Gender Nouns in S. Hammond

Something I noticed throughout "Hill and Lakes" was Hammond's assertive use of gender pronouns to refer to the creatures and natural forces around him. I couldn't help but think that Hammond and his guide, Tucker, were attributing gender to such things, since there were little to no descriptions of certain animals that would distinguish them as being male or female (save deers and bucks, which have antlers to distinguish them as patriarchs). In cases of trout, fishers, mosquitoes, and cougars, for example, how could Hammond have discerned gender so quickly? Perhaps there are gender markers of these animals that the author did not describe in his collection of anecdotes that I do not have knowledge of, but Hammond's references to streams, the sun, his canoe, among other things, as being either male, female, or neutered/gender neutral leads me to believe that the pronouns he uses reflect his own presumptions that stem from his identity as a white male. 

Below I have compiled a list of some instances of gendering that I have found in his work. I found it interesting that sometimes the author would refer to a body of water as a male, and sometimes as "it". This inconsistency is further evidence that his use of language is a product of himself, rather than a cultural grammar rule. In English, it is proper to refer to thing that we do not know the gender of as it/its/they/them/theirs. If we do know that the object is a male or female, whether it be a wild animal or a human, then we should use he/she/her/his. The exceptions to this rule are some boats and countries, which are often referred to with the female pronoun, i.e. mothership, motherland, etc. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gender_in_English) The fact that some people refer to animals with masculine pronouns when they do not know of its gender frustrates me, since it expresses the male-dominated society that America is. 

In 1973, Muhammad Ibrahim concluded three main functions grammatical gender: 

1. In a language with explicit inflections for gender, it is easy to express the natural gender of animate beings.
2. Grammatical gender "can be a valuable tool of disambiguation", rendering clarity about antecedents.
3. In literature, gender can be used to "animate and personify inanimate nouns. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grammatical_gender)

While I think it is a flaw in English grammar that we must repeat some nouns when referring to them to clarify the object a verb is referring to, and often, we must rely on context in order to understand the subject of a sentence, for the most part, I am glad that English is not a gendered language. Even though the gender of a word does not necessarily agree with the natural gender of the object the word is describing, the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis remains plausible; language has the power to both (to an extreme) determine how we categorize our thoughts (linguistic determinism) and (to a lesser extreme) influence our thoughts and some non-linguistic behavior (linguistic relativism). https://courses.washington.edu/linganth/Intro/notes-week2-1.pdf

In some cases, gender is utilized more as a linguistic category, and various languages have more than two genders. For instance, Swahili has 18 noun classes! However, by refraining to attribute the most widespread type of grammatical gender, - a binary of male/female, - to words, I think that we can have the most freedom to interpret our surroundings in a way that is more in tune with our nature rather than our nurture. A canoe is a vessel that can be both strong, sturdy, wavering, and guiding in the water. Our culture emphasizes that words that express strength and brawn are masculine, and words that express delicacy and weakness are feminine. If we rid of this mindset to the best of our ability, we can see that every object and being has the capacity to display and possess qualities across the gender spectrum, thus reinforcing the fact that gender is merely a cultural construct. 

19- a general mountain stream (he)
20- Chazy Lake (it)
30- canoe (she)
31- lagoon (it); 
31- Mount Lyon (he)
34- deer (he)
37- "musquitos" (he)
39- fawn (it)
40- mother deer (she)
42- salmon "Sockdolager" (patriarch, but unclear if referring to one specific trout or in general)
52- unnamed pond/lake (it)
53- fish hawk (he)
54- fisher (it, then he)
56- storm (it)
57- sun (he)
128- Swedish nightingale (she)
128- "iron horse"/locomotive (he)
141- "painter"/cougar-- 141 (he)
155- old duck (she) 

Touristic Turn Inward

           This desire of outsiders and tourists to be recognized when venturing to new places is often explored in anthropologist Jenny Huberman’s writings. It perhaps seems paradoxical that a tourist’s pursuit might not be to discover an authentic “other,” but rather to have to have that other discover and acknowledge them, but Huberman theorizes that perhaps this desire for recognition is grounded in the commodification of places that transpires when the tourism industry becomes paramount in the experience of a place. What she describes as a ‘touristic turn inward’ is outlined as a manifestation of capitalist consumption, marking a shift in the subjectivity of the late modern tourist, where experience itself becomes a commodity involving exchanges of interactions. In Hammond’s writing he uniquely seeks recognition of his significance not necessarily in the human locals of the Adirondacks, but in the experience of dominating animals in the natural world. Among other examples, in writing about deer he describes:

