#northwest branch trail

[istandonsnowpiles]

Under the Green Line

[writeforfandoms]

Logan and the Wolverine

Part of the Born for Greatness 'verse

This is just a mostly fun side story that features a lot more of Logan, as well as Logan and Liaison. Not part of the main plot.

Hee hee I am waiting to see how many of you screech over a certain detail.

Logan's been a loner for a long time, except for his kid. Has no intentions of expanding his pack. But sometimes things happen and he no longer has a say.

Warnings: Swearing, brief threat of violence, implied loss of parents/family, shifter dynamics.

Word count: 1.5k

The first time Logan caught the scent of another shifter in his territory, his upper lip curled in a silent snarl. He was not the most territorial shifter, not by far. But he valued his space, and he valued being respected. 

So this? This set his hackles up. 

But he wasn't a slave to his instincts, hadn't been for a long time. He was in a much better place now than he had been twenty years ago. 

So he breathed in deep, squashing the urge to shift and follow the scent trail. Instead, he did his best to commit the scent to memory - the faint tang of shifter, the mildness of youth. 

And then he continued on with his day. If he spotted this shifter, he'd pull them aside for a nice talk about etiquette. 

(Which still made him laugh, a little. Him? Teaching others about etiquette? His kid really had changed him.) 

The second time, a few days later, when he caught the scent near his trash bin, he heaved a sigh. Nope. Couldn't ignore that. Could be a dumb youngster trying to prank him… but it could also be a young shifter trying to find food. 

Either way warranted a look. 

He set off on two feet, letting his nose guide him. The scent didn't change, still young, still alone. 

It wasn't until he crossed the boundary of his territory that he smelled more of this shifter. Criss crossing paths, layers of scent branching off in different directions… including through his territory away from the house. 

The layers and complexity told him the shifter had been out here a while. The intensity told him he was getting close to wherever this shifter stayed. 

He paused outside a clear den, small, a little wonky looking. Unpracticed. 

Still only one scent. 

“Aw, hell.” Logan heaved a sigh, putting his hands on his hips. His kid was gonna kill him. 

–

“Logan?” You pushed open the front door, duffel bag in your free hand. “You're damn lucky I got a taxi.” The front door thumped shut behind you, and you took a moment to stretch out your shoulders and look around. 

No sign of him. You frowned. This wasn't like him, not at all. 

“Logan?” You raised your voice a little, moving further into the house, leaving your bag by the door for the moment. You'd move it later, no big deal. 

You had one second of warning, one hissing growl, before you spotted the brownish blur. Instinct had you leaping onto the couch, and from there onto the side table. The brownish reddish blur hissed again and slowed enough that you could see properly. 

A wolverine. But not your wolverine. This one was notably smaller, coloring more red than Logan's coat. 

“Shit.” Logan followed the younger wolverine in, reaching down fearlessly to scruff the youngster. The youngster yowled, wiggling in his grip. “Cut that out.” Logan flicked the youngster on the nose. 

“What the hell.” The table under you creaked as you shifted your weight, but you didn't take your gaze off of the young shifter. 

“I can explain.” Logan pulled the shifter close to his body, shoulders a little hunched. 

“You'd fucking better.” You breathed in slowly and eased down from the table. This time, you refused to flinch when the shifter growled at you. 

“Cut that out.” Logan flicked the youngster's ear this time. “I told you, she's my kid. Gotta behave around her.” 

Your eyebrows practically hit your hairline. “Logan?” 

He blew out a slow breath, looking down at the shifter currently gently gnawing on his thumb. “Found her northwest of here, bit outside my territory,” he explained slowly, still not looking at you. “On her own.” 

You nodded slowly. “How old is she?” 

“Younger than you were.” 

The words hit you like a brick to the chest. For a moment, you couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Could only hear the echo of slamming doors and shouting. 

You breathed in, the world settling back into place. This youngster needed Logan, much the same way you'd needed Logan. She needed support and a stable place to stay. 

“What's her name?” 

“Laura.” 

You nodded slowly. “Laura,” you repeated. You looked at her, noted the color of her, the size. She was small, even compared to Logan. Young. “Well, Laura, looks like you're part of the family now.” 

Laura growled quietly, ears flickering even as she refused to meet your gaze. You didn't blame her. At her age, and having been alone already, she probably felt her position in the pack was precarious. Not to mention you were human, which could muddle things further for her. 

So you didn't push. 

“You're still lucky I got a taxi.” You fixed a disapproving look on Logan instead. 

He just grunted, shifting Laura in his arms. “Yeah, yeah. You hungry?”

“Not yet. Figured I'd see what you have and cook dinner for us.” You carefully didn't mention the bottle of vodka you'd brought with you, as a gift from John, who had apparently gotten it from a Russian comrade. Didn't seem like a good thing to mention with a kid in the house. 

This trip was going to be very different from what you'd thought. 

Logan nodded, looking a little relieved. “Good. Thanks.” He strolled off, Laura still securely held in his arms. 

You didn't let yourself feel jealous for more than a moment. Or two. 

It didn't really matter once they were out of sight, anyway. 

Breathing out, you shook yourself and went to work on dinner for the three of you. It would be fine. No problem. 

It would just be different. 

You wrinkled your nose and huffed at yourself. You'd just adapt and deal with it. No big deal. 

You did startle when a hand landed on your shoulder, half-turning to look at Logan. 

“You're lucky I didn't shriek,” you said, lips quirked. 

“Good thing,” he agreed. “You alright?”

“Fine,” you said with a little shrug, not knocking away his hand. 

“I know you didn't expect this,” he said slowly. 

“It's fine,” you reiterated, more forcefully this time. “Of course you couldn't leave a kid on her own.” 

He paused, brows furrowed as you turned your attention back to the stove. But he didn't press the issue. He sighed softly, and you barely heard his footsteps retreating. 

You hated yourself, just a little bit. 

But you didn't call him back, either. 

Dinner was unusually quiet. Laura took one look at the soup you'd made and sat back, scowling fiercely. Dark hair fell into her eyes, and she made no move to push it aside. Logan ate two bowls of soup in contrast, but he also stayed quiet, darting looks between you and Laura. 

It was all you could do to eat quietly and not scold either of them. 

Maybe after dinner you'd look for a hotel in the nearest town. Laura needed Logan more than you did, and you doubted your presence in the house would help her.

Damn. You'd been looking forward to a relaxing week with Logan. 

Laura slithered out of her chair and skulked away, shooting you one last distrustful look over her shoulder. 

Which left you and Logan. 

“You alright?” 

The gruff question forced you to look away from your bowl, and you smiled even if it felt thin. “Fine,” you lied through your teeth. 

He grumbled, shaking his head. “Don't lie to me.” 

