The University of Vermont’s Environmental Publication
Table of Contents ROOTS Oikos
By Kate Kampner | page 5
The Value of Rural Spaces By Alice Ferretti | page 6
Etymology: The Truth in the Trees By Valentin Kostelnik | page 7
BEING
Colorful Frog
By Lauren Manning | page 10
Acorns and Adaptation: On Oaks and the Struggle for Existence By Teresa Helms | page 11
King of the Concrete Jungle By Ari D’Arconte | page 13
knowing knotweed
By Joey Friedman | page 15
Fortune and Fate in the Age of the Magnolia By Avery Redfern | page 16
PLACES
A Field Guide of Memories: Lessons from the Species of Iceland By Alexander Harrop | page 18
Wildfire Sun (I-94W)
By Loden Croll | page 21
Conversations with the Sea By Spencer Kimble | page 22
BLOOM
The Life Cycle of a Secret Garden Home By Alma Smith | page 26
Unpacking Carbon Sequestration in UVM’s Comprehensive Sustainability Plan By Emma Polhemus | page 29
Sustainable Fashion
Art by Cali Wisnosky Headwaters Magazine 1
By Cordell Wilson | page 34
Masthead Co-Managing Editors Anna Eldridge Megan Sutor
Editors
Aiden Armstrong Anna Hoppe Avery Redfern Ben Mowery Caroline Deir Cole Barry Greta Albrecht Loden Croll Myla van Lynde Sarah O’Leary
Editor-in-Chief
Managing Designer
Creative Director
Artists and Designers
Teresa Helms
Ella Weatherington
Planning and Outreach Adelyne Hayward
Treasurer
Anna Hoppe
Social Media Manager Emma Polhemus
Find us @uvmheadwaters on Instagram, TikTok and Twitter and online at headwatersmagazine.com Copywright © 2023 Headwaters Magazine This magazine was printed on the traditional land of the Abenaki People
Maya Kagan
Alex Porier Alexander Harrop Alexandra Sicat Alice Ferretti Ally Martin Avery Redfern Axel Carson Cali Wisnosky Cece Lazzaro Christine Pietkiewicz Cordell Wilson Emma Polhemus Frances Leadman James Marino Joey Friedman Lauren Manning Lindsey Lubofsky Liza Teleguine Maggie Alberghini Mia Weyant Phoebe Schwartz Spencer Kimble Wylie Roberts
Between the Cracks (Cover) Wylie Roberts Digital illustration This piece is a digital illustration highlighting the propensity for life to show up in unlikely places. The herbaceous plants rising through the cracks of the brick were inspired by a small scene I stumbled upon while on campus. I found myself fascinated by how soils had collected in the unused areas of a simple brick pathway, which drew in a haphazard assortment of plants, moss, and other organisms. Despite negative impacts of humankind’s increasing consumption on the climate and biodiversity of Earth, life will find a way to persist between the cracks. Art by Cali Wisnosky Headwaters Magazine 2
Dear Reader, Welcome to the Fall 2023 edition of Headwaters Magazine! In creating our 15th issue, we have had the joy of welcoming new editors to the team, experimenting with fresh design concepts, and watching this publication evolve in tangent with the inventive and engaged students who contribute to it. Our gratitude is abundant for each contributing author, illustrator, and designer, our leadership team, and the support we receive from the Student Government Association, the Rubenstein School of Environment and Natural Resources, and our advisor, Josh Brown. This edition of Headwaters is divided into chapters, each featuring a title and artwork representing the thematic connecting threads of the pieces contained within. We hope that this deepens your experience as a reader, illuminating the most poignant messages our authors hope to convey and demonstrating the vast interconnectedness of the many disciplines represented in this edition. Throughout the semester, we, alongside our peers, have experienced an increasing sense of unknowing. Amid global conflicts and crises in our community, it has been easy to feel drenched in the perceived futility of writing, of art, of much of the work we do. And yet, we are drawn to a sentiment brought forth by adrienne maree brown: “small is good, small is all.” We continue to feel that Headwaters provides a crucial space for students to speak to our community, even–and perhaps especially–in times of turmoil and uncertainty. In response to what sometimes feels like a relentless barrage of ominous forecasts about our future, we choose to maintain a sense of hope, renewal, and emergence through difficulty. The theme of this edition–groundbreaking–is beautifully exemplified in the cover image of vegetation pushing through harsh terrain, invoking tenacity, power, patience. The articles that follow not only display an array of novel ideas but have served to inspire us toward perseverance. We hope that you too continue to create, and to do whatever small, groundbreaking work it is that you do. With love,
Teresa Helms University of Vermont ‘24 Editor-in-Chief
Art by Cali Wisnosky Headwaters Magazine 3
Anna Eldridge University of Vermont ‘25 Co-Managing-Editor
Megan Sutor University of Vermont ‘25 Co-Managing-Editor
Art by Christine Pietkiewicz
Oikos
By Kate Kampner I am barefoot in front of a church. Shoes in my hand, drunk on the nighttime. I stare at it, wondering, where do I go? I feel it loom over me, shadows seeping into my face, and I feel as if it’s taunting me. Tell me what to do, I say, but no response is given and suddenly I am alone. I am barefoot in a field. Mud baptized through my toes and blisters on the bottom of my feet, I want her to become my selfless leader. I want her to provide my prophets and give me an existence that no one and no place could. I apologize to her, begging for her forgiveness. Her wind feels calm against my face. It raises my arms and suddenly I feel like a child, floating through air. A bluejay. She says, come as you are, not as you should be. The bug bites on my ankles are my entry fee and the hair on my legs has become a sign of my presence rather than my sabotage. This is who I am, I tell her. I am the roots in the soil, the stem of the raspberry bush, the apples from the trees in September. I am the sky’s apprentice and the wind’s new friend. I let the sun creep onto my shoulders, hello. To myself, I am an empty canvas, but she shows me I am full—my stomach, my heart, my mind. The strawberries dye my hands as wine does at the altar; this is my blood. Peaches fall at my feet; this is my body. I give myself to her and she gives herself back to me. H
Art by Maggie Alberghini Headwaters Magazine 5
The Value of Rural Spaces Visual exploration of rurality: The Chianti countryside By Alice Ferretti
I grew up in central Tuscany among rural villages, olive trees, and vineyards. Schools, sports venues, and friends’ houses were all spread amongst the rolling hills and not reachable within walking distance. This was never a problem for me until I began to explore options for higher education with the desire to meet new people in a more diverse environment. I felt the need to move into a more urban space. However, when asked where I envision myself in the future, the image of a collective self-sustained farm appears. Recently, I have been wondering—what does it mean to live and thrive in a rural landscape? How does it define and shape people’s lives and cultural norms? What does this homeliness mean for the individual and different communities? Rurality is defined by Paul Cloke as “a condition of place-based homeliness shared by people with common ancestry or heritage and who inhabit traditional, culturally defined areas or places statutorily recognized to be rural.” Yet, what does it mean in practice? The concept of rurality oftentimes comes in opposition to urban spaces; rural is what urban is not. It is framed as the antithesis of capitalist modernization, an idealized reality where human communities co-depend on the environment. An example of this is the case of the Vermont Life magazine, a state-based journal romanticizing rural areas and feeding a sort of rural nostalgia of an idealized vision of landscape and culture through dairy farms, fields, and viewsheds. The magazine ceased publication
in 2018, as it seems that inhabiting rural areas is more complicated in current times, where a career-based society pressures us to look for jobs and relational opportunities in urbanized contexts. I think that choosing to live in a rural space is a powerful decision. Connections with people are strengthened and the sense of environmental belonging is fed. There are plenty of communities and individuals who create educational projects, research groups, arts festivals, and localized activist struggles in rural areas all around the world. Rurality may seem like an abstract concept. It comes with idealized images and stereotypes, such as the pastoral farming landscape in Vermont (or really anywhere else in the world) and as opposition to modern culture. However, rurality encompasses different meanings, experiences, and subjects. Rurality is a not only geographical concept and a political project, but also an artistic exploration. Rural spaces are abundant, rural communities do exist and thrive, and it is time to recognize and imagine another way for humans to live with the land. If you are interested in learning more about this concept, I would suggest the independent Hinterlands Magazine. H
