Writings

Matt Williams

eaving camp, we negotiate roads crooked as question marks, passing houses recently buckled by frequent and unregulated mining blasts.  We turn and cross over a one-lane concrete bridge, onto a slightly wider road that follows Buckhorn Creek, one equally lacking in straightness.  The trip begins to reduce my spirits as we pass menial family plots of corn positioned next to trailers.  Every remaining slope and ridge is overrun with kudzu, an exotic, strangulating vine, and every curve seems to have at least one wooden cross signifying another lost member of the community.  In all reality, the fashioned wood and fresh flowers stand in remembrance of a loved-one lost to an accident with an overloaded coal truck—sickeningly commonplace in this region.  I’m riding in the front seat of Erik Reece’s pickup—Erik is one of two directors of the University of Kentucky run Summer Environmental Writing Program (SEWP), a professor of English and current Writer in Residence for his eye-opening of strip mining in Lost Mountain.  Our destination is the Flint Ridge Mine, an active strip-job site owned and operated by International Coal Group (ICG). 

More specifically, we’re headed for the island of exotic grasses and headstones, located in Breathitt County, that is Flint Hill Cemetery. The other two, fellow students, are all squished knees and close bonding in the back as we turn up a gravel road to the mine.  There is something totally inexplicable about driving into the teeth of an active strip mine, something that suppresses the psyche and dampens the soul.  It is hard to find words or even thoughts when passing through high-walls not yet felled by blasting agents, right past guard trailers and god-sized moving equipment.  It’s almost as if you have to take a deep breath and hold it—fearful that if you let it out too soon, you might not find another.  All signs of life vanish.  The dust from the heavily traveled roads covers the surrounding trees, swathing all notions of green, budding life.  I notice a lone black-eyed-Susan free of dust—the only break in a monotone world of gray.

As the pickup wraps around a mountain of coal waiting to be hauled, the nearly nonexistent contours of land give way to the first glimpse of the cemetery.  Perched on top of a small rise, Flint Hill cemetery seems to float, along with it’s modest white chapel, in a torrent of land degradation. There is reason for this.  In Kentucky, law states that a coal company cannot strip mine within 300 yards of a cemetery.  Even so, I couldn’t imagine visiting those that I had loved here.  Apart from the cemetery, there is nothing that resembles the previous Appalachian landscape.  The biological population has been replaced by over-loaded coal trucks and bulldozers—a ll traveling dusty roads woven through the area like track marks.  On the lower left side of the cemetery, work has begun on a sediment pond—an impoundment area where waste coal is dumped, eventually filling with water and becoming hazardous.  The cemetery’s cumbersome sense of solitude seems almost as if god scooped all the earth from around this very place, leaving it and it alone as a forever ingrained image of tragedy.  But I know well enough that man scarred this topography, not god.

The road twists and we follow its hard right turn, and then up.  Erik parks his truck alongside the church; ideas form words in my brain, but a locust of shock stuck in my throat keeps them from manifesting on my tongue.  The entire surrounding environment is a wasteland.  The apocalyptic scene hits with the force of a Louisville Slugger in my chest—I know my dreams will be haunted.  As we approach the gate of a place far too sacred, too personal to take root where it does, I feel an unfounded sensation building—something beyond surreal, tickling rage and weighing heavy in my stomach, like iron.  It is at this moment—just before the latch is thrown and I enter—that I can almost hear cries, the screams of centuries, of lost loved ones and lost children.  They all seem to be saying the same things, “Why?  Why when we lie in peace do we lie amid the ruins of our own land?”  The dragline has no answer; neither do the soulless coal barons writing the checks in offices of mahogany and leather; neither do I. 

The same sensation that washed over me upon entering the mine hits me again as I cross the threshold of what is profit and what is priceless, into the grasses of the cemetery.  Although I know none of the people who lay final claim to this ground, I feel an obligation to listen, as quietly as possible, for their cries of woe.  There are many Millers here; it might be their original family plot.  So I take some time with each headstone I come to:

Elsbert Miller—April 2, 1920-May 2, 1920

Anie Miller—April 28, 1926-April 28, 1926

Janet Miller—1931-1933

Lucy Miller—1912-1944

John D. Miller—1889-1930

Haney M. McIntosh—1847-1945

Linvill McIntosh—1910-1920 “he is notded, but sleeping”

I think about the birthdates and the expirations.  I think about what a person might be doing if he or she hadn’t succumbed to the call of death before his or her time.  I wonder how many the mines took, how many died in the face of poverty and those who saw so little, if any life, and I am saddened.