You snorted, rising from your seat and taking both your bowl and Laura's untouched bowl. “It really doesn't matter,” you deflected. “I'll wash up and go.”

“Go?” The hint of panic in his voice made you pause. “Where?”

“Find a place in town to stay.” 

“Why?” Logan stood abruptly, chair nearly toppling but for his deft hand. 

“What she needs is stability,” you told him, more or less patiently. “Especially if she hasn't been here for long. She needs to feel secure, safe. A stranger coming in out of nowhere, unannounced, isn't going to help.” 

Logan frowned, shifting his weight. “That doesn't mean you have to leave.” 

You shrugged. “I'll come back tomorrow, see if she'll get used to me.” Your lips twitched in something that wanted to be a smile. “Not like I'm going anywhere long term.” 

Logan worked his jaw back and forth, clearly hunting for an argument, and coming up empty. Finally, he sighed. “Stay tonight, at least,” he tried. “I've got the bed ready for you.” 

The offer was tempting. This place had always been comforting to you, a now-secondary home. 

If only you were confident you wouldn't wake up with an angry wolverine on your bed, or that you'd do more good than harm staying. 

“I'll think about it,” was all you allowed, finally starting on the dishes, turning away from Logan. “Better go check on her, make sure she eats something.” 

That was enough to get him moving, but not the way you expected. Arms encircled you from behind, tight enough to make you squeak in surprise. 

“You're important too,” he muttered, low and gruff. “You matter to me.” 

You blinked, brain effectively blue screening. 

“Stay.” Logan squeezed you, just a little, just enough to push the last of your air out. “Stay.” 

You wiggled enough that his grip loosened, and then turned to hug him back. Hard. “Okay,” you whispered, voice thick. “I'll stay.” 

[rebeccathenaturalist]

The above link includes articles on lost mushroom hunters in the Pacific Northwest over the past ten years. Many of these people were found deceased, and others were very lucky to have been found alive.

One of the things I really emphasize with foraging is safety, and not just the danger of picking something poisonous. While some people come into this practice with a realistic idea of the risks involved, others have....well, let's just call it a romanticized idea of foraging. They're not wrong in that it can be a fun, fulfilling activity that gets you all kinds of tasty things. But you have to be able to also navigate what can go wrong.

This is especially true for foragers who decide to go off-trail. I see this especially with people looking for mushrooms, because the lure of potential huge flushes of chanterelles, morels, and the like frequently leads people to head out onto public land in areas without marked trails. Sure, these locations are less heavily traveled and so it's more likely you'll stumble across a patch that no one else has gotten to yet. But--you're also more likely to get lost.

I personally tend to not go off-trail because I know for a fact that my sense of direction is abysmal (I've managed to convince myself I was lost on an out-and-back trail more than once.) But if I did, here's what I would do to mitigate the chances of getting lost:

--Take a GPS unit. These make finding your way back a lot easier, especially if you're able to drop pins as you go along or even digitally mark your trail.

--Take a map and compass and know how to use them: GPS isn't perfect, especially if signal is sketchy, and if your battery dies, well, there you go. So a topographic map and a compass make a good backup--if you know how to use them. Many urban areas in the U.S. have orienteering clubs, and failing that there's always YouTube.

--Take biodegradable flagging tape and tie bits of it to branches along the way. Then follow that path back when you're done, taking the tape with you as you go. If you miss one or two, they'll break down pretty quickly. DON'T leave the tape up on purpose to keep the trail to your patch of mushrooms or berries, though; not only are you adding plastic to the local environment, but you're leaving a trail for anyone who finds it.

--Take a friend! If something happens to one of you, the other can go for help. Or, if you're like me, only go off-trail with someone who's much better at orienteering than you are.

[huskyremix]

Hey everyone! Here to finally share more about the farm game au I’ve been working on~ This post is for what the au is about, as well as the map I created for where it takes place! However, there are a number of locations and even the Valley itself that I still haven’t determined the names of yet, this post will be updated when I have though! ( will even take suggestions )

General Synopsis

Moving out and living on his own for the first time, Lambert is the new farmer in Seraphim Town. Having visited the land as a child, even if it was just for a short time, the memories of those days always stuck close with him. Finding out that Ratau, a family acquaintance, was retiring and wishing to sell his farmland, Lambert jumped at the chance to make it his own. 

But Lambert arrives to find the land going through a rough patch. The fields aren’t growing crops like they used to, the fishing scene is scarce, amongst other issues. By a chance encounter, Lambert meets a Harvest Sprite, who is overcome with delight at meeting a new sheepfolk and farmer. The sprite- Faun- tells Lambert their woes, that the Harvest Goddess has gone into slumber, and the only way to awaken them once more is to find the 7 Relic Instruments of the land. Playing the instruments will also help to restore everything to its former flourishing self! But nothing will be completely fixed until the Goddess wakes up again.

World Map

Located to the east is the Farmland, right next to the stone bridge that leads out of the valley. On the hill top to the North East above is the Goddess Pond, whose water seems to travel down all the way into the pond located on Forneus’ Kneady Kritters Ranch down south.

Next to the Farmland is a tall hill, and on the other side of that you reach the Festival Grounds of Seraphim town. On either side of the hill are proper paths into town, the southern one takes you to the Ranch as well, and the north branches off to the Goddess’ Pond, entrance to the Darkwoods, and right next to the woods you’ll find the way to the mountains.

In Darkwoods is where many forest beasts dwell, it is highly encouraged to not enter without being properly prepared. There’s a rumor that a tall red mansion stands deep within these woods, but no one has been brave enough to get near it.

To the east of these woods and north of the Farmlands, past the much less dense forest, you can find the remains of some sort of ancient structure. Mysterious in nature, the only few documentation on them can be found at the town’s Library. 

Down south from the town, you’ll find Shell Tough Carpenters, right on the cliffside that surrounds the beach, and also located right behind Forneus’ ranch.

On the other side of the beach are the Docks, where all matters of fishing and oversea trade are handled. There’s also an entrance to an underground cave in this area, but is currently off-limits due to safety precautions. Down south is a small island where the Lighthouse is located, with easy sailing access back and forth from it to the mainland.

Focusing back around the town, up in the north west there is a path to the Church, that also splits off into the path towards the mountains up north, with the other path leading to the house of the Sorceress, located right behind the church. This path also leads to the graveyard, watched over by the church.

Behind the Sorceress house you have Spore Grotto, an unusual humid area where mushrooms thrive. Right outside is where the researcher, Sozo, has set up camp to study the place and its secrets. A forest surrounds both the Grotto, House, and part of the Church. There’s an easy to miss trail in the northwest that leads up to a Hot Springs, connected to the side of the Mountains. From the Hot Springs and Mountain peak is where you can see a large rock formation out in the ocean, known as The Eye of the Crown. No one knows why it was given this particular name, aside from the hole formation in it having the appearance of an eye.