Art by Axel Carson and Photography by Alice Ferretti Headwaters Magazine 6
Etymology:
The Truth in the Trees By Valentin Kostelnik
Thousands of years ago, the proto-Germanic people, who built much of the language we speak today, lived in the endless beech forests of northern Europe. As they began writing, they would carve letters into soft beech bark, and, over time, any object with writing on it became known as a “beech.” Eventually, the sound “beech” morphed into “book.” Side note: books are typically made out of paper which is, sensibly, named after the Egyptian plant papyrus. This combination just shows how English is an incredible mishmash of language groups from all across the world, such that we read European “beeches” made out of Egyptian “papyrus.” Similarly, further south in Spain, in those warmer climates where oaks and Latin-based languages dominate, people have stripped the thick bark of oaks to produce cork for thousands of years. Oaks and cork are so intertwined, even today most cork comes from oak trees, that the Latin word for oak, quercus, morphed into the modern word “cork.” Try saying them now, fast: cork, quercus, corcus, corkus. Some etymologies fit like puzzle pieces and help the world make sense, while others only reveal the random absurdity that still governs all. Have you ever wondered why a mile, perhaps the most vital measurement in the U.S., is a seemingly random 5,280 feet? Mile and “mil”– as in millimeter– mean the same thing: a thousand. The story goes back to fifth-century England, which was under military occupation by the Roman Empire. Originally, “mile” was a Roman military term referring to 1,000 steps of a soldier, which is an easy way to track distance on the march, but is utterly meaningless in any other measurement system. Note: if you test this, you will likely march further than a mile in 1,000 paces, because the average height of a Roman was far less than the modern average. I find it delightfully ridiculous that even today we use miles, a term from the fifth century, to describe things like how far your car travels per gallon of gas or
Art by Mia Weyant
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to define a light year (5.88 trillion miles). Returning to those beautiful Germanic forests, we find
the origin of one of the most vital words in the English language: “truth.” Think of all the meanings attached to “truth:” reliable, steadfast, solid, real. Naming an object is easy: you just point at the thing and make a sound. But
how do you name an abstract concept? Personally, the sight of an old and solidly growing tree has always made me feel more stable. It is as if seeing an object so fixed in the world as an ancient oak gives me something to lean against, something to rely upon, and it seems the proto-Germans of Northern Europe felt something comparable. Over time, the word “deru,” meaning tree, became synonymous with reality and stability until it eventually morphed into “true.” From “deru” also come the words treaty, truce, trust, durable, dendrology, and many more. Imagine a group of people in the dark woods of Northern Europe 1,000 years ago. The trees make up most of their world, are incredibly old, and appear to humans infinitely solid and wise. These are the Celtic cultures the Romans found so strange and darkly mystical. The lead-
the stories of their people; the druids were repositories of cultural knowledge. In their time, it was believed that they also had the power of foresight and were known as seers (“see-ers”). The word druid comes from “deru” plus “wid,” meaning to see or to know. So a druid is literally “one who knows the trees.” This ancient society revered trees so much that they used the same word for tree and truth. Their highest religious figures were “those who knew the trees.” Echoes of their beliefs remain with us today, in the shape of the very words we speak. It’s true! If you consider language a well-built Vermont farmhouse, then these Germanic words are the Monkton quartzite foundation stones in the basement. We might not think about them every day, but we rely on them continually. The wonder of etymology is that all words are like this! Nestled in the sounds and subtle meanings of every word are stories, layered atop one another. Like trees, words have rings denoting their age. Young words– robot, internet, Google– have only a few rings, while older words like “truth” and “book” have so many layers they become impossible to count. I find it wonderful that these layers have a direct effect on our daily life through the words we speak to each other. When we want to say something is resilient, we say it is “durable,” to mean it is “as tough as a tree.” As strange as it seems, when Kindle offers e-books, they are offering us electronic beech bark. When I say I ran two miles, I really mean I ran the distance a fifth-century Roman man could walk in 2,000 paces. When two countries at war make peace, we say they signed a “treaty” or a “truce” to craft a peace as resilient as a tree. I believe etymology can offer us two things: first, it provides a daily delight, and second, it can ground our confused and increasingly electronic lives and root them in our rich past. That we have always found solace and meaning in the natural world is revealed in the ancient roots of the words we use to describe fundamental human concepts like “truth.” I believe that knowing the history of the words we use can help ground us with our ancestors and in nature, because so often the origins of our words lie in the wild. Not only that, but knowing these surprising stories behind words we take for granted is just plain fun! H
ers in these cultures were the druids, the high priests of northern Europe, who served as judges, healers, political leaders, and storytellers. Caesar tells us that the druids wrote nothing down and each spent 20 years learning Headwaters Magazine 8
Art by Liza Teleguine Headwaters Magazine 9
Colorful Frog Lauren Manning Watercolor
Headwaters Magazine 10
Acorns and Adaptation: On Oaks and the Struggle for Existence By Teresa Helms It is remarkably improbable for a mature oak tree to even exist. Of the abundance of acorns produced every few years—an irregular cycle linked to predator satiation—many will be parasitized by acorn weevils and similar insects. The majority of what remains will be foraged by wildlife. Perhaps a few will get lucky and end up in the cache of a less-than-lucky rodent, left to sprout after their keeper has been predated. Of those that manage to germinate, another percentage will succumb to unideal climatic conditions or be browsed by deer and moose before the seedlings are able to grow out of reach. Ultimately, only about one in every 10,000 acorns will develop into a tree. And yet, Quercus contributes more biomass to northern temperate forests than any other genus of woody plants, its species providing critical sources of hard mast sustenance for wildlife populations. Ubiquitous and essential to these ecosystems, every oak in the forest is inherently unlikely, a testament to persistence, grit, and random chance; Darwin’s “struggle for existence” at play before our eyes. In the grand scheme of evolution, oak species display a certain tenacity, with numerous lineages that have diverged and dominated across the Northern Hemisphere. At the individual level, physiology contributes to this resilience, including long tap roots that prove useful in times of drought. Globally, the Quercus genus boasts roughly 435 species of oaks. Of this array, 60 percent occur in North America, a subset that can be broken down into two major lineages: white oaks and red oaks. Variation between these groups presents itself both genomical-
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ly and functionally. Beyond this distinction, however, the lines of biology become blurred. When determining speciation among organisms, the most foundational methodology is Ernst Mayr’s biological species concept, which defines a species as a group of organisms that may successfully interbreed to produce fertile offspring. This theory generally holds that certain reproductive characteristics allow for populations to remain distinct, restricting gene flow within closed systems. Oak species complicate this with their readiness to hybridize. Many white oak species are known to hybridize naturally, and red oak varieties are even more apt to do so—black oak, for instance, is particularly promiscuous, frequently found hybridized with northern red oak, plaguing dendrologists and confounding the scientific community. Subsequently, many scientists posit that these “species” may not be distinct, but rather phenotypic variations of singular species. This appears to defy such a central tenant of biological thought: oaks expand beyond their categories. Or, perhaps, is it more accurate to say that our categories fail to account for their complexity? Rather than attempting to restrict the natural world to our understanding, we might allow room for the morethan-human world to exist as is. W. John Hayden, in his paper “Hybrid Oaks: Full of Vexation and Wonder,” asks us to embrace this complexity, arguing that “[rather] than vexation, maybe we should adopt an attitude of awe and respect for the complexity of biological processes that, playing out on continental scales, involving untold millions of individual trees, and millennial time
