Pleasant View Farm at Battlefield Park--camera time

The old Pleasant View Farm is located at Battlefield Park, part of the site of the 1862 Battle of Richmond in Richmond, Kentucky. The area was originally settled in 1801 by a Joseph Barnett. Eventually I'll make a better post about this very neat little park, but for now here's some pictures.

Barnett family burial plot on the old farm site, a remnant from the early settlement days of Kentucky.

Joshua, a servant of the family who "died by a stroke of lightning."

The interpretive sign states that these box-tomb style grave markers were unusual for early settlement Kentucky and were possibly a carryover tradition from the British Isles. However, I have seen similar box tombs in graveyards around Kentucky and eastern Ohio so I don't know whether it was really that uncommon, or maybe common in areas where Europeans of certain descent settled. Something to look into, anyway.

Possibly a servant's grave?

The old farmhouse, finished around 1824

Detail of stained glass above the front door

View from the front porch

Back side of the house

The slave quarters

The Quick 'n' Dirty Self-Help Karst Tour

I have no problem admitting that whatever the opposite of a geologist is, I'm that. Before I moved down to Kentucky I had the luxury of being able to, for the most part, ignore the ground beneath my feet; but those days are in the past. Now I work at a park and the third commonest question I get from people (after "Are there any poisonous snakes?" and "Where are the restrooms?") is, "What's karst?"

The geologic phenomenon known as karst is a big deal in Kentucky. The word itself derives from a Slavic word indicating barren, stony ground. It refers to a terrain formed from the slow dissolving of soluble bedrock such as dolostone or limestone, resulting in caves, sinkholes, sinking springs, subterranean drainage, and general all-around instability. Because of its predominately limestone bedrock, Kentucky is one of the most well-known karst landscapes in the world; this results in some amazing places— like Mammoth Cave National Park—and also some accidents, like the 40-foot sinkhole in the National Corvette Museum in Bowling Green. Now I find myself smacked down in the middle of some of the karstiest karst you’ll see anywhere and I've resigned myself to the fact that I better learn something about it; so I've put together (mostly for my own edification) a self-help guide to some elements of karst topography.

And if you want you can follow along with a picture from our beautiful signage.

For the sake of demonstration and a visual tour, let’s start at the beginning with the karst system at the park where I work. The headwaters (so to speak) of our little spring system is the Blue Hole. Essentially a sinkhole filled by water leaking through an underground fissure, prismatic effects work together with the Blue Hole's depth--an abrupt 15 feet--to create its unique appearance. 

or MAGIC

Insulated by the bedrock, the water coming up from the Blue Hole stays a balmy 55 degrees Fahrenheit all year around (similar to many cave systems). You can see a little snow on the bank, but otherwise there's no clue that this photo of an American Robin stopping for a drink was taken on subzero January morning. Aquatic plants, like the water purslane in the background, stay green all year round in the spring water.
 A few yards past the Blue Hole, the water disappears underground again into a handful of crevices. Following the trail for another 1/8 of a mile or so, and you'd never know there's water running under your feet until you come around the corner and stumble upon the second spring in the karst window, known as the Boils. Much shallower--about calf-deep--than the Blue Hole, the underground water filling the Boils comes to the surface under enough pressure to create a bubbling, roiling effect. After a solid rain the Boils sometimes rises up a foot or two like a tiny Old Faithful.

The Boils, after several weeks without rain. Most of the water comes up through cracks and crevices hidden under the limestone outcropping.

And then the old H20 is above ground again for another quarter mile or so. If you deviate from the path of the water a little and go up the hill into the woods you'll find something of both historical and geological interest (if you're a massive nerd). Way back in the day before the land was a park, it served as a farm (and also an old settlement site, and a gunpowder mill, and an illegal dump, and lots of other things, but that's a long story). One of the remnants of the earlier usage are long stretches of ye olde famous Kentucky drystone fences, so called because they're held together by artful stacking and gravity versus mortar. Usually dating back to the 19th century, the drystone fences have weathered the years shockingly well. Coming from Ohio--a land of short-lived split rail and barbwire fences--I was surprised coming into the Bluegrass region, where hundred-year-old property lines are still clearly visible in many places. Most of the fences on the park, and some of the other historical structures, were built from limestone from a little limestone quarry situated up the hill from the springs.

Limestone quarry, a couple different views and a closeup (right) of the stacking

This rocky outcropping gives you a nice little cross section of what's going on under your feet. It's stacked very loosely, more like paper piled up than the stratification that you sometimes see in bedrock where highways were cut through and that sort of thing.If you wanted to you could walk up and pull out big slats of rock just like it's a giant game of limestone Jenga. (But don't. Because it's on the National Register of Historic Places and you aren't supposed to destroy it. Actually it's a good idea not to destroy things in general.) Limestone (in case you didn't know) is basically made of sediment and remains of smashed sea creatures from the millions-year-old sea that once covered Kentucky. This means that some of the best fossil hunting I've ever come across has been in the Commonwealth. Most of what I've found in areas like this has been branch coral and brachiopods, but just about anywhere where you find some good exposed limestone has the possibility to be fossiliferous. That's a real word.

