A Deep Breath of Cold Air

The other day the thermometer stayed below freezing for the first time this season.  The wind was light, the soil surface frozen, but with a couple layers of clothing, staying warm was a piece of cake.  There’s something about cold air hitting warm lungs that invigorates and motivates like a slap in the face.  It just doesn’t happen at 70 degrees.  

I love the short days of winter, the mornings when darkness drags on, the wood stove comes to life, and the coffee is steeped to perfection. I am retired, so most days are filled as I see fit, which is profoundly satisfying. No one, having worked to support themselves and the economy for forty or fifty years, should be denied the privilege. But it’s a challenge some days to not be distracted by news that may or may not be true, to keep the turmoil of the world at bay, to remain flexible to interruptions.  

Not all interruptions are bad. Yesterday we received an early morning call from county dispatch giving the location of a freshly killed deer, ours for the taking. The highway was busy with traffic, people hurrying, headlights glaring.  I don’t miss the hustle, the deadlines, the unexpected obstacles that disrupt the day’s carefully choreographed routine.   We pulled up behind the deputy's car with its blinding red and blue strobe lights, loaded the yearling buck, and made a quick retreat to the quiet of home base. 

For the first time, we field dressed a deer aware that it might be infected with Covid. A recent study found a percentage of wild deer to be asymptomatic carriers of the virus. Whether or not it can jump from deer to man is unknown, but we now know the virus has found another host where it is free to mutate and do what viruses do, adding to the likelihood we’ll be living with coronavirus for the foreseeable future.  Meanwhile, one of our state’s hospitals has called on the national guard because beds are full and more are needed to treat those with Covid, 95-99 percent of whom are unvaccinated. 

We recently bought a lightly used two burner induction stovetop. It sits atop our 1920’s era gas range, looking as much out of place as a cell phone in the hands of Tecumseh.  Induction technology is impressive.  It uses electromagnetic waves to turn pots and pans into heating elements with a high level of efficiency and temperature control.  The valve to the old range is turned off, the fracked gas rests in the pipe, carbon intact, the power to the new cooktop comes from the sun via solar panels. It feels right. 

There is so much happening that feels right— solar and wind farms springing up everywhere, regenerative practices making their way into modern agriculture, near-daily advances in battery and energy technologies, innovative approaches to tracking and pricing carbon— all supported by grassroot movements comprised largely of youth who have the audacity to demand a cleaner, sustainable, and more just world for themselves and generations that follow. 

Every corner of the planet has been contaminated to some degree by our activities.  The ecological services we depend on for survival are breaking down.  What we see and define as wilderness is an amended version of what once was. Our measure of abundance, be it fish or fowl or biodiversity, is in many cases a shadow of what existed mere decades ago.  In reality, some things are gone for good, and the best we can do is establish new benchmarks and hope to hold onto what’s left. 

That will be a challenge if our population continues to grow, if we prolong our use of carbon fuels, increase our use of petroleum based plastics, continue to support unsustainable practices.  It will be a challenge when both old and new technologies lack the capability of being fully recyclable, when too much of the world questions science, when we’re faced with increasingly frequent disruptions that stem from melting ice caps and weather related disasters.

I thought I might write an essay that made no more than a casual reference to climate change, that a mention of biodiversity loss and the need for clean energy technologies would be enough. But then I heard about a new film entitled “Don’t Look Up”, starring Leonardo DiCaprio, Jennifer Lawrence, and Meryl Streep.  It’s a satirical comedy about an approaching comet destined to destroy Earth, and a dysfunctional media and government that refuses to take it seriously.  It’s a surrogate for climate change treated as something less than an existential threat.  From a human survival standpoint, there may be little difference between four degrees warming and a direct meteor strike. The need to act with urgency, in either case, is the same.

So let’s say there’s a comet heading for earth and a direct hit is assured. What are the odds we’d be hesitant to respond out of fear we might cause a blip in the economy or shake up Wall Street?  What if we found there was something each of us could do that would somehow shift the comet’s trajectory?  What if the threat could be reduced if we just had a greater awareness and willingness to accept a few lifestyle changes and some modifications to our diets; if all we really needed was a commitment to start living with an uncompromising respect for our place in a world where everything’s connected and resources are limited? Would we have a unified front?

Greenhouse gas emissions continue to rise, the work that has been accomplished isn’t enough, the comet’s course has not been altered. We need action, measurable and significant, to keep hope alive. 

We need a good slap in the face like we get when cold air hits warm lungs.  We can start right now.  Are you ready?  On three: one, two,...