frames, challenge our best efforts at comprehension.” As we embrace multiplicity in the forest, we might also embrace complexity in each other, prompting us to engage in more meaningful relationships and build more holistic remedies to our collective challenges. Allowing openness to shape our relationships with the forest may in turn change the way we see the world. Engaging with new perspectives becomes increasingly consequential as the ramifications of global climate change continue to appear in unprecedented and multitudinous ways; not exempt from this is the fate of northern forests. The evolutionary history of oak species, as well as their tendency toward drought resilience, is part of what makes them strong candidates for certain experiments aimed at accelerating the adaptation of forest communities to shifting climates. As the climate warms, species are moving. Trees native to warm, southern climates are expanding their ranges northward, and species quintessential to northern regions will begin to struggle. Forests are adapting, but not at a rate that can match the haste of climate change. In light of this, many scientists are exploring management strategies involving assisted migration: planting historically southern species—including oaks—outside of their typical ranges in hopes of building resilience in northern forests. As extreme weather events increase in frequency, these drought-adapted trees may prove to be an important resource of durability within their ecological communities. There is more unknown than not in terms of this potential approach to forest management under novel con-
ditions: whether assisted migration is feasible, which species will prove most viable, what regional climates will look like years into the future, the list goes on. As scientists, the looming unknown of the world can be simultaneously captivating and frustrating, making solutions to imminent problems feel infinitely out of reach. Recognizing that which we cannot know in the face of global change requires a certain humility, which, with their inability to be captured by human-constructed categories, the oaks might implore of us as well. When we become willing to approach the world with humility—with grace toward ourselves and each other—we will be able to step closer to solutions in the face of our biggest challenges. Northern forests are changing with or without us, presenting an immense responsibility to us as we determine how to respond. Adapting to this changing world will require persistence—from us, from oak seedlings. Just as we hope these trees provide fortitude to their communities, may we strive to lend resilience to each other, and learn to live in our landscapes with a renewed sense of grace. H
Art by Alexandra Sicat Photography by Maya Kagan and Teresa Helms Headwaters Magazine 12
King of the Concrete Jungle By Ari D’Arconte
A trash can falls over in the dusk. You look out your bedroom window, and there he is, illuminated by the faint glow of street lamps. The king of the concrete jungle. Sitting there, victoriously coveting your abandoned foodstuffs, his dark mask symbolizes his mischievous and elusive nature. Of course, I am speaking of the allmighty raccoon, one of many species that has not only evaded human-caused habitat loss but thrived in the establishment of human ecosystems. As you look down at him, his beady eyes stare back at you. What does he see? All around the raccoon is a world utterly dominated by humanity. Over the past two hundred years we have reshaped the landscape and constructed environments catered only to the uses of humans. Yet the ever-adaptive raccoon survives not only on the fringes of human civilization but also in the heart of the modern cities. The natural world before human conquest was filled with life and energy of all shapes and sizes. Rivers bent, leaves fell, and animals scurried across the underbrush as they had for millennia. Occasionally, a beaver would build a majestic dam, causing the rivers to be held back and ponds to form, but otherwise, the trees, soil, and water were the masters of environmental construction. There was no singular engineer of the land forcing all the other species to adapt to or die trying. Humanity has superimposed an absurd manifestation of order onto a natural world built on chaotic destruction and rebirth. In the face of large-scale habitat destruction, many species have become critically endangered or extinct,
Art by James Marino Headwaters Magazine 13
leading scientists to characterize the Industrial Revolution and the period of human expansion as a whole as Earth’s sixth mass extinction event. Yet the raccoon faces this absurd reality head-on. What is it about the raccoon specifically that makes it so successful in cities? As omnivores, they can eat just about anything, making their diet less reliant on the survival of any one species. Raccoons also have opposable thumbs, meaning that they can get into trash cans and access food in locations that are otherwise inaccessible to most other animals. Being nocturnal creatures, raccoons are able to avoid humans during the daytime. Only when humankind returns to their concrete boxes for rest does the raccoon venture out into a world devoid of color. You escape from your thoughts and return to your concrete box, looking out the window at the raccoon. What is the expression on his face as he eats your garbage? Is he depressed? Sad? Infuriated? Happy? Maybe all and a million more, but what I see is an expression of contentment. Content with the reality he is faced with. Content with his forest being one of cement rather than bark, rigid against the calm breeze. Silent from the rustle of leaves yet screaming with the honks of horns and screeches of car breaks. Dark from the night, yet obnoxiously bright with artificial light. Devoid of the smells of pines and fruits only to be replaced with the smell of smog and industry. Even still he is content and accepting of this reality. A natural world, no, but one that nonetheless provides sufficient opportunities for the raccoon to fulfill its basic
necessities. While he is content, can’t we be ashamed of the horrors we have created? Modern cities in their current form are incapable of coexisting with the majority of wildlife. The raccoon is an absurd anomaly amidst a world that humanity has designed to crush nature. Yet in the bleakness of cities, I see an opportunity for change. Envision a world where cities are truly havens of the natural world as well as humanity. Green bridges connect patches of forests isolated from one another by highways. Cars and wind turbines that kill thousands of animals a year are nonexistent. Sound and light aren’t dominated by humanity to the point where many species cannot function. We have brought order to a world far better suited to chaos, so let us return to the majesty of uniqueness; away from the rows of identical single-family houses and skyscrapers of thousands of desolate cubicles. We must not forget that humanity is not separate from the natural world, regardless of our outsized ability to destroy or protect it. We do not have to be the harbingers of extinction when we could be the caretakers of environmental diversity. May the raccoon looking up at you in your bedroom window stand as a symbol of what could be—a human kingdom that incorporates nature and banishes our concrete order. H
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knowing knotweed by joey friedman in september’s fall equinox glow, the luscious first days of the harvest moon, knotweed is a playground of queer joy. our bodies, dripping with wa ter from the salmon brook, weave through the knotweed canopy growing along the silty shore, the paper thin droplet seeds drape into dapples of summer sunshine like frog eggs swimming in the light. this is to say, who is to say knotweed doesn’t belong? who knows. months later, december’s knot weed is a burnt orange ghost forest: bare, barely recognizable. it belongs in the way that i once cracked its lanky stem with one hand just to show someone i loved its hollow structure, which led to blushing, and laughter. and now i see that orange ghost forest and think of blushing, and laughter. it belongs in the way that knotweed can be used to treat long lyme disease. in the way that there is so much around us, always,
