Hi

Hi, I'm Cory McKenney and today I thought I'd make blog. Then I realized I already had one, and so after rousing it from its cyber coma, I have determined to post the story I turned in for my writing class this week. It was nature writing assignment, but I kind of stretched the definition of nature writing. However, my teacher liked it quite a bit, and I feel pretty good about it. So here it is.

It was quiet as I climbed to the top of the little hill. I walked through the trees that covered the slope, their spreading branches sheltering the hill from the sun, creating a dimmed gray and green world under the canopy. Their was no sound save the essential forest noises; the shuffling of leaves, the rustling of squirrels and chipmunks, perhaps the beating tiny wings as bird traverses from tree to tree. All the sounds my brain filters out unless I remember to listen. Who knows how many thousands of years it had been like that on the hillside, silent and slow. The forest is always doing something; growing, eating, reproducing, and dying, yet nothing ever happens at fast. The forest takes its time going about its business, even if some of its dwellers are more impatient. Yet after all the years of its steady life, the slow molding of the hill by time, it is famous for one day. The antithesis of silent, the antithesis of slow. This hill, called Little Round Top, is famous for July 2^nd, 1863.

I reached the summit and emerged from the cover of the trees. It was nearly bare on top, and a small rim of rock three feet high stood along one edge of the hill. It was as though a war god had built it specifically for the union soldiers to crouch behind, but it only served this purpose for one day, and for the rest of its millennia, it just was. I leaned against the stone barrier and looked down the slope to Devil’s Den. The jumbled pile of huge rocks and boulders looked strange at the base of the hill. Trees grew on and in between the rocks, giving it a wild look. I imagined confederate soldiers swarming through the rocks while the union soldiers crouched beside me poured down lead from Little Round Top. I could barely see the boulders for the powder smoke. The little stream that ran beside Devil’s Den flowed and babbled pleasantly. It was as amiable as any other stream, and ran much as other streams run for longer than anyone knows. But it is famous, or infamous, for day its water turned red.

I turned and made my way to the other side of the hill. Moss and lichen splotched the stone underfoot, for nothing else could grow on the bare summit. I dropped down into the woods and looked down the slope. It wasn’t so steep here, and was lightly wooded. I stood exactly where the 20^th Maine had been positioned, the very flank of the entire union line. The Confederates charged up through the trees, their awful shriek piercing the silence.

A chipmunk sat on a log twenty feet away. It twitched and jerked as it went about its business. It grabbed indistinguishable objects from the log and devoured them, keeping a wary eye on me. I wondered if it had an ancestor, countless generations back, that had been there that day, minding its business the same as the one before me, when suddenly, some kind of hell broke loose. Humans in grey, screaming their terrible scream, flooded up the hill toward the chipmunk. Humans in blue kneeled in a row and unleashed thunder and lightening. The Chipmunk sprinted for safety as unseen objects buzzed through the air, tearing limbs from trees and ripping shrubs to pulp. Perhaps the animals that survived the cross-fire told stories of the day the humans went berserk. Maybe they warned their children that when the human’s line up in rows, they had better get out of there. I pictured them sitting around planning what they would do next time. Some of the birds even made up a special berserk human warning call. But they never got to use it, for it would never happen again. I looked at the chipmunk and laughed at myself. My imagination was even more vivid than usual. I blamed the stillness of the woods.

Nothing around me gave any hint of what had happened, except a sprinkling of small monuments and plaques. Nature had healed itself, scarless like a clean slice. It must have taken it quite some time, but it fixed itself eventually. The one day that it chanced to be witness to the human conflict that sullied its natural state, it acquired infamy. While the events that happened where I was standing are some of the most well known of the American Civil War, the hill and the trees shaped them, caused them to play out as they did. The Confederates had to take the hill. The Union had to defend it. It was simple.

Not even a day, ninety minutes. The 15^th Alabama charged repeatedly and the 20^th Maine held them off. All the while the trees, rocks, shrubs; the forest, stood in the crossfire, taking the thrashing without a thought. I watched as the 20^th Maine ran out of ammunition and Chamberlain led his famous charge down the slope, through the trees and into the Confederate lines. I heard the cries of soldiers and the rattle of the musket. I saw them use the trees as cover and hill for momentum, and begin moving the captured 15^th Alabama regiment back up the hill, some with empty muskets. And though the animals fled, the trees didn’t flinch. They even remembered to sway in the wind and gather sunlight as their trunks were ravaged by bullets and musket balls.

The Chipmunk let out a series of loud squeaks then went silent. I looked around and saw that the woods were the same as any other hillside. I remembered to listen again and heard the leaves shuffle, and unseen creatures rustling on the forest floor. A tree near me groaned and popped as it leaned in the wind. It leaned back and snapped again. It sounded like musket fire. Or maybe my imagination was taking creative liberties again. The Chipmunk scampered up a tree and I began my descent down Little Round Top.