Summer. It's not yet official but all the signs are here: leafy plants in full summer apparel, goslings the size of overgrown mallards, tulips and daffodils a distant memory. A few days ago a freeze claimed plants in the garden, we were picking morel mushrooms, and oak leaves were the size of squirrel ears, but today it’s 87 degrees and suddenly summer.
I took the tractor and bagger out to collect mulch for the garden. The trail to the field is now flanked with a wall of leafy green, screening what lies beyond. The raspberries are blooming, young squirrels are everywhere, summer has settled in. All that remains is the ripening of fruit and seed which for some plants has commenced or is already done. Maple samaras litter the yard and whirl through the air like so many disabled helicopters. The same trees have set leaf buds for next year so their seasonal objective is complete. They have nothing left but to dole away long summer days adding mass and pumping oxygen until the short days of autumn shuts them down.
Just now a squadron of wood ducks came in at top speed, flying low over the marsh. One of them hit the entrance hole of a nest box with incredible precision and disappeared inside to resume incubation duties. It’s likely she’s sitting on about 10 eggs, maybe more. Wood ducks often go about laying eggs randomly in suitable cavities, so by the time a hen settles down to brooding she might sit on as many as 30 eggs with no more than a third being her own. Once hatched, only 30-40 percent of ducklings survive their first 90 days and as few as 10 percent live to attain flight status. High mortality rates during the first year of life are extremely common among almost all wild species, primarily due to predation. It’s tough out there.
Suddenly summer, and life in infinite variety and complexity pulses on. For the keenly aware there are new discoveries. At the Institute of Technology in Zurich a graduate student noticed a particular species of bumblebee making tiny incisions in the leaves of flowering plants that were yet to bloom. Setting up an experiment, a team learned that the act of nipping leaves caused some plants to set flowers up to a month earlier than normal. Bumblebees are hungry for pollen in spring and the plants need bees for fertilization. By spurring bloom production both bee and plant are benefited. It is symbiosis in action, the bees telling the plants to hurry up already and the plants responding on cue.
The complexity and mystery in living processes has but one overriding objective: to adapt, evolve, and reproduce so life can go on. It's a course uncluttered, without accumulation of extraneous baggage or worthless possessions, running contrary to modern human tendencies. We accumulate things and assign value to holdings of questionable worth. It's a behavior unknown to our early ancestors who in practice were highly mobile with limited capacity or interest in transporting worthless stuff. Why do we keep clothes never worn? Why do we rummage through a corner of the garage or attic finding possessions long forgotten and of no critical value yet keep them? Thrift and economy are admirable traits, especially today in the land of overconsumption, but there are limits, or should be. Our sons indicate a total disinterest in dealing with our worldly collection when we’re gone, yet nary a nook or cranny remains unoccupied.
Predators collect prey, at times when not eminently necessary. The house cat is a perfect example. It will seldom pass up an opportunity to kill even when it’s belly is at capacity. But in nature nothing is lost. The mouse left by the contented cat is seized by the sharp eyed crow, so the mouse lives on in the form of a scholarly avian acrobat with a raucous voice. When the crow dies the essence of the mouse will be passed on again. In this way the mouse has an eternal and beneficial destiny. One day, when the earth is absorbed by the sun, what was the mouse will yet remain, perhaps as cosmic dust, and so it is with every living thing.
Crows, it turns out, will sometimes collect stuff and have shown interest in giving things to others. They will bring gifts of trinkets to humans who feed them and might have a cache where they store valued tools, say the perfect stick for extracting food from a tight spot. These are at best simple, practical behaviors, not unlike those employed by early man, and immensely different from the collecting and hoarding of items so common in human society today.
It is summer, the season of abundance, when innumerable seeds and fertilized eggs are cast out to be reckoned with as they will. Many do not advance beyond the embryonic state and those that do face dismal odds of surviving to reproduce. It is abundance not wasted or hoarded, as life fuels life. It is mass production with species survival in the offing. It is usually enough, sometimes just barely.
Monday, May 25, 2020
Wednesday, May 20, 2020
On Dogs
A dog lover, by definition, loves all dogs and generally treats them as well or better than human counterparts. By this I was never a dog lover, but not so my wife. I’ve often said if reincarnation is a viable option, try to come back as Lee’s dog.
From my earliest recollections we always had a dog, always a mutt, some random mixture of whatever roamed the neighborhood. I remember their names but didn’t have a close relationship with any. They were outside dogs, and when I think of them I go back to a hot summer day where as a boy of five or six I am crouched in the grass and focused on a serious project. There’s a dog’s face close to mine, fanning me with rancid breath and sharing a cloud of gnats. I do not feel a closeness.
Later in my teen years I realized dogs could be useful. I was a small game hunter so when offered a chance at a purported rabbit hound, I took it. Toby was a red tick beagle, beautifully marked with a great baritone voice. I can take you near the spot where more than 50 years ago on our first outing he brought around a rabbit which I shot, and I suddenly had a dog I wanted to kiss. He was a kennel dog, a working dog who earned his keep by helping put food on the table, and I saw value in dog ownership.
Around this same time I was spending every free moment with my grandpa. He always had dogs, one for loving and several for working. The loving dog was a boxer, Cocoa, the constant companion, the one I would hear grandpa talking to as I left the house in late evenings. The working dogs were bluetick hounds, bred and trained to hunt raccoons, and among them was Katy, the queen of the lot. She was a silent tracker. While the other dogs were baying on a hot trail Katy ran in stealth mode, and when her mournful howl joined the chorus we knew the quarry was treed. She was immune to distraction from opossums or foxes or any manner of misguiding scents. Katy had a singleness of purpose, a focused confidence, and never disappointed.
There is some confusion in the literature of exactly when or from where dogs emerged in the evolutionary tree. The prevailing thought has them linked directly to wolves, but a more recent theory suggests they evolved along with, or even before, wolves. Regardless, both wolves and dogs have traits in common, among them the preference or outright need for social presence. They are pack animals, driven to not live or work alone. In the case of domesticated dogs, humans seem to satisfy the dog’s social needs, so by default dog owners become pack members.
All packs have a hierarchy. A dog in any respectable home soon recognizes its place, not as the alpha leader but as a subordinate, which carries duties nonetheless, oftentimes as first alert when anything out of the ordinary occurs. Dogs bark to warn and protect pack associates. From my experience, dogs that bay at the moon for hours on end are always tied or kenneled, separated from the pack, so this seemingly pointless behavior might indeed have a point.
I once had a pedigreed black lab that would howl at the moon, but Pete was a kenneled dog, a couple hundred feet from the house and alone in the world. He was my first real experience in training a dog from puppyhood and I did it by the books. Anytime he was out of the kennel he was under command. He lived for those 15 minutes a day and the results were both satisfying and impressive, but given a second chance I’d change the approach. I believe now I could make a disciplined retriever from a constant companion and we would both be happier for it.
I could go on summarizing my experiences with another half dozen dogs who spent their lives with us, dogs whom Lee loved and I tolerated, and it would lead us to today, to what is likely the latter years of a 75 pound bearded cur who responds to the name “Maisy”. She has weaved her way into my heart like no other. Her ability to melt into the floor when she knows we’re leaving the house without her, or when she realizes her behavior I find disappointing, cannot go unnoticed. For whatever reason, I can see in her eyes and temperament a desperate want to please, a loyalty beyond measure, an intense desire to be worthy of inclusion in the pack. I now suspect those same traits were in all the dogs that came before, but she’s the first to break through to me. She’s also the first to make it onto our bed, and every night she lies there with neck outstretched, her head resting on my thigh, her eyes peering into mine, unflinching. “Stop staring”, I say, but she persists and I fall asleep.
The dog has helped me see what Lee’s been trying to say for nearly 45 years, that I’ve never given animals enough credit. In his book, The Outermost House: A Year of Life On The Great Beach of Cape Cod, Henry Beston writes, “For the animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours, they move finished and complete, gifted with the extension of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear.”
In a race for survival where we both begin with absolutely nothing, dogs will certainly win. And yet dogs, good dogs, offer all they have to us, unconditionally, looking only for acceptance, a place in the pack, a chance to learn, belong and contribute. They’re not people and not deserving of the treatment given people in every situation, but they are neither responsible for making a mess of the planet, for poverty, famine or injustice. Their goal is only to find a pack where they are at home and with a purpose, and they look to us for that ultimate achievement.
If we are moved to grant their request we take on the financial costs and daily accommodations, the added housekeeping, the time required for training and discipline. In return we get unwavering loyalty, a lifelong companion who forgets or overlooks our faults, a comrade who teaches patience, and the chance to share the adventure of being part of the pack.
From my earliest recollections we always had a dog, always a mutt, some random mixture of whatever roamed the neighborhood. I remember their names but didn’t have a close relationship with any. They were outside dogs, and when I think of them I go back to a hot summer day where as a boy of five or six I am crouched in the grass and focused on a serious project. There’s a dog’s face close to mine, fanning me with rancid breath and sharing a cloud of gnats. I do not feel a closeness.
Later in my teen years I realized dogs could be useful. I was a small game hunter so when offered a chance at a purported rabbit hound, I took it. Toby was a red tick beagle, beautifully marked with a great baritone voice. I can take you near the spot where more than 50 years ago on our first outing he brought around a rabbit which I shot, and I suddenly had a dog I wanted to kiss. He was a kennel dog, a working dog who earned his keep by helping put food on the table, and I saw value in dog ownership.
Around this same time I was spending every free moment with my grandpa. He always had dogs, one for loving and several for working. The loving dog was a boxer, Cocoa, the constant companion, the one I would hear grandpa talking to as I left the house in late evenings. The working dogs were bluetick hounds, bred and trained to hunt raccoons, and among them was Katy, the queen of the lot. She was a silent tracker. While the other dogs were baying on a hot trail Katy ran in stealth mode, and when her mournful howl joined the chorus we knew the quarry was treed. She was immune to distraction from opossums or foxes or any manner of misguiding scents. Katy had a singleness of purpose, a focused confidence, and never disappointed.
There is some confusion in the literature of exactly when or from where dogs emerged in the evolutionary tree. The prevailing thought has them linked directly to wolves, but a more recent theory suggests they evolved along with, or even before, wolves. Regardless, both wolves and dogs have traits in common, among them the preference or outright need for social presence. They are pack animals, driven to not live or work alone. In the case of domesticated dogs, humans seem to satisfy the dog’s social needs, so by default dog owners become pack members.
All packs have a hierarchy. A dog in any respectable home soon recognizes its place, not as the alpha leader but as a subordinate, which carries duties nonetheless, oftentimes as first alert when anything out of the ordinary occurs. Dogs bark to warn and protect pack associates. From my experience, dogs that bay at the moon for hours on end are always tied or kenneled, separated from the pack, so this seemingly pointless behavior might indeed have a point.
I once had a pedigreed black lab that would howl at the moon, but Pete was a kenneled dog, a couple hundred feet from the house and alone in the world. He was my first real experience in training a dog from puppyhood and I did it by the books. Anytime he was out of the kennel he was under command. He lived for those 15 minutes a day and the results were both satisfying and impressive, but given a second chance I’d change the approach. I believe now I could make a disciplined retriever from a constant companion and we would both be happier for it.
I could go on summarizing my experiences with another half dozen dogs who spent their lives with us, dogs whom Lee loved and I tolerated, and it would lead us to today, to what is likely the latter years of a 75 pound bearded cur who responds to the name “Maisy”. She has weaved her way into my heart like no other. Her ability to melt into the floor when she knows we’re leaving the house without her, or when she realizes her behavior I find disappointing, cannot go unnoticed. For whatever reason, I can see in her eyes and temperament a desperate want to please, a loyalty beyond measure, an intense desire to be worthy of inclusion in the pack. I now suspect those same traits were in all the dogs that came before, but she’s the first to break through to me. She’s also the first to make it onto our bed, and every night she lies there with neck outstretched, her head resting on my thigh, her eyes peering into mine, unflinching. “Stop staring”, I say, but she persists and I fall asleep.
