanted Rock is a small visual part of a huge underground area of granite called a batholith that covers one hundred square miles, so even what is unbelievably large is small compared to what lies unseen below it. The pink granite dome rises 425 feet above the base elevation of the park—like climbing stairs of a thirty to forty story building, and the people at the top looked like ants from our vantage point. Before climbing the granite dome, we explored around the other environments at the base of the rock—the floodplain, Mesquite grassland, and Oak woodland. It had rained the night before, so the shallow creek-bed was flowing with clear water and home to a great-looking snake.

Like all the places we had visited in Texas, I was amazed at how the prickly pear cactus occupied such diverse environments and how some of the trees still wore their green leaves.

One of the unusual sights for me was a ball of green Mistletoe in a bare tree. The tradition of kissing under the Mistletoe began with the ancient Greeks, as the evergreen plant with its shining white berries symbolized fertility. Now it has become a tradition/decoration of the Christmas season. It is a parasitic plant that sends its roots into the wood of a branch and usurps water and nutrients from the tree. A heavy infestation of Mistletoe can cause dying of branches or death of a tree.

Another plant that is sometimes thought to be a parasite is Ball Moss, seen as the gray balls in the Oak trees below. They are actually epiphytes—plants that live on other plants, but absorb water and nutrients through their leaves from the air. These ‘air plants’ anchor themselves to the bark of a tree with tendrils. Some arborists believe the tendrils can strangle a branch, and eventually kill a tree, but it is very common to see a tree full of Ball Moss with their pokey seed pod stalks. ( I like how the Prickly Pears poked their ‘heads’ out of the grass in this picture.)

Yucca plants with their tall stalks of seed pods grow among the Prickly Pears, grasses, and rocks.

In fitting attire for our after-Christmas hike was the colorful fruit of the Desert Christmas Cactus, sometimes called Pencil Cactus because of the slender leaves.

In the millions of years of erosion, exfoliation of layers of rocks has tumbled down the side of the dome into piles at the foot of Enchanted Rock.

Miniature ecosystems form on and below the rocks where moisture is a bit more abundant…

…and where tiny, viney yellow-flowering plants survive in a crack between rocks, perhaps blooming in response to the recent rain.

The ecosystem at the foot of E-Rock is hard and harsh with the masses of granite rocks and cacti, and yet at the same time, there is a softness and flexibility in the flowing water, the swaying grasses, and the carpets of delicate moss that cover the rocks in the floodplain.

This impressive granite rock, with its long history of geological wonder and spiritual acclaim, attracts people to stand at the foot of the rock in awe of what lies before them. There are times in our lives when we stand in such awe looking forward in our lives—at graduations, at weddings, at funerals, at the births of children, and then again when those children leave the nest. What we see at those times is small compared to what lies unseen in the life-altering tasks before us. Perhaps naivete and enthusiasm are the glasses we need to look through in order to propel us through the droughts, the prickly places, and the hard times. Dolly sings about those long, hard nights, the long hard fights, and the “clinging vines that had me bound.” The largest and most enchanting rock that lies before us is not anything that happens in our external world, but that which happens within us. It’s time to explore. It’s time to face the daunting task of noticing the stories and legends we carry in our hearts. It’s time to eradicate the parasitic thoughts that are killing our souls. There’s something to be said for being able to clearly see what lies before you, what your task is, even what path you will choose. And through it all, we look forward to seeing the light of a clear blue morning and a brand new day. Everything’s gonna be all right. It’s gonna be okay.

Cultivated Nature–Olives and Beer

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As I’m writing this, it is ten below zero in Minnesota, and we are still cleaning up seven inches of snow from the past couple of days.  So, it is with a look to the past and a look towards the future that I bring you this post about a very warm, sunny December day in the Hill Country of Texas.  The word ‘cultivate’ is derived from a Latin word meaning ‘to care for.’  It means preparing the land to raise crops, promoting growth of a plant or crop by labor and attention, producing a product by culture, and developing or improving by education or training.  All of these definitions were incorporated into our day.  Twenty-six miles west of Austin is the Texas Hill Country Olive Company!  I didn’t know olives grew in Texas!  When we showed up for our morning tour (of which we were uncharacteristically the only ones!) we learned about the history of olives, the trees, the land, the processing, and of course, olive oil.  This family-owned business began in 2008 on seventeen acres of land with perfect conditions for growing olives: the land is sloped for good drainage, the soil is alkaline from the limestone rocks, the windy weather helps with pollinating, and the climate is warm.