Then, as if I expect the answers to be written in the sky or on the horizon, I look out to see what the headstones see.  In the distance I make out the high-wall of Robinson Forest—both the reason for which I find myself in this place and the reason for the steady rumble and beeping over my shoulder.  Yet I don’t see any answers.  I see a distance far too large between where my feet meet terra firma and one of the largest contiguous forests in the southern United States begins.  The reason for this expanse is mining, and moreover, half-hearted and failed reclamation.  A mining company is required by law to reclaim or restore an area after it has taken all the coal.  Since these companies are in the business of business, they find the most cost-efficient means available.  What this equates to for the environment and people of the region are wide-open areas of invasive-exotic grasses, ground coverings and bushes.  The idea is that they grow faster and turn a bleak, gray scene green as quickly as possible.  But I see a landscape raped by the mindscape of the few and powerful.  I see an area where the people of Appalachia made their keep and taught their children, suffered and rejoiced, went about all that makes up being a human being.  And I see no dollar signs here, for they don’t measure worth, they measure greed.   All there is to see are failed or half-hearted reclamation sites in every direction—flattened, uneven ground where mountains used to stand and the piles of coal and plumes of smoke that indicate the further raping of this region.

I see an area that needs our help, anyone’s help.  Because the children that follow in our footsteps may not have the opportunity to see what it ‘used to look like.’  I’m sure the Millers, in their respective times, would have taken great pride, with straight backs and protruded chins, to show me the land that once was.  And I wish to share with the generations to follow that same sense of worth, of pride and respect.  This land is not mine by deed or by claim to the region.  But this land, this track of forest belongs to each and every one of us that has the capacity to realize its wonder, its mystique. 

So after some intense reflection, a few sketches and lump in my heart, I load my shrunken soul and body back into Erik’s truck.  The ride back seems even longer, possibly amplified by the echoes of silences among my peers and a region scarred.  Near the end of the gravel access road, an indigo bunting—a tiny but vibrantly blue bird—lands, pauses and flies off in the direction of something hopeful, something pristine, something we can all put our fingers on, taste, smell and embrace.  It flew off in our direction, the direction of the forest in which we need to put our collective stock and joint minds.  And so we followed—back to the days of the Millers and the countless other families who loved this land with fervor and always stepped with an oh-so-light foot—back to the track of mixed-mesophytic that is Robinson Forest.

estled in the southeastern region of the Cumberland Plateau, Robinson Forest is owned by the University of Kentucky and maintained by its Department of Forestry.  The forest is one of the largest contiguous (intact) forests in the United States and one of the most species diverse as well.  One would have to travel to a tropical rain forest to see more floral and faunal mix than can be found here in Appalachia.  Robinson also boasts claim to one of the cleanest streams in the Eastern United States and species that arguably should be listed on the threatened or endangered lists. 

For all intents and purposes, Robinson Forest is an island.  The 10,010-acres that the university owns and runs are encircled by either active, reclaimed or currently leased surface mining sites totaling nearly 4,000 additional acres.  The Appalachian region of Kentucky is riddled with strip mines sites.  The method by which mining companies extract coal is commonly referred to as mountaintop removal, which flattens mountains at frighteningly rapid speeds and causes irreparable damage to the landscape, ecology, water and optimism of the region.  Since positive activism has allowed Robinson Forest to be deemed “lands unsuitable for mining,” the forest is safe, at least for now.  Underneath the ridges, watersheds and second-growth timbers of this forest lies over a billion dollars in coal.  Since our nation and this commonwealth rely so intently on coal for electricity and a means for profit, one can imagine the push to mine here.