that we do not understand yet, and there is so much love around us that we do not feel yet. all i know is now, now more than ever we must be so, so careful as a spindle-legged spider spinning delicate webs, catching drops of foamy river spray, careful about othering, about assigning worth to beings who are just living, as beings do. eating and growing and grieving and leaving dishes dirty in the sink and loving and no plant, no human is ever invasive or alien or other, they are just living, as beings do. this is to say, who is to say knotweed doesn’t belong? who knows. all i know how to do is walk in the woods and bend my body into the shapes of the trees i see around me in a dance of impossibly gnarled roots. i don’t understand much oth er than this: if you breathe in, just as a gust of wind blows, you breathe in wind and then you’re a little bit made of wind, wind and water and i read you could be bits of what has been or may be come a hummingbird, or a rat, or maybe one of those red and black bugs crawling all around burlington. this is all to say, who knows? H
art by joey friedman Headwaters Magazine 15
Fortune and Fate in the Age of the Magnolia Gouache on Paper By Avery Redfern
Inspired by the article “In the Age of Climate Change, It’s the Magnolia Blossoms I’ll Miss” by Mike Campbell, my piece aims to explore the significance of the disappearance of magnolia blossoms as a result of climate change. They serve as a herald, a warning, or a fortune of what is to come if the impending climate crisis is not curbed. Not only will large-scale disaster occur, but the little joys of life, magnolia blossoms included, will slowly evaporate as temperatures and precipitation fluctuate in harsher and harsher extremes. As best stated in the article, “maybe the prospect of these little losses can persuade people unmoved by the overwhelming scale of the greater impending disaster. Or maybe we’ll just learn to adapt to a life of fewer pleasures, less beauty, more meager joys. It’s not the worst thing that could happen, but it’s so very far from the best.” H Headwaters Magazine 16
Art by Phoebe Swartz Headwaters Magazine 17
A Field Guide of Memories:
Lessons from the Species of Iceland
By Alexander Harrop
Nothing in the world felt more alien to me than first landing at Keflavik Airport. My brain barely had time to recover from my redeye flight over the Atlantic before I found myself in another world—a land of barren rock, moss, steam, and ice. As a part of my summer internship, a team of 12 college students and I were assigned to write a field guide to Iceland, and my focus was to be the species of the country. Writing a national field guide is a tall task, but doing it after flying alone for the first time is an even bigger one. Iceland’s native animal population is nearly all birds, a result of being so far from other land. Birds inhabit the island from the cliffs to the tundra. The only mammal species found naturally are Arctic foxes, which migrated there during the last ice age. Iceland’s only predators are raptor birds and foxes, which makes the island a safe breeding ground during avian migration periods. Across Iceland, I encountered many birds that captured my heart. The first of these was the Arctic tern. These birds are known for having the largest migration distance of any species, traveling from one pole to another within a year. Iceland is home to an abundance of Arctic terns in the warm summer months, which is, luckily, when I went. The house we lived in during the trip bordered a large nature preserve. Early in our stay, while hiking around the property, our team came across a pond. From across the pond, I could see something hovering over the surface. It looked motionless. With its pure white body and black cap to its bright orange beak, the bird instantly captured my interest. As I made my way closer, the tern
swept into action, diving right into the pond, scooping up a fish, and flying off with its meal. This interaction was one of many that assured me of Iceland’s majesty. There are few places around the world where you can walk from a suburban neighborhood to a nature reserve and see such beauty. The most incredible animal experience I had was with European golden plovers. These birds have been a large part of native Icelandic culture ever since the Vikings first landed and believed that the bird represented the coming of spring. Icelanders have established them as a symbol of their country and the prosperity of summertime—or perhaps just something to sell to a tourist. I had always been captivated by the gold, black, and white plumage of the inconspicuous plover. On one occasion, as the team and I were hiking a geothermal mountain, passing an open geyser before moving into a mossy field, I heard a small chorus of “tuus” calling to my right. I
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turned to see a European golden plover staring off into the canyon. As he called out into the wind, I readied my camera. As I snapped several photos, he began to turn his head towards me. The bird and I stared at each other, not 20 feet apart, until he scurried off. Having the ability to see such incredible species and have meaningful connections to them defined my experience. Without a doubt, it is the most important work I have done in my life. Prior to this trip, I had just begun to get into photography as a full-time hobby. I had found my grandfather’s old camera and couldn’t wait to edit and work on shot composition. Immediately, I knew that the camera was coming with me on this trip to help document everything possible and that the trip would become a core part of my artistic expression. In addition to these native species, Iceland hosts a myriad of non-native species brought over by Vikings during colonization. The Icelandic sheep is particularly notable. Most non-native mammals tend to grow smaller in Iceland than their counterparts in Europe, due to limited nutrients in the ecosystem. That is, except for the Icelandic sheep, which grow larger, as they can use the whole country for grazing. Iceland’s lack of natural predators allows many species to roam without fear or flocks. Oftentimes, small families of sheep can be seen together on the sides of cliffs next to large waterfalls or simply in the middle of the road. On our last day, we went to take some data on the last major ecosystem in Iceland: the sea bird Headwaters Magazine 19
cliffs. These cliffs, home to many different species of birds, are a prime showcase of species’ niche interactions, as they can be observed partitioning themselves out onto different layers of rock. On the drive, we saw a family of sheep that decided to block the road by sitting down and refusing to move so the team and I hiked an extra two miles to the trailhead and another three miles to the cliffs. Here, we ran into open land as far as the eye could see, next to the cliffs and waterfalls. We focused on an unnamed waterfall near the ocean. These falls ran through the middle of the grass and over a 1000-foot cliff where countless birds gathered below. As we walked along the edge, we saw another small sheep family approaching. Staring at them as we walked along the cliffs, I began to feel sentimental on my last day in Iceland. My trip to the edge of the world allowed me to make lifelong friends—both human and nonhuman. Iceland wasn’t just a random fascination for me. While reading Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Gathering Moss prior to the trip, I was captivated by her writing about her connection with the small plants around her and the intricate beauty of their survival. I began to do some research into the topic and saw Iceland’s landscape as a moss-abundant place. Mosses are prevalent across the whole country in basins where water and snow collect. Having the opportunity to witness this abundance of moss firsthand, the uniqueness of this landscape was truly impressed upon me. As majestic as Iceland’s swathing fields of green are, beauty
can also be found in smaller ways, which I experienced during our trek to the Gullfoss (Gold Waterfall). Gullfoss is the biggest waterfall in all of Europe, by volume, and attracts thousands of people annually. On the path, we crossed a hill and were met with a bold purple—a clearing full of lupine. Lupine is a flowering species initially brought over from the Americas to help with soil erosion but has become an invasive species. It fixes nitrogen in the soil, making it difficult for other species to compete in these environments.
