Into Water

Embracing Iceland’s Waters

“For every rule, there are exceptions. One of the rules is that water has no color, taste, or smell. But strangely, in Iceland, water is really delicious. How pure it is!!!”

In the Autumn of 2023, I embarked on a journey to Iceland, a land defined by its stark contrasts and raw beauty. My mission was purely personal – to explore, experience, and immerse myself in the unique Icelandic environment, focusing on the delicate balance between human activity and nature’s resilience.

Immersed in the rugged terrain, I found myself surrounded by the symphony of nature – the distant roar of waterfalls, the chatter of seabirds, and the whispering winds sweeping across volcanic plains. The landscape, with its glaciers, geysers, and lava fields, provided a breathtaking backdrop for my adventure. Each day, I ventured into the wild, hiking through remote trails, bathing in geothermal springs, and marveling at the intricate dance of ecosystems.

One of the most profound experiences was witnessing the power and purity of Iceland’s water. The island is renowned for its abundant freshwater sources, which are among the cleanest in the world. From the glacial rivers to the geothermal springs, water is a vital part of Icelandic life and culture. As I navigated through this watery wonderland, I gained a deep appreciation for the interconnectedness of all living things and the crucial role of water in sustaining life.

Amidst my explorations, there was a sense of hope and purpose. The daily challenges – braving the cold, navigating treacherous terrain, and enduring the ever-changing weather – were all part of a larger quest for understanding. I hoped that my experiences would inspire new perspectives on preserving and protecting our planet’s precious water resources.

Reflecting on that Autumn, I am struck by the profound impact it had on me. Beyond the natural wonders and the camaraderie of fellow travelers, there was a deeper connection to nature that I had never experienced before. The stark beauty of Iceland, coupled with its commitment to sustainability, left an indelible mark on my soul.

I often think back to those moments standing at the edge of a clear, glacial stream, feeling the icy water rush over my hands, and pondering the path humanity is on. Iceland taught me that progress and preservation can coexist, and that with careful stewardship, we can ensure that future generations inherit a world where nature’s wonders continue to inspire awe and reverence.

In the end, it is about finding balance – embracing progress while respecting and protecting the natural world. My journey to Iceland was a reminder that every drop of water, every breath of air, and every inch of the earth is part of a delicate, interconnected system. And it is our responsibility to cherish and safeguard it, for ourselves and for those who come after us.

Clearcut

Clearcut: A word that, depending on where it is uttered, evokes a strong, almost visceral reaction. To many: a sign of progress, of resources, of the constant march to a bigger GDP. To others: a scar, a premonition, a sign that said march is a march to something far more sinister.

To those of us at the Hardwood Ecosystem Experiment summer field camp in the summer of 2014, the word represented something else entirely. The research each of us was involved with was, in some way, related to the forest, clearcuts, and humans’ impact on the environment. Clearcut was a technical term, a treatment, something to be studied, and with enough time, understood.

When in the field, we were immersed in the research, surrounded by the sounds of birds and insects chirping, crawling, climbing and fluttering about. We were surrounded in the best way possible with just about any wonderful creature you could imagine. In those moments, one thing was certain, we were experiencing the world in a way that many of us had never experience before. Nature has a remarkable way of pulling you into the present, the there and now – we were focused on our research, the data collection, the weather, and what amazing thing we would happen to see that day. Amidst all of that there was also hope. Hope that the daily tick checks, the close encounters with snakes, the constant state of damp would be worth it. That from our work would come understanding, and from understanding would come progress.

When I think about that summer, and I mean really think about it. Beyond the nostalgia of field cabin game nights, trips into town for ice cream, and the calm of nature. Beyond the odd juxtaposition of a summer in the woods sandwiched between rowdy college semesters. One thing, suppressed in my memory by the passage of time comes to mind. The water.

Daily life in field research was a constant struggle to stay dry, and when that inevitably failed,  the struggle continued each night to dry our boots and clothes before the next morning, only to start the cycle over again the next day. In the forest of south-central Indiana, water was an unavoidable fact. From the incredible amounts of dew on all foliage every morning, to the puddles, streams, creaks, and the torrential afternoon downpours, the water was there.

But…beyond the discomfort, once enough time had passed to simply accept and reconcile the circumstances, came understanding. An understanding that without this water, none of what I was experiencing would be possible. In that forest was an entire world. An untold number of species and life forms working together, competing, thriving, and struggling. It was beautiful. It was awe inspiring. It was scary. Scary in a way that I could not articulate at the time. Scary because, despite the seeming density of life, the complexity, the resilience, and beauty, you walk through a pocket of dense vegetation only to immerge into an unnatural hole. A desecration. A place where humanity has left an outsized mark. A clearcut. Something that clearly does not belong in the middle of all that wonder.