The dog has helped me see what Lee’s been trying to say for nearly 45 years, that I’ve never given animals enough credit. In his book, The Outermost House: A Year of Life On The Great Beach of Cape Cod, Henry Beston writes, “For the animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours, they move finished and complete, gifted with the extension of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear.”
In a race for survival where we both begin with absolutely nothing, dogs will certainly win. And yet dogs, good dogs, offer all they have to us, unconditionally, looking only for acceptance, a place in the pack, a chance to learn, belong and contribute. They’re not people and not deserving of the treatment given people in every situation, but they are neither responsible for making a mess of the planet, for poverty, famine or injustice. Their goal is only to find a pack where they are at home and with a purpose, and they look to us for that ultimate achievement.
If we are moved to grant their request we take on the financial costs and daily accommodations, the added housekeeping, the time required for training and discipline. In return we get unwavering loyalty, a lifelong companion who forgets or overlooks our faults, a comrade who teaches patience, and the chance to share the adventure of being part of the pack.
Otters, Politics, and the Fate of the Planet
There are otters in the pond, several of them, and regularly. As a result we are witness to a textbook model fishery being upended by a reintroduced and supremely adept predator. It’s a reality that forces a shift in our expectations and proven pond management practices. It has me thinking wistfully of days when we caught pound size bluegill on demand, when the pond met the definition of perfect balance. It was a great pond, and I want it great again.
Otters were plentiful throughout most of the US when the Europeans arrived, but the combination of high demand for their pelts and general changes to aquatic habitats lead to their being extirpated from the majority of their original range, including indiana. In their absence, the science of small pond fisheries management was born, and pond owners who subscribed found rich rewards in the form of angling satisfaction and delectable table fare.
Otters were a part of the evolutionary process and their presence plays a role in a balanced ecosystem. In large lakes, river systems and reservoirs they are viewed favorably to overall system health and vitality. But in a small pond environment their refined predatory skills and voracious appetites have less than desirable consequences for the avid fisherman.
After a successful reintroduction effort beginning in 1995, Indiana recently removed otters from protected status and have now implemented a limited trapping season. This year I could legally take two animals, but here's the catch: Otters have huge territories. They're not like the weasel in the henhouse where a single individual can be identified and dispatched. An otter feasting yesterday in a reservoir 20 miles away could be in our pond today. The same goes for all the otters up and down the local rivers and associated tributaries.
Otters are apex predators so are preyed upon by nothing significant other than man, and trapping is no longer a popular or semi lucrative pastime, so there is little reason to believe their numbers will take a negative turn. They are a reintroduction success, as noteworthy as the return of white tailed deer, wild turkeys, bald eagles, and peregrine falcons, and each of these stories is a refreshing distraction from the near daily reporting of wild species in peril. But the presence of river otters forces a reevaluation of small pond fisheries and their managed outcomes. I can accept this new reality or I can declare a personal war against otters in an effort to maintain something from the past, something I deem good and valuable and necessary.
In politics today there is a great divide. At the heart of it are those determined to hold onto the past, paired against those ready and willing to introduce a new way to view our society and economy. Square in the middle of the standoff is the science affirmed fact that we're rapidly altering the life support systems that allowed our civilization to develop. We stand at a threshold where technologies promise a favorable way forward, where sustainable practices surround our food production, where energy and transportation employ green, renewable innovations, where our economy is underwritten by an uncompromising environmental ethic.
Our global population has been allowed to flourish under the influence of limited and highly polluting energy sources which now permeate every aspect of our lives. Everything we find good and valued and necessary, everything we use and consume and rely on has its roots in ancient carbon rich fuels, and we now face dire consequences from burning those fuels. Our atmosphere will soon have levels of CO2 which have not existed since before the dawn of civilized man and which are assured of bringing dramatic change to life as we know it.
How does an otter reintroduction compare to an earth altering event like climate change? It doesn't really, other than to remind me that the way forward will require a change in behavior and expectations. We can't lean on the past to justify the future. We can't use ignorance as an excuse, so we need to educate ourselves and be prepared to call out everyone, particularly our representatives, when they don't know the facts. It's not enough to know that climate change is happening, but that it matters, and postponing action is equivalent to denying the problem exists. We don't have the luxury of time. We have to reevaluate everything, including the way we live day to day, and resolve to make what personal changes we can. We need to recognize that being comfortable in our isolation makes us as guilty as those fighting to keep the status quo, that doing nothing is supporting elected and corporate leaders who are doing nothing.
Indiana river otters and climate change don't really belong on the same page. One represents a step toward ecosystem balance while the other carries the promise of global ecosystem upheaval. Small pond fisheries management developed in the absence of an influential apex predator and thus had outcomes which should have never been. Our world economy developed and is being driven by a highly subsidized and toxic energy system which likewise should have never been. Only one of these is worth my concern.
There are otters in the pond. How cool is that?
Otters were plentiful throughout most of the US when the Europeans arrived, but the combination of high demand for their pelts and general changes to aquatic habitats lead to their being extirpated from the majority of their original range, including indiana. In their absence, the science of small pond fisheries management was born, and pond owners who subscribed found rich rewards in the form of angling satisfaction and delectable table fare.
Otters were a part of the evolutionary process and their presence plays a role in a balanced ecosystem. In large lakes, river systems and reservoirs they are viewed favorably to overall system health and vitality. But in a small pond environment their refined predatory skills and voracious appetites have less than desirable consequences for the avid fisherman.
After a successful reintroduction effort beginning in 1995, Indiana recently removed otters from protected status and have now implemented a limited trapping season. This year I could legally take two animals, but here's the catch: Otters have huge territories. They're not like the weasel in the henhouse where a single individual can be identified and dispatched. An otter feasting yesterday in a reservoir 20 miles away could be in our pond today. The same goes for all the otters up and down the local rivers and associated tributaries.
Otters are apex predators so are preyed upon by nothing significant other than man, and trapping is no longer a popular or semi lucrative pastime, so there is little reason to believe their numbers will take a negative turn. They are a reintroduction success, as noteworthy as the return of white tailed deer, wild turkeys, bald eagles, and peregrine falcons, and each of these stories is a refreshing distraction from the near daily reporting of wild species in peril. But the presence of river otters forces a reevaluation of small pond fisheries and their managed outcomes. I can accept this new reality or I can declare a personal war against otters in an effort to maintain something from the past, something I deem good and valuable and necessary.
In politics today there is a great divide. At the heart of it are those determined to hold onto the past, paired against those ready and willing to introduce a new way to view our society and economy. Square in the middle of the standoff is the science affirmed fact that we're rapidly altering the life support systems that allowed our civilization to develop. We stand at a threshold where technologies promise a favorable way forward, where sustainable practices surround our food production, where energy and transportation employ green, renewable innovations, where our economy is underwritten by an uncompromising environmental ethic.
Our global population has been allowed to flourish under the influence of limited and highly polluting energy sources which now permeate every aspect of our lives. Everything we find good and valued and necessary, everything we use and consume and rely on has its roots in ancient carbon rich fuels, and we now face dire consequences from burning those fuels. Our atmosphere will soon have levels of CO2 which have not existed since before the dawn of civilized man and which are assured of bringing dramatic change to life as we know it.
How does an otter reintroduction compare to an earth altering event like climate change? It doesn't really, other than to remind me that the way forward will require a change in behavior and expectations. We can't lean on the past to justify the future. We can't use ignorance as an excuse, so we need to educate ourselves and be prepared to call out everyone, particularly our representatives, when they don't know the facts. It's not enough to know that climate change is happening, but that it matters, and postponing action is equivalent to denying the problem exists. We don't have the luxury of time. We have to reevaluate everything, including the way we live day to day, and resolve to make what personal changes we can. We need to recognize that being comfortable in our isolation makes us as guilty as those fighting to keep the status quo, that doing nothing is supporting elected and corporate leaders who are doing nothing.
Indiana river otters and climate change don't really belong on the same page. One represents a step toward ecosystem balance while the other carries the promise of global ecosystem upheaval. Small pond fisheries management developed in the absence of an influential apex predator and thus had outcomes which should have never been. Our world economy developed and is being driven by a highly subsidized and toxic energy system which likewise should have never been. Only one of these is worth my concern.
There are otters in the pond. How cool is that?
Proactive Like a Tree
Proactive Like a Tree
Nov 8, 2018
There is a groundhog in the cover crop today. We've been seeing him for a few weeks now, generally around noon, feasting on the newly emerged radish and cereal rye. I suspect this activity will come to an abrupt end if the weather forecast holds; snow tomorrow, followed by unseasonable cold. Today the hog is working beyond his usual hours, laying on fat in preparation for the long winter’s sleep. He apparently knows the forecast as well.
The groundhog is being proactive: acting before a situation becomes a crisis. It is responding to an anticipated event, which is winter, by ensuring it has laid on enough energy reserves to carry it until spring. If he were reactive, eating only what was necessary when the mood hit, he would one day soon find himself out of food and short of fat.
Evidence of proactive behavior is rampant in nature: squirrels and birds caching nuts and seed, waterfowl winging southward, insects laying overwintering eggs, frogs and turtles settling into the marsh muck. During this autumn season even plants respond proactively by shedding leaves and building winter stores.
If a tree does it, then being proactive apparently requires little critical thinking. In nature, it is the result of eons of adapting and evolving, reacting to cues that are life changing or threatening. It is the product of a lengthy process that bears impressive results. That's not to say the process has gone uninterrupted. Dramatic, sometimes planet-wide disturbances have occurred over geologic time. Existing proactive measures were sometimes inadequate and entire species, even taxonomic families, were lost, and the slow, lengthy process of filling vacated niches with new life forms would begin anew.
A planetary disturbance is happening again and this time man, that singular species most competent in critical thought and most capable of proactive behavior, is responsible. Our systematic destruction of earth’s balanced atmosphere has earned us a new title in the epochs of geologic time: the Anthropocene, and this new era has seen the launching of the earth’s sixth mass extinction. A recent report by the World Wildlife Fund says globally, we’ve lost half of our wild animals in the past 40 years. Freshwater ecosystems have declined by 75 percent during the same period. The study looked at only vertebrate populations, but separate published research showed insects declining 45 percent in the past 35 years worldwide, and up to 75 percent in German nature preserves.
Contrary to the perceived abundance we may hear and see daily-- the bird songs, the flowers, the chorus of night insects-- facts are facts. The studies are not fictitious, no more than running out of gas on the highway is fictitious, and neither is remedied if we ignore them. As one reviewer stated, “It’s okay to freak out now”. Yet, by all apparent indicators, we are continuing with business as usual, wielding our dominion over the planet, worried little of food insecurity, mass starvation, unprecedented displacement of people from climate induced disasters. Instead we look forward to the next new iPhone and support fossil fuel consumption at every turn.
We have a one way relationship with this planet. Earth doesn't need us, we need it. At our disposal is the technology and wherewithal to influence the end game, to heal the scars, to leave future generations a home. It demands an immediate, all-in, proactive approach to sustainable energy and lifestyles. We are capable, we can save ourselves, and we owe it to the planet that has given us everything.
And that groundhog, the birds, the insects? This is beyond their proactive capabilities. Their future is on us, too.
A groundhog lays on the fat
For a long winter’s nap
The birds southward wing
To await the coming of spring
Proactively they choose their course
While man, with his critical thinking,
Burns carbon without blinking,
With nary a hint of remorse.
Nov 8, 2018
There is a groundhog in the cover crop today. We've been seeing him for a few weeks now, generally around noon, feasting on the newly emerged radish and cereal rye. I suspect this activity will come to an abrupt end if the weather forecast holds; snow tomorrow, followed by unseasonable cold. Today the hog is working beyond his usual hours, laying on fat in preparation for the long winter’s sleep. He apparently knows the forecast as well.
The groundhog is being proactive: acting before a situation becomes a crisis. It is responding to an anticipated event, which is winter, by ensuring it has laid on enough energy reserves to carry it until spring. If he were reactive, eating only what was necessary when the mood hit, he would one day soon find himself out of food and short of fat.