In retrospect, I realize that my trip to Iceland was more than research. It was just as valuable in the sense that it shaped the way I see life. Now, I look at everything with more warmth and peace. The landscape taught me lessons about perseverance and hardiness in a fragile world. The species that I quickly became passionate about and connected to are not found anywhere else in the world. They are the key elements that make Iceland what it is and to me, that is the ultimate memory. H
Art by Wylie Roberts and Photography by Alexander Harrop Headwaters Magazine 20
Wildfire Sun (I-94W) By Loden Croll
I’ve heard there is a step up to pass Through the doorway of this world. Creator, toying with existence, Do you clutch a to-do list, put it off till Sunday night? Is finding meaning in crashing waves Just another game we have taught ourselves to play? Even divine fear of failure strikes out some days. If the sloths knew their own names would they Still love this life? As people—dreamers, lovers, inciters of violence— we believe in a world of many names. Fate, universal sound, divine intervention. Faith aside, I believe in trees and truth. In a steadiness that will eventually fail, but does not negate the worldly influence it has while it stands tall. And, if truth promises to one day fail us in this world’s spiral into entropy, should we attempt to quicken it? If an oak tree falls in a Minnesotan’s backyard, does it matter whether another lives in southern Vermont? And does it truly live at all, if a person is not present to wrap flanneled arms around a great trunk; does it matter to the tree whether it hears its own name spoken before it hits the ground? There is little I can see through the July haze. Minneapolis skyline, westbound junction, middle lane. Someone’s life’s work is burning, Some creature’s home is razed. This makes it difficult to drive on the interstate.
Art by Lindsey Lubofsky Headwaters Magazine 21
What do you call the loss of the unnamed? Who has closed the road? How am I supposed to get home? It is not so hard to become tortured with all the thoughts of what could be, if only we were not sunk so deep into our predestinations and illusions of control. Worse, you are forced to accept that the life which you have always dreamed of is slipping farther and farther from your reach as you grow older and more in tune with the dying way of the world. That the True World—that of the oak trees and ancient graves and unconditional love—should be at the mercy of such fresh, bleak institutions like airport bars and interstate highways seems a great shame. How, in this New World, is any person supposed to know what it is to be the sea or be a bird, let alone be a person when there is no limit to the specification nor criticism they will endure at the hands of their own definitions. In all the time that you do not have, You will find a way to make your life beautiful. To swim in the ocean and love the green And the orange even when it leaves. Cry in the arms of the magnolia For every sister and outsider searching For an old world to fit in. May it all be a little more changeable Than we ever imagined. H
By Spencer Kimble
Early October sun paints the sea with hues of orange and pink. The harmonious dance of reflecting light slows as the sun dips deeper on the horizon. Cool water, filled with salt and smelling of seaweed, welcomes me. I dive, holding my breath, and deliberately maneuver through carpets of eelgrass. Plucking scallops from where they nestle, I kick to the surface. My feet push seawater toward the sky, iridescent in the afternoon sun. I extract the adductor muscle from its shell and it hits my tongue with an explosive brine: both savory and sweet. I bask in these senses, alive in a beautiful moment in time.
The ocean will always wrap me in a familiar embrace. Regardless of the weather or the season, the senses I experience remain steady. It’s like driving home for the weekend to find my mom in her garden and the smell of dinner escaping through the open window. The sea water is an unwavering comfort. Diving into it, my cloak of anxieties is stripped away, leaving me naked in the moment. The past and future dissolve to reveal a full presence. My mind slows. I feel light in the buoyancy of the saline water. I float for a few long moments after I plunge, soaking in the sea. The ocean’s sounds and scents are different Headwaters Magazine 22
from those of the Green Mountains that I call home. Shorebirds flit along the sand, feeding on invertebrates that are left vulnerable as each wave recedes. The shoreline is chaos, yet I am overwhelmed by a sense of peace. I think often about how I exist in relation to a place. How do I interact with the ocean? What ecosystems are present? How are nutrients cycling from terrestrial systems, through estuarine systems, mixing with marine systems, and finally returning to land? Who lives at these intersections, and how do I impact their lives? I live at the intersection of many moving parts of a system: eight people living in one house, each immersed in their own studies and interests. We mix, like rivers entering the sea, to cook communal meals a n d supp o r t e a c h other. We each bring Art by Spencer Kimble Headwaters Magazine 23
different nutrients and provide unique qualities important to the functioning of the home. I have a deep sense of value for my home because of the way I analyze these cycles of give and take. I see the beauty in independence and the purpose of a larger community. Likewise, I value the ocean because of my place within it. It offers me food, knowledge, joy, peace. What do I offer? How do I show my gratitude? I offer my friendship; I listen with intent. My deep observations are more of an intimate conversation. I’m acquainting myself with the place and its inhabitants. Back in Madaket Harbor, slurping scallops in the sunset, I analyze my relationship with its ecosystems. I’ve made numerous journeys to this coastal bay throughout college. Each comes with a new examination of its beings, bringing more knowledge from my courses that help me understand its ecosystems on a biological, physical, chemical, and emotional level. I weave through the marsh where saltmarsh sparrows (Ammodramus caudacutus) call for a mate. They guide me to the channels where photosynthetic slugs feed on algae and steal their chloroplasts. The channels feed into the harbor where bay scallops (Argopecten irradiens) filter water. At the bay’s edge, smooth cordgrass (Spartina alterniflora) grows in thick mats. Each day, their roots get fully submerged at high tide. They have evolved to live in the dynamic intersection between land and sea. Saltmeadow cordgrass (Spartina patens) grows further from the water’s edge, woven into the muck with sea lavender (Limonium latifolium) and salicornia. Everyone has their niche; I’m learning where I belong. Studying science allows me to deepen my understanding of a place beyond my observations. I have begun to piece together ways I can continue to be in relation with ocean systems while finding purpose in a way that benefits marine biomes as well as human communities. Weaving together my interests in environmental science, food systems, marine ecology, and community engagement, one niche stands out for me: ocean farming. Reading the book Eat Like a Fish, by Bren Smith,