Thanksgiving

On Thanksgiving Day the sun rose but was hidden by clouds that shed a misty rain.  We took a walk and disrupted a meeting among crows, apparently of some importance from the sound of it, then surprised a dozen deer which chose to bolt rather than remain perfectly hidden in plain sight.  On a day we recognize as a holiday there was no indication the deer were celebrating anything, but who am I to say?  But there was something going on with the crows, a high level meeting perhaps, or a spontaneous chorus from an old hymn that only crows know.   There is no good evidence that animals lack a spiritual connection.  

The day is all about gratitude. For people in the US, it conjures up images of native Americans and European immigrants gathered for a great feast.  No doubt the new arrivals were thankful for safe passage to a land full of promise, but were the natives necessarily grateful for the company?  We know some were hospitable and welcoming, at least until their lands were taken, their numbers decimated, treaties broken.  

A few years ago one of our sons lived and worked on a community farm in the great state of California.  We were visiting, and before every dinner they held a gratitude circle where everyone would find something in the day to be thankful for.  It was a therapeutic routine with the smallest of things appreciated and was always uplifting, sometimes powerful.

A nice ash tree south of the house was killed a few years ago by the emerald ash borer. We were not happy with this development and had enjoyed the tree and its shade since transplanting it decades before.  It had grown to be a strapping specimen but now was dead, needing removal. It held a disproportionate weight on its north side so would need encouragement to fall south and not smash the house.  It took more than two years to garner the courage for the task and during that time the tree shot up a sucker from its base which stood about four feet tall. I thought it’d be great to fell the tree and save the sprout, knowing it would be supported by a massive root system and make phenomenal growth. After a thorough review of tree felling techniques I took the tree down, successfully sparing the house and the sprout, and in the following season it more than doubled in height and girth. 

I was just admiring the young ash a couple days ago, then got up this morning to see a beaver had chewed it off right at the ground. I felt no gratitude towards the beaver, especially given it had sauntered past dozens of prime shrub dogwoods and willows growing wild in the muck before reaching the young ash.  We recognize the value of beavers in the landscape and have made many accommodations on their behalf over the years, and here was one more. 

Gratitude is often one sided.  In sports, politics, wars, with beavers invited to your backyard, there are always winners and losers, and the probability of being thankful generally depends on which side you’re on.  My old buddy, John, once observed that he cusses when he’s mad but cusses equally when happy.  That’s how gratitude should be, practiced in every scenario, but it’s a tough pill for parents of kids killed in school shootings, or the wrongfully imprisoned, or those forced into homelessness.   

Sometimes hope has to open the door for gratitude.  I’m not thankful for the one percent, for greedy corporations, disinformation, antivaxxers, corrupt leaders, or any action that threatens the health of our beautiful planet, but I can hope and then be grateful for opportunities that allow things to get better one step at a time.

And so went Thanksgiving Day, 2021: a brisk walk, a meeting of crows, a flushing of deer, a scowl aimed at a local beaver, and a dose of gratitude found in hope.  Thich Nhat Hanh, a Vietnamese monk, said “Walk as if you are kissing the earth with your feet.”  Try to do it without being grateful.  You can’t.  Good days lie ahead. 

Of Greater Threat

Autumn is half passed.  The leaves have shown their splendor and now litter the ground where they grow crisp and begin the slow process of decay. 

As a freshman in college I took an introductory class in forestry.  In one lecture the prof suggested we pick up a single dried leaf and ignite it.  It will burn, he said, because in a very literal sense the leaf is a tiny slice of stored sunlight, and fire is the light energy rapidly released. Without fire, the energy is released slowly through complex chemical pathways we call decomposition, and returned to the soil to be taken up again by plants and animals.  The cycle continues ad infinitum.  There is no loss, no waste.

I was already aware of photosynthesis, but this example drove home its real beauty and magic.  A grand circle of life, a highly refined, efficient, and effective recycling of everything essential, born of the sun, and beautifully ensconced on a blue planet spinning away in a universe that may stretch to infinity.  And here we are, privileged participants, graced with the ability to comprehend and marvel and respect how we might meld seamlessly with ecological systems established and perfected eons before our arrival.  

How are we doing?

Autumn is half passed.  There is a golden glow in the broomsedge where it stands against mottled green and burgundy leaves of blackberry.  In idle areas are the remnants of aster, artichoke, goldenrod, their seed heads matured and awaiting foraging finches.  Saplings have been brutally scraped, scarred, abused by white tailed bucks proclaiming territories.  The Juncos have arrived, and white throated sparrows.  There is a rustling of leaves as squirrels gather and store a season’s mast.  The skies are overcast, clouds hang low and drop pellets of sleet on our morning walk.  There’s fire in the wood stove, a vegetable garden put to rest. It’s a season of endings and beginnings; accomplishments and hopes; reflections.