[thorsenmark]

Blue Skies for a Backdrop of a Raven in a Tree (Bryce Canyon National Park) by Mark Stevens Via Flickr: A setting looking up and to the northwest at a raven perched high on a tree branch. This was while walking the Rim Trail in Bryce Canyon National Park.

[mountrainiernps]

It’s National Take a Hike Day! While many of Mount Rainier National Park’s trails are covered in snow there are still options to get out and #TakeAHike. Carbon River in the northwest corner of the park is at lower elevations and can remain snow-free for longer. The area is also home to rare inland temperate rain forest. The Carbon River Trail (former road) is open to hiking and bicycling. Branching off the main Carbon River Trail are several hiking-only trails suitable for every experience level.

The easy, 0.3-mile Rain Forest Nature Trail at the Carbon River Entrance has interpretive signs featuring the plants and animals of the rain forest or try the 2.9 miles round-trip Old Mine Trail to explore some of the history of the area. If you are looking for a longer hike, hike or bicycle the Carbon River Trail to the Green Lake Trailhead, then hike the trail as it climbs through dense forest and past waterfalls to a beautiful mountain lake (10.8 miles round-trip). Stop in at the Carbon River Ranger Station for maps and current conditions, open daily.

Carbon River is a remote wilderness area. Be prepared for quickly changing conditions and carry the 10 Essentials, including food and water.

Learn more about Carbon River at https://go.nps.gov/CarbonRiver

NPS Photo of a hiker along the Old Mine Trail. ~kl

[thepastisalreadywritten]

'I need an outlet': Grieving relatives talk to lost loved ones on phone in the forest

By Matt Mcknight

13 June 2023

OLYMPIA, Washington, June 12 (Reuters) - In the middle of a serene forest four miles from Washington state's capital, Olympia, sits a vintage rotary phone.

It is not connected to a telephone line and looks out of place.

But it has become a literal lifeline for people to speak words out loud to lost loved ones; words they never got the chance to say while they were still alive.

Corey Dembeck, 41, created and installed the original wind phone in the Pacific Northwest's Squaxin Park in late 2020, after learning about the death of their family friend's four-year-old daughter.

It was inspired by the original wind phone set up in Otsuchi, Iwate Prefecture, Japan, ten years earlier.

"One morning, I woke up and went downstairs, and my wife looked shocked. She was like 'Joelle died,'" says Dembeck.

He has since moved away from Olympia but keeps in touch with the Sylvester family, whose young daughter Joelle Rose died suddenly after becoming sick with strep throat that triggered sepsis in her body.

"It messed me up, so I was like, right then and there, I'm going to build one of these things for them."

Dembeck, a U.S. Army veteran who worked as a photojournalist from 2000-2005, brought the phone, supplies and tools into the city-owned park and attached it to an old-growth cedar tree in a quiet area off a trail.

Dembeck, standing beside the phone almost three years later, says his reasoning behind sneaking it into the park was that it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission, especially because it was going to be something that was hard to explain.

After people learned of the phone and started visiting it in droves, the city decided to make it an official installation, removing it from the tree and working with Dembeck to create a signage board and plaque memorializing Joelle.

The plaque reads:

"This phone is for everyone who has ever lost a loved one. The phone is an outlet for those who have messages they wish to share with their friends and family. It is a phone for memories and saying the goodbyes you never got to say."

'I NEED AN OUTLET'

During a recent afternoon, Joelle's family paid a visit to the phone to celebrate her life.

Erin Sylvester, Joelle's mother, said they sometimes have pizza parties and invite friends to join them.

"I need the phone. I need an outlet. Because it's dedicated to my daughter, I feel like it's different than for someone else to come and use it," says Sylvester, 34, her eyes welling up with tears.

"Not being able to hear her voice on the other side of that phone can be very gut-wrenching. So, I usually come when none of my other coping mechanisms are working and I'm looking for a last-ditch effort."

Joelle's brothers, Jayden, 12, and Jonah, 8, and her sister, Joy, 5, take turns speaking into the handset, telling her how much they love and miss her, and place new photos on the post and keepsakes that she loved on top of the phone.

During their visit, a speckled brown and white barred owl lands on a branch of the cedar tree, just above the phone. The family is mesmerized.

Erin says owls were Joelle's "baby theme" when she was born. The same type of owl visited them recently in a similar way but at a different location.

"It's got to be a sign. There's no other way I can think about it ... that's not a fluke," says Joelle's father, Andre Sylvester, 37, wiping tears from his eyes.

Moments later, he picks up the phone to speak to his late daughter.

"I miss you. Thanks for showing up today. I miss you a lot."

Sylvester says, looking up at the branch where the owl perched moments before.

"I wish we could go take a walk around the block while I smoke my cigar and you tell everybody hi, and you pet every dog. I miss that."

Since the installation of Olympia's telephone, word of it has inspired other Americans to create ones across the country.

Dembeck has spoken by email and phone with many others who have installed a phone in honor of their loved ones.

He estimates there are now 50 across the United States.

Dembeck says everyone who tells him about using their phone also told him a tragic backstory.

"The fact that something simple like this immensely helped them, it's been really humbling," he says, adding he feels it's the greatest thing he has ever done.

[vault-heck]

WIP weekday

Thank you @twosides--samecoin ! I'll tag in @x-sapphicpirate-x and anyone else who wants to participate, feel free to tag me in a WIP you post. I've totally lost track of who's been tagged this week and who I tagged most recently :')

Below the cut, a scene that may or may not make it into the final re-write. Setting: Ron Staples' traveling bar, just northwest of Westing Estate.

“Another day in the Commonwealth.”

“I’ll drink to that.” The third sip of bourbon burned a bit less; he was going to drink it too quickly if they didn’t find another way to pass the time.

“We should play a game or something,” he ventured.

“Got any ideas?” Preston adjusted his hat, tilting it back to expose more of his face. He’d loosened his scarf when they first found the traveling bar, lest any alcohol stain it. It caught the occasional breeze and tugged against his left shoulder.

“There’s always the pre-war classic, ‘truth or drink,’” Noah smirked.

A tilt of the head and wrinkled brows. “Isn’t it ‘truth or dare?’”

“I figure we’ve had enough excitement for one day.” Preston conceded to this with a tired nod, and Noah continued, “So the rules are, we take turns asking each other whatever we want. And to opt out of a question, you have to drink.”

“This is a real game that people played before the war?”

“No,” he admitted.

“That kind of just sounds like… talking.”