“Our visit will long be remembered by them. The story will go down "to their children, and their children's children," as the epoch of the advent of strange monsters, who came among them in the night to frighten their fathers from their property, but to our credit it will be told, that we left them unharmed, save by the terrors of our transient presence." (32)

“That deer will remember us to his dying day, - nor shall we soon forget him.” (36)

The tone of Hammond’s writing makes these sentiments seem less founded in a concern that he has deliberately broken principles of Leave No Trace ethics and more so in a desire to actively penetrate the natural landscape, navigating places as a dominant force possessing control over one’s surroundings. At one point he says “It was no boy's play to overtake that deer” – perhaps boys become men when their power games becomes concretely manifested, making ownership and control over places that which marks the transition into elite white manhood. And yet, wilderness and the animals that occupy it seem to be objects to be overpowered in what often is described in Hammond’s narrative as a game with child-like competition. 

Adirondack Luxury

On campus, many people who are unfamiliar with the Adirondack Program have approached me with questions, and many of them are based on the assumption that we are living in tents, a yurt, or a cabin without electricity. Usually these questions make me laugh and I explain the actual luxurious living situation that we have at the Mountain House. The other person has usually been very surprised and then a little confused before moving on to another topic.

While most people at Hamilton by now (especially the people interested in applying) have heard about how spectacular the Mountain House is, the fact that very sparse and rustic accomodations is the go-to assumption for life in the Adirondacks makes me wonder where this idea comes from. There is a long history of luxurious living in the Adirondacks, as we can still see in the Great Camps, the multitude of historical hotels, and with the guides that used to provide a "wilderness experience" without compromising complete comfort. Despite all of this, living in the Adirondacks is automatically viewed as a harsh and unmodernized pursuit. 

Although we know that the Adirondack Park is nearly half comprised of towns, farms, etc., the Adirondacks are almost immediately associated with mountains, lakes, forests, or a number of other types of "wild" landscapes. This assumption makes sense and is very much true in one sense, but I think that it affects the notion of what it means to live there. For someone unfamiliar with the Park, living in the Adirondacks must mean living in an almost completely wilderness setting without modern technological conveniences. Our setup in the Mountain House is difficult to line up with the widely accepted view of the Adirondacks as a place of wilderness, despite the reality that there is much more than wilderness within the Blue Line. 

Man with Nature

So far it seems to me that the reading we have done so far is writing about how man has mastery over nature. Man hunts, man cuts down trees, man overcomes natures obstacles with his tools and mind as "superiority." Emerson writes about he and his boys having a grand time dominating the nature around them on their Adirondack retreat, Thoreau writes that nothing is more beautiful than man's voice in nature (even though it covers the sounds of the birds), and Hammond writes of his moving through nature without nature striking him down. To me, this seems antithetical to modern ideas of environmental writing. Kingsolver, for instance, writes about how humans must work with nature and are overpowered by nature because humans are not unquestionable masters of the universe and should not strive to be. And Salatin writes about using nature's processes to the benefit of the planet and humanity. And I feel that much of the nature writing pieces I've read (which, to be fair, have been few), focus on existing within nature and being subjected to its power. Hammond, Thoreau, and Emerson all wrote about the power and beauty of man and how nature can serve the interests of man. But none wrote about how man can serve and better nature through a working relationship rather than removing humans from the area. I'm glad that the modern nature writers I've read have moved to this kind of understanding because I think it's the necessary understanding of nature for bringing humanity into balance with the planet.

Feeling like a draft horse with too much spare time.

"I should not talk so much about myself if there were any body else whom I knew as well. Unfortunately, I am confined to this theme by the narrowness of my experience."
-Thoreau, Walden

I want to sit here
And Want to Want to write about packaging
And how I was disturbed at North Country Creamery
After applying only 300, 8 inch long labels to 300 plain yogurts
200 feet of waxed backing paper remained
That no longer serve any purpose what so ever.

But I am occupying the strangest brainspace.