Autumn showcases the prominence of some invasive plant species.  Our woodland is choked with bush honeysuckle.  It thrives in the understory, displacing natives, jeopardizing the woodland’s future.  It holds its leaves into late fall so its prevalence is on full display.  Far too common also are rogue Bradford pear and burning bush, occupying odd areas everywhere.  Their leaves add vibrant color to the fall landscape but the plants are a curse.  For decades they were widely planted and enjoyed before their sinister side was discovered, and now we’re stuck with their aggressive and competitive inclinations for the foreseeable future.

It’s all too easy to find examples of introduced species gone awry, and the stories are all similar.  They begin with an exotic plant or animal finding itself in a new environment.  When conditions are suitable, the new arrival quickly reproduces, and with a growing presence begins competing with natives for food and space.  Sometimes, local extinctions result.  Always, some form of stress or hardship is exerted on the ecosystem.  

Suppose there was a species capable of moving on its own accord to any location on the planet, and was particularly effective at adapting to a range of conditions and habitats.  What if it were an animal, a top predator, with uncanny problem solving capabilities that allowed for unique innovations to address food availability and the need for shelter.  Suppose it had an advanced brain and could reason and comprehend like no other animal and it believed itself superior, above and separate from all other life, capable and willing to wield dominion over all its domain. What if it looked upon the earth as something to be subdued, transformed to the animal’s liking and comfort regardless of costs, and its numbers grew until its impact could be seen and quantified on every corner of the globe. Could any species be of greater threat?

There was a heavy frost last night and the pond holds a skim of ice.  A summer’s growth lay on the ground, an energy taken from the sun seeps into the soil. There is magic and beauty beyond measure. 

Road Trip

There should be a thrill associated with a good road trip. The planning, preparations, scheduling, the juggling of details, should all be part of the allure and ultimate adventure. I fail to see it, and instead view an impending cross country excursion with a cloud of trepidation. It doesn’t matter how many prior trips have gone without a hitch, how much I enjoy leaving Midwest cornfields for mountains, high deserts, and oceans, or even how much I value time spent with our west coast sons.  None of it is enough to dissolve the apprehension. 

Travel provides fresh perspective, renewed optimism, enlightened experience, but I can still list a hundred reasons to stay home.  It’s a curse, this hesitancy.  I take comfort in the great conservationist and wilderness advocate, Sigurd Olson, who made countless canoe expeditions on wild rivers and remote northern lakes but was routinely plagued by a sense of foreboding as he organized and packed for the next outing. His life’s purpose was fueled and sustained by frequent and extended forays, yet threatened by a hesitancy to leave the relative comfort and security of home base.  

Our ancestors crossed the prairies and mountains in wagon trains, motivated by desperation and dreams.  We follow their routes sipping espressos, adjusting our vehicle thermostats, relying on GPS to guide us through mountain passes and over bridged waterways.  Road travel is infinitely safer today, but things that might go wrong still haunt me.  Alternators, water pumps, universal joints, belts, sensors, all have lifetimes, and when the tow vehicle is used solely for towing, the inevitable breakdowns will necessarily occur on the road. Routine maintenance helps but offers no guarantees. A master cylinder can fail at any given moment.  A starter can die at a boondocking site hours from the nearest town. How many spare parts and tools should a reasonable person have on hand?  All forms of travel are subject to mechanical failure, but only on a road trip is the onus for readiness and the consequences of breakdowns placed squarely on the traveler.

Then there is the hypocrisy of parking an electric car and choosing a heavy, inefficient, carbon-belching pickup for a journey that is not essential beyond a very real desire to reunite with family.  It’s an indulgence, not a life or death necessity, and when climate change is real and carbon emissions the driving force, who am I to justify the extravagance of travel for pleasure?  Our comfortable Midwest home lies on a rather wild and tranquil piece of land. Our pantry and freezer are packed with preserved foods. We’ve made solid improvements to reduce our carbon footprint, have a respectable and convenient collection of tools, a list of chores, mostly pleasant.  Why would we leave? How could we?

But we do. In the moments before my obsessions drive my wife to irreversible madness, the truck and popup are loaded and we’re on the road. And as days and miles are lost in the rear view mirror, an unfounded confidence in the truck’s integrity takes hold, and attachments begin to wane.  Assets turn to liabilities.  Items once deemed essential seem frivolous.  What is self sufficiency but a form of enslavement? 