“Fine, fine.” Noah waved dismissively and ignored the urge to take several swigs of bourbon right then. “We can just talk. But after everything in Goodneighbor, Somerville…”

He trailed off. How could he put this? Lately, whenever he spent time with Preston, there was a strange uncertainty etched in his features. Concern for all the unknown factors constructing the person he’d just asked to lead the Minutemen, with a dash of ordinary human curiosity. He almost never asked things when it appeared that he wanted to; Noah worried that it was all eating away at him. That if he didn’t extend a branch, they might never talk about certain things.

Now, Preston’s chin drifted upward as he studied him, fingers tapping the side of his glass as he listened. Case in point.

“You’ve said that you’re still trying to figure me out, or figure out what makes me tick. I’m an open book, Preston. I don’t want to drag you to the memory loungers every time there’s something you want to know about me.”

His teeth caught his lower lip as he let out a low chuckle. He might have been re-thinking his words from earlier, or maybe Noah’s suggestion took him by surprise.

“Alright. Do I get to go first?”

Noah opened a palm in a vague ask away gesture, an even facade of confidence in his ability to answer.

They fell quiet for a time, the gentle sound of the riverside blending with notes from the ukulele and conversation on the other side of the campfire. The sky was more teal than blue in the sun’s descent, and Preston scanned woolly clouds above them as he thought.

“What’s something you miss from before the war that surprised you?”

[thethistlegirlwrites]

Cold-Blooded

Vampires are cold-blooded. 

It’s an academic observation in southern California. 

It’s far more real in Appalachian Tennessee. Sierra is feeling the chill herself. It’s not below freezing, but there was definitely some drifting snow in the air when she woke up this evening, and her breath is making faint foggy clouds. She’s keeping her hands in her sweatshirt pocket, and the tip of her nose is tingling.

Shay has been quiet for a while now. Sierra had thought maybe it was just his usual quiet unless he has something to say thing, but now she’s worried. Vampires don’t self regulate their body temperature in any way, and loss of proper circulation can send them into a torpor state not unlike cold-blooded animals.

“Shay, you alright?”

“Do I look alright?” There’s no chattering teeth or tremor in his voice, just snark.

Sierra scoots a little closer to him on the log anyway, adjusting the blanket spread over their legs, then looks up at the sky. “Where did you say the meteor shower is gonna be, Pete?”

Pete looks perfectly comfortable in a quilted flannel jacket and fingerless gloves. Sierra kind of wants to punch him. Totally unfair. “A little to the northwest.” He pushes up his sleeve to check his watch. “In about twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes?” Shay asks. “Seriously?”

“We got up here a lot faster than I thought we would,” Pete says. “Someone cleared the trails out. A few years ago I was climbing over fallen trees and having to go around branches.”

“So your idea of a fun-filled night is drag your best friends through a potential obstacle course?” Sierra asks.

“You’re the one who said seeing the meteor shower would be cool.”

“It is cool. Literally.” Sierra rubs her arms. “Should we maybe start a fire or something?”

“If we do, it’ll make it harder to see anything up there,” Pete says. “We can light one for a bit and then put it out, though.”

“That sounds like a great idea to me,” Sierra says. “Shay, how do you feel about a fire?” Vampires aren’t fond of cold temperatures, but they’re also very averse to fire. Uncle John has apparently endless stories of how Robin has pissed Emma off with minor (controlled, or at least so he claims) arson. 

There’s no response. Sierra turns to Shay to see him slumped forward, head resting on his chest, lips bluer and skin paler than even his normal. 

Idiot. He wouldn’t have been shivering or had chattering teeth, because those are the responses of something warm-blooded trying to regulate itself. 

He may not have realized how bad things were getting, himself. Sierra thinks he would have told her if he did. He’s usually pretty good about being honest about an issue, unless it’s going to involve him needing real blood. 

This won’t. But he’s still a new vamp and this is his first time in colder weather. He’s used to human indicators of hypothermia, and probably didn’t recognize the vampire ones as anything other than discomfort.

“Pete, we are gonna need that fire.” She nods to Shay. “Because I do not want to try and carry him back down that trail.” Having him as virtual deadweight in flat desert was bad enough. 

“If we can get him warm he should be fine,” Pete says, digging some matches out of his jacket pocket and picking up a handful of twigs and fallen leaves. “He’s basically going into hibernation because of the temperatures.” 

It’s certainly not the worst off Sierra’s ever seen Shay, but that doesn’t mean it’s good. It’s more easily fixed than open wounds or blood loss or exposure to silver, but given that vampires can’t help their own bodies warm back to a functional temperature, Sierra and Pete are going to have to do all the work.

She slides her jacket off her arms, pulling Shay into a clumsy hug and slipping her hands under his shirt to wrap around his back. His skin is like ice. She shivers from the contact.

Pete takes a moment away from the tiny flickers of his fire to drape the blanket around the two of them like a miniature tent. The wool is scratchy against Sierra’s cheek, but it traps her warmth between herself and Shay, and she feels him shift against her. 

She curls into him, watching the firelight flicker on his features, bringing out the color again. The reddish glow makes him almost look human again. It’s honestly a strange sight. 

She isn’t sure what she would have thought of him if they’d met while he was still human.

The only Shay she knows is the vampire.

And she likes the person she knows.

He blinks lazily, and the fire’s light brings out the flecks of gold ringing the center of his irises. 

“Welcome back,” she says, laughing out a huff of relief.

“Wh…” He sounds groggy, dazed.

“We let you get too cold. We’re just going to get you warm and then go home,” she says. 

Pete sits down on the log next to them, re-adjusting the blanket so it now wraps (almost) around all three of them. Sierra shudders at the momentary gust of chilly wind, then leans into Pete’s warmth. The fire is crackling cheerfully, several crossed logs forming a solid base that smolders determinedly. There’s only a low red light now, but it’s reliable, steady and warm.

“Hey, look.” Pete detaches one arm from the cocoon of warmth to point upward.

Sure enough, a scatter of pinpoint lights is making their way to earth.

Sierra watches them, burning so bright until they go out, and settles a little closer into the bodies surrounding her. 

Falling stars only last for a few moments. But the best of them never go down alone.

Everything, even going down in flames, is better done together.

You can read this story and more from my universe on my WorldAnvil here!

@nade2308 @catwingsathena @the-one-and-only-valkyrie @telltaleclerk

[istandonsnowpiles]

Along the Northwest Branch Trail

[televinita]

Fri-yay!

I very unexpectedly have an actual day off of work and it's bright and sunny and not that cold (38 degrees, projected high of 45??), but I'm currently spinning my wheels because there are things I could go do in five different directions ahhhh help!

North: good day for a mini road trip (40 miles each way) heading out in a rural direction to a cute small town I haven't been to in ages, with some interesting local shops and also apparently a new-ish store that sells Target overstock dirt cheap?? There are also walking trails, and I could also drop some stuff off at a library by ducking only about a mile out of my way.