I am feeling metaphysical
In the most physical way
Coupled with this unending feeling of nausea
It's driving me crazy.

The other day I watched the Nova documentary
"Mind of a Rampage Killer"
And it's effectively WebM.D.'ed me.
I am now convinced I have at least two impulse control disorders
And that my parents didn't hold me enough as a child.


I have reverted to my favorite writing style
This strange brand of free verse poetry.
Replacing commas
With returns



I fucking love long pauses.



I have completely altered my journal
Cutting shit out
And burning shit in.
Contemplating my brain
And my life

My mind is like Space Mountain
Its pitch black
And I never know where the next turn will take me.

I wish you could see me laughing on this side of the blog post
Never take me too seriously.


Also
I hate roller coasters
But Space Mountain is pretty ok.



This is nothing like a blog post
Maybe I'll alter it before tomorrow morning





Don't count on it.

Autumn and her True Colors

In the last few days, two trips to a few of the 46 peaks allowed me to share Hammond’s awe of the natural wonders this part of the world has to offer. On Friday, Annie and I summited Allen Mountain, although we joked that anyone had to be at least a little out of his or her mind to voluntarily make the trip. It was seemingly endless, and required more stamina and will power than I knew I had. However, the extensive nature of the trail rewarded us with a myriad of sights and experiences. In the early morning hours, we snuck past what looked like the opening scene of a horror movie: a bridge destroyed by Hurricane Irene leading only to the middle of the eerie, misty water of a silent pond. A few hours later, I watched the largest amphibian I have ever seen climb into a bush two steps to my right. We encountered waterfalls, rock faces, crossed an icy river barefoot, and were exposed to an entirely new view of mountains we previously thought we were familiar with.   Similarly, yesterday’s trip to Phelps Mountain revealed a breathtaking view at the summit, this time a panorama, offering layer after of layer of peaks into the distance. If the mountains themselves weren’t impressive enough, the foliage only amplified the effect. Just as every hiker that crossed our path promised, it was well worth the effort to reach it.

            Both trips however, also had something else in common. They both included a hint of panic, brief but vivid moments when nature transformed from a beauty to appreciate into a dangerous force, an enemy that had to be overcome. Annie and I were misled by a poorly marked trail on our way out from Allen, and although we knew our situation was nowhere near hopeless, we suddenly became hyperaware of our food and water supply, as well as our lack of warm overnight clothing. From one minute to the next, the ground beneath our feet went from being our guide home to something to be afraid of. The excitement over the new and never-before-seen mutated into an urgent desire to see a familiar landmark.

            Likewise, my co-leader and I (also named Annie, oddly enough), had a similar episode of navigational trouble yesterday. Our itinerary told us to “continue along the trail” once we had reached Marcy Dam. We interpreted this to mean that we should carry on straight through in the same direction we had come from. A few years ago this would have been accurate, since the trail used to cut directly across the dam. What we didn’t know was that now the trail we were meant to follow circled back around the dam to a bridge in order to get to the other side. In any case, we passed by several lean-tos and campsites before deciding that it was best to return to the dam to reorient ourselves. On our way there, I had a 30-second period of (suppressed) anxiety before recognizing the back of a lean-to that we had passed. From that moment onward, I felt a heightened sense of relief whenever I passed a colored trail marker reassuring me that I wasn’t lost.

            In Hammond’s writing, I find that he and his guide also explore the duality of admiration and fear of their surroundings. In Chapter XI, the two men express their very different opinions of the bald eagle. Hammond refers to the creature as “feathered majesty”(110), or the “king of birds”(69). It is one of the only instances where he seems to feel remorse for killing an animal; “I am not sure that I felt precisely satisfied, for having slaughtered that princely bird (111).” His guide on the other hand, believes that the eagle is nothing but a thief and a robber, an adversary that deserves to be killed. He considers him to be a “mean, selfish critter” (112). Much the same as the multiple personalities of Mother Nature, perhaps the bird is both a prince and a thief.

A Pause

On the first day of class, Onno spoke about when we go into nature and we expect to find something. At times, it's disappointing when we don't find what we are looking for (what ever that may be.) This struck me because I honestly had not felt that way going into the woods or nature before. I wondered why this feeling was foreign to me and I realised that I had not really gone into the woods with goals or any intentions beyond going into the woods or nature and exploring. 