And before long our thoughts shift to selling the property, the 40+ years of accumulations, the whole enchilada. We’ll spend our twilight years in the high desert, we say, with tumbleweeds and lizards, and be seduced by the sage laced air.  We’ll explore dry gulches, buttes, mesas; watch the jackrabbits, ravens, rattlesnakes; become familiar with desert plants and adaptive strategies that allow life to thrive in a harsh and unforgiving environment.

Or maybe we’ll settle in the high sierras among towering pines and cedars, where the sun shines 300 days a year and winter storms pile snow delightfully deep; where coyotes patrol neighborhood streets and bears wander parking lots.  We’ll explore endless trails and bask in the majesty of the place, knowing that storms are growing weaker and less frequent, elevating the threat of fire and reduced water supplies. We’ll recognize the fragility of the landscape, understand that it’s being threatened and we are the cause. With climate change unchecked, great tracts of forest are slated for desertification.

We could choose to be near the coast, on the edge of the continent, where harbor seals bask on reefs and pelicans fly in formation and whales migrate through curtains of fog that drift ashore to nourish ancient redwoods.  We’ll walk the beach and explore tidal pools and fill our lungs with salt laden air and let youthful curiosity fill our days.  Out west we could find a spot within a short drive of it all— the desert, the mountains, the ocean, the boys— where we could ski and bike and hike and fly fish for wary trout and share experiences with people who are environmentally tuned and working diligently to find solutions that promise to save the planet. 

An inclination to travel and claim new territory has been part of the human tradition since our earliest ancestors left the Horn of Africa some 200,000-300,000 years ago.  It has always involved risks, but the urge to roam and explore prevails.  Today, new electric trucks are being produced, some capable of towing small campers.  Maybe, one day soon, campgrounds will have a charge port at every slip and roadways will be littered with stations that top off batteries in minutes and the grid will carry only renewable and carbon neutral energy.  Given that electric vehicles have massively fewer parts and are far more simplified and reliable than combustion engines, there may also be less for a worrisome aging man to fret about. 

When and how we travel and where we choose to live, like everything in our lives, has a carbon cost. The cost is no longer denied but is not generating the action required.  In the short term we can’t avoid burning ancient fuels, but we can throw our weight behind efforts to have it eliminated.  We’re smart enough to recognize the imperative.  The technology exists.  All that holds us back is the collective will to make it happen. 

September is Watching

September came with a purpose and a declaration: summer’s hot and sultry air would be archived and September would take immediate control with cool nights and perfectly ideal afternoons.  And suddenly the subtle transitions that mark the beginning of the end of seasonal growth— the nodding heads and drying leaves of ripened sunflower, the goldenrod ablaze in yellow, the seeds of milkweed adrift in the slightest breeze— came into perfect focus.  The old dog saw it and spun in circles before sprinting off in no particular direction and for no apparent reason.  She moves at a fraction of her former speed, but old bones can still be filled with the spirit of September.  

It won’t last, this perfection, but it’s highly probable the doldrums of summer are gone and any bonafide heat from here out will be short lived.  Meteorological fall has commenced, the days are growing shorter.  Morning mist rises from the pond, its waters cooling, a fish flicks the surface.  We weed the strawberries, perhaps for the last time.  The potatoes are dug and put to cure in the root cellar.  Migrating birds by the tens of millions pass overhead at night.  A timeless energy flows as adaptive behaviors and responses initiate and a season of dormancy draws near.

The other day there were four young wood ducks on the pond.  Today, there are two.  On a trail through the woods we found a pile of feathers shining with the blue and green iridescence of woodies.  Among the feathers were bones picked clean, and a string of whitewash to indicate precisely where an avian predator stood, there among the lobelia and tick seed of September, as energy was passed one to another.  

I ran into an acquaintance at the coffee shop yesterday.  She was bubbly, clearly happy as we exchanged pleasantries.  Then the conversation shifted to world events, and in an instant her face fell to express dire concern.  “It’s a bad dream that will not end and nothing will ever be the same,” she said.  There is a great divide in our country and she gave no indication on which side she stood. These days it can be hard to tell. 