Evidence of proactive behavior is rampant in nature: squirrels and birds caching nuts and seed, waterfowl winging southward, insects laying overwintering eggs, frogs and turtles settling into the marsh muck. During this autumn season even plants respond proactively by shedding leaves and building winter stores.
If a tree does it, then being proactive apparently requires little critical thinking. In nature, it is the result of eons of adapting and evolving, reacting to cues that are life changing or threatening. It is the product of a lengthy process that bears impressive results. That's not to say the process has gone uninterrupted. Dramatic, sometimes planet-wide disturbances have occurred over geologic time. Existing proactive measures were sometimes inadequate and entire species, even taxonomic families, were lost, and the slow, lengthy process of filling vacated niches with new life forms would begin anew.
A planetary disturbance is happening again and this time man, that singular species most competent in critical thought and most capable of proactive behavior, is responsible. Our systematic destruction of earth’s balanced atmosphere has earned us a new title in the epochs of geologic time: the Anthropocene, and this new era has seen the launching of the earth’s sixth mass extinction. A recent report by the World Wildlife Fund says globally, we’ve lost half of our wild animals in the past 40 years. Freshwater ecosystems have declined by 75 percent during the same period. The study looked at only vertebrate populations, but separate published research showed insects declining 45 percent in the past 35 years worldwide, and up to 75 percent in German nature preserves.
Contrary to the perceived abundance we may hear and see daily-- the bird songs, the flowers, the chorus of night insects-- facts are facts. The studies are not fictitious, no more than running out of gas on the highway is fictitious, and neither is remedied if we ignore them. As one reviewer stated, “It’s okay to freak out now”. Yet, by all apparent indicators, we are continuing with business as usual, wielding our dominion over the planet, worried little of food insecurity, mass starvation, unprecedented displacement of people from climate induced disasters. Instead we look forward to the next new iPhone and support fossil fuel consumption at every turn.
We have a one way relationship with this planet. Earth doesn't need us, we need it. At our disposal is the technology and wherewithal to influence the end game, to heal the scars, to leave future generations a home. It demands an immediate, all-in, proactive approach to sustainable energy and lifestyles. We are capable, we can save ourselves, and we owe it to the planet that has given us everything.
And that groundhog, the birds, the insects? This is beyond their proactive capabilities. Their future is on us, too.
A groundhog lays on the fat
For a long winter’s nap
The birds southward wing
To await the coming of spring
Proactively they choose their course
While man, with his critical thinking,
Burns carbon without blinking,
With nary a hint of remorse.
A Thousand Cuts
Oct 8, 2018
This morning broke foggy, dripping wet and unseasonably mild. I let the dog out and stood barefoot in the yard, the October soil warm on my feet. Fall flocking blackbirds hung in the cattails at the marsh edge, filling the morning with a raucous symphony. The colors of autumn brightened leaves in the dim light of dawn, and a delightful dank fragrance of an ebbing season’s growth hung in the air.
In that moment, there seemed such hope and promise, a temptation to think things weren't as bad as scientists say. How could we have crashing bird and insect populations, rampant deforestation, melting glaciers, impending ecological disaster? It's too easy to deny. And therein, perhaps, is the root of the problem.
We, as people, are in a tight spot. Surrounded by the technology and information to save ourselves, we are drifting passively towards certain doom. With a wartime effort rwe might avoid the worst case scenario, but the probability of acting soon enough appears hugely unlikely.
This old sphere is like a billion year old freight train, chugging along, carried by momentum, optimizing the perfect conditions for life and harboring a resistance to change. But our activities are leading to death by a thousand cuts. The cutting continues while we experience the pristine, take long drives through endless forests, tally dozens of bird species in a day of watching, find solitude in wild places and breathe air sweetened by all things raw and untainted. The cutting continues as we go about our busy days, engulfed by our efforts to make ends meet, to maintain or improve our level of comfort, to earn and enjoy our leisure, to embrace the status quo.
Recently I learned our current administration quietly acknowledged a projected 7 degree F (3.88C) rise in global temperature before the end of the century. It wasn't an admission of man-caused climate change, but rather that the planet’s fate is sealed. It was a justification to freeze fuel efficiency standards because increasing gas mileage in vehicles would play no significant role in reducing global temperatures. It was a nod to stay the course.
Then today the IPCC released a warning that we have only a dozen years to limit total warming by 1.5 degrees C. Another half degree more (i.e. 2 degrees) and dramatic, perhaps irreversible changes to life on earth are assured. According to the report, “It's a line in the sand and what it says to our species is this is the moment we must act”. The difference between 1.5 and 2 degrees is the difference in having hundreds of millions of people exposed to water stress and food scarcity. It means more forest fires, fouled air and heat related deaths. It means massive migrations of people from the world’s shorelines.
But the biggest change, according to the report, would be to nature itself. Pollinating insects would be twice as likely to lose habitat. Ninety nine percent of coral reefs would die and marine fisheries would decline at twice the rate. Ice free Arctic summers would occur every 10 years at 2C vs every 100 years at 1.5C.
The report goes on to offer specific reductions in carbon pollution and indicates how goals could be met using current technologies. Former NASA scientist James Hansen, responding to the IPCC, said “even 1.5C is well above the Holocene era temperatures in which human civilization developed, but that number gives young people a fighting chance of getting back to the Holocene or close to it”.
Meanwhile, we're on a solid course for a multi degree rise, leaving 2C in our dust.
Tonight I heard coyotes singing. Instead of the typical yipping chaos, they engaged in long mournful howls. Maybe they know something, but more likely they, as so many species wild, are being led innocently to a senseless and needlessly cruel future, if not total extinction.
Coyotes didn't occupy our fair state when I was a lad. I can say the same for whitetailed deer, bald eagles, river otters, peregrine falcons and wild turkeys. All are the result of applied wildlife science, a hugely successful reintroduction program, and a witness to wild habitats still capable of supporting species long absent. At this moment, just outside my doorstep, the night air is sweet, an ancient bird migration is underway, the songs of insects are reaching a crescendo, and the garden’s newly sprouted cover crop is lush and green.
And while the old sphere spins, a few billion years of refined perfection is being cut to shreds.
The old sphere spins
While time moves on,
We dwindle our resources
And don't see the wrong.
The sun still rises,
The flowers still bloom,
We’re content and blind
As babes in the womb.
Our mother is ill
But we acknowledge it not;
We forge headlong in a race
To lose all that we sought.
This morning broke foggy, dripping wet and unseasonably mild. I let the dog out and stood barefoot in the yard, the October soil warm on my feet. Fall flocking blackbirds hung in the cattails at the marsh edge, filling the morning with a raucous symphony. The colors of autumn brightened leaves in the dim light of dawn, and a delightful dank fragrance of an ebbing season’s growth hung in the air.
In that moment, there seemed such hope and promise, a temptation to think things weren't as bad as scientists say. How could we have crashing bird and insect populations, rampant deforestation, melting glaciers, impending ecological disaster? It's too easy to deny. And therein, perhaps, is the root of the problem.
We, as people, are in a tight spot. Surrounded by the technology and information to save ourselves, we are drifting passively towards certain doom. With a wartime effort rwe might avoid the worst case scenario, but the probability of acting soon enough appears hugely unlikely.
This old sphere is like a billion year old freight train, chugging along, carried by momentum, optimizing the perfect conditions for life and harboring a resistance to change. But our activities are leading to death by a thousand cuts. The cutting continues while we experience the pristine, take long drives through endless forests, tally dozens of bird species in a day of watching, find solitude in wild places and breathe air sweetened by all things raw and untainted. The cutting continues as we go about our busy days, engulfed by our efforts to make ends meet, to maintain or improve our level of comfort, to earn and enjoy our leisure, to embrace the status quo.
Recently I learned our current administration quietly acknowledged a projected 7 degree F (3.88C) rise in global temperature before the end of the century. It wasn't an admission of man-caused climate change, but rather that the planet’s fate is sealed. It was a justification to freeze fuel efficiency standards because increasing gas mileage in vehicles would play no significant role in reducing global temperatures. It was a nod to stay the course.
Then today the IPCC released a warning that we have only a dozen years to limit total warming by 1.5 degrees C. Another half degree more (i.e. 2 degrees) and dramatic, perhaps irreversible changes to life on earth are assured. According to the report, “It's a line in the sand and what it says to our species is this is the moment we must act”. The difference between 1.5 and 2 degrees is the difference in having hundreds of millions of people exposed to water stress and food scarcity. It means more forest fires, fouled air and heat related deaths. It means massive migrations of people from the world’s shorelines.
But the biggest change, according to the report, would be to nature itself. Pollinating insects would be twice as likely to lose habitat. Ninety nine percent of coral reefs would die and marine fisheries would decline at twice the rate. Ice free Arctic summers would occur every 10 years at 2C vs every 100 years at 1.5C.
The report goes on to offer specific reductions in carbon pollution and indicates how goals could be met using current technologies. Former NASA scientist James Hansen, responding to the IPCC, said “even 1.5C is well above the Holocene era temperatures in which human civilization developed, but that number gives young people a fighting chance of getting back to the Holocene or close to it”.
Meanwhile, we're on a solid course for a multi degree rise, leaving 2C in our dust.
Tonight I heard coyotes singing. Instead of the typical yipping chaos, they engaged in long mournful howls. Maybe they know something, but more likely they, as so many species wild, are being led innocently to a senseless and needlessly cruel future, if not total extinction.
Coyotes didn't occupy our fair state when I was a lad. I can say the same for whitetailed deer, bald eagles, river otters, peregrine falcons and wild turkeys. All are the result of applied wildlife science, a hugely successful reintroduction program, and a witness to wild habitats still capable of supporting species long absent. At this moment, just outside my doorstep, the night air is sweet, an ancient bird migration is underway, the songs of insects are reaching a crescendo, and the garden’s newly sprouted cover crop is lush and green.
And while the old sphere spins, a few billion years of refined perfection is being cut to shreds.
The old sphere spins
While time moves on,
We dwindle our resources
And don't see the wrong.
The sun still rises,
The flowers still bloom,
We’re content and blind
As babes in the womb.
Our mother is ill
But we acknowledge it not;
We forge headlong in a race
To lose all that we sought.
A Family Visit in July
On a weekend in July we were paid a visit by Lee’s family from the Indianapolis area. Her sister, our nieces and nephews, their spouses and kids made up the assemblage. It’s an event that occurs at best once a year despite it being highly anticipated, especially by the kids, who relish having access to our wild acreage.
I view it not only as a chance to commingle but for the opportunity to expose young minds to their connection with the natural world, to challenge their phobias toward spiders and snakes, to talk about butterflies, the compost pile, the dried exoskeleton of a dragonfly nymph hanging from the dock.
But before they can focus on the lessons of the day there is energy to burn. A few laps around the pond manning the oars of the jon boat is a start. Shortly after casting off, an arachnid emerges from under the seat, and suddenly the boat lists starboard as a squealing mass of juveniles wrangle to put distance between them and the spider. “Don’t worry about it”, I say. “It’s a daddy long legs. It’s a good spider, enjoying the ride like you are. Now focus on the oars”.
Next comes swimming. I explain that the mud on the pond bottom isn’t gross, it’s just soft wet soil. “It feels good oozing between your toes, doesn’t it?”, I ask. “And that algae tickling your feet is just a plant, like grass. Here, look at it, touch it. See all the tiny insects and snails there? It’s loaded with life, food for ducks and fish and wading birds. It’s all connected and it’s all good”, I say.
I know from daily swims that little bluegill like to nip at me and are especially attracted to an insect bite or anything irregular on my skin, and their nips are surprising and impressively fierce. I can’t help but twitch and occasionally yelp when attacked. My usual remedy is to keep swimming as they seem less interested in a moving target. But now, with my attention focused on youngsters, I’m pausing frequently to provide them a point of anchorage, and thus exposing myself to marauding bluegills.