After that class and living here in the Adirondacks, I started to go into nature with goals such as finding the absolute best camp site in the pouring rain, finding the top of the mountain in a timely manner, finding a decent place to swim in the ravine. If I didn't find what I wanted on time or at all, it was very disappointing. I feel I miss a lot of what is around me when I come into the woods with this mindset. Instead of enjoying the trail to the top, I worry only about getting there.

I found a mountain trail book in the ghost room of the main house during the first week which was filled with explanations of trails. The first sentence of one explanation said, "This trail is for someone who enjoys the mountain as much as the view." This sentence really stuck with me. I have been trying to approach everything this way- not only keeping the end goal in mind but enjoying my way there too. 

In the first chapter of Hammond's Hills and Lakes, he mentions Plattsburgh as a "classic ground." He later says "battlefields are commonplace." He advises the reader to venture to areas where "civilisation has made a pause." I notice that this paused civilisation is something people often look for in the Adirondacks. I remember speaking to a friend about a long hike she took in the park and she said it was wonderful until she found some trash and socks. 

At first, I thought she was upset by this because someone had littered. But she told me as soon as she saw the trash and socks, she no longer felt like this was her adventure, someone had done it already and the illusion of civilisation paused was erased. I again was surprised by this thought because I had never felt that way, but I now understand it. It is interesting that we look so hard for that untamed wilderness that we sometimes forget to look at the slightly tamed wilderness we hike or paddle through. Is it no longer valuable because someone else also appreciated it? 

S. Hammond

I'm interested in the fabricated first person narration that occurs in Chapter 6 of Samuel Hammond's book.

The narration is a story told from the guide's perspective.  First, Hammond describes his guide; he's rugged from years of self-sustaining and knows the Adirondack backcountry.  Abruptly, Hammond launches into a retelling of the guide's story of his time in the city.  Hammond assumes great authority in doing this.  We don't hear directly from the guide once during the chapter, yet his story is used for the majority of the chapter.  He subverts the guide's ability to articulate his own experience and implies that the storyteller cannot convey his own words.  Hammond dilutes the guide's story with his own narration, makes the story unreliable, and steals the voice of the guide.

Hammond assumes a dialect and writes to fit the guide's supposed speech patterns.  The use of "'em" and "feller" as colloquial terms deviates from Hammond's personal narration and creates a power dynamic in which Hammond reigns.  This use of speech creates an even larger divide between city and country.  Hammond supports this divide throughout the chapters of the book, exalting the woods for its natural beauty, but demeaning those who live there.  Although the story takes a positive tone regarding the guide's truthful account of the fight, Hammond still depicts the city folk as "taking mercy" on him for his lack of understanding, and further continues the power dynamics.

I'm not sure if Hammond consciously placed his guide into this submissive position.  I cannot argue for his authorial intent with such a short chapter, and one that is singular in the book.  I can say that my interpretation is changed after reading this chapter.   I read Hammond's language as thick instead of beautiful.  His interpretations of nature suddenly seem ignorant and self-serving, magnifying the trouble I have with Chapter 6.

Hammond's piece falls in line with the tone I perceive from the Adirondack cultural history I know up to this point.  It's almost entirely male-centric and originates from a wealthy class of whites.  I'll be interested to find more readings on the logging community, especially camp life there, to hear more from the working class who lived here.

Vivid and Memorable

Some events and sensations that occurred in my dream last night:

A. I was in a group and we were going through a book of essays, poems, and stories to decide which one to speak to the class about. I remember saying that I hated the sections that referenced the four questions the book was apparently themed around (roughly): 1) how to sense the meaning (some word that began with an "e" was in the place of the word "meaning", even though I knew that it had the same definition... the words "erotic" and "erogenous" come to mind, but these do not make much sense!) of the passage 2) what is an essay 3) what is a poem 4) what is a narrative. Even though I really didn't like all the parts of the book that directly tried to answer these questions, I dog-eared them anyway. 

B. There was one long chapter inside the book by someone named Michel Goren. The binding was fancy and the cover was a deep burgundy leather; it was odd to find a book that appeared to be its own separate entity inside another book. I felt bad because the chapter looked like a good read, but I had spent my time browsing through other sections of the book before I found it, and I knew there wouldn't be time to read it. Other groups were presenting and I still had no idea what we were going to talk about. I just kept skimming, not really getting a deep understanding of any one passage. 