September is neutral on the matter.  She favors neither side, but simply fills her days with whatever magic she can muster.  Over many millennia her routine has changed, and is changing now.  Components of the atmosphere have shifted, species abundance and diversity have lessened, air and ocean currents behave differently, ice is disappearing.  September considers it all, adjusts, and moves on. We take what she delivers.  For the moment, under clear Midwestern skies, ideal temperatures, and an explosion of late summer flowers, all seems perfect.  She’s good at glossing over the rough spots, initiating subtle changes in colors, introducing change.  Late in the month she’ll tease us with hints of reds and yellows, then pass the pleasure to October.

She is like a protective parent, shielding us from the harsh realities of the world; like a wounded commander that never divulges her injuries lest the troops lose heart.  She offers tough love, trusting us to see the error in our ways or face the consequences they bring.  This she shares with her eleven siblings, documenting time and seasons cued by ancient rhythms.  Over the eons they bore witness to an endless array of evolutionary change and adaptation, saw major setbacks, stood by as a superior intelligence developed and spread across the planet, plundering its resources. Errors were made and have led to great challenges that are not yet beyond repair. 

There is still time. Not much. September will take note. 

August

August was named for Augustus Caesar, the first Roman emperor, who lived from 63 B.C to A.D 14.  Much of the month is included in the dog days of summer, when the hottest days typically occur, when dogs and men alike tend to go mad from the heat.  It’s a big month for vacationing, for home canning, for swimming in lakes when water temperatures are at a seasonal high.  It’s a month when warm, humid nights are alive with the drone of cicadas, katydids and crickets, when summer, though still firmly engaged, begins to show evidence of submission.

Bird migration has begun, and almost daily we see swifts, swallows and martins winging their way south in loose groups.  The orioles have left, shorebirds are on the move, grackles and blackbirds gather in fall flocks.  Restless.  Flighty.

In the garden, ripened sunflower seeds are picked clean by goldfinches.  Overripe tomatoes plop to the ground.  Potato vines wither. Butterflies and hummingbirds stock up on nectar from zinnias at the garden edge.  Three months ago we were dropping seeds in the ground, and today the freezer and pantry are full to bursting.  

In spring it’s easy to take notice of toothworts and Dutchman’s breeches and bloodroot.  Spring flowers garner worthy attention as they light up forest floors awakened from winter dormancy.  The flowers of late summer are no less varied, abundant, and impressive but many aren’t fussed over so much, perhaps because things green and growing have become routine and we’ve stopped looking.  We can’t help but notice field thistles and goldenrods and giant sunflowers, but the less obvious knotweeds, skullcaps, bugleweeds, willowherbs, snakeroots, and nearly endless others, are often met with little more than a casual glance.

Maybe it’s anticipation. We look forward to spring wildflowers as indicators of a new season, a clean slate.  By the time August rolls around we’re caught in the summer doldrums, hardened by heat and a sea of green, and maybe not so thrilled by yet another flower, especially if it doesn’t stand out.

But summer is ebbing.  It shows in the walnuts that litter the woodland trail, in the stickseed entangled in the dog’s fur. It’s there in the sound of hickory nuts banging off the metal roof of the pole barn.  And soon a spell of hot weather will be short-lived and the nights will be cooler and we’ll rummage through dressers for sweatshirts and socks. The fields will brown, the trees will take on new color, and the night insects will grow quiet.  Frost is still weeks away but its promise is shown in August.

Our two sons are somewhere high in the sierras, carrying their provisions on their backs.  They are hiking across one hundred million year old granite, following waterways at 10,000 ft and higher, exploring the western backbone of the US, a place naturalist John Muir called the Range of Light.  Knowing them as I do, the boys will not be blind to the details they encounter, and they’ll view that spectacular alpine country through eyes that recognize how fragile and vulnerable it is.  All around them the fires burn, the land dries, the drought intensifies.  The worst of the California fire season typically comes in September and October, but already there are over 800 more fires burning a million acres beyond the average for this time of year.  California, and other many western states, are breaking long held norms.

August falls in hurricane season and a mean storm has struck Louisiana.  The region braces for 150 mph winds and intense flooding.

In comparison, those of us in the Midwest are fairing pretty well.  There are areas that could use rain and others that have had too much.  It’s hot, and right now that’s about all the weather drama we can muster.  There’s plenty of other drama, of course, plenty to get worked up over, much of it beyond our control.  

Paraphrasing a post from Wyoming resident John Roedel, we live on a spinning wet rock next to a constantly exploding fireball in the middle of an ever-expanding universe filled with mysteries beyond our wildest imagination. We’re hurtling through the great expanse with billions of people who have free-will and whose own experiences shape their perspectives and beliefs. And while this is going on our souls are residing in a physical body, a miracle of delicate engineering, which at any given moment could produce its last heartbeat