If I am to offer a series of positive, natural world introductions and experiences, and not to initiate phobias, my reaction to a fish attack needs to be calmly controlled, ideally unnoticed. “Why are you jumping, Uncle Joe? Are you messing with me?” I could see just behind those trusting eyes a readiness to bolt, panic-stricken for shore. A bad experience today could have lifelong implications. I couldn’t let it happen, but neither could I keep from flinching, especially when a gang of particularly aggressive bluegills began showing an interest in my right nipple. I had to come clean. “Yes, the fish are biting me but you’ll be fine as long as you keep your nipples covered”.
There will be a time to interject more of the harsh realities of the natural world, to share the understanding that almost everything alive feeds on something that is also alive, and sometimes the process gets downright brutal and ugly. The want for food and procreation is the thread that weaves all life together. The quest for survival, the seizing of opportunity, spins the gears of evolution.
But all of that is a lesson for later. Today we focus on pond life and fresh wild berries and baby toads. Today we learn it’s okay to step barefoot in goose poop because it’s just grass and water. Today we keep it simple in the hope of sparking a greater appreciation and curiosity of the natural world.
There is a paramount danger in being unaware of ecological principles, of the rippling influence of removing a single living component from a complex ecosystem. Embracing an ethic that puts planetary health front and center is vital to civilization as we know it, and acting to improve and preserve ecological well-being will by default lead to resolution of many other world problems.
In A SAND COUNTY ALMANAC, Aldo Leopold wrote “There are two spiritual dangers in not owning a farm. One is the danger of supposing that breakfast comes from the grocery, and the other that heat comes from the furnace”. I think of these dangers as I consider the opportunity of the day, taking young minds on an exploration of life on a semi-abandoned midwest farm. By the end of it we stride barefoot through goose poop with little regard. I hear young voices volunteering to take food waste to the compost pile. We’ve learned to catch tiny man-eating bluegill using small hand nets. We know when to protect our nipples. These are experiences that might one day help spark a commitment to save a crippled planet.
There is a growing consensus that the sixth great extinction, or the first great extermination, has commenced. Climate change, with its complexity of feedback loops, has been unleashed, and many of its consequences will not be avoided. Two bedrocks of ecological systems, insects and coral reefs, are in rapid decline. The oceans are acidifying, food systems are failing, water emergencies declared, devastating weather events and mass migrations of people are underway, and all will only worsen. We are entering an era not seen since the advent of man, solidly science based, yet denied by national leadership.
Today’s youth are rising up. The climate strikes initiated by Swedish teen Greta Thunberg have spawned a global movement demanding bold and immediate adoption of actions which just might save our civilization. Ditto the Extinction Rebellion and Sunrise Movement. Collectively they represent an inspiring and hope filled revolution with solutions that are within our reach, but the responsibility of seeing them through rests on us adults and our decision makers. Exposing the very young to the wonders and beauty of natural systems, helping them visualize man as a harmonious and respectful component in the web of life, is a part of the process.
Here’s to the youth who see
How a peopled earth should be
Here’s to the ones who dare
To stand up and show us they care
They tell us
A bit of madness is okay
If it advances the solutions of the day
They know where a future unchanged will lead us
And that’s why they need us*
In the end it comes down to this
A chance they beg we don’t miss
Our earth is dying
Our leaders are lying
And our children are crying
Resist!
*credit La La Land, The Fools Who Dream
Lawn
Think of your lawn as a young forest. In it lives a rich diversity of plants-- grasses, broadleaves, legumes-- and a host of insects and microorganisms that have evolved in relative harmony. Collectively they support a broader ecosystem-- birds that feed on the insects, bees that pollinate the clover, cottontails that munch the plantain.
If left unattended, our lawns will advance through a succession of plants-- vines, brambles, woody shrubs-- and ultimately become mature forest. Mowing keeps the forest at bay, holding plant succession at a very early stage.
If our yard is large we can elect to mow less, thereby pollute less, save money, and introduce more diversity into our landscape. We can control or speed up this otherwise random succession by choosing to buy and install native shrubs and trees in a design that suits our eye. (There is a great book on this matter: Bringing Nature Home, by Doug Tallamy.)
But let's say we don't do any of this (because collectively, we don't), and instead we routinely mow massive areas (45 million acres), and for some ill born reason, apply chemicals (100 million pounds annually) to kill everything but a particular grass species. Gone are the broadleaves, the nitrogen fixing legumes, the tiny speedwell of spring, the trailing ivy, many of the insects. Gone is the diversity. In comes the synthetic fertilizer, irrigation (nine billion gallons/day), fungicides and insecticides (all of which contribute to the dead zone in the Gulf of Mexico in no small way). We create a monoculture that nature opposes at every turn. We direct our money and efforts at something that is second only to artificial turf in being natural or supporting a healthy ecosystem. There is nothing more out of place than a manicured stand of pure bluegrass, green and lush, particularly in periods of drought. Grasses have evolved to endure drought, and by design, go dormant to protect themselves.
Are we nuts? Have we really thought this through? Mow less, can the chemicals, conserve the water, curb pollution, keep the money, and appreciate the results!
If left unattended, our lawns will advance through a succession of plants-- vines, brambles, woody shrubs-- and ultimately become mature forest. Mowing keeps the forest at bay, holding plant succession at a very early stage.
If our yard is large we can elect to mow less, thereby pollute less, save money, and introduce more diversity into our landscape. We can control or speed up this otherwise random succession by choosing to buy and install native shrubs and trees in a design that suits our eye. (There is a great book on this matter: Bringing Nature Home, by Doug Tallamy.)
But let's say we don't do any of this (because collectively, we don't), and instead we routinely mow massive areas (45 million acres), and for some ill born reason, apply chemicals (100 million pounds annually) to kill everything but a particular grass species. Gone are the broadleaves, the nitrogen fixing legumes, the tiny speedwell of spring, the trailing ivy, many of the insects. Gone is the diversity. In comes the synthetic fertilizer, irrigation (nine billion gallons/day), fungicides and insecticides (all of which contribute to the dead zone in the Gulf of Mexico in no small way). We create a monoculture that nature opposes at every turn. We direct our money and efforts at something that is second only to artificial turf in being natural or supporting a healthy ecosystem. There is nothing more out of place than a manicured stand of pure bluegrass, green and lush, particularly in periods of drought. Grasses have evolved to endure drought, and by design, go dormant to protect themselves.
Are we nuts? Have we really thought this through? Mow less, can the chemicals, conserve the water, curb pollution, keep the money, and appreciate the results!
Bolinas
We wake up these days in a place that is not home, but could be. We’re surrounded by towering eucalyptus at the edge of a community essentially untouched by development. Here the streets are narrow and rough, more like alleys, with generous speed bumps in the form of potholes. There are no stop signs. Some homes seem little more than shacks, but they sell for millions or multi millions because of where they sit, here at the tip of a small peninsula, a mere 15 crow miles northwest of San Francisco, in a small California town called Bolinas.
About 100 ft north of our camper is the south boundary of Point Reyes National Seashore. We can pick up a trail in the park, walk west through grasslands for less than 100 yards, and find ourselves atop a 200 ft cliff and on the edge of the continent, the rolling blue canvas of the Pacific spreading out below. On clear mornings we can easily see the Farallon Islands 30 miles offshore. Between them and us is a migration corridor used by whales traveling from the Gulf of Alaska to their wintering and calving grounds in the Baha. Yesterday we saw dozens making their way south. There are cormorants flying, and gulls, sometimes pelicans. Harbor seals bob about in the swells, and pull themselves onto exposed reefs at low tide. Beneath us on the beach lies the skeletal remains of a blue whale washed ashore after being struck and killed by a container ship. Low tide presents an expansive shale reef, the largest on the continent, it's low ridges oriented parallel to shore, littered with tide pools, blotched with strands of kelp and seaweed.
On the east edge of town is a narrow slit where tides race through to feed the Bolinas Lagoon, a 3 mile long undeveloped estuary. Now, during winter, it proves itself a popular stopover for migrating waterfowl and shorebirds, and we've made multiple trips to view and enjoy. (To date we've seen buffleheads, goldeneyes, pintails, green winged teal, common mergansers, surf scoters, American and Eurasian wigeons, some in rafts of hundreds. Also cormorants, egrets, kingfishers, avocets, long billed curlew and marbled godwits.)
If you draw a line northwest from the lagoon it will eventually pass through the center of Tomales Bay. The line follows the infamous San Andreas Fault. Geologically speaking, Bolinas lies on the Pacific Plate, setting it apart from the Bay Area and the bulk of the US. At least one local uses this fact to explain the quirky uniqueness of the Bolinas community.
Bolinas boasts a population of 1600. The town district is well equipped to provide essentials from groceries to hardware and includes a library, post office, museum, cafe and saloon. The buildings appear unchanged for decades, inside and out, and that is by choice. Residents have historically fought to keep this quiet community quaint and out of public view. To curb development, no new water meters are issued, so you might own a parcel of land but cannot have water run to it. (Recently a fire destroyed a home that was not rebuilt so the rights to the water meter were auctioned off and brought $400,000.) The system has worked to curtail development but has the consequence of driving real estate prices beyond the reach of most. The city was originally designed to be a San Francisco subdivision, and a local newspaper actually gave away building lots with new subscriptions in an effort to attract people to the area.
It is a human tendency to look for good when traveling. Communities visited for the first time can seem exceptionally friendly and appealing because as travelers we unconsciously look for the best in people and places. In this regard Bolinas has delivered handsomely. Most residents are quick to greet us, sometimes waving enthusiastically from a distance, and seem more likely to remember our names once introduced. Around New Years I was in line at the grocery behind a rastafarian who, by appearance, could have been a relative of Morgan Freeman. As he turned from the counter our eyes met and with a broad smile he said “It's good to see you!” It struck me as much more personal and genuine than a mere “hello”, and reinforced a growing confidence that Bolinas folks are palpably friendly and helpful. Adding to an openly generous and trustworthy attitude is a downtown used bookstore that lets the buyer choose the price, a 24 hour well stocked produce stand operating on the honor system, and a free store where residents take any unwanted item to be given away.
Maybe all this goodness has some political basis. This is the land of liberal progressives. Here, living with an environmental ethic can be safely assumed and an understanding of the impending fate of the planet a given.
We were recently invited to a gathering around a campfire where thoughtful area scholars reflected on a range of topics focused on personal and planetary health. It was a powerful and strangely hopeful evening, not offering encouragement that we might avoid the imminent pain and devastation of a climate changed earth, but that there will be survivors who embrace the spiritual and are tooled with the technology to find a way forward building a truly sustainable and just society.
Maybe that explains a lot of what we've seen and experienced here. Maybe it's the simple product of being among people elevated by hope who embrace science and awareness and radiate a confidence that while our world will soon be radically changed, it will go on, and ultimately be a better place.
Thank you, Bolinas.
About 100 ft north of our camper is the south boundary of Point Reyes National Seashore. We can pick up a trail in the park, walk west through grasslands for less than 100 yards, and find ourselves atop a 200 ft cliff and on the edge of the continent, the rolling blue canvas of the Pacific spreading out below. On clear mornings we can easily see the Farallon Islands 30 miles offshore. Between them and us is a migration corridor used by whales traveling from the Gulf of Alaska to their wintering and calving grounds in the Baha. Yesterday we saw dozens making their way south. There are cormorants flying, and gulls, sometimes pelicans. Harbor seals bob about in the swells, and pull themselves onto exposed reefs at low tide. Beneath us on the beach lies the skeletal remains of a blue whale washed ashore after being struck and killed by a container ship. Low tide presents an expansive shale reef, the largest on the continent, it's low ridges oriented parallel to shore, littered with tide pools, blotched with strands of kelp and seaweed.