We entered the Italian villa-style building to friendly greetings and the delicious smell of freshly-baked bread.  A small cafe occupied one side and a tasting room and gift shop the other.  The manufacturing and bottling of the olive oil happens in the back of the building—a much smaller area than I would have guessed for processing all the olives from this orchard and a much larger orchard in southern Texas.

Table olives and oil olives come from different varieties of Olive trees, and olive oil has different tastes and notes depending on the variety and the processing.  We were instructed to drink a small amount of five types of olive oil to discern the differences.  Each gave me a tickle in the back of my throat and some made me cough—which I found out was a good thing in the world of quality olive oil!  The most surprising one had an aftertaste of bananas!  They also had an amazing array of balsamic vinegars that we tasted on chunks of bread—so good!

Olive trees, called the tree of eternity, grow slowly and have been cultivated for over 6,000 years.  There are many sacred connotations of the Olive in the Bible, and victors of Olympic games in ancient Greece were awarded a crown of olive branches.  The Olive branch is a symbol of peace and an offer of reconciliation.

When the fruit is fully mature, nets are put under the tree, and the fruit is gently raked off the branches, then put into these crates.  The fruit is too bitter to be eaten off the tree.  Processing takes place quickly after harvest.  Olives for oil and black table olives are dark purplish-black when mature and harvested, but table olives can be picked when immature, while they are still green.  All have to be cured before eating.

Olive trees are evergreen with leathery gray-green leaves, silvery on the underside, and can live for several hundred years.  They bloom in late spring with small, white flower clusters.  A tree must be fifteen to twenty years old to produce a worthwhile crop, and some will produce for hundreds of years.

Peace puts forth her olive everywhere.  –William Shakespeare

After our Olive Company tour and tasting, we rested on the veranda in the warm sun and breeze, watching the wispy clouds and talked about the next stop of our day—the brewery.

Just down the road from the Olive Company is Jester King Brewery.  The limestone and tin buildings, the Live Oak trees, and the limestone walls and paths evoke a farmplace feel, and in fact, they call themselves a Farmhouse Brewery.  Their farmhouse ales are a ‘product of the land,’ unique to the time of year, the plants used, and even the people who work there.  They use foraged plants, local fruits and vegetables, native yeasts and bacteria, well water, and local grains.  The setting at the Brewery was like we were at a backyard gathering—picnic tables under the Oak trees, yard games, live music, wood-fired pizzas and beer, kids, dogs, and grandmas.  

The people of Jester King Brewery embody the word ‘cultivate.’  On their 165 acres, they are working the land to grow raspberries, grapes, hops (the tall poles below is where the hops will grow), and other crops to use for their beers.  They promote natural improvement of soil using cover crops and a fertilizer ‘tea’ made from old bones, aged molasses, goat manure, and beer.  They culture their sour beers with airborne yeast and bacteria or cultured wild yeast and bacteria from local plants.  They give brewery and farm tours to share their knowledge and passion for producing beer in an organic and unique way.  

 

We had such an interesting day learning about the cultivation of olives and beer-making crops and the process of making olive oil and farmhouse ales.  It was evident how both family-run businesses cared deeply for the land, the trees and crops, the process by which they produced their product, and the experience of the people who came to share in their livelihood.  It was a labor of love and love of the labor and attention to their craft.  Both places were peaceful, where we felt at home in their world, where time slowed and worries melted away.  An oasis of sorts, where we were away from the news of the day, the rancor of them vs us, and the ever-present, pervasive pull of the screen.  So what kind of place do we cultivate in our day-to-day lives?  What do we care for?  What do we give our labor and attention to?  How do we promote growth and development of ourselves and others?  What kind of culture is fermenting in our hearts?  How do we promote peace?  We each have the responsibility to cultivate our own lives and to be in community with those around us.  What does the farmplace of your life look and feel like?  