Now, as a father, reflecting on a summer 10-years past. I wonder if my son will be able to experience nature in such a way. To simply be there, in the moment, hating being wet, but loving every minute of it. To immerge into a clearcut, clothes soaked completely through from the morning dew and ask, “Is this the path we should be on?”

Check out FCT Water’s new writing series, Into Water. We treat water for a living but we live water every single day. We consume it, we crave it, we play in it. Like so many of you! The intention of Into Water is to praise the classical element itself – bringing stories and life to the resource so scarce and valuable in the world today. And hopefully we can foster a fun, water-loving community while we do it!

Into Water

You know that feeling you get right before you hit the water?

That’s one of the most magical feelings.

The rush.

The anticipation.

The freedom.

Many summer vacations of mine were and still are spent at Lake Ouachita right outside of Hot Springs, Arkansas. If you haven’t been, you should go. This town of Hot Springs is different. Immediately, upon arrival, you are thrust back to the mid-20th century. A different time. A slower time. The center piece of town is an old hotel called The Arlington. My great-great Aunt E used to work at The Arlington. My grandma would spend her summers with Aunt E at the hotel. Traveling by train alone from Chicago. To enter the front doors of The Arlington you walk up a prestigious marble staircase, weathered by time. The flowerpots are dilapidated. The exterior paint is chipping, peeling, begging to be restored. When you hit The Arlington’s grandiose porch, you can’t help but imagine what it must have been like in its hey-day. The it spot. Men arriving in three-piece suits, suspenders, fedoras. Women in square-shouldered jackets and matching skirts or maybe a Kitty Foyle dress, accentuating the collar. As you gaze over the town on that porch your mind continues to wander, transforming the escape room and wax museum to time-appropriate shops and stores that match the classic and historic diner down the street. The treasure that produces the finest French toast America has to offer. And I mean that.

Back at the lake you have clear, warm – nearly hot – water. Bath water, really. As pure as lake water really gets. Endless undeveloped coastline at the forefront and trees upon trees peppering the never-ending Arkansas hills. No cell service – no laptops, no phones, no social media. You are forced to be present. To pay attention to the unique sounds and smells around you. To see the smallest change in your child that you failed to notice as your head was buried in your email. If not buried, maybe your mind was just visiting 15 different topics at once, clouding your ability to see the magic right in front of you. Maybe you even learn something about yourself.

There are many activities to enjoy out at the lake, but each visit starts the same – with the cliffs. We load up the boat and take the five-minute journey to our first stop, eager to welcome vacation. We travel past the cove leading to the state-run marina where you can buy delicious ice cream snacks that melt instantly on a sweltering hot day. Past the camp where kids enjoy endless summer fun. Past Dani Island, the spot my dad named after me during a day full of adventure many years ago. Putter along just a bit further and on the right, we enter a small cove with cliffs on one side, trees on the other.

The water is calm here. It’s calm mostly everywhere on Lake Ouachita but especially here. Sometimes we drop the anchor. Other times we just turn off the boat and let ourselves drift. I look up and the see the cliffs. Butterflies beginning to flutter just a bit in my belly. I feel an excitement creep up my spine, helping my naturally slumped shoulders stand a little taller.

The brave few jump off the boat and into the lake, making our way to the beginning of the cove where rocks act like a natural ladder for the short but steep hike to the top of the cliffs. I climb up avoiding any glances into holes or still water pockets where I might find some animal or insect or reptile that is so alarming, it might jar me off course. When the climb ends, I walk to the ledge and assume my position. Ready to jump five stories into the water below. I look down to make sure the area is clear of any obvious hazards.

I breathe in.

I breathe out.

And I jump.

I struggle with chronic anxiety. I have for a long time, for as long as I can remember really. No one understood this when I was younger. Not because they didn’t care. I just don’t think they had a name for it. I have since become a high functioning anxious adult. For me, it is like the anxiety is just under the surface – water almost boiling but not boiling. In a pot. Well, sometimes boiling, but never boiling over. Until it does boil over because sometimes it always does.

In that moment when my feet leave the rock, with nothing below me, as I am falling –

I am free.

My chest opens, as if a string is attached to my breastbone pulling it up, up, up. I gaze slightly toward the sky, smiling to the sun. There is peace. Time slows. Or ceases to exist at all.

And then my toe, just one of them, breaks the plane first. A runner crashing into the ribbon at the finish line. I am engulfed by that clear, warm – nearly hot – water. Bubbles rushing all around me. Pressure building in my eardrums as I sink, sink, sink. As I rise to the surface, I flip off all that was on me before I jumped. The anxiety. The constant thoughts. The joy, even. The butterflies. The excitement. The energy, whatever it was that day. And I emerge anew. A little bit lighter, a little bit calmer, a little bit taller, a little bit brighter.

For me, there is nothing quite like the jump… into water.