On the east edge of town is a narrow slit where tides race through to feed the Bolinas Lagoon, a 3 mile long undeveloped estuary. Now, during winter, it proves itself a popular stopover for migrating waterfowl and shorebirds, and we've made multiple trips to view and enjoy. (To date we've seen buffleheads, goldeneyes, pintails, green winged teal, common mergansers, surf scoters, American and Eurasian wigeons, some in rafts of hundreds. Also cormorants, egrets, kingfishers, avocets, long billed curlew and marbled godwits.)
If you draw a line northwest from the lagoon it will eventually pass through the center of Tomales Bay. The line follows the infamous San Andreas Fault. Geologically speaking, Bolinas lies on the Pacific Plate, setting it apart from the Bay Area and the bulk of the US. At least one local uses this fact to explain the quirky uniqueness of the Bolinas community.
Bolinas boasts a population of 1600. The town district is well equipped to provide essentials from groceries to hardware and includes a library, post office, museum, cafe and saloon. The buildings appear unchanged for decades, inside and out, and that is by choice. Residents have historically fought to keep this quiet community quaint and out of public view. To curb development, no new water meters are issued, so you might own a parcel of land but cannot have water run to it. (Recently a fire destroyed a home that was not rebuilt so the rights to the water meter were auctioned off and brought $400,000.) The system has worked to curtail development but has the consequence of driving real estate prices beyond the reach of most. The city was originally designed to be a San Francisco subdivision, and a local newspaper actually gave away building lots with new subscriptions in an effort to attract people to the area.
It is a human tendency to look for good when traveling. Communities visited for the first time can seem exceptionally friendly and appealing because as travelers we unconsciously look for the best in people and places. In this regard Bolinas has delivered handsomely. Most residents are quick to greet us, sometimes waving enthusiastically from a distance, and seem more likely to remember our names once introduced. Around New Years I was in line at the grocery behind a rastafarian who, by appearance, could have been a relative of Morgan Freeman. As he turned from the counter our eyes met and with a broad smile he said “It's good to see you!” It struck me as much more personal and genuine than a mere “hello”, and reinforced a growing confidence that Bolinas folks are palpably friendly and helpful. Adding to an openly generous and trustworthy attitude is a downtown used bookstore that lets the buyer choose the price, a 24 hour well stocked produce stand operating on the honor system, and a free store where residents take any unwanted item to be given away.
Maybe all this goodness has some political basis. This is the land of liberal progressives. Here, living with an environmental ethic can be safely assumed and an understanding of the impending fate of the planet a given.
We were recently invited to a gathering around a campfire where thoughtful area scholars reflected on a range of topics focused on personal and planetary health. It was a powerful and strangely hopeful evening, not offering encouragement that we might avoid the imminent pain and devastation of a climate changed earth, but that there will be survivors who embrace the spiritual and are tooled with the technology to find a way forward building a truly sustainable and just society.
Maybe that explains a lot of what we've seen and experienced here. Maybe it's the simple product of being among people elevated by hope who embrace science and awareness and radiate a confidence that while our world will soon be radically changed, it will go on, and ultimately be a better place.
Thank you, Bolinas.
Camp
There is a subtle and pleasant odor when the door to camp swings open. After months of being unoccupied it takes on a fragrance that's hard to describe: perhaps a blend of spruce and fir resins mingled with raw wood. Whatever it is, it is uniquely northern and a special delight after a long day on the road.
Our camp sits on a rise above the Michipicoten River, a once great voyageur route connecting a trading post on Lake Superior with another on Hudson Bay and numerous outposts beyond. The route is now interrupted by a series of hydroelectric dams. Locally there is one upstream and two down from camp. Their presence contributes to Ontario’s clean energy portfolio and creates an eight mile reservoir littered with the remains of forest once occupying the site. Deep channels mark the original flow of the river while shallow flats filled with stumps and forest remnants offer prime habitat for an array of gamefish. The same dams have interrupted spawning runs of salmon from the big lake, and constant water fluctuations courtesy of Ontario Hydro can influence behavior and reproduction of reservoir fish, so there are trade offs. But unlike rivers dammed in agricultural regions of the south, the great Canadian Shield and it’s forested watershed is a grand filtration system, so the river runs muskeg stained but relatively clean regardless of the volume of water carried.
Originally the camp had a 20’x 24’ footprint broken into two bedrooms and a combination kitchen and living area. We added eight feet to its length providing additional storage and a small shower area. The kitchen includes a propane cook stove, a sink with drain, some counter space and a propane refrigerator. Lighting is via propane fixtures. Water is carried in buckets from the river or collected from rainfall on the front deck. A small airtight stove provides exceptional heat and keeps us toasty warm even at -40. The shower consists only of a stall and drain. A modified steel garden sprayer is filled with water and heated on the cook stove to the perfect temp, then pumped to provide pressurized hot water. Furnishings are comfortable and space more than adequate. There is no running water, no electricity, no internet or cell service. A portable radio picks up three stations, one broadcasting in French. All considered, time at camp is time spent simply, where smaller is better, and less is more.
About 100’ from the cabin is an eroding bluff rising some 20’ above the river and offering a grand view. With a fire pit and chairs, it's a place we've prepared many meals and enjoyed hours watching the river pass. From the bluff we've seen river otters, beavers, mink, muskrats, ruffed grouse, an assortment of waterfowl, loons, Sandhill cranes, geese, eagles, a variety of songbirds and a black bear. It is our go to place whenever we have time unoccupied.
We are at the southern edge of Canada’s great boreal forest, a 1000 km wide expanse covering 270 million hectares and extending from Labrador and Newfoundland on the east to the Yukon and Alaska on the west. It's the largest intact forest on earth, with about three million square km still undisturbed by roads or any related development. It is an enormous carbon-storing, water- and air- filtering, climate- and wildlife-essential tract of wilderness. That reality spawns a reverence when we visit, an awareness that we are within a rare and sacred space, as close to being untouched and untainted by man as perhaps anyplace on earth. That's not to say it hasn't been logged, or mined, or regrettably stripped and dredged for its thick and toxic oil sands, but it is ill suited for agriculture, and taken as a whole has kept its character and remained largely unchanged for thousands of years.
For all it’s pristine expanse, the forest can be incredibly quiet, an eerie stillness unbroken by chirp or peep or hum, a silence that can extend for minutes on end. A reservoir of wildlife, seemingly lifeless. But there is a confidence in knowing that life abounds. It's the land of moose and timber wolves, lynx, black bears, and pine martens, all of which we've seen, but few frequently. Here, prime habitat extends in all directions for miles, and with dense cover virtually everywhere, opportunities for sightings are few, or so goes my reasoning.
Fishing ranks high on our list whenever we visit. The groceries we carry in allows for meals of fish so there is a self imposed need to get on the river. In the Michipicoten, northern pike rule. They are the disdain of most Canadians who righteously prefer walleye or speckled trout, but to wayward Hoosiers pike are most satisfactory. They look angry and behave likewise. They'll strike hard at a metal spoon repeatedly and run deep and shake relentlessly when a hook is set. Generally they fall in the two foot category, small by pike standards, but at three to five pounds, each fish provides two meals. The meat is white and flakey and makes delectable table fare.
There are thousands of camps across Canada. On our section of river there are six in the eight-mile stretch between dams, but seldom is more than one occupied at a time. The result is we rarely see another person on the river. Yet, we have developed fine friendships with fellow camp owners of the region. They are an attentive group, quick to notice when our gate is open, so visitors are expected and always welcomed. Getting local news and a foreign perspective on US politics makes for engrossing conversation, and camp owners are of kindred spirit. We make time to spend on the great Canadian Shield, breathing in its conifers, reveling in its stillness, embracing the simple, so we have inherent common interests and enjoy each other's company.
There is a misled sense of independence and self sufficiency in the north. Willingly deprived of many modern conveniences and enraptured by the lure of the land we might be tempted to think we could prolong our stay indefinitely, supporting ourselves with grit and woods lore and a determined spirit. But the truth is we rely on crucial ties to the outside for groceries, gasoline, propane, chain saws, and essential hardware. Remote locations require more energy intensive transportation than does city life, so for the sake of the planet perhaps we should stay home.
But we all need a spiritual reboot on occasion, a chance to review our goals and priorities, to consider the world and our place in it, to refocus and refresh. At our camp on the Michipicoten River, living simply amid the deafening stillness of the largest uninterrupted forest on the planet, we find we can do just that.
A modest shack
In the woods, deep,
With a river running through
And memories to keep.
We are outsiders,
Transient visitors at best,
There to embrace the ancient land
And in its solitude, rest.
Our camp sits on a rise above the Michipicoten River, a once great voyageur route connecting a trading post on Lake Superior with another on Hudson Bay and numerous outposts beyond. The route is now interrupted by a series of hydroelectric dams. Locally there is one upstream and two down from camp. Their presence contributes to Ontario’s clean energy portfolio and creates an eight mile reservoir littered with the remains of forest once occupying the site. Deep channels mark the original flow of the river while shallow flats filled with stumps and forest remnants offer prime habitat for an array of gamefish. The same dams have interrupted spawning runs of salmon from the big lake, and constant water fluctuations courtesy of Ontario Hydro can influence behavior and reproduction of reservoir fish, so there are trade offs. But unlike rivers dammed in agricultural regions of the south, the great Canadian Shield and it’s forested watershed is a grand filtration system, so the river runs muskeg stained but relatively clean regardless of the volume of water carried.
Originally the camp had a 20’x 24’ footprint broken into two bedrooms and a combination kitchen and living area. We added eight feet to its length providing additional storage and a small shower area. The kitchen includes a propane cook stove, a sink with drain, some counter space and a propane refrigerator. Lighting is via propane fixtures. Water is carried in buckets from the river or collected from rainfall on the front deck. A small airtight stove provides exceptional heat and keeps us toasty warm even at -40. The shower consists only of a stall and drain. A modified steel garden sprayer is filled with water and heated on the cook stove to the perfect temp, then pumped to provide pressurized hot water. Furnishings are comfortable and space more than adequate. There is no running water, no electricity, no internet or cell service. A portable radio picks up three stations, one broadcasting in French. All considered, time at camp is time spent simply, where smaller is better, and less is more.
About 100’ from the cabin is an eroding bluff rising some 20’ above the river and offering a grand view. With a fire pit and chairs, it's a place we've prepared many meals and enjoyed hours watching the river pass. From the bluff we've seen river otters, beavers, mink, muskrats, ruffed grouse, an assortment of waterfowl, loons, Sandhill cranes, geese, eagles, a variety of songbirds and a black bear. It is our go to place whenever we have time unoccupied.
We are at the southern edge of Canada’s great boreal forest, a 1000 km wide expanse covering 270 million hectares and extending from Labrador and Newfoundland on the east to the Yukon and Alaska on the west. It's the largest intact forest on earth, with about three million square km still undisturbed by roads or any related development. It is an enormous carbon-storing, water- and air- filtering, climate- and wildlife-essential tract of wilderness. That reality spawns a reverence when we visit, an awareness that we are within a rare and sacred space, as close to being untouched and untainted by man as perhaps anyplace on earth. That's not to say it hasn't been logged, or mined, or regrettably stripped and dredged for its thick and toxic oil sands, but it is ill suited for agriculture, and taken as a whole has kept its character and remained largely unchanged for thousands of years.
For all it’s pristine expanse, the forest can be incredibly quiet, an eerie stillness unbroken by chirp or peep or hum, a silence that can extend for minutes on end. A reservoir of wildlife, seemingly lifeless. But there is a confidence in knowing that life abounds. It's the land of moose and timber wolves, lynx, black bears, and pine martens, all of which we've seen, but few frequently. Here, prime habitat extends in all directions for miles, and with dense cover virtually everywhere, opportunities for sightings are few, or so goes my reasoning.
Fishing ranks high on our list whenever we visit. The groceries we carry in allows for meals of fish so there is a self imposed need to get on the river. In the Michipicoten, northern pike rule. They are the disdain of most Canadians who righteously prefer walleye or speckled trout, but to wayward Hoosiers pike are most satisfactory. They look angry and behave likewise. They'll strike hard at a metal spoon repeatedly and run deep and shake relentlessly when a hook is set. Generally they fall in the two foot category, small by pike standards, but at three to five pounds, each fish provides two meals. The meat is white and flakey and makes delectable table fare.