Mountaintop removal, a cost effective form of strip mining, is the preferred but environmentally detrimental method of extracting coal that nearly every coal company has adopted.  Basically, a mountain is blasted apart, pushed into streams and creeks and the coal is scooped out along with the biodiversity and health of an area.  The profit margin is too high when strip mining is employed for coal companies to consider any other option.  Sadly, however, this lack of consideration spills over onto the landscape, ecosystems and region.  Streams are heavily polluted with sedimentation or destroyed completely.  The timber that is pushed off the tops of mountains leaves thousands of bird and small mammal species without homes.  When a mine site has fully birthed its coal to the gluttonous executives and spenders, it is occasionally reclaimed.  Reclamation sounds nice.  It sounds as if coal companies are doing their part to restore or at least assist in the furthering of ecological prosperity.  Wrong.  Invasive exotic species are planted in the barrenly thin rock and soil mixture that remains.  Privet, Autumn Olive and exotic grasses take over the area at a rapid pace.  They do give the illusion that there is again life, green.  But invasive exotics out compete the native species and smother them out at high rates.  They are detrimental to the original ecosystem but cost efficient for big business and are, therefore, acceptable—always seeking the quickest route to the next coal seam.

The push to mine Robinson Forest is tremendous.  Over one billion dollars in coal revenues rests under the capstones of this mixed-mesophytic forest.  This means very fat pockets for those whose pockets are already quite inflated and very little for the people of the region or the areas that could use a boost in capital.  Robinson has been deemed “land unsuitable for mining,” which means that under current mandate, it cannot be legally mined.  It is used for research purposes off and on, but the push to allocate the resources that rest here are extremely high.  But there is more to this forest than dollar signs.

 came to Robinson for a pastoral summer retreat into this endangered Appalachian region of Kentucky and to focus intently on writing about the environmental, economical and ecological issues found therein. By way of guest speakers and specialists, the program pays special and close attention to the aforementioned ecological issues of the forest itself, as well as the effects strip mining has on the region.  There is a certain charm about the camp in Robinson Forest.  I was excited to see such ample facilities, but I had little time to gawk; we were given direct orders to lace up our boots, grab our journals and prepare to embark on the first of many experiential learning jaunts.

Our first guest was John Cox, a conservation biologist and Griffith Woods site manager.  Cox has spent countless hours over the course of numerous years explore and researching Robison Forest.  He took us directly into the forest and up a trail to one of the last remaining fire towers in Kentucky.  Along the way he previewed the biology and ecology of our new home and gave us personal insight into the mining-related issues of the region.  Spending an entire month immersed in a geography and way of life that is different from almost anything previously experienced allows me the social and educational capital to understand what is happening here and why we need to hold on so firmly to what we have left. All this is bound with the thread of exposition and prose—what seems to be the only means by which we have to fight against coal conglomerates lopping off the tops of our mountains.  Barry Lopez, a writer who employs natural history as a running metaphor in his work, calls this act of learning as the “landscape shaping the mindscape.”  One has to fully expose his or her internal thought processes to the external world in order to obtain a clear picture.  Along with readings from writers like Lopez, guests, including environmental writer and instructor David Orr and fiction writer Bobbie Ann Mason, volunteered their time to assist in our “experiential lessons” (Orr) and how important region and the people therein can shape thought and writing (Ann Mason).

Such is the uniqueness of a program of immersion like the Summer Environmental Writing Program.  Erik Reece and Randall Roorda, program founders and directors, are allowing these unique experiences to take place.  There are no substitutes for this form of experiential learning.  The university as a whole needs to recognize this forest as an asset much like Erik, Randall and their students have.  So many opportunities exist in the high-walls of this forest.  You don’t have to be a writer or a botanist or an ecologist to come here and learn.  Almost anyone from any discipline can come here, experience the reverence of a natural world so threatened by progress and greed and come away with a new sense of oneself in regards to place.  That is the power of the forest.

 had heard stories of the man, so I decided to take his Intro Ecology course.  It was then that I heard stories from the man—all excited arms and inflected voice as he told them.  It was difficult not be drawn to the tales Jim Krupa told in lecture because he is one of those people blessed with the gift of storytelling.  So I had heard the accounts of trapping the elusive flying squirrel before I came to Robinson Forest.  But that, in its self, would not be enough to prepare me for the carnival that is fieldwork with Krupa. 