was an integral spark that ignited my interest in regenerative aquaculture. I have since grown oysters and taken an educational course in the science of kelp farming. Marine ecosystems can be restored through shellfish and seaweed farming. Cultivating oysters, mussels, scallops, and seaweeds in a three-dimensional multicultural model can provide habitat for fish and cleaner water, as the crops remove excess nitrogen and phosphorus. The majority of large agricultural operations in the U.S. contribute massive amounts of nutrient runoff into rivers, and eventually oceans. It’s important to examine the impact that food systems have on the planet as we sustain ourselves and the earth. Sea farming has the ability to cycle nutrients and carbon back into terrestrial systems via seaweed fertilizers, animal feed, and food. There is so much joy in growing good food that beneficially interacts with the place where it grows. Choosing a suitable site for a farm is an art. Sea farmers are in conversation with the sea. They know where the waters mix in just the right way to produce the sweetest mussels or the briniest oysters. It is a process of deep relation with place: analyzing where estuaries dump into the sea or where the tidal pattern provides the perfect amount of submersion and warmth. When oysters are grown in high-salinity environments, they develop a salty brine and a complex of amino acids that provide a strong umami flavor. Sea farmers pay attention to these factors to produce flavorful produce. They are intimate with these ecosystems while helping cycle nitrogen, phosphorus, and carbon back into terrestrial systems through food… good food. A splash of wine and a knob of butter brings out the best in any shellfish: simple, easy, approachable, elegant. The flavors from the sea are complex. Layers of umami and sweetness that often can stand alone on a plate. While it’s very different from food grown on land, there is so much joy in the exploration of preparing seafood. Understanding the environmental services they provide
might even enhance the ways we enjoy ocean foods. In reflecting on the concept of place, I have developed a greater sense of purpose as a human in this world. I have learned that solutions to climate change can be beautiful–full of good food, community, and growth. It is easy to become overwhelmed by feelings of hopelessness and nihilism in the midst of our changing climate and unjust world. It’s strange to be a young person existing on the brink of a climate catastrophe in a world of people at war with themselves and at war with each other. Examining sense of place is a rebellion against hopelessness. It is a tool in becoming grounded and redirecting passion to make change. Being in conversation with the spaces around me guides me forward. “How do I fit in? How can I help? How can I be at peace?” Today, I am hopeful. H
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Art by Alex Porier Headwaters Magazine 25
The Life Cycle of a Secret Garden Home By Alma Smith
It was a cool summer morning when I first walked into the James Rose Center for Landscape Architectural Research and Design. James Rose was the wunderkind of landscape architecture in the 1950s and is best known today for his Japanese-inspired garden designs. Yet, like many unlucky visionaries, Rose became an artist obscured by time and circumstance, buried behind more famous colleagues. I had been hired by the James Rose Center as an intern, my first office job aside from answering phones and sorting upholstery for my dad over the summer. My tasks would include maintaining the gardens, archiving all of James Rose’s personal papers, and learning everything about the home’s history. Easy enough. The home was a forest of walls, rocks, and trees, with two main suites, which made me second guess where the front door was supposed to be. You could walk left, to what I came to know as the North Studio, or right, to the suites that Rose had built for his mother and sister. Every path around the home was encrusted with golden pine needles and obstructed by rhododendrons. The light filtering through the trees was superbly green. James Rose hadn’t seen this light for 30 years. I circled the house twice before I resigned to sit on a bench and wait for someone to find me. It turned out that
the suite of Rose’s mother and sister was also where my coworker George was staying for the summer since he lived abroad. Modernity was all around. The living room was full of gridded planar surfaces made of tiles and wooden screens. The hearth stretched into a kitchen and a breakfast nook with low seating and an old French-looking kitchen armoire, which belonged to Rose’s mother. It was around the 1960s when Rose transformed the house into what it is today: a fluid terrarium of fountains and flora. He added his famous roof garden under a fiberglass and wooden trellis, an A-frame to divert rainfall from the flat roof, and a meditation room over his sister’s living space, which he dubbed the Zendo. This is where he sat, day and night, visualizing his creative ideas. Those first couple of days, George had me dig up ivy from the knots and mounds on the outskirts of the property, which I brought up in buckets for him to plant on the rooftop. It was almost comical, with two large obtuse-angled beds lined with nothing but stringy ivy. Blank spaces abounded. George made his opinions on the choice clear and lamented that our director preferred English ivy to grasses and shrubbery. We did most of our office work over the summer at a small corner desk in the living room. An impressionHeadwaters Magazine 26
istic painting filled with deep ocean blues and browns hung behind us. Outwards was a floor-to-ceiling window looking onto the reflection pool, with a copper statue spiraling over the water and hemlock bushes. Despite the heat outside, the home remained cool; George credits the fountains and tree cover for this blessing. The sun was diffused through the house into a muted glow, and I felt we were cradled by the light and leaves alone. It would have been easy to be rocked to sleep by the sounds of flowing water, singing birds, and rustling trees. I had many close calls with sleep in the early hours of my shifts there. From 8:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m., my life revolved around The James Rose Center. Three days a week, I would enter this sanctuary, log a hundred letters from Rose to his mother, point at plants and chipping paint with George, look at the trees and birds, eat my lunch, give one or two house tours, and then drive home. When Liz, our archival godsend, made her return to the Center, archiving became more entertaining. Liz had been working for the Center for around four years. A year ago, she graduated with a B.A. in Architecture and has been attending to the James Rose Center ever since. She had taken up the task of organizing James Rose’s paper trail, a project full of waterlogged cardboard boxes and broken filing cabinets. With her help, we finished logging much of Rose’s personal correspondence and we got to the fun part—old film and pictures from the glory days of Rose’s home. She brought out a box of thick black binders with film arrayed inside plastic sleeves and showed George and me slide after slide of foliage glittering on the roof. She described to me the project she had been waiting to spring on an unassuming intern: the restoration of the roof garden. She said a proposal could be made showing what kinds of plants would do best in the open areas or alcoves of the roof and where to put them. Naturally, I bit off more than I could chew and set to work drafting essays, rendering layouts, crafting a presentation, and assembling a document of notes on native plants that could be sustained in the home. The garden that was once filled in every corner with unfurling leaves still sits mostly barren, and my perpetual ideas are still a work in progress. Rose believed change was the lifeblood of any project, design, or idea, positing in his writing that “change is the essence” and that “finish is another word for death.” He was adamant this be applied to his home, which he altered constantly until the day he died. Though people may visit and students of art, architecture, and environment like myself may sort through its papers in the summertime, the home has become relatively static. I Headwaters Magazine 27