South: the town I used to work in, retail paradise but I mostly wanna go today because there's a Savers and I have a 40% off clothing coupon. I could also duck a mile out of my way to pick up a library hold and see if that book I want in the sale corner is still there so I can trade my worse copy for it, and check the free cart here, which I haven't looked at in a few weeks and its stock turns over fast. And there are places to walk.

East: just a few miles east is a library I need to stop at in the next couple of days anyway to pick up other holds, otherwise this isn't really my pick today.

West: yet another library, this one where I have a few extra books I want to drop off for their bag sale. I don't have to take them directly to that branch, it's just easier for them and guarantees they'll go into the book sale rather than languishing on a smaller sale cart. ...but I don't have to so probably not this one.

Northwest: Counting it as its own direction because it's like 10 miles due north of the west option, and my "north" option above is decidedly angled more to the northeast. This is the lone estate sale operating in the area this Easter weekend, and it looked like it could be a interesting... but I don't think it's worth a drive on its own.

SO after 15 minutes of thinking aloud, in some manner at least, I think it's basically down to North Or South. I could get the most done going south...but I'm kinda feelin' north, just because that takes the most time and I may not have that kind of energy again until summer, if work gets crazy like it tends to do.

Time to shut down the computer, and we'll see if I stick to that plan once I get to the car!

[rebeccathenaturalist]

Farewell to an Old Cedar–and Hello to a New One

Originally posted to my blog at https://rebeccalexa.com/farewell-to-an-old-cedar-and-hello-to-a-new-one/

Last Wednesday I had the opportunity to do some volunteering with Willapa National Wildlife Refuge. As the weather has finally turned better, with some warm, sunny days mixed in with the rain, it’s made conditions more favorable to getting outside. So when I got the email asking if I wanted to help plant some cedar trees, I jumped at the chance.

Western red cedar (Thuja plicata) is my very favorite tree. It’s not a true cedar, instead being a member of the cypress family Cupressaceae. But there’s something about the red-tinted bark powdered with Cladonia lichens, and the flat, scaly green needles that appeals to me. Maybe it’s because it’s some of the best of the coloration of Pacific Northwest forests all wrapped in one tree. Or perhaps it’s because I loved eastern red cedar (Juniperus virginiana) so much as a child, and I’ve just developed a fondness for cedars that aren’t actually cedars.

We have only a few tiny patches of old-growth forest here in the extreme southwest corner of Washington, mostly populated with ancient cedars and a few very old Sitka spruce (Picea sitchensis). My first real look at old-growth forest here was Teal Slough, a section of Willapa NWR that protects 140 acres. These ancient trees very nearly ended up logged a few decades ago, but for the heroic efforts of historian Rex Ziak. In the pre-internet times he spent months tracking down the then-corporate owners of this tract of land, and managed to convince them to cease logging with a letter, a photograph, and a rope loop the same circumference as one of these massive old cedars. (It’s a pretty incredible story that I got to hear him tell in person at Wings Over Willapa a few years ago.)

It really was at the eleventh hour, though. One of the first things an astute naturalist will notice when arriving at Teal Slough is that almost all of the trees are either very old–or very young. That’s because the undergrowth had been bulldozed in preparation for chopping down the couple dozen big trees left. It’s rebounded in recent years, but there are tons of scrawny young western hemlock trees (Tsuga heterophylla) along with a scattering of young cedars.

Adding more cedars was our original goal for that morning, which was cool but sunny. We brought ten young trees with us, but stopped at the old Refuge headquarters just down the road from Teal Slough. It turned out that the place we were originally going to plant them was where the old logging road cut through, and the heavy gravel made digging by hand impossible. So we planted eight to create a windbreak at the old HQ, which is itself going through a slow metamorphosis, and tucked the other two back into the truck.

And then it was time to head to Teal Slough itself. While we couldn’t plant trees, we could still pick up debris from the storms that came through. The bigger branches and fallen saplings made good material for outlining the trails, making them more visible to visitors. While the old logging road is pretty obvious, some of the footpaths that diverge off the main trail to showcase big trees further back in the woods were getting tougher to discern. So we spent some time lining them with some of the windfallen materials.

But I also want to touch on the original reason we were slated to go out there that day. See, those young cedars were originally going to be used to help start to close off the last hundred feet or so of the trail. This last bit leads down to one of the biggest of the cedars at Teal Slough, and–to be quite honest–my favorite.

As it turns out, she’s not doing so well. She’s been rotted out inside for some time; this is normal, of course; in many cases an old tree can survive its heartwood rotting away completely, since that wood is dead. But this old cedar has been beginning to lean noticeably toward the northwest in recent months. There’s no disruption at ground level yet, no cracks in the earth or roots bursting forth to the surface. A Refuge employee was on the trail a few months ago during one of the vicious windstorms we’ve had over the winter, and he noticed this tree swaying more than usual.

We don’t know when she’ll fall. It might be later this year; it might not be for another century. But it was decided that the trail to her should be closed off just in case she came down when there were people around. A massive tree of this size would be quite a danger indeed; the day after our volunteering a logger was killed in the Willapa Hills after being hit by a much smaller tree. Even a section of this tree coming down at the wrong time could be disastrous. And beyond a certain size there’s really no way to buttress such an enormous thing, especially when it’s located on a slope of super-saturated soil.

We walked down the trail to where she still stood with her much younger hemlock “buddy tree” growing out of her side; many of the old cedars have similar hemlock companions. It was apparent she was listing more than I had seen her in the past, and there seemed to be a little more space between her and her hemlock. We all spoke of how magnificent she was, and how sad that it seemed she was nearing her end.

I lingered behind for a moment while everyone else moved the “End of Trail” sign back up to where the path would be cut off. It was my last moment to be up close and personal to this beautiful old cedar. While technically, yes, I could still steal up the path before it was completely planted or fenced or however the Refuge will eventually close it, I respect their decision and decided this would be my farewell. I told the tree how much I had enjoyed visiting her, and thanked her young hemlock as well. I touched the lichens that adorned her furrowed bark, and looked up at the broken crown of branches at her top.

Then I turned, with many glances backwards at a Eurydice I would never be able to bring home. I dragged with me a young alder that had fallen in a storm, and added it to the small pile of branches placed across the trail as a temporary barrier. And we headed back down to the road, with the sound of a pileated woodpecker (Dryocopus pileatus) rapping high overhead, and a rough-skinned newt (Taricha granulosa) waiting for us at the trailhead.