Hope and Renewal After the Fire

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There have been more than a few times in my life when I felt like I was in a burning house—that feeling of helplessness, of betrayal, of feeling stuck in a room of flames.  And even more times when I felt like I was sleepwalking, wandering too close to the fire without even knowing the danger.  Perhaps that is life and what we are here to do—“to take what’s lost and broke and make it right.”*

It was shocking to see the devastation from the Bastrop Complex Fire of 2011 at Bastrop State Park in Texas—I can’t imagine what it was like just after the fire.  Yet, in the midst of the ruins from the fire were signs of resilience, new growth, and renewal.  Cheery red yaupon berries nestled among shiny green leaves contrasted with the burnt black bark of a Loblolly Pine tree.

In one fertile area of our hike, the new Pines were swiftly growing under the tall ghost trees that hadn’t survived the fire and one that had.  It was already looking ‘forest-like’ in this part of the park.

Along with the devastation was the hopeful new growth of Pines and Oaks.

The December day was warm and sunny, perfect for hikers and a little lizard crawling through the fallen leaves.

Replanting of the drought-hardy Loblolly Pines began in January 2013.  Volunteers and contractors have planted two million pine seedlings since that time and will continue to plant  in order to get a “mosaic of tree ages” as the forest re-grows.

This bright, tight growth of young pines probably originated from the fallen cones (seeds) of these survivors.  Often a threatened tree will produce an inordinate number of seeds to compensate for loss or potential loss of mature trees.

I admired these two survivors and wondered what had saved them from the mighty flames of the wildfire.  How were they spared?

Another tall survivor obviously sustained damage, but had a crown full of healthy needles and seed-laden cones.

A striking visual in the flooded valley (four years after the wildfire) was the color of the winter grasses.  One of the ongoing ways to curb erosion in the park after the fire was the application of a hydromulch—a slurry of straw, water, and native grass seed.  Normally these grasses would not grow in the shade of a forest, but they will stabilize the soil while the trees and native understory grow to repopulate the forest.

I caught a glimpse of a grasshopper in the grassy valley.

Even after the repeated devastation of fire and flood, pine seedlings were growing in the desolation.

One of the most interesting things we saw on our hike—that could easily have been missed if I wasn’t looking down—was a trail of ants carrying yaupon leaves.  The hiking trail was sandy and wide, so the line of green leaves, like sails on little red ships, readily stood out in the afternoon sun.  These are Texas Leaf-cutting ants, native to East Texas.  They collect plant material to bring back to their colony in order to build a fungi farm.  This fungi is their only known source of food.  Colonies house up to two million ants, so they can be extremely destructive to pine seedlings, citrus plants, agricultural crops, and landscape ornamentals.  They can strip a small to medium tree overnight!  The line of ants and leaves was as far as I could see on both sides of the trail.

We hiked through an section of the park that was not so intensively damaged by the fire—many scorched trees were still alive.  There were more Oak trees in this hillside area, and the path was strewn with acorns—food for the animals being re-established in the park and potential trees for the future.

Someone had built a rock cairn along the trail.  Many are used for ornamental purposes nowadays, but at one time, they were markers for navigation or memorial purposes.  Many remote hiking trails rely on cairns to mark which way the hiker should go, and many indigenous, sacred sites are marked with cairns.  Rock balancing art has its place, but many agree that it goes against the principle of Leave No Trace.

One of the loveliest signs of hope was a teeny tiny pine seedling growing in the debris of a fallen log.  Nature is the master of re-birth.

 

In the burning houses of our lives, how do we take the lost parts, the broken parts, the parts that keep us up at night and make them right?  How do we stop walking so close to the dangerous flames, even when it feels like the only thing we know how to do?  The aftermath can be devastating.  In the midst of the ruins, we are in shock, in disbelief.  How in God’s name did this happen?  In our disorientation, we may notice the survivors, the ones still standing.  The survivors sustained damage, too, but for some reason they are more resilient, and they are the beacons of hope.  It is the survivors and the empathetic helpers and the paid professionals who can work together to hold back the erosion of despair and plant the new seeds necessary for renewal.  We need a helping hand while we re-group and gather our wits and our strength.  We need cairns of caring people to honor what we have been through and show us the way to new growth and new life.  Nature (and Nature in us) is the master of re-birth, and we (and Mother Nature) need a helping hand in the aftermath of devastation—that’s how we make it right.

 

 

*from ‘Burning House’ by Jeff Bhasker, Tyler Johnson, and Cameron Ochs