C. Someone found an insert about a project that a group did last year in response to the book. It appeared like a post-it note, but felt like a piece of old hard candy. It was yellow. Upon touching the substance, it melted, and the person who found it got out a small plastic container for it to liquify into. The teacher announced that it was alright to throw it in the trash in the container, but if it were in a plastic spoon, it would turn the whole trash hot in the sun, and all the trash would melt. This did not make sense to me, since the container was made of plastic as well, but I nodded my head. My friend took the post-it note-like insert to look at, and realized that it was actually her and I who had written it! It was about a ballet dance we did in response to a story about a chocolate factory. All of a sudden, there was a flash back to this dance. Two other girls were singing about defeating the evil owners of the chocolate factory while dancing, but I was only dancing, since I did not like my singing voice. Too bad, I don't remember the tune. After our performance, people were asking if it looked like Wonka's chocolate factory inside. (If they were watching, wouldn't they have known what it looked like?) We said that it was the offices of the factory, not the locations where the chocolate was being made, so it was gray, and the floor and ceiling were both made of steel. 

D. I wrote my entire blog post. It was some response to Fox's Father's Day Poem: subtitle. I don't remember the exact title, but I remember going back and forth between underlining and italicizing the title, trying to decide which was proper. My blog post was two paragraphs, around 530 words, and I published it around 9:30AM. I don't remember what kind of passage I was responding to... did I meet a fox that recited me a poem? Or was it a poem I found in the book? 

So... a writing collection, a burgundy leather-bound novel, a yellow note, a steel room, ballet dancing, a poem written by a fox... what do all these symbolize? Do they have no symbolism at all? In Native American culture that thrived in the Adirondacks centuries ago, the contents of my dream would may have seemed portent. A poem given to me by a sneaky, cunning animal such as a fox might have been the a sign of an omen. Perhaps there is some prophetic element to my dream last night that will reveal itself in time, although I would never have known that clues of its happening were buried in my dream, since I have no personal dream interpreter to tell me so. Already, my blog post has been written after 9:30AM, and it is not about a poem or a passage I read in a book. Does this mean that my dream has not come true? Well, it could not have come true, since I was likely dreaming it during the hour of 9:30AM! (I woke up around 10AM). Yet, this fact is prophetic in its own way... Perhaps something was happening while I was sleeping that I missed. Nonetheless, the sense of urgency that resulted from waking up later and posting my blog post later than I would have liked, even though I thought I had already written the whole thing about a Father's Day poem, will remain with me for the rest of the day!

Beautiful

Is this the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life?

That's what keeps going through my head as I explore the park. The mountains, the trees, the moon, the mist, it's all incredibly beautiful. I know my friends from other places like out west, like Israel, like Zimbabwe, will think I'm crazy for thinking this. They'll tell me I have to see the red wood forests, I have to see the desert, I have to see the falls.

I will. But seeing a landscape like this in such abundance reminds me of the one place I ever considered home, amplified. I find comfort in the sound of birch, fir, oak trees swaying and singing in the wind. I am so excited to explore the world; I haven't seen enough of it yet.

 I've seen the grand canyon, shooting stars, huge falls, the ocean; I know it isn't true, the Adirondacks isn't the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life. But it is among many. I keep asking myself that initial question because I feel so incredibly grateful to be here and so comforted. I am constantly overwhelmed by a feeling of thankfulness and no place has ever made me feel that way.

This is just the first time. When I finally do venture out west, to the desert, to the falls, I will spend some time there and constantly be reminded of how thankful I am just to exist in such a beautiful world.

How is exciting is that.

Im a Chicken

A philosophy exists that says the only fair right of passage into being a carnivore is the ability to take the life of the animals you consume. I agree with this philosophy, but given the day and age we live in, that is not realistic all the time. So the fact that I had never killed an animal seemed fair, until yesterday, when I finally had the means, the opportunity, and even a little encouragement from Michelle.