couldn’t help but think that, try as we might, Rose would not have called this house ‘living.’ It is unchanged day after day, with no room to meander or shrink. So as I drew the new Hanging Gardens of Ridgewood, New Jersey, I pictured what Rose might have enjoyed seeing on top of his home. I proposed flowering shrubs (even though he used to prune off blossoms) and mostly native
plants (even if Rose would have campaigned for English ivy). It was odd designing this without James Rose. On tours, we recounted how he loved to argue and debate
with his clients, pushing and pulling until they either broke or came up with a design to be proud of together. To complete that process on my own felt impossible, but it taught me how to create spaces with foliage alone by molding and rotating and pulling and pushing different species around the roof in my mind’s eye. I won’t be offended if my designs never leave paper. The exercise
in creating an ecologically designed roof garden was enough for me. Besides, the summer was closing, I had to leave for Vermont in a week, and I was left to sit in the house alone. I raced to read as many novels and draw as
many plants as I could stand to before school started and I would be too busy for leisure. Ecological design and the practice of sustainable housing are both weirdly present in this home that was first built in the 1950s. It’s incredibly inefficient to heat and the way we fill the ponds every morning is definitely wasteful, but when Rose constructed his home out of secondhand scavenged materials, he was exhibiting the first rule of ecological design: keeping it cyclical. This was a practice he had started while enlisted in World War II. He took splinters of wood, metal flashings, and wire to construct tiny home models. This was the light that guided him out of the war, and it was there that the first version of his home was born. He maintained his house with similar practices, wasting as little as possible during the house’s creation. When an element of the house gave in, broke, or Rose just got tired of looking at it, its materials were redistributed throughout the house for various fixes or new implementations. When the second bridge to the north studio rotted away, he used the good pieces to replace other areas of wood on the roof. He carefully watched the resources of the land for waste, using rocks that were displaced in excavation as sculptures and displaced soil as a landscaping tool. No more would he tolerate unused spaces in setback homes with square footprints and flat lawns. Rose was creating spaces for people to feel safe and secure in nature. Towards the end of his life, Rose became too ill to care for his home and a little too stubborn to ask for help from his friends or colleagues. His mother, sister, and partner had long passed, and he was content with allowing the home to decline. Even before he grew old, not all of his home could stand the tests of time and weathering. But I’m positive he meant it to be that way. He understood weather changed, rivers meandered, and trees were split by lightning. Why should humans brace against this when we could lean into it? When we could use it to our advantage in our art, structures, and philosophies? Rose was not the easiest man to get along with, and he is nowhere near as famous as Frank Lloyd Wright or Pablo Picasso, but he was experimenting with ideas about sustainability long before the era of environmental awareness came to fruition. He proved a thesis long before anyone asked him to: what could suburbia look like if not Levittown? If we weren’t obsessed with the tamed and manufactured? If we focused on the environmental and cyclical? Rose is a testament to the possibilities of small-scale home sustainability. Done right, we could pull nature out from the peripheries, and create a more accessible, sustainable, and all-around creative future. H
Art by Ally Martin Headwaters Magazine 28
Unpacking Carbon Sequestration in UVM’s Comprehensive Sustainability Plan By Emma Polhemus
Cotopaxi. Klean Kanteen. REI Co-op. All of these familiar brands, which you probably spot across campus regularly, are “Certified Climate Neutral” by the independent organization Change Climate. Climate and carbon neutrality have become some of the latest environmental buzzwords that indicate a business’s commitment to sustainability. There are even companies that allow you to purchase personal carbon offsets to reduce your own carbon footprint. I understand the basics of what this means: we are releasing a dangerous amount of greenhouse gasses into our atmosphere, and climate neutrality avoids contributing to that problem by producing net zero emissions—in other words, if the provisioning of a product or service adds any greenhouse gasses to the atmosphere, it’s offset by something that takes carbon dioxide back out. As close to home as we can get, carbon neutrality plays a starring role in the Comprehensive Sustainability Plan (CSP) published by the University of Vermont in the spring of 2023. UVM has pledged to achieve carbon neutrality by 2030, and the most significant portion of this goal over the next seven years will come in the form of purchasing forest carbon offsets in the state of Vermont. Carbon offsetting is billed as a much-needed action against the climate crisis, but I can’t help but second guess these promises. It’s nice to think that when you purchase a carbon offset, all those greenhouse gasses just Headwaters Magazine 29
disappear, but they do have to go somewhere. The question is, where? Are carbon offsets actually beneficial, or are they the climate equivalent of shoving a basket of dirty laundry in the closet and pretending it’s not there? As with any environmental solution, I’m sure there are tradeoffs. I want to find out what carbon sequestration means in the context of our global environmental future. To learn more about carbon sequestration in Vermont, I spoke with Jim Shallow, Director of Strategic Conservation Initiatives at the Vermont Chapter of the Nature Conservancy (TNC). TNC has several carbon sequestration projects in the state of Vermont, including the Burnt Mountain Natural Area and the Forest Carbon Aggregation project in the Cold Hollow region, created in partnership with the Vermont Land Trust. These projects are designed to tackle TNC’s global goals of preventing biodiversity loss and responding to climate change. In order to limit global temperature increases to 1.5℃, “there is a need at a global level to not only reduce the amount of carbon we’re putting into the atmosphere,” Shallow explained: but to [also] start removing carbon from the atmo sphere that we’ve already put up there. Our research here at the Nature Conservancy is showing that nature can play a key role in helping sequester that carbon, store it over time, and help us lower the amount of overall carbon in [the atmosphere.]
