Bisaga, February

“I know of no solitude so secure as one guarded by a spring flood; nor do the geese, who have seen more kinds and degrees of aloneness than I have. (25)”

As I’m walking from my dorm room to Blunn Creek, I spot early bluebonnets peppering a hill. It’s still February, and their optimistic petals are already sprouting up. This spring will be a beautiful one. I follow a small trail many students have taken before until I reach the preserve entrance.

Blunn Creek is one of my favorite places to go because the nature captivates me. Usually established parks and preserves try to force urbanization onto nature via paved trials and stairs. No such thing exists here. There is only a narrow path of trodden grass and dirt to guide a hiker around the preserve. Nature is left alone to be nature, and a hiker can fully immerse himself or herself within its unadultered beauty.

The area does have one flaw. The noise of I35 is audible, but only when a hiker is away from the creek. Once the creek comes into view, the sound of traffic is taken over by running water.

I observe a cluster of cacti, perfect for shelter. A rabbit shakes a bush to my right. It darts away. I find myself at a scenic outlook where I meet a man playing the harmonica. As I listen to his improvised music, I gaze down the ledge and see a shallow creek rushing by. The trees over me block out all but a few rays of sunlight, projecting sun spots onto the rock around me. Behind me is a charred tree. Despite being partially burned at the trunk, it continues to live.

Looking out at the landscape, I see rusty colored trees illuminated by the sunlight. The pallet of deep red and muted green contrasts the solid blue sky. As I wrap up my trip at Blunn Creek, I shake the musician’s hand and take one last look at the serene calm of the landscape. I part ways with the playful breeze and musical birds and head back into ordinary life. This is not only a preserve for nature, but also a preserve for calm, away from the clamor of life.