            Walking across the distro pavilion towards chicken slaughter was easy. I had my camera in hand, mesmerized at the contrast of the fresh red blood on the brilliantly white cooler. As I looked through the camera, I heard nothing, smelled nothing, saw only colors. My body did the thinking for me- stay out of the way, don’t be rude, don’t get too close, try a different angle, etc. The moment I stopped looking through the lens my body was flooded with the smell of death and the cries of the chickens as life left their bodies. I had stepped out of the safety of my camera and jumped head first into a pool of blood.

            To the assembly (or rather disassembly) line we went. Slicing at skin and flip flopping the just dead animals from back to front as we pleased in order to make access to cavities and bodily systems easier for ourselves. As I ran my hand around the inside of the chicken, detaching organs and muscle, I felt the warmth of its body radiate through my hands. Over my shoulder I was informed that I had forgotten the lungs, apparently they’re very securely attached. Reach back in, claw away at the bird’s ribs until they give up and tear free. I’ve forgotten one more thing, the testicles. Reach back in, pinch those off. Take a picture, take it’s breath, take his manhood. Done.

           

            I couldn’t kill one. Seeing the blood pour down the cooler was beautiful, but watching as a bird with an already slit throat tried desperately to escape its fate was agonizing. My breakfast almost ended up in the five-gallon bucket of guts next to the disassembly table.

Time

I feel time differently here in the park. September is almost at it's end and yet I can't believe I've been here that long already, especially because I feel that each day itself is moving by extremely slowly. Some of this, I'm sure, comes from the difference of schedule here. Compared to Hamilton, there are many more individual tasks to complete and locations to be at that at the end of each day, I feel as though I've been awake for two or three. My timeline, of what happened on which day, is so messed up that in retelling what I've been up to the last week is difficult. Whenever my family or a friend and I speak, I feel as though I can't really break down what I do on a day to day basis so I just lump everything together into what I did that week. Other consequences of experiencing time differently are my inability to check email on any kind of regularity, my inability to call, text, or message people back within a reasonable amount of time, and a foolish disregard for planning what is coming next week (like reading), or next month (booking plane tickets), or next whatever, because the present seems to take so long.

Chicken Prep

At Essex today within a 5 second period of contemplation, I went from walking around the farm, clipboard in hand, to straddling a bucket of chicken innards, hands deep in a fleshy bird.

Instructions:

1.  Detach the tendons from the neck.
2.  Find the bulbous sack towards the neck and pull it out. Ask for help because said sack seems absent entirely. Cut the excess skin off the neck.
3. Turn the chicken over.  Make a slice below the tailbone. Pretend you are a surgeon making a delicate incision and then quickly realize you’re not helping humans but gutting a bird that’s just been killed. Feel guilty. Don’t cut too deep or you’ll burst the intestines or gallbladder or both. Oops. Feel guilty again.
4. Reach your hand into the slit and remove the organs. Worry about bursting more organs and ask for help. Hold a tiny chicken heart in your hand and feel bizarrely numb and mesmerized and melodramatic. Think you’ve removed them all and then somehow find more… is that a lung? Realize before this moment you've never conceptualized the inside of a chicken and are somehow surprised they’re not hollow but rather filled with an intricate arrangement of organs that you’ve now made into a mangled mess.
5. Slice a hole in the skin above the tailbone. Tuck the legs into the hole. Wash the bird. Let soak in the water bath. Repeat…?
6. Stare at the vivid blood spattered wall beneath the chicken killing cone devices (is there a word for these?); it’s so red and thick and horrifying and fascinating and you realize what it feels like to not be able to look away.

I feel good from my head tomatoes

Peg’s thick Jamaican cadence

ricochets off the cooler’s walls.

The boxes flying

Swoop, catch, swoop, catch.

An assembly line that never stops.

Beets spring out of the chalky ground.

I chew a leaf,

Bitter and perfect.

The machine swallows the stalks one by one.

Magenta

juice bleeds into my hands.

Sun gold tomatoes

peppered throughout the vines,

a canopy over my head,

can I reach it?

Ian moves a mile a minute

Only move rocks this big, he says.

All I see is the fuzzy pink sweater

someone gave him yesterday.

He wore it.

Sizzling peppers on the ancient stove,

A greenhouse-turned-kitchen.

Hammocks, sleeping pets, and deserted car seats,

No two plates are alike.

My fingers held so much today.

How many tools?

pea shoots?

carrots?

The sleeve of dirt seems permanent.

Good.