Whoa, so fossiliferous!
(from a creek bed in Madison Co., KY)

If you're interested in the fossiliferous properties of local limestone, get more a more educated and in-depth look at it here.

Anyway, back to the water. After the Boils, it continues as an above-ground stream for maybe another 1/8 of a mile or so, and then it abruptly disappears at the back side of the park, into a little cave entrance called the Final Sink. Unlike the cracks that allow the water to come up from the Boils, the Final Sink is large enough and cave-y enough that an adventurous skinny person would be able to crawl down it, but it certainly doesn't look tempting. (This is the spot where, on a school field trip I was leading, one of the kids yelled "I SEE EYES! I SEE GLOWING EYES DOWN THERE!")

If you look at the upper righthand corner, you can sort of see another element of karst topography, a small sinkhole on the far side of the Final Sink.

In an interesting twist, the park was owned by a development company back in the day and slated to be filled in and become part of an industrial park. This backfired when the plan was derailed by a city ordinance prohibiting people from filling in sinkholes and springs. (Why anyone would think it was a good idea to build on sinkholes I have no idea.)

So there you have it, some karst topography. At the very least I've come to appreciate the effect geology can have on a landscape. I've vastly oversimplified the whole idea here, because that's where I am in my learning curve, but if you're all about the karst and want to see some awesome examples, be sure to hit up the Bluegrass region. And if you aren't all about the karst, at least you learned not to build a house on a sinkhole.

And everyone likes nice fences.
(Bryan Station Rd., Lexington, KY)

Words from Aldo

"A man may not care for golf and still be human, but the man who does not like to see, hunt, photograph, or otherwise outwit birds or animals is hardly normal. He is supercivilized, and I for one do not know how to deal with him. Babes do not tremble when they are shown a golf ball, but I should not like to own the boy whose hair does not lift his hat when he sees his first deer. We are dealing, therefore, with something that lies pretty deep." 

--Aldo Leopold, "Goose Music"

Three Things That Haven't Disappointed Me (and won't break your budget sort of)

It is a truth universally acknowledged that when you buy something it will probably disappoint you. Most advertisements are at best misleading and at worst, basically lies. (Consumer reviews aren't always helpful either. I hate paging through five star Amazon reviews that all read some variation of "OMG just got my new binoculars!! They work great can't wait to try them out! Thanx Amazon!" I don't want to hear that you just got them and they work great. Of course they do. I want to hear that you set them on fire and they work great.) Therefore I'm always pleasantly shocked when I encounter some piece of outdoor equipment that not only lives up to the advertising, but goes above and beyond. In recognition of that here's a list of my top three items that have proved to be reliable field companions over the years.

1. Cabela's Rimrock Hiker
The world of women's outdoor wear is a cold and bleak place inhabited mostly by pink camouflage and yoga pants.  I can't tell you how many times I've opted for men's clothing, which, although usually too big and awkwardly-shaped, is miles above the travesty that is the women's department of the average sporting goods store. Onto this depressing landscape the Rimrock Hikers shine like a beacon of hope. Pants, shirts, even coats can be compromised on; but as any outdoorsperson knows, you're only as strong as your feet.
I bought my first pair of Rimrock Hikers four years ago, before I set off for college. They survived an associate's degree with grace and style--and that includes miles of hiking every day, camping, caving, late-night-early-spring-salamander-hunting, wading, chainsawing, ghost-chasing, tractor-driving, an internship with the Forest Service, and just about everything in between. When I graduated they went West, and spent a good solid eight hours a day tromping over the soaked ground of the prairie pothole region in search of elusive grassland birds. For the autumn we headed back east and I wore them from sunup to sundown as an intern at an environmental camp. Afterwards we did a short-distance move to Lexington and, after several months of hoofing it around parks and some duct tape repairs, finally gave up the ghost. I bought another pair, and just in time, because the original Rimrock Hikers were discontinued and replaced with a very similar boot. I don't know why but my hope is that it wasn't to introduce something lower-quality. Don't disappoint me, Cabela's.

2. L. L. Bean Continental Rucksack
The Mary Poppins' bag of backpacks. I can't quite get everything I own into my rucksack, but I can come close. (The car doesn't fit.) It doesn't have bazillions of tiny useless pockets so you can sort out your chapstick from your pencils. Instead it has one central compartment, two water bottle holders on either side, and a biggish front pocket for stuff you need easier access to. There's lots of straps and buckles, so it's easy to batten down the hatches for long-distance hikes. It's also just plain a nice-looking, no-frills backpack. No weird patterns, no built-in water thingie, no large brand symbol, and it comes in several naturalist-y colors such as Tidal Sand and Dark Russet. It's the sort of backpack John Muir might wear whilst overlooking the Yosemite Valley and stroking his beard. The only thing I have a bit of a problem with is the width. It's a very flat pack, which means even when full it doesn't stick out very far in the back. This is a sort of double-edged sword because it disperses the weight better so you don't get tired as quickly, but it's also harder to dig through if you want the thing you packed on the very bottom. Also it's pretty tall and I'm a tiny bit short in the torso for it to fit quite in the way it's intended; for anyone under 5'2 it would probably not fit well at all. All in all though, it's the best pack I've had so far.