Throughout our conversation, Shallow referred to these processes as “natural climate solution[s],” a term he prefers “because it’s looking around us and seeing how nature can help us solve this problem.” Other commonly used terms are carbon sequestration or carbon offset. Unlike natural climate solutions, both of these can refer to either biological or geological processes. The United States Geological Survey defines geological sequestration as the process of injecting and storing carbon dioxide underground, usually as a pressurized liquid. Biological sequestration refers to carbon dioxide stored in living systems, such as plants and soils. A 2017 study from Frontiers in Ecology and the Environment, led by Dr. Jennifer Howard, clarifies that since all photosynthetic organisms take in some amount of carbon dioxide, biological carbon offsets have to increase carbon sequestration beyond what would naturally occur. If we picture carbon dioxide in the atmosphere as a bathtub with the faucet running and the drain open, climate science tells us that right now, we’re filling the bathtub too fast, and it’s going to overflow. The carbon dioxide taken in by life as usual is the water going out the drain, but to prevent that overflow, we need to take more water out by making another drain. That new drain, back in climate change terms, might be planting more trees or changing land management practices. A carbon sequestration project that increases how fast the atmospheric bathtub drains can be called “additional”, and this concept helps us avoid overestimating how much carbon is being removed. As Shallow explained during our conversation, we’ve reached a point where carbon sequestration will be needed along with emissions reductions—in other words, even if we slow down the faucet, our bathtub needs more drains. The International Panel on Climate Change
(IPCC), the United Nations’ climate science organization, published its most recent Assessment Report in March of 2023. The IPCC recommends limiting warming to less than 1.5℃ by the end of the century in order to avoid high risk of irreversible environmental change. In order to meet this target, the IPCC states that “while reaching net zero CO2 or net zero [greenhouse gas] emissions requires deep and rapid reductions in gross emissions, the deployment of [carbon dioxide removal] to counterbalance hard-to-abate residual emissions…is unavoidable.” Since not every company or individual producing these hard-to-abate emissions is directly involved in
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carbon sequestration, TNC and many other leaders of natural climate solution projects sell carbon credits to external organizations, which may soon include the University of Vermont. When I asked how, exactly, carbon sequestration turns into something that can be bought and sold given its somewhat intangible nature, Shallow laughed. It was clear he had been asked this before. He explained that there are two types of carbon markets: regulatory and voluntary. Regulatory markets are used in states such as California which have established carbon emission caps. In states like Vermont that do not have these regulations, voluntary carbon markets exist. In these markets, carbon credits are generated through registries such as the American Carbon Registry (ACR) which have protocols for assessing projects, confirming additionality, and seeking third-party verification. Companies who want to purchase carbon credits can choose sequestration projects they like and work with the registry and producers of those credits to determine the cost. These carbon credits can help other organizations achieve net carbon neutrality, and they help financially support TNC in meeting their other global goal—protecting biodiversity. “A little more than half of the state is what we call resilient and connected lands… where we believe if we focus on those lands it will allow biodiversity to adapt and adjust to climate change,” said Shallow. Forest carbon credit projects “like the Cold Hollow project, which is in one of these connectivity areas, is securing that land for the next 40 years minimum,” supporting species adaptation to climate change throughout that time. He added that the project has several other co-benefits including supporting Vermont’s workforce and protecting working lands. Art by Emma Polhemus and Frances Leadman Headwaters Magazine 31
While TNC’s forest carbon projects in Vermont were designed with conservation and ecosystem health in mind, this is not the case for all biological sequestration projects. A 2021 article in Nature Climate Change reports a common approach to forest sequestration is large mono-crop tree plantations, often growing non-native species. The authors of the article, led by Dr. Samuel Fankhauser, explain that this reduces local biodiversity while simultaneously increasing the area’s vulnerability to disturbances like storms, drought, or pests. The same plantations are raising concerns about social justice when local subsistence farmers are displaced. For climate neutrality to be a just solution, the benefits and costs of sequestration need to be fairly distributed, but this isn’t always how it’s currently carried out. Dr. Nathalie Seddon, Alison Smith, and their co-authors take a closer look at social justice and equity considerations of natural climate solutions in a 2021 article published in Global Change Biology. From the start of a carbon sequestration project, social science has shown that it is critical to involve members of the host community and utilize indigenous and local knowledge in project development. In addition to providing a sense of autonomy and justice in the process, this can prevent harm to important place-based ecosystem services and cultural connections to land. Poorly designed projects can displace local populations from their lands and livelihoods. There are also concerns about the accountability of carbon offset purchases. Dr. Fankhauser and his co-authors argue that current systems to purchase carbon offsets lack both regulatory power and scientific backing to ensure that these offsets are making meaningful reductions in net emissions. Jim Shallow agrees that the
current carbon markets are “not a perfect system,” but he believes that without federal legislation placing a price on carbon emissions, they are a functional alternative. “It’s an innovative space,” he added, and he’s hopeful that developments such as potential international standardization of carbon credit registries will improve accountability. Looking at the bigger picture of climate change mitigation, though, Shallow clarifies that he views offsets as a “last resort effort” to be used only after carbon emissions have been reduced as much as possible. Dr. Fankhauser and co-authors mention that one key pitfall of carbon offsets is using them to defend “business as usual” rather than emissions reductions, a risky strategy given that carbon sequestration measurements include high levels of uncertainty. The Nature Conservancy, however, is shaping their carbon credit program with this in mind. “We won’t sell credits into certain economic sectors such as oil and gas exploration and refining,” Shallow
said of TNC’s approach to this issue. Additionally, they “go through a review of [companies’] net neutral plans to make sure that this is not the only thing they’re relying on to be neutral,” he said. Looking at UVM’s Comprehensive Sustainability Plan as an example, it was reported that as of 2023, the university has already significantly reduced emissions from the most accessible categories. The plan divides carbon emissions into three scopes: Scope 1 emissions are those produced directly on campus, such as burning fuel or university transportation; Scope 2 emissions are associated with purchased electricity; and Scope 3 emissions group together remaining indirect emissions, such as travel for study abroad programs or employee commutes. According to the CSP, UVM has eliminated all Scope 2 emissions by purchasing “highly renewable grid mixes” and renewable energy certificates, as well as installing solar arrays. The carbon offsets the university plans to purchase Headwaters Magazine 32
will address the remaining Scope 1 and 3 emissions, which may be harder to reduce quickly. Shallow uses the example of study abroad travel: until flying on electric planes becomes feasible, net zero emissions are only attainable through offsets. Focusing on Scope 1 emissions, the CSP also states that UVM plans to invest in renewable energy heating systems in new buildings and renovations, although there is not a clear goal set for how much this will reduce emissions or when. Like many tools we have for facing the climate crisis, I am cautiously optimistic about carbon sequestration. It can be a valuable addition to climate action plans, but it needs to be applied cautiously, with regards for equity, and not as a replacement for rapid and significant reductions in carbon emissions. The guidelines woven into The Nature Conservancy’s carbon credit sales seem like a promising start to me, but, as Shallow told me, these standards are not universally regulated. The good news for students here is that UVM intends to purchase the CSP carbon credits from the Vermont Land Trust and TNC collaboration, meaning that these credits have been produced with environment and people in mind and verified by the American Carbon Registry. Regarding the CSP’s net zero plan as a whole, I wonder if there’s more that could be done to reduce carbon dioxide emissions related to heating and university trans-
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portation before resorting to carbon credits. Purchasing carbon credits is the central actionable step to achieve net zero by 2030, but the university still has a long way to go towards decarbonizing. Most importantly, I hope that UVM doesn’t stop making progress once this net zero through carbon offsets is reached. As Jim Shallow told me, carbon offsets are valuable for carbon emissions we can’t currently eliminate, but they are not a permanent fix. Still, while carbon offsets like those UVM will invest in aren’t a perfect solution, they aren’t just wishing away the problem either. Maybe the best approach, as Shallow put it, is “to go in with [your] eyes wide open”—as long as we keep in mind that there’s only so much space in the closet for our metaphorical carbon laundry, it’s better than leaving it on the floor. The CSP also makes it very clear that UVM values its reputation as a leader in sustainability, and that reputation is created and upheld by student, faculty, and staff voices. As students, faculty, and staff—and community members of all kinds—we can celebrate the commitment to net carbon neutrality while simultaneously advocating for more complete emissions reductions by UVM. Purchasing carbon offsets is a step in the right direction, so let’s keep going. After all, solving the climate crisis is going to take all the tools we have. H
“Each year millions of tonnes of clothes are produced, worn, and thrown away. Every second, the equivalent of a rubbish truck load of clothes is burnt or buried in landfill.
S U S T A I N A B L E F A S H I O N
B y C o r d e l l W i l s o n
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take a second to think about the clothing you are wearing right now. where did the materials come from, who cultivated them, who helped produced them along the way