I don’t know when the old cedar will finally fall over, but when she does her death will not be in vain. Like all fallen trees, the countless molecules she accumulated over a millennium of life will slowly start to disperse throughout the forest through the actions of detritivores and decomposers. She will feed bacteria and fungi, insects that then become food for birds, and a whole host of plants that will make use of the vast stores of nutrients she holds, and the sunlight that her passing will reveal to the forest floor. Nothing ever goes to waste in a forest, not least of all a fallen tree.

As we drove back down 101 toward the new headquarters, I gave a glance to where we had planted the young cedars. I would never live to see them achieve that great stature; in fact, not all of them may even make it to maturity, especially if cedar die-back continues in our too-hot summers. But it is hope that allows me to continue to plant new things amid loss. I cannot help but try, even against the odds. And I can do two things at once: I can mourn the eldest of the trees as she makes her literal last stand, and I can also loosen the soil for one of her relatives to set roots and grow.

Did you enjoy this post? Consider taking one of my online foraging and natural history classes or hiring me for a guided nature tour, checking out my other articles, or picking up a paperback or ebook I’ve written! You can even buy me a coffee here!

[lichennose]

ThunderClan territory map! View below for info on the landmarks 

ThunderClan’s territory is thick deciduous forest, with mixed coniferous species near the western border. In the east, the forest thins out into hilly fields, butting up against Moon River. ThunderClan camp lies in an abandoned quarry.

The Sky Oak An ancient oak tree that grows near the lakeshore, its branches reaching high into the sky. Apprentices learn to climb here, as the wide branches and soft, rich grass make for a relatively safe training space. It’s a popular hangout spot in general, especially on hot greenleaf afternoons.

The Mossy Hollow A narrow clearing where moss grows thickly. It’s considered a beginner’s training spot - the open environment allows mentors to see exactly what their apprentices are doing. “Graduating” out of this area is often a mark of pride for aspiring warriors.

Deadfall Ditch Two big trees that fell into a narrow ditch, their branches criss-crossing into a maze. The trees fell long ago and have since been colonized by smaller plants, lichens, and fungi. As opposed to the Mossy Hollow, Deadfall Ditch is considered a difficult training spot, one conquered only by determined fighters - the tangled branches and slippery trunks make for a difficult battle. Apprentices and warriors alike enjoy training here for the extra challenge.

Newt Pond A nice, weedy pond, situated just west of the Old Path. There’s lots of rich foliage and mud. There’s also a low elderberry tree, serving as the clan’s sole source of elderberries - other herbs include sweet woodruff, horsetail, and valerian. Aquatic wildlife flock here as well, and cats may hunt the native frogs and newts when prey is scarce elsewhere. Newt Pond is widely considered one of the territory’s prettiest locations (at least if you enjoy water).

The Abandoned Twoleg Nest / The Herb Garden An abandoned house with a toppled garden wall made out of cobblestone. The house itself is degrading as well, with a collapsed roof, missing windows, and gaping door. The old garden is overgrown but cared for by ThunderClan’s medicine cats, who cultivate rare herbs here; foxglove, ginger, rosemary, poppy, and sage. Ginger and rosemary aren’t found anywhere else in the territory.

The Old Path Once a dirt road, now an overgrown path through the forest. It winds from camp northwards past the abandoned twoleg nest. It’s used as a trail through the woods and for orienting oneself when lost.

The Greenleaf Twolegplace A campsite in the northwest corner of the territory, situated just beyond the scent markers. Twolegs visit during greenleaf - warriors are careful to avoid it during that time. When vacant, cats may sniff around, but it’s considered too dangerous for further exploration. 

Dandelion Glade A nice sunny meadow in the woods, often blanketed by dandelions during the warm seasons. Cats like to come here to sunbathe in greenleaf, making it quite the social spot - it’s deserted other times of year.

Sun-down Hill A hill near the northern border. The land here opens into a little cliff, overlooking the territory - one can sit atop it and see all the way across the lake. It’s considered a beautiful scenic overlook with oft-romantic connotations.

The Lone Ash and the Cave The Cave is just that, a rocky tunnel that twists deep into the earth; its entrance is narrow and marked by a singular ash tree. Unknown to the clans, this cave system connects to the abandoned passageways below WindClan. ThunderClan cats avoid this spot, as they find it frightening or useless, but apprentices might visit to freak each other out.

The Lush Woods A section of mixed deciduous-coniferous forest, widely considered to begin just past Newt Pond and end at Border River. in greenleaf, the variety of foliage attracts many different prey species - in leafbare, birds and squirrels are drawn to the abundance of nuts and seeds. These factors make the lush woods an invaluable hunting ground year-round. Due to its importance, cats avoid cutting through here on patrol, preferring to leave it be and let prey accumulate for later hunting parties.

The Weedy Clearing A long, narrow clearing that runs along the ThunderClan side of Border River. It’s thickly overgrown with water-loving plants. 

Border River The river that separates ThunderClan from the neighboring ShadowClan. Generally difficult to cross, given its rapid current and depth - cats avoid entering it, as even wading a few paces in can expose one to dangerous conditions. It widens and slows a bit near the lake.

Splash-cross Point A shallow spot in Moon River somewhat near the lakeshore, this location is used as a crossing-over point from ThunderClan to WindClan land. ThunderClan cats use it primarily to get to the monthly Gathering.

Moon River The river that separates ThunderClan from WindClan. Its current is slow and meandering, though the water is deep in places. It gets its name for how medicine cats follow it north to the Moonpool (the two bodies of water aren’t connected, however).

[niaswish]

Intruders

This is based on an au I introduced in 2020 for the NyxNoct week (Chapter 7 of the Heroic Start by Shiary on AO3).

Rating: Teen +

Warnings: Slightly graphic violence near the end. Implied character deaths.

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, implied character deaths, Nyx Ulric/ Noctis Lucis Caleum, eventual fluff, no major character deaths, Dark-ish Nyx, Royalty AU.

Chapter summary: Intruders have invaded Galahd and entered Ramuh’s Temple. Nyx would not let that stand, and would gleefully remind anyone why Niflheim and Lucis failed to conquer them.

Nyx slipped into the night with Libertus by his side, Pelna in his ear, and Luche behind him. The jungle rustled as the other hunters spread out as ordered. They had to find out the intruders that had tried to infiltrate Ramuh's Temple.

Tried and failed but not without injuring Nyx's mother and several other clerics.

The Elders and his father had ordered Galahd searched, the intruders found and brought to justice.

Nyx felt the anger bubbling in his chest as he remembered the bandages wrapped around his mother's throat and arms. Whoever had dared to attack their home was going to learn why Niflheim had so miserably failed. No one attacked Nyx's home and got away with it.

"I've got eyes on tracks." Tredd's voice called out. "Looks like at least 4 people but no more than 10. They're heading Northwest."

They wasted no time in following the tracks deeper into the jungle. The intruders weren't half bad as they managed to use fallen branches, rivers, and boulders to hide their trail. But their tricks couldn't prevent the experienced hunters of Galahd from finding them.