There are thousands of camps across Canada. On our section of river there are six in the eight-mile stretch between dams, but seldom is more than one occupied at a time. The result is we rarely see another person on the river. Yet, we have developed fine friendships with fellow camp owners of the region. They are an attentive group, quick to notice when our gate is open, so visitors are expected and always welcomed. Getting local news and a foreign perspective on US politics makes for engrossing conversation, and camp owners are of kindred spirit. We make time to spend on the great Canadian Shield, breathing in its conifers, reveling in its stillness, embracing the simple, so we have inherent common interests and enjoy each other's company.
There is a misled sense of independence and self sufficiency in the north. Willingly deprived of many modern conveniences and enraptured by the lure of the land we might be tempted to think we could prolong our stay indefinitely, supporting ourselves with grit and woods lore and a determined spirit. But the truth is we rely on crucial ties to the outside for groceries, gasoline, propane, chain saws, and essential hardware. Remote locations require more energy intensive transportation than does city life, so for the sake of the planet perhaps we should stay home.
But we all need a spiritual reboot on occasion, a chance to review our goals and priorities, to consider the world and our place in it, to refocus and refresh. At our camp on the Michipicoten River, living simply amid the deafening stillness of the largest uninterrupted forest on the planet, we find we can do just that.
A modest shack
In the woods, deep,
With a river running through
And memories to keep.
We are outsiders,
Transient visitors at best,
There to embrace the ancient land
And in its solitude, rest.
We Didn't Get The Message
In college decades ago I remember seeing a clear five gallon glass jug in the biology lab. It was filled with water, had a layer of soil on the bottom, aquatic plants rooted in soil, snails milling about, and some guppies. The jug was plugged with a cork and sealed with paraffin. It was described as an enclosed ecosystem where plants produced oxygen for the fish which produced carbon dioxide for the plants which produced organic matter for the snails which fertilized the whole works. The guppies fed on algae that naturally developed when the system was exposed to light, and the fish reproduced at a rate balanced by available space and food supply. We were told such a sealed ecosystem could go uninterrupted for years as long as adequate light was provided.
It was Biology 101, a basic introduction to living systems, and the sealed jug demonstrated our planet as the sealed sphere it is. Life as we know it can exist only as long as there is harmony and balance among all components of the ecosystem.
We didn't get the message.
We didn't realize
That our innovation and industry
Might ultimately wreck our lives.
We didn't get the message.
We learned the carbon cycle but paid it little care,
And mined and burned the ancient fuels
And pumped them in the air.
We didn't get the message.
We had lives we needed to live
And kids to feed
And gadgets to buy
And fields to seed,
And livestock to tend
And planes to catch
And a country to defend,
And chemicals to spray
And deals to close
And a thousand distractions every day.
We didn't get the message.
We had appointments to meet
And grass to mow
And deadlines to beat,
And homes to remodel
And email to check
And no time to dawdle!
We had trips to take
And teams to cheer
And promotions to make.
We didn't see it coming,
Though some among us did,
But fearful of their bank accounts
They kept the message hid.
We didn't get the message
Now the system’s out of whack
And we’ll face the consequence
Of our intellectual lack.
It was Biology 101, a basic introduction to living systems, and the sealed jug demonstrated our planet as the sealed sphere it is. Life as we know it can exist only as long as there is harmony and balance among all components of the ecosystem.
We didn't get the message.
We didn't realize
That our innovation and industry
Might ultimately wreck our lives.
We didn't get the message.
We learned the carbon cycle but paid it little care,
And mined and burned the ancient fuels
And pumped them in the air.
We didn't get the message.
We had lives we needed to live
And kids to feed
And gadgets to buy
And fields to seed,
And livestock to tend
And planes to catch
And a country to defend,
And chemicals to spray
And deals to close
And a thousand distractions every day.
We didn't get the message.
We had appointments to meet
And grass to mow
And deadlines to beat,
And homes to remodel
And email to check
And no time to dawdle!
We had trips to take
And teams to cheer
And promotions to make.
We didn't see it coming,
Though some among us did,
But fearful of their bank accounts
They kept the message hid.
We didn't get the message
Now the system’s out of whack
And we’ll face the consequence
Of our intellectual lack.
Tuesday, May 19, 2020
Burning Wood
It’s firewood season. I’m getting a late start due to a procedure that replaced bone with titanium in my right hip. Now, 8 weeks post surgery, I’m mobile enough to handle a saw and start the process. We like to cut firewood a full year in advance allowing time for a thorough curing. It’s a simple enough chore but not a quick one— we don’t produce the required five or six chords of finished product in a week— and neither is it a chore I look forward to though it always gives me pleasure. I have to make myself do this thing that inevitably brings great satisfaction. It’s a mystery.
We’ve relied on wood heat for the past 44 years, not exclusively, but primarily. For too much of that time I was a rookie with a chainsaw, aware of safety precautions but poorly schooled in the art of chain sharpening and felling trees. I’m still no professional, but now take delight in keeping a chain aggressive so it pulls its way through the log, and can usually drop a tree precisely where intended. Years ago I set aside my six pound splitting maul and embraced a hydraulic wood splitter without apology. Now a motor runs just above idle as I sit comfortably on a log, pulling a lever that delivers multiple tons of splitting force. Even the most knot filled and cross grained logs, those that would cause a maul swung with purpose to gleefully bounce, yield to my liking. In the end I’m left with the sight and smell of freshly cut and split wood, stacked and drying under cover, holding the promise of radiant, luxurious warmth.
Our wood stove is made of soapstone, a metamorphic rock which withstands high temperatures and demonstrates superb heat storing qualities. The stove includes a remarkable catalytic combustor which comes into play when the internal temperature reaches 500°. At that point a baffle is engaged, redirecting fumes through the combustor where the specialized design and noble metals work their magic, burning smoke before it exits the chimney. It’s a delight to see, the logs glowing softly, while above them the smoke igniting into rolls of gentle flame. With all systems in full operation the wood gets burned with almost 90% efficiency, leaving little ash and providing heat that would otherwise be lost. It is so efficient that no observable smoke exits the chimney and the smell of woodsmoke is nonexistent.
From an environmental perspective I am content with this setup. Wood as fuel still emits carbon, but it’s not the fossilized product inherent to coal, gas, and oil, the evil stuff driving climate change and all its disastrous consequences. The carbon our stove releases today will be totally reabsorbed and stored in new tree growth within a generation.
It’s not practical to heat all the world’s buildings with wood, even with high efficiency stoves and boilers. But for decades Lee and I have had the good fortune to have ready access to firewood, so we have burned less oil and fracked gas, sparing the atmosphere ancient carbon and saving cash in the process. It’s been a privilege.
I have an acquaintance who studied diaries left by early settlers of the region. He mentioned that their daily entries almost always included time given to cutting and splitting wood. It was, of course, the only fuel available to heat their homes and to fire their cookstoves. And all that wood was cut with a crosscut saw and split with an axe. There’s a fine documentary entitled Alone in the Wilderness which follows the life of Richard Proenneke in the wilds of Alaska. In it he builds a log cabin and cuts all his wood for the long Alaskan winter using a one man crosscut saw. I notice his upper arm approximating the size of a typical man’s calf, a testament to the hours spent with saw in hand. I envision the arms of most early settlers being similarly proportioned.
A classmate of mine went to graduate school in Vermont. Although it was generations later than the first settlers, many of those hardy Vermonters still relied exclusively on wood for heat. They, of course, had chainsaws, but many of their homes still lacked insulation, and the gauge to estimate the amount of cured and stacked wood required was that it equal the size of the house. Neighbors in the area would form groups and move from one homestead to the next until everyone’s needs were satisfied.
I can imagine the satisfaction in being part of such an effort; the camaraderie, the invigorating, wholesome exercise, the speed at which individual sheds were filled. But I also welcome being the sole participant in the process. I enjoy silencing the saw and breathing in the winter landscape: the downy woodpecker tapping the loose bark of a dead elm, the red tailed hawk soaring overhead, the smell of forest duff and sawdust.
It snowed last night, one of those windless events with temperatures hovering around freezing so the flakes clung to every limb, stalk, and needle. Today, stiff north winds are ushering in a cold front and we’re promised single digits by morning. Birds are heavy at the feeders, more than 50 cardinals among the assemblage. In the evening our stomachs are content following a hearty winter meal. The porch is stacked with seasoned red oak, the woodstove is purring, its internal temperature approaching 1000°, the soapstone radiating gentle heat throughout the house.
On this night, by the stove, with the balance of the winter’s fuel fully cured and under roof, all is not well with the world, but appears to be.
We’ve relied on wood heat for the past 44 years, not exclusively, but primarily. For too much of that time I was a rookie with a chainsaw, aware of safety precautions but poorly schooled in the art of chain sharpening and felling trees. I’m still no professional, but now take delight in keeping a chain aggressive so it pulls its way through the log, and can usually drop a tree precisely where intended. Years ago I set aside my six pound splitting maul and embraced a hydraulic wood splitter without apology. Now a motor runs just above idle as I sit comfortably on a log, pulling a lever that delivers multiple tons of splitting force. Even the most knot filled and cross grained logs, those that would cause a maul swung with purpose to gleefully bounce, yield to my liking. In the end I’m left with the sight and smell of freshly cut and split wood, stacked and drying under cover, holding the promise of radiant, luxurious warmth.
Our wood stove is made of soapstone, a metamorphic rock which withstands high temperatures and demonstrates superb heat storing qualities. The stove includes a remarkable catalytic combustor which comes into play when the internal temperature reaches 500°. At that point a baffle is engaged, redirecting fumes through the combustor where the specialized design and noble metals work their magic, burning smoke before it exits the chimney. It’s a delight to see, the logs glowing softly, while above them the smoke igniting into rolls of gentle flame. With all systems in full operation the wood gets burned with almost 90% efficiency, leaving little ash and providing heat that would otherwise be lost. It is so efficient that no observable smoke exits the chimney and the smell of woodsmoke is nonexistent.
From an environmental perspective I am content with this setup. Wood as fuel still emits carbon, but it’s not the fossilized product inherent to coal, gas, and oil, the evil stuff driving climate change and all its disastrous consequences. The carbon our stove releases today will be totally reabsorbed and stored in new tree growth within a generation.
It’s not practical to heat all the world’s buildings with wood, even with high efficiency stoves and boilers. But for decades Lee and I have had the good fortune to have ready access to firewood, so we have burned less oil and fracked gas, sparing the atmosphere ancient carbon and saving cash in the process. It’s been a privilege.
I have an acquaintance who studied diaries left by early settlers of the region. He mentioned that their daily entries almost always included time given to cutting and splitting wood. It was, of course, the only fuel available to heat their homes and to fire their cookstoves. And all that wood was cut with a crosscut saw and split with an axe. There’s a fine documentary entitled Alone in the Wilderness which follows the life of Richard Proenneke in the wilds of Alaska. In it he builds a log cabin and cuts all his wood for the long Alaskan winter using a one man crosscut saw. I notice his upper arm approximating the size of a typical man’s calf, a testament to the hours spent with saw in hand. I envision the arms of most early settlers being similarly proportioned.
A classmate of mine went to graduate school in Vermont. Although it was generations later than the first settlers, many of those hardy Vermonters still relied exclusively on wood for heat. They, of course, had chainsaws, but many of their homes still lacked insulation, and the gauge to estimate the amount of cured and stacked wood required was that it equal the size of the house. Neighbors in the area would form groups and move from one homestead to the next until everyone’s needs were satisfied.
I can imagine the satisfaction in being part of such an effort; the camaraderie, the invigorating, wholesome exercise, the speed at which individual sheds were filled. But I also welcome being the sole participant in the process. I enjoy silencing the saw and breathing in the winter landscape: the downy woodpecker tapping the loose bark of a dead elm, the red tailed hawk soaring overhead, the smell of forest duff and sawdust.