Jim is a biologist at the University of Kentucky and a self-proclaimed naturalist that has studied general biology and mamalology in the forest for nearly 30 years.  He is also a maniac.  After a brief introduction to the concepts behind trapping such a slippery creature—only sidetracked by a mere four to five totally unrelated stories—we loaded the traps into large military issued duffels and set off into the density of the forest.

It became immediately apparent that my scrambling skills would be zero match for Krupa’s mountain goat approach to scaling the steeply graded ridge.  The man is spry far beyond his appearance.  Air wasn’t at much of a premium when we reached the first line of traps, but we had the remainder of the ridge to climb, and Jim’s heightened levels of glee indicated that the trail would be significantly more daunting.  After two traps had been successfully set, my group—four in all—became sidetracked by a juvenile copperhead.  Again, and less to my surprise, Krupa’s eyes filled with the wonderment of a child at a McDonald’s Play-Place.  Immediately, as if he had no other choice in the matter, he took off after the reptile wielding a broken limb he sequestered from the leaf-laden slope.  Due to the minute size of the creature, handling proved to be quite a task.  After a couple improvisational maneuvers and gasps (from the onlookers), Krupa was able to balance the snake on his stick, and he did so with the pride of a father.  He wasn’t the only one thrilled, however; II too let my inner child out to chase and marvel at the beautiful serpent.  It was a good find.

With the snake safely secured in Jim’s pack and the remaining traps on the line set, we prepared, however briefly, for our push to the pinnacle.  Before I could adjust my belt and snug the straps of my pack, Kentucky’s own Crocodile Hunter sprung off and in familiar goat fashion.  I gulped wind and attempted to mirror his movements in a b-line up the uneven terrain.  It took no time at all for my heart to take residence in my throat and beat in my ears like a summer thunderstorm.  I tucked the discomfort in the back of my brain and continued onward and upward.  In times like these, no mind can be paid to cautionary steps or to what part of the body thorns will make epidermis-piercing contact.  Not when you’re keeping up with Krupa.  Low and behold, I reached the crest of the ridge.  Being the team player that he is, Jim stood at the top looking down.  He offered out overly smart-ass remarks to those who had not yet reached the summit.  It’s funny how not-so-funny those comments can be when you’re five pounds heavier in sweat and suffering from a hearty calf cramp.  What a time for humor.  All bellyaching aside, the hike was quite manageable and we had succeeded in doing what we came to do, set traps. 

The next day proved very interesting when we again followed the bubbling Krupa into the woods to check the traps.  He seemed not to be suffering the same tension in his quads and calves as I did, which was evident as he made a hard left into the foliage and again bounded upward.  We took a different approach in checking the traps.  We arduously labored to the top of the ridge, starting there and working our way down.  After it was all said and done, we had seen a very rare Allegheny wood rat—not commonly caught in squirrel traps—and two flying squirrels.  Even though squirrel numbers had been higher in years past, we had been privy to a very unique experience with the wood rat—a slight glimmer of hope in the face of possible declining squirrel populations due to mining, logging and exotics.  The lesson learned by way of Krupa is one that seems to echo his outlook—a touch on the bleak side.  The forest is in an awakening state, as are the species that call it home.  Man’s progress is progressing this dilemma.  But you can’t always dwell on the mundane—seeing a squirrel in flight is a pretty damn amazing encounter.

hese are the experiences, the moments that make up the learning of life that cannot be replaced or reproduced elsewhere.  In order to fight for a mountain or fight for an entire region or a community that suffers the plight of mountaintop removal, you have to know what you’re protecting, what you’re fighting for.  In my opinion, there is no place more worth developing a relationship with than Robinson Forest.  This diverse track of woodland is all that remains of what this entire commonwealth used to be.  In addition, you would have to travel across the world, to China, to find another forest that rivals this.  The species diversity on floral and faunal levels is almost second to none here.  It is in a habitat such as this that many large mammal species—black bear, grey wolf and the mountain lion—could make a comeback.  The canopy of such a lush forest provides the habitat for a host of bird species, including but not limited to various thrushes, warblers, and wrens.  If you listen closely you can hear the “Teacher, Teacher” call of the ovenbird or the ultra-distinct call of the indigo bunting, “Fire, Fire, Where, Where, There, There, See it See it.”  These sounds disappear when the trees are bulldozed over a ridge.  At what point do we stop putting a price on priceless resources?  Now seems good.