The tracks lead to a small cavern entrance at the edge of one of the smaller rivers in the region. Nyx smirked as he recognized it, seeing his own friends recognize it too.

Libertus chuckled as he dropped into a crouch beside Nyx. "Of all places they had to set up in."

Nyx nodded but waited until his team had gathered around him before speaking. "Pelna, we've found the intruders at Goary Training Cavern. We're going to trigger the traps and wait for them to come to us."

His Hunters all grinned and Sonitus took out a small tablet, handing it to Crowe with a bow. Their favorite mage cackled as she turned it on. It didn't take long before they could clearly see the various training caverns on the small screen. Sonitus had several other tablets that he shared around.

Nyx frowned as Crowe shifted from camera to camera. "That's a lot more than 10."

"I count 3 dozen." Luche whispered from over Nyx's shoulder. Axis chimed in with another ten keeping watch on the edges of the training caverns. They kept watch for a while longer before they were fairly certain that they knew how many intruders were there.

"Fuck. This might be a bit harder than expected. The Marshall is here as are Princeling's friends." There were agreeing noises from around Nyx as he considered how to best deal with these new pests. The training set up within the ground would be too much for the Lucian, it was set up for Hunters after all, but there was no way the Cor Leonis would have too much trouble with it.

Still, Nyx was intrigued in how Cor Leonis would perform in front of... "Princeling?"

"What the hell is he doing here?" Crowe hissed. "He's supposed to be at the Temple."

Nyx pressed his lips together, anger bubbling up in his chest at the sight of the Prince walking freely and happily with those responsible for injuring HIS people! "Crowe, start it up."

Crowe glanced at him, "You sure?" Nyx nodded firmly. She shrugged then started up the training program. "I'm setting this entrance as the finish line."

Nyx felt Libertus squeezing his shoulder. He ignored it as the first screams came through the tablet. Nyx straightened and drew his kukris as he strode towards the entrance. His Hunters followed without hesitation.

When Cor Leonis walked out of the Training Ground, bruised and bloodied but firm, Nyx gave him only a single chance. "Surrender and you will not be harmed further." 

"No." The Marshall swung his katana towards Nyx. It was the only thing he did before Nyx Stopped him.

None of the intruders would die. No. They would just be injured and captured for trial at the Temple.

And the misbehaving princeling would pay the price of betraying his duty to Ramuh.

[this-is-sen-lin]

Memory Park

Originally written in November 2021 for HIST 502: Introduction to Public History.

Synopsis: Can history be neutral? How do we treat with the past? What should we do with all those old statues? Follow the groundskeeper of Memory Park, where the past stands at eye-level and the weeds are always hungry. 1227 words

The gravel crunches beneath your work boots as you make your way along the maintenance road. The pale sky hangs blue and orange-gold above you, the gathering clouds stained pink by the slow climb of the drowsy sun. Birdsong trickles out through the dense crowns of the trees. Long grass softly brushes your pantlegs. The chain-link fence that marks the edge of the service yard holds back a flood of shrubs, allowing them to thrust a few green stems through the gaps. The world in this hour feels softly hushed, and the gentle breeze carries the faint smells of crushed grass and rain. As you push through the gate in the wall of green, you’re reminded of a fact that the girl at the visitor center once shared with you.

  “Did you know,” she had said, “that people in Victorian times had picnics in cemeteries? Yeah, and the kids would play there too. Public parks weren’t really a thing back then. Cemeteries were the only green spaces they had.”

  You check in, fill a bucket with water, and load it onto the golf cart along with your tools. You sit down behind the wheel and take a moment to savor the cool of the morning before you start the engine. The cart jostles slightly as it rolls down a dirt path beneath the arching branches of the trees. The water in the bucket sloshes. As you roll past the EMPLOYEES ONLY sign, you make your plans for the morning.

  At Memory Park, your duties as groundskeeper are relatively light. You maintain the trails and pick up garbage, but there’s little in the way of landscaping to take care of. The county’s vision for the park was of a place where nature could take its course. “Rewilding”, you think, was the term they used. You remember a message in the guestbook colorfully describing it as “a place to watch plants swallow up the statues.”

  Oh, yeah. You take care of the statues too.

  Not too much care. Just enough to not make a statement.

  If such a thing were possible.

The dirt path leads you past the scattered statues, separated from each other by waving swaths of grass and wildflowers. Once, they may have stood on plinths, but now they rest with their feet on the ground, the same height as anybody else. Some of them have names: Forrest, Calhoun, Sherman, Junípero Serra. Others you can’t immediately recall, or had no names to begin with. Four young Confederates stand in a cluster beneath a maple tree, watching you pass with hollow eyes. One of them clutches his rifle with both hands, his head at his feet and the beginnings of a bird’s nest in the cradle of his neck. Other statues you pass stand half-cloaked in creepers, or speckled white on head and shoulders from bird droppings. These you do not clear away. Nature is taking its course.

Someone has spray-painted the word “MURDERER” onto the chest of an equestrian statue of Andrew Jackson. You stop the cart, get down, and inspect it. His eyes have been X-ed out in similar fashion, and various obscenities are painted on the sides of his horse. (What did the horse ever do?) Each stroke of red spray-paint seems to throb with the painter’s anger. There was vengeance in this gesture.

Nothing some soap and water can’t fix. You grab your bucket and sponge the paint away, as per protocol. The water runs red from between the fingers of your sponge-hand and pools at Jackson’s feet. You leave him to dry in the sun: there’s a lot more park left to cover.  

In the southeast section, you pick up the remains of a picnic left beneath a chasteberry tree.

In the southwest section, you pause at the edge of the pond to watch a heron fish.

In the northwest section, you come across a statue in the middle of a clearing. At the feet of the nameless Texas Ranger blooms a crop of American flags and red-white-and-blue pinwheels. A Beanie Baby rests in the crook of his arm as he reaches for his Walker Colt. You stand for a moment, watching the pinwheels turn and the flags flutter in the breeze. Pride and patriotism bubble up from the ground in this place.

After quickly glancing around, you gather up the items and place them in the back of the cart, as per protocol. The tiny yellow blooms they had hidden peep through the grass. The flags and pinwheels are still in good condition, and it seems a waste to throw them out. You consider donating them to the local daycare.

You spend a little more time on your rounds, picking up the odd bit of trash, as well as a sticker-covered Hydroflask for the lost-and-found. You take a short break at the northern edge of the park. Rolling hills stretch before you, the paintbox dripples and brushstrokes of summer wildflowers breaking up the waving expanse of green. Some rumors had been going around about expanding the park, and you imagine bronze soldiers and marble missionaries gazing at the hazy blue mountains beyond.