It snowed last night, one of those windless events with temperatures hovering around freezing so the flakes clung to every limb, stalk, and needle. Today, stiff north winds are ushering in a cold front and we’re promised single digits by morning. Birds are heavy at the feeders, more than 50 cardinals among the assemblage. In the evening our stomachs are content following a hearty winter meal. The porch is stacked with seasoned red oak, the woodstove is purring, its internal temperature approaching 1000°, the soapstone radiating gentle heat throughout the house.
On this night, by the stove, with the balance of the winter’s fuel fully cured and under roof, all is not well with the world, but appears to be.
Sandhills
It’s frosty this morning. The bleeding hearts are bent and wilted, as are the wolfbane and some of the daffodils. But birds are singing and the first brood of goslings have cracked their shells and are unquestionably enthusiastic at the prospect of living. Winter, it seems, is finally giving up after a few months of never being sure of itself.
For the past several weeks a pair of sandhill cranes have been hanging out in the muck field behind the house. The beavers have built strategic dams across Spring Creek, impounding a few acres of mixed open water and vegetation. It’s the ideal environment for nesting sandhills which have not nested here before. They are reserved in their presence and keep largely hidden. Only an occasional raucous squawk or brief sighting tells us they're here. It's entirely possible an egg or two has been laid and the pair are now sharing incubation duties. They mate for life and tend to return to the same nest site year after year, so we're hopeful this is the start of something good.
On the world front things are much the same. Most everyone is holed up, awaiting the outcome of the pandemic. There is a palpable restlessness. Social media is alive with innovative responses: creative games, exercise routines, musical performances stitched together via technological wizardry. Home schooling and e-learning have become the norm for millions, television viewership is off the charts, the arts of painting and crafting have acquired new students, essays and poems are being written, creative juices are at an all time high. So is boredom.
Where is the line between boredom and laziness? In these days of social isolation we can choose either and claim total compliance with civic duty. But laziness carries a sinful connotation so those who practice an extended period of rest may be haunted by guilt. Steinbeck defends laziness as “...a relaxation pregnant of activity. A sense of rest from which directed effort may arise… We do not think a lazy man can commit murders, nor great thefts, nor lead a mob. He would be more likely to think about it and laugh. And a nation of lazy contemplative men would be incapable of fighting a war unless their laziness were attacked. Wars are the activities of busyness”.
I once watched a beaver building a dam. It's movements were sluggish: tuck a stick here, pat a blob of mud there, stop and survey surroundings, back slowly into the water, repeat. Somehow they make tremendous progress in short order. Slow and steady changes a water course and builds a new ecosystem. In beaver culture there is no laziness, no apparent boredom, and remarkable accomplishments are gained in leisurely fashion.
In grad school Lee and I did a project surveying wildlife use of beaver flowage areas. The results were impressive, with numbers and varieties of mammals and birds rising dramatically as beaver impoundments were approached. The behavior and efforts of one animal creates living requirements for a host of unrelated and diverse characters and all live in relative harmony.
The BaYaka Pygmies are a people who occupied the once-intact forests of the Republic of Congo. As recently as the late 1990’s they were still enjoying a primitive hunter gatherer lifestyle. Jerome Lewis lived with them as part of his Ph.D. research. He was taken aback by the sheer joy of BaYaka existence, their comfort, their generosity towards each other and oneness with the forest. To misuse or disrespect the forest was to misuse or disrespect oneself. For 55,000 years they lived in total harmony with their environment. Their world has since been dismantled and upended by logging, or in some cases, by conservation organizations who considered the BaYaka people detrimental to sustainability objectives.
If today the BaYaka pygmies were enjoying their primitive lifestyles, they would be essentially immune to COVID-19. Their infection would likely be zero and their economy, what there is of it, would be unscathed. They would be as unconcerned and untouched by the COVID threat as the myriad of creatures that shared their forest.
There has been much written in recent years on the benefits of locally produced food and localized economies.
What would our civilization look like if growth had been dictated by an earth first ethic?
Ben Hewitt writes a blog on life from his home in northern Vermont (lazyhillmillfarm.com). In a recent post he is reflecting on the virus, wondering what its impacts will be, how it will be remembered. Then he puts another piece of wood on the block. “It’s ash, and it splits so easy it’s almost as if it were waiting to fall apart.”
So here we sit with fresh activities to occupy our time and extra hours to entertain random and sometimes useless thoughts. While a growing faction exhibits restlessness and demands a return to a destructive normalcy, the earth spins, sandhills nest, goslings hatch, and beavers exhibit no urgency while building a world that promises benefits far beyond themselves. It’s a novel concept.
For the past several weeks a pair of sandhill cranes have been hanging out in the muck field behind the house. The beavers have built strategic dams across Spring Creek, impounding a few acres of mixed open water and vegetation. It’s the ideal environment for nesting sandhills which have not nested here before. They are reserved in their presence and keep largely hidden. Only an occasional raucous squawk or brief sighting tells us they're here. It's entirely possible an egg or two has been laid and the pair are now sharing incubation duties. They mate for life and tend to return to the same nest site year after year, so we're hopeful this is the start of something good.
On the world front things are much the same. Most everyone is holed up, awaiting the outcome of the pandemic. There is a palpable restlessness. Social media is alive with innovative responses: creative games, exercise routines, musical performances stitched together via technological wizardry. Home schooling and e-learning have become the norm for millions, television viewership is off the charts, the arts of painting and crafting have acquired new students, essays and poems are being written, creative juices are at an all time high. So is boredom.
Where is the line between boredom and laziness? In these days of social isolation we can choose either and claim total compliance with civic duty. But laziness carries a sinful connotation so those who practice an extended period of rest may be haunted by guilt. Steinbeck defends laziness as “...a relaxation pregnant of activity. A sense of rest from which directed effort may arise… We do not think a lazy man can commit murders, nor great thefts, nor lead a mob. He would be more likely to think about it and laugh. And a nation of lazy contemplative men would be incapable of fighting a war unless their laziness were attacked. Wars are the activities of busyness”.
I once watched a beaver building a dam. It's movements were sluggish: tuck a stick here, pat a blob of mud there, stop and survey surroundings, back slowly into the water, repeat. Somehow they make tremendous progress in short order. Slow and steady changes a water course and builds a new ecosystem. In beaver culture there is no laziness, no apparent boredom, and remarkable accomplishments are gained in leisurely fashion.
In grad school Lee and I did a project surveying wildlife use of beaver flowage areas. The results were impressive, with numbers and varieties of mammals and birds rising dramatically as beaver impoundments were approached. The behavior and efforts of one animal creates living requirements for a host of unrelated and diverse characters and all live in relative harmony.
The BaYaka Pygmies are a people who occupied the once-intact forests of the Republic of Congo. As recently as the late 1990’s they were still enjoying a primitive hunter gatherer lifestyle. Jerome Lewis lived with them as part of his Ph.D. research. He was taken aback by the sheer joy of BaYaka existence, their comfort, their generosity towards each other and oneness with the forest. To misuse or disrespect the forest was to misuse or disrespect oneself. For 55,000 years they lived in total harmony with their environment. Their world has since been dismantled and upended by logging, or in some cases, by conservation organizations who considered the BaYaka people detrimental to sustainability objectives.
If today the BaYaka pygmies were enjoying their primitive lifestyles, they would be essentially immune to COVID-19. Their infection would likely be zero and their economy, what there is of it, would be unscathed. They would be as unconcerned and untouched by the COVID threat as the myriad of creatures that shared their forest.
There has been much written in recent years on the benefits of locally produced food and localized economies.
What would our civilization look like if growth had been dictated by an earth first ethic?
Ben Hewitt writes a blog on life from his home in northern Vermont (lazyhillmillfarm.com). In a recent post he is reflecting on the virus, wondering what its impacts will be, how it will be remembered. Then he puts another piece of wood on the block. “It’s ash, and it splits so easy it’s almost as if it were waiting to fall apart.”
So here we sit with fresh activities to occupy our time and extra hours to entertain random and sometimes useless thoughts. While a growing faction exhibits restlessness and demands a return to a destructive normalcy, the earth spins, sandhills nest, goslings hatch, and beavers exhibit no urgency while building a world that promises benefits far beyond themselves. It’s a novel concept.
Spring 2020
It is the spring of 2020 and much of the world is in lockdown in an effort to control the spread of a pandemic. We are in a boat on the pond, driving posts and installing wood duck nest boxes. The chorus frogs are singing, as are redwing blackbirds and cardinals. The goose nest on the island holds four eggs.
The stock market is crashing. Millions of businesses have been ordered closed. The roadways are restricted to essential travel. Unemployment claims are at record levels.
In the garden all 100 fall planted garlic cloves have sprouted. Their new leaves have pushed through heavy mulch and are reveling in the sun. The first crinkled leaves of rhubarb are showing. The cover crop is putting on a burst of new growth, locking in nutrients and creating organic mass to feed the year’s vegetables.
No one knows the ultimate impact of the pandemic; how long it might last, how many will be infected, the death rate, the economic consequences. Everybody’s talking but no one knows.
On the pond there is a pair of hooded mergansers in full breeding plumage. As we watch, the hen flies into one of the old nest boxes while her mate waits patiently in the water below. After a time she emerges. Almost certainly, she laid an egg, and we’re likely to see this same routine repeated tomorrow and for several days thereafter. It happens almost every year. But we’ve never had a merganser incubate a brood. Instead, a wood duck will enter the same box in the next week or two and also deposit an egg, and continue thereafter until satisfied with the number. Then she’ll incubate. In this way there are merganser ducklings among some wood duck broods. A species that dives for food is reared by one who dabbles, a fish eating duck is shown the ropes by one who feasts on seeds and snails. Apparently, it works.
The virus has brought the manufacturing world to a virtual standstill. Across the globe, air quality is the best in decades and improving daily. Wastewater from industry is shut down, giving rivers a reprieve. Travel of all kinds has been reduced.
In a matter of days, the healing power of the earth is evident. All around us, ancient processes continue, but less influenced by our presence. It begs the question: In the absence of man, what would the earth be like in 100 or 1000 years? In all probability the wood ducks and mergansers would still be sharing nest sites, the chorus frogs would still be singing, the geese still incubating their broods. Water, air, and soil contaminants introduced by man would be largely broken down, trees would occupy much of their former range, CO2 levels would drop to less than 350ppm, animal populations would rebound.
Parts of the world did not react quickly enough to the pandemic, but yet the global reaction occurred at speeds never before witnessed. The entire planet responded to an eminent threat. Economies shut down. Travel reduced to a crawl. People everywhere stayed home and did their part, and it was all a result of a scientific prediction that things could get bad quickly if we conducted business as usual.
Why does our reaction to a virus differ from our reaction to the threat of climate change? The eminent threat, the evidence, the scientific consensus, is prevalent in both, but the virus, as bad as it is, doesn’t wield a fraction of the destructive potential stored in climate change. Many of the options for addressing a warming planet are fully developed and need only implementation, while a treatment or vaccine for the virus could be months or even years away.
This all exemplifies how critical a government's role is in bringing about rapid change. It takes policy mandates from the top to get the world to react. Capitalism or the inherent goodness in people doesn’t get it done, at least not quickly.
Italian Darinka Montico has produced a dramatic YouTube video where she speaks from the virus’s perspective. (View the English version here: https://youtu.be/f5on3AZWdik)
She calls it “A Letter From the Coronovirus” and she begins “Just hold up. Simply stop. Don’t move. It’s not a request this time, it’s an order. I’m here to help… We had to interrupt. You don’t get to play god… Last year, the firestorms that set the lungs of the earth on fire didn’t stop you, nor did the melting glaciers, or your sinking cities, or knowing you’re the one single cause of the sixth mass extinction... I’ll light the firestorms inside your body. I’ll flood your lungs. I’ll isolate you like a polar bear marooned on a lone raft of ice… You have to hear this. I’m shouting for you to stop!... I’m here to help, just listen”.