"I approve of your backpack." --John Muir

3. Nikon Monarch
I saved the best (and the most expensive at around $250) for last.This is actually a series of binoculars rather than one single model and I'm not quite sure which model I own, simply because most of the distinguishing markings have been worn off by 10 years of use. Mine are 8x42s but you can get Monarchs in just about any reasonable magnification. In terms of clarity, close focus, light-gathering capabilities, and all the other important binocular things, the Nikon Monarch consistently rises to the top of its price class and in my opinion out-performs some models with quadruple-digit price tags. It also just plain looks and feels like a good pair of binoculars--good weight, a rubberized coating that makes it easy to hang onto and more bouncy if dropped, good grips, and adjustable to a variety of faces--there isn't a thing to complain about. And you'd never know it's a piece of delicate optical equipment from the way I treat mine. It's advertised as waterproof and fogproof, but I can state from experience that it's also cement-proof, car door-proof, chocolate pudding-proof, semi-fire-resistant and about everything in between. (Disclaimer: Don't try it, though.) This is truly the cockroach of binoculars and I mean that as a compliment.

The Nikon Monarch also looks super sleek in action.

End-of-Season Hibernation (and a trip to the Red)

I guess it just comes with the territory of being a young, undereducated individual in the field of natural resources, but it seems like every time the end of a season rolls around you're finishing up one job and scrambling to find another. Most entry-level wildlife jobs are transitory by nature and you go into them knowing that in a couple months you're going to walk away and most likely never see those places or people again. I got a little lucky this year because I double-booked myself; in addition to my full-time job with Parks and Recreation, I did a fall stint as an educator at an environmental camp for 4th and 5th graders. Of course I didn't sleep and consumed as much coffee as a small country, but I figure only two months of it can't do too much long-term damage, and it's nice to have Job #1 still there for you when Job #2 ends.

A good day in pond study class

The last school wrapped up at the end of October and I've re-situated myself back at the park and hunkered down for a long slow winter. Like the red-eared sliders in the pond outside the window, wildlife kids undergo somewhat of a period of dormancy over the winter. Exciting seasonal field jobs are scarce; the best strategy is to find somewhere comfortable to pass the winter and spend your time wistfully paging through the Internet wildlife job boards.

As a last celebratory get-together my lovely camp coworkers and I headed down for a day jaunt to Red River Gorge in the Daniel Boone National Forest. To paraphrase Saturday Night Live's Stefon the tourism correspondent, this place has everything: Poisonous mushrooms, a suspension bridge, a snake venom extraction facility, a haunted railroad tunnel, and a pizza joint that serves rice as a topping. We started with a brief stop-in at the Kentucky Reptile Zoo to get our snake fix:

This absurd and fascinating little guy is a horned viper (Cerastes sp) from North Africa

Bitis gabonica, or Gaboon Viper. According to the interwebs this species has the longest fangs of any viperid--up to 2 inches.

From closer to home, a copperhead showing off his dead-leaf camo. This one is the southern subspecies (Agkistrodon controtrix contortrix) 

The proper way to enter Red River Gorge with style is via the Nada Tunnel. Built for use by a logging railroad during the early 1900s, this one lane, 900-foot tunnel through the mountain is not for the claustrophobic or people who don't like dark places with literal tons of sandstone over their heads. Having gone to school right next to the infamous Moonville Tunnel I have a special affection for haunted railroad tunnels, and the Nada Tunnel has its share of alleged specters and mysterious lights. Tragically, it's a verifiable fact that the construction of the tunnel was not without at least two casualties. One man was killed while trying to thaw frozen dynamite near a campfire; another man was wounded in the blast and a dog apparently died as well. It's hard to know what to say about someone who thaws dynamite out over a fire, but I guess we all have our moments. Some of us are just lucky and live through them.

The Red is full of dramatic rocks.

We were pressed for time and only took a short hike down a connector trail to the junction of the Sheltowee Trace Trail. A suspension bridge spans the Red River at the connection and provides lovely views, as long as you don't mind heights and rotten boards underfoot.

View of the Red River from the Sheltowee Trace suspension bridge

You can sort of see the Sheltowee Trace trail mark on the right hand side of the beam. The trail is named after Daniel Boone, whose name while living with the Shawnee tribe was Sheltowee or Big Turtle.

The Appalachian Trail has been on my bucket list since I was old enough to tie my own bootlaces, but it's hard to come by the time and money to tromp across the country for a whole summer. At around 300 miles the Sheltowee Trace Trail seems much more doable. Maybe next spring I'll crawl out of my den and do a little more wandering around down there.