            It appears that we, as a nation, have opted to forget about this part of the country.  The people, the environment, the diverse ecology here, all throwaway.  If what is happening in Eastern Kentucky and West Virginia showed up in the hills of Maine or in the backyards of well-to-do white folks, mountaintop removal would be but a whisper, an old story passed down telling how bad it used to be.  But here, the hillbillies and holler dwellers are expendable.  We go right on pushing over mountains, taking the resources and running away.  Who honestly expects any community of people to be able to deal with effects as ostentatious as strip mining produces?  I say we make the industrialists do the dirty work.  We need to hold the desecraters responsible for their own messes.  Maybe if a slurry pond broke into the backyard of Bill Caylor, president of the Kentucky Coal Association, or President Bush, we could get a reaction, a solution. 

Ultimately, you can never really get in tune with something or truly discover a place until you have climbed into its bosom.  Lie in the lap of nature and she teaches you the stories of centuries, the tales forgotten in books and discarded by profiteers.  In order to really take away something of worth, you must immerse yourself in the experience of knowing it.  As David Orr argues, we must physically experience something to fully learn a lesson.  It isn’t until you see with your own eyes, or feel with your hands, or experience the post-hike burn in your quads that you can totally grasp and retain something.  Trekking up an ephemeral stream in the Booker Watershed of Robinson Forest or trapping flying squirrels allow for levels of experiential learning with blanketing effects that have no replacement.  We come into nature to get back to when a footprint meant something, back to a time when we all coveted the Earth because she gave so fruitfully.  Ironically, today, many people are looking deep into this forest for the shallowest of reasons—coal profit.  This is not the path to enlightenment or prosperity.  The forest needs to be revered, worshiped, studied.  For when we stop pretending that what we do is of no consequence and dive face first into the living, breathing beast that is this contiguous wooded track, we come as close as we will ever be to enlightened and as near deity as possible.

As long there is coal, they will continue to topple mountains, giving no pause to the ecological, environmental or communal damage sustained.  Mining does mean jobs, but a very slight number.  Besides, what good is a job that is gone as quickly as the coal?  I guess it is good enough to leave you with dirty drinking water the rest of your life, however short it may be.  To know the fate of a mountain in the abstract is far from seeing the ‘world of wounds’ we live in.  We need, as a nation, as humans, to open our eyes.

he notion of a hike washed over me like an afternoon shower.  Partly to get my bones moving and partly to do some experiencing on my own terms, I decided to set off up one of many forest access roads.  I didn’t need a map or game plan where I was heading, so I filled my hydration pack and set off. 

I’d love to tell you that exactly forty-seven paces in I entered the “naturalist’s trance.”  But I didn’t.  To be honest, thoughts of home, my life I’d soon return to and what to do with the rest of summer flooded my cranium.  As I walked I mulled over how I’d adjust to city living once I returned, what I’d eat.  Occasionally I would justify these thoughts out loud; it only seemed appropriate.  Being fully immersed in an experience for a month leaves much to be pondered upon.  It seems only human to be thinking of home so near the end of my journey.  I soon realized, however, that I had been keeping a brisk pace and was further into the density of Robinson than I had been before.  I stopped for moment and took in my surroundings.

The foliage had changed.  I noticed how the flora on the northeast facing slopes was far denser than the vegetation on the slopes that faced southeast—near tropical versus sparse.  As I continued on, I mostly kept my eyes trained on the trail ahead.  The number of mud and water-filled ruts was high, and they all seemed to be anxiously anticipating cresting my boots and soaking my feet.  So I found myself torn between eyeing the trail and with whom I’d share my first post-SEWP drink upon arriving home. 