Spring, 2020 and the wild garlic and greens are waiting for an invitation to the salad bowl. Some hospitals are in dire straits, short on critical supplies and not enough beds for the sick. Seventy five percent of songbird populations have declined. The coral reefs are dying. The US could become the new epicenter for the pandemic. Worst case scenarios abound. Everyone’s clamoring, hoping, urgently working and waiting and praying that everything returns to normal.
And then what?
The stock market is crashing. Millions of businesses have been ordered closed. The roadways are restricted to essential travel. Unemployment claims are at record levels.
In the garden all 100 fall planted garlic cloves have sprouted. Their new leaves have pushed through heavy mulch and are reveling in the sun. The first crinkled leaves of rhubarb are showing. The cover crop is putting on a burst of new growth, locking in nutrients and creating organic mass to feed the year’s vegetables.
No one knows the ultimate impact of the pandemic; how long it might last, how many will be infected, the death rate, the economic consequences. Everybody’s talking but no one knows.
On the pond there is a pair of hooded mergansers in full breeding plumage. As we watch, the hen flies into one of the old nest boxes while her mate waits patiently in the water below. After a time she emerges. Almost certainly, she laid an egg, and we’re likely to see this same routine repeated tomorrow and for several days thereafter. It happens almost every year. But we’ve never had a merganser incubate a brood. Instead, a wood duck will enter the same box in the next week or two and also deposit an egg, and continue thereafter until satisfied with the number. Then she’ll incubate. In this way there are merganser ducklings among some wood duck broods. A species that dives for food is reared by one who dabbles, a fish eating duck is shown the ropes by one who feasts on seeds and snails. Apparently, it works.
The virus has brought the manufacturing world to a virtual standstill. Across the globe, air quality is the best in decades and improving daily. Wastewater from industry is shut down, giving rivers a reprieve. Travel of all kinds has been reduced.
In a matter of days, the healing power of the earth is evident. All around us, ancient processes continue, but less influenced by our presence. It begs the question: In the absence of man, what would the earth be like in 100 or 1000 years? In all probability the wood ducks and mergansers would still be sharing nest sites, the chorus frogs would still be singing, the geese still incubating their broods. Water, air, and soil contaminants introduced by man would be largely broken down, trees would occupy much of their former range, CO2 levels would drop to less than 350ppm, animal populations would rebound.
Parts of the world did not react quickly enough to the pandemic, but yet the global reaction occurred at speeds never before witnessed. The entire planet responded to an eminent threat. Economies shut down. Travel reduced to a crawl. People everywhere stayed home and did their part, and it was all a result of a scientific prediction that things could get bad quickly if we conducted business as usual.
Why does our reaction to a virus differ from our reaction to the threat of climate change? The eminent threat, the evidence, the scientific consensus, is prevalent in both, but the virus, as bad as it is, doesn’t wield a fraction of the destructive potential stored in climate change. Many of the options for addressing a warming planet are fully developed and need only implementation, while a treatment or vaccine for the virus could be months or even years away.
This all exemplifies how critical a government's role is in bringing about rapid change. It takes policy mandates from the top to get the world to react. Capitalism or the inherent goodness in people doesn’t get it done, at least not quickly.
Italian Darinka Montico has produced a dramatic YouTube video where she speaks from the virus’s perspective. (View the English version here: https://youtu.be/f5on3AZWdik)
She calls it “A Letter From the Coronovirus” and she begins “Just hold up. Simply stop. Don’t move. It’s not a request this time, it’s an order. I’m here to help… We had to interrupt. You don’t get to play god… Last year, the firestorms that set the lungs of the earth on fire didn’t stop you, nor did the melting glaciers, or your sinking cities, or knowing you’re the one single cause of the sixth mass extinction... I’ll light the firestorms inside your body. I’ll flood your lungs. I’ll isolate you like a polar bear marooned on a lone raft of ice… You have to hear this. I’m shouting for you to stop!... I’m here to help, just listen”.
Spring, 2020 and the wild garlic and greens are waiting for an invitation to the salad bowl. Some hospitals are in dire straits, short on critical supplies and not enough beds for the sick. Seventy five percent of songbird populations have declined. The coral reefs are dying. The US could become the new epicenter for the pandemic. Worst case scenarios abound. Everyone’s clamoring, hoping, urgently working and waiting and praying that everything returns to normal.
And then what?
Frozen Tomatoes
We put out our tomato plants early, we always do, and cover them when frost threatens. It's a practice that has been successful for a couple decades but not this year. Twenty five degrees for several hours was more than the covered plants could tolerate and they froze. We gambled once too often. The way we’d always done it failed.
In the world beyond our driveway there remains a lot of uncertainty. The move to reopen the economy in stages is justified by some but deemed an act of stupidity by others. Our community made national news when COVID-19 forced a shut down of a local meat processing plant. The occupant of the Oval Office ordered the employees back to work so our safety should now be assumed. Meanwhile, the consumer price index is dropping precipitously, unemployment remains at record highs, millions are in dire straits. Yesterday I picked up a prescription where insurance paid about $30 on a $300 drug and I thought about the millions who are having to decide between medication and food or rent. I thought how frequently people lose everything when a health issue strikes. I thought how living paycheck to paycheck makes people extremely vulnerable and how so many paychecks have suddenly ceased.
A couple years ago US News published an article ranking all 50 states by pollution using two metrics: industrial toxins and pollution health risks. Indiana ranked 49th. Meanwhile construction is underway on a zinc recycling plant upwind of our fair city that promises to emit lead, mercury, and other toxic particulate while consuming large amounts of coal and belching massive quantities of CO2. The promise isn't made by the company but by a plethora of independent scientists who have researched a sister plant as well as similar facilities around the world. The Indiana Economic Development Corporation is offering the company up to $5 million in conditional tax credits. Indiana, ranked the 49th polluter, wants this industry. So do our county commissioners.
I put out a piece on social media regarding the potential harmful effects of mercury on local fish populations, nesting and overwintering bald eagles, and the environment in general. Later, in a live radio broadcast, county commissioners found humor in the concept, one having mentioned that releasing mercury was a necessary and unavoidable price of growth.
A thunderstorm is approaching. Lee is out collecting items for a kitchen vase. Today it's a riot of lilac, crabapple, dogwood, and a smattering of ferns. The cardinals in the yew just outside the window have fledged. Orioles are here in admirable numbers, lining up at the jelly feeders, fussing with each other, focused on the tasks of claiming territories, building nests, rearing young. Some things are progressing nicely, on schedule, and for the better.
I know someone who has taken on the full weight of all that threatens our natural world, all the evidence that brings to light our civilization’s certain demise unless dramatic change is implemented. She sees the threats, losses and solutions all at once and it’s a soul crushing experience. Yet she finds joy in life, finds the beauty around her and clings to a hope that is at times fleeting and hard to grasp. She smiles often, displays a tenderness and appreciation towards all life, has a twinkle in her eye, but behind it is a thorough awareness of an impending trainwreck. She’s on the train and her awareness has bought her a ticket to ride.
Also on the train is a world of passengers but most have invalid tickets. There are deniers, and multiple cars filled with ill informed or apathetic passengers who embrace perpetual growth and a consumer driven economy with no consideration for limited resources, industrial consequences or the need for sustainability. There are those unopposed to hard work and bent on getting their piece of the pie at any cost. There are those so burdened with debt or life situations that a clear minded look at ecological well being seems beyond consideration. And there are those resistant to change or who care less and none have earned their ticket.
We’re all on the train, enjoying the comfort and scenery passing by, but only few hear the diesel engines or contemplate the true environmental costs of the ride. To have genuine hope we need passengers who have paid the fare with an awareness that each of us has a role to play, that our daily decisions from the foods we eat and the transportation we choose to the products we buy and the businesses and leaders we support can collectively keep the train on track. It’s not up to others, but us.
The tomatoes have been replanted and are settled in nicely after an inch of slow and steady rain. For the rest of the garden the forecast assures warming soils and germinating seeds. The sun is lighting a sky made cleaner by a temporary virus-driven economic shutdown. Our local community breaks ground on a polluting industry for the sake of jobs and growth. The shortcomings of an unjust healthcare system are brought to the fore. Those with eyes open get a glimpse of the depth of our problems, the healing ability of the planet, and the need for us all to pony up for a ticket.
In the world beyond our driveway there remains a lot of uncertainty. The move to reopen the economy in stages is justified by some but deemed an act of stupidity by others. Our community made national news when COVID-19 forced a shut down of a local meat processing plant. The occupant of the Oval Office ordered the employees back to work so our safety should now be assumed. Meanwhile, the consumer price index is dropping precipitously, unemployment remains at record highs, millions are in dire straits. Yesterday I picked up a prescription where insurance paid about $30 on a $300 drug and I thought about the millions who are having to decide between medication and food or rent. I thought how frequently people lose everything when a health issue strikes. I thought how living paycheck to paycheck makes people extremely vulnerable and how so many paychecks have suddenly ceased.
A couple years ago US News published an article ranking all 50 states by pollution using two metrics: industrial toxins and pollution health risks. Indiana ranked 49th. Meanwhile construction is underway on a zinc recycling plant upwind of our fair city that promises to emit lead, mercury, and other toxic particulate while consuming large amounts of coal and belching massive quantities of CO2. The promise isn't made by the company but by a plethora of independent scientists who have researched a sister plant as well as similar facilities around the world. The Indiana Economic Development Corporation is offering the company up to $5 million in conditional tax credits. Indiana, ranked the 49th polluter, wants this industry. So do our county commissioners.
I put out a piece on social media regarding the potential harmful effects of mercury on local fish populations, nesting and overwintering bald eagles, and the environment in general. Later, in a live radio broadcast, county commissioners found humor in the concept, one having mentioned that releasing mercury was a necessary and unavoidable price of growth.
A thunderstorm is approaching. Lee is out collecting items for a kitchen vase. Today it's a riot of lilac, crabapple, dogwood, and a smattering of ferns. The cardinals in the yew just outside the window have fledged. Orioles are here in admirable numbers, lining up at the jelly feeders, fussing with each other, focused on the tasks of claiming territories, building nests, rearing young. Some things are progressing nicely, on schedule, and for the better.
I know someone who has taken on the full weight of all that threatens our natural world, all the evidence that brings to light our civilization’s certain demise unless dramatic change is implemented. She sees the threats, losses and solutions all at once and it’s a soul crushing experience. Yet she finds joy in life, finds the beauty around her and clings to a hope that is at times fleeting and hard to grasp. She smiles often, displays a tenderness and appreciation towards all life, has a twinkle in her eye, but behind it is a thorough awareness of an impending trainwreck. She’s on the train and her awareness has bought her a ticket to ride.
Also on the train is a world of passengers but most have invalid tickets. There are deniers, and multiple cars filled with ill informed or apathetic passengers who embrace perpetual growth and a consumer driven economy with no consideration for limited resources, industrial consequences or the need for sustainability. There are those unopposed to hard work and bent on getting their piece of the pie at any cost. There are those so burdened with debt or life situations that a clear minded look at ecological well being seems beyond consideration. And there are those resistant to change or who care less and none have earned their ticket.
We’re all on the train, enjoying the comfort and scenery passing by, but only few hear the diesel engines or contemplate the true environmental costs of the ride. To have genuine hope we need passengers who have paid the fare with an awareness that each of us has a role to play, that our daily decisions from the foods we eat and the transportation we choose to the products we buy and the businesses and leaders we support can collectively keep the train on track. It’s not up to others, but us.
The tomatoes have been replanted and are settled in nicely after an inch of slow and steady rain. For the rest of the garden the forecast assures warming soils and germinating seeds. The sun is lighting a sky made cleaner by a temporary virus-driven economic shutdown. Our local community breaks ground on a polluting industry for the sake of jobs and growth. The shortcomings of an unjust healthcare system are brought to the fore. Those with eyes open get a glimpse of the depth of our problems, the healing ability of the planet, and the need for us all to pony up for a ticket.
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