By the time I make it out to the Natural Lands, all of the dew has dried from the grass. It is sunny and breezy, the perfect fall combo. The trees, in all states of leaf loss, stand out against the bright blue sky and white, puffy clouds. I sit on a bench, mesmerized by the shadow of the tree above me on the ground under my feet as the wind blows through its half-empty branches. Brown oak leaves float to the ground around me; one lands on the open page of my notebook. I can smell the woodland burn that happened only yesterday, the blackened particles of grass and leaves lifted on the breeze. On my walk here, a red squirrel chattered at me, her mouth full of food for the long winter days to come. 

I can never decide if I like this time of year. I love walking through the crunchy leaves, and watching them fall around me as they make their way swiftly towards the ground. The few plants that are still blooming stand out, surrounded mostly by brown leaves and dying stems. The lack of biting bugs is always appreciated. And, like many Oles, I love the colder weather because I can finally wear sweaters. 

But fall is a season of serious change. It will be many months before we see oak, maple, basswood, or ash leaves on the trees again. More wind and cooler weather is only foreshadowing for what’s to come. Many bird species have left in search of a more suitable place to spend the winter. The Monarch butterflies no longer frequent the milkweed plants, which themselves have released their seeds to the wind. Trees stand bare, waiting for snow to coat their branches once more. It can feel like something’s different every time you walk outside, which can sometimes be exciting, but can also feel disorienting, or even scary. 

According to the Natural Lands map, the forest I’m sitting in was planted between 1998 and 2004. I’m curious about what it looked like before. Maybe it was a farm field. Much of the Natural Lands was farm fields before it was replanted to prairie and forest, so this seems likely. But I still have so many questions: Who were the farmers? Did they grow corn or soybeans or grass for their cattle? How long had the land been farmed for? What did this land look like before it was farmed by European settlers?

Where I’m sitting is part of a 30 acre section that was put into CRP in 1998. The Conservation Reserve Program, or CRP, is a program run by the US Department of Agriculture that pays landowners to convert their farmland to vegetative cover, like forest, to reduce some of the negative effects of conventional farming, including decreasing erosion and creating more habitat. This program has been very important for the restorations and plantings in much of the Natural Lands, providing support for the transition from farm fields to diverse habitats. 

 It’s difficult to tell if any of the photos of people planting trees on the Natural Lands website are from the forest where I am sitting, but I like looking at the pictures and thinking about the people who helped to plant them. There are pictures of students, not so different from myself, throwing handfuls of seeds as they walk through open fields and riding on a tree planter being pulled through a field by a tractor. I wonder what they were thinking about when they were planting. Did they know someone would be sitting, almost 30 years later, in a forest that grew from an open field and the seeds they spread? I wonder if they’ve been back since. 

Even though the map lists 1998-2004 as being the restoration of this area, I know it extends beyond that. Places like this are constantly changing. Birds, other animals, wind, and the bottoms of boots all deposit the seeds of new species every year. Woodland burns, like the one that happened yesterday, change how much organic matter is on the ground. Animals move in and out of this habitat during different seasons, and perhaps some stop by on their way from one place to another. Even though a forest seems like a very constant entity, in reality, it is always changing. 

The longer I sit in the Natural Lands, the colder I get. Maybe I’ll wear more clothes next time. I focus on what else I can feel. The sun warming my back and the wind against my ankles. And also the fly that keeps biting me. A piece of burnt grass lands on my page, and leaves a smudge when I try to brush it off. Through the blackened grass, I see neon green moss. It will be knocked back over the next few months, but eventually, it will return again. Along with the leaves and flowers, the bugs and birds. 

One of the things I find myself drawn to in the fall is the anticipation of what’s coming. The red squirrel stores food for the winter. Birds fly in all directions, seeking a more favorable place to spend the winter. Trees release their leaves as their sap flows back to their roots. The last flowering plants have sent their remaining energy towards producing the next generation, which floats through the wind, sticks to your clothes, and is eaten by animals preparing for the cold. The ‘super generation’ of Monarchs catch the wind as they begin their long southward journey. But how do they know that it’s time?

To be so in tune with the changing seasons – the change in intensity and angle of the sun, the fluctuations, and eventual drop, of temperatures – is something I admire. To know, in your bones and roots and membranes, that a change is coming, as inevitable as it is unknown, is a privilege. In our world of climate-controlled buildings, artificial lighting, and feelings of superiority, it’s easy to get out of tune with these natural rhythms of the seasons. I encourage you, just as I encourage myself, to get outside no matter the season and notice what’s happening around you. 

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