The last stop on your rounds is the front gate, which you unlock and push creakingly open before returning to your cart. You unpack a sack breakfast and a thermos of coffee. The wind pushes flocks of fattened clouds across the blue field of the sky, and you watch them for a while, your eyes watering slightly from the intensity of the color.

A slight rustling to your left draws your attention. You take another drink of coffee, then get up from your seat to investigate.

In the middle of a stand of trees, a man in shorts and a gray hiking jacket kneels at the base of a statue of Jefferson Davis. He’s taking a charcoal rubbing of the nameplate at the base. After a moment, he gets up and waves to you. “Are you the groundskeeper here?” he asks.

“Yep, that’s me,” you reply.

“I just wanted to thank you for what you’re doing,” says the man. He’s fair-skinned, with big, guileless blue eyes and a full, neatly trimmed brown beard. “Like, preserving all this stuff? That’s important. I mean, I’m no Confederate or anything but… this is history.”

“It sure is,” you reply. The man turns around and puts his hands on his hips to survey the grove.

“This is a good place,” he continues. “Lotta nature here. You know, I read on the Internet somewhere that it takes 40,000 years for a bronze statue to break down.”

“Is that right?”

“Mm-hmm.” He turns to face you, then glances back over his shoulder and adds, “’Let us cross over the river and rest in the shade of the trees.’”

You do not respond.

The man gives you a cheerful wave and starts to leave. You get closer to the statue and look at it for a little while. Your eyes are at the same level as Davis’s. The man has left his charcoal stick at the base, and you consider throwing it away as you pick it up.

Instead, you call after the man, “Hey, you forgot your charcoal,” and he thanks you as he takes it back.

You sit down at the base of the largest tree and linger for a while in the shade.

[reasoningdaily]

Put yourself in places where you are listening to stories.

The Sandy Spring Slave Museum stands out for its commitment to local heritage. Founded by Doctor Winston Anderson in 1988, the museum enriches educators, students, and families through education, immersion, and introspection. 

In the 18th century, Quakers founded Sandy Spring, naming the town after a spring with sandy soil. According to the Sandy Spring historical marker, the Quakers called the spring, now located in Northwest Branch Valley Park, “Snowden’s Manor” and “Harewood.”

Through online archives, information about Sandy Spring is made available to the public. These archives detail descriptions of the economy, property, and residences in Sandy Spring. The buildings include a two-story “Roadside” with wooden shingles, gabled roofs and brick chimneys, Victorian-styled jigsawn porches, post offices, and blacksmith shops.

The historical documents provide information about notable people: Benjamin Rush Roberts, who founded the Sherwood Spring Mill in 1854, William Henry Farquhar, who administered the county’s school system in 1864, and Lucy Gilpin, who owned and ran the Sandy Spring Store in 1903. 

However, the crucial history of African Americans in Sandy Spring is underreported. Home to Montgomery County’s oldest free black community, many enslaved people who settled with the Quakers stayed in Sandy Spring, creating their own families and traditions over the centuries. The lack of historical records challenges Black families from discovering truths about their past generation.

“Montgomery County has such rich Black history that you don’t have to go outside of your communities,” Sandy Spring Slave Museum Co-Director, Doctor Troy Boddy, said. “Unfortunately, much of that history gets lost over the years. Our role is to not only tell about the contributions of Black people throughout history but locally.”

Educating families on discovering their personal lineage, one of the museum’s most unique programs is conducting genealogy research. Genealogist, Natalie Thomas, studies local African American history. Thomas allows visitors to trace their past through a geographical and biological lens when requesting a session online. 

An additional core aspect of the Sandy Spring Slave Museum is its preservation work on collecting oral history from African American families in Montgomery County. Using an archival database, PastPerfect, the Sandy Spring Slave Museum works with American University and anthropologist professor, Doctor Rachel Watkins, to record historical stories for the greater community.

“We used the collection to teach history at the museum, school trips with children and teachers, and even school leadership like Superintendent executive staff,” Sandy Spring Slave Museum Co-Director, Sandi Williams, said. 

Along with historical research, the museum staff works to develop educational material for schools and the public. Their lesson plans, interactive panels and books explore the African diaspora through the Middle Passage, the Abolitionist movement and the Civil Rights movement. These resources navigate the collective resilience, opportunity and culture of African American communities in the United States, a resilience reflected by the museum’s own board.

“Our board members are 90% volunteers or current educators. We have that piece which makes it very instrumental in helping us to promote our mission to bridge the information gap,” museum manager Deborah Buchanan said.

Buchanan has been a lifelong resident of Sandy Spring, along with Boddy and Williams. 

Photo Courtesy of LA Times

Outside of the enriching learning journey, the heritage trail is an accessible and valuable component of the museum. Open 24 hours a day, visitors can explore 18 outside panels that highlight families, buildings, and structures in a natural setting. As an example for cultural and environmental preservation, heritage trails cultivate new perspectives in understanding how people survived, built and transformed the natural resources into landmarks, monuments and icons in a specific area.  

Museums and organizations like the Sandy Spring Slave Museum are integral in gaining personal insight into the shared narratives, culture and values of African Americans.

“I grew up in a family where we talked about our history,” Boddy said, adding on “There’s still a lot that was untold…knowing history allows you to have a shield to protect yourself from misinformation and helps you navigate what’s going on in our world today.”

Nationwide, millions are still searching to restore missing pieces of their family history. The erasure of Black studies, the neglect of Black cemeteries and other acts of structural racism shed light on the urgency for communities to come together, reclaim and showcase their lost voices. Amplifying Black stories through the Sandy Spring Slave Museum allows thousands of visitors to find meaning in educating themselves on African American history—from the brutal to the beautiful.

“The museum becomes an eye-opening experience and a catapult for people to share this information with others and bring more people into the museum,” Buchanan said.

Not only is the struggle to preserve African American history a priority for educators, journalists and advocates, but the Sandy Spring Slave Museum staff recognizes the combined weight of marginalized communities. When these communities uplift and support each other, they can foster stronger relationships and build resonance in a history of oppression and silence.

“Our stories intermingle with Asian Americans and Latino Americans, overlapping with Native Americans—and so this is our story that we just often aren’t given,” Boddy said.

Ultimately, when students and teenagers approach history, learning with open-mindedness creates a world of new ideas, observations and questions.

“Ask why—so you can dig below the surface of just what you see, but why is it that way; why did people do the things they did; what are the different ways in which folks have different perspectives,” Boddy said. “Make connections between things. Put yourself in places where you are listening to stories.”

On the topic of furthering the knowledge students pursue, Buchanan believes: “It is never too late to give up your prejudice. You need to educate yourself so that you can elevate your thought processes and your mind—thereby liberating your mind, body and your soul.”