After I had seemed to solve the trivial dilemmas of everyday city life, I managed to look up just in time.  What stood twenty-five yards to my right was a cave of sorts—millions of years of pressed sandstone resting on millions of years of pressed fern.  Whether it was at the hand of a human or by natural causes, the coal seam had been hollowed out to form a cave.  It was one of those experiences that makes you feel like the only person on earth, like Boone discovering the area for the first time.  Fantasy quickly evaporated and I began to think about the worth of the coal.  It was of little use, however, because what I saw did not equate to dollars and cents.  To me, you couldn’t put a price on something so remarkable, something that took ages to materialize.  To me it was simple—a unique cave in a unique forest.  Snapping out of my E.O. Wilson moment, I shifted gears—both mentally and physically.  As my feet followed one another moving me forward, my mind flew, as a crow does, back home.  I was in the forest, but I wasn’t in the forest. 

It didn’t take long for the woods to reel me back into her grasp, however.  What sounded like two bears wrestling in the leaves of the under-story caught my auditory attention.  Creeping off the road with the stealth of a coal truck, I spooked two wild turkeys.  They burst into a melee of flight that was quite impressive even in lieu of my startled state.  Almost as if the winged creatures had jarred me into the trance of the wilderness, my mind found different course.

This time, however, I thought about how this forest, this experience would resonate with me upon my return.  I wondered if I could forget such a place.  I had learned so much yet so little.  Would this forest and its struggles follow me home?  Not to put too much emphasis on coincidence, but shortly after that synapse of thought I noticed a change in the foliage.  It was foreign yet familiar.  Then it clicked—invasive exotics.  Privet.  Autumn Olive.  I knew that I had to be close to the arbitrary line between reclaimed strip mining and protected forest.  As I crawled through the coal-sanctioned weeds, I peered out onto the expansively flat area that motes the forest.  What have we done?  Have we no heart, no reverence?  I heard no answers.

I thought about Wendell Berry and his poem “Manifesto:  Mad Farmer Liberation Front.”  It seemed so right on, but depressingly succinct.  We do love the “quick profit,” the “annual raise.”  We, as a nation, as a state, degrade land for quick fixes to financial situations.  We rape our own land so that we can have commodity today; no mind is paid toward tomorrow.  We certainly have no concept of “resurrection.”  There are so many facets of this place that bring joy and yet so many that dampen my bones down to my soul.  The only way to begin to bring justice to situations such as these are by way of knowledge, so I began to think about how I would incorporate what I had learned in my life in Lexington.

My feelings were mixed.  This experience, this retreat has been one that cannot be compared to any other undertaking.  It is unique.  Although I felt ready to return, to get back into the swing of everyday life on one hand, sadness kept creeping in.  There was a great deal to return to but also a great deal to leave.  It will only be when I go back to the city that the grandeur here will set in.  It will be then that Robinson Forest sneaks in through my dreams and tugs at my soul.  I’ll have no choice but to give myself back over; no choice in changing my lifestyle and what I write about.

I realized that this forest and region have marked me for life—there are countless numbers of species yet to be identified due to lack of research and funding.  There is the prolific species diversity that can only be rivaled below the equator.  You have the opportunity to come and see first hand, to hike up a ridge crown and stare out over a sea of forest; to listen to the call of a black throated green warbler as it warns others of your presence in its home; to splash your face with water from one of the cleanest watersheds in the country. I will be forever tied to what happens here.  I knew that I would leave in two days and again know the hustle and bustle of the city, the hum of traffic, the heat.  Life will go on.  But the arrow that Barry Lopez writes about is firmly imbedded.  The wound is not fatal but rather all-encompassing.  Robinson Forest, Appalachia and the issues therein would stalk me for all time.  I have made ghosts here—some of whom will follow me home, and some will stay behind awaiting my impending return.  The landscape of this place had rearranged my mindscape, and I am obligated to think and act on its behalf.  I will leave this place after a month in its grasp.  107 miles will separate us, but in spirit and reverie, we will remain one.  If we don’t hold firm to the experiences and places that help to mold us, what then do we have to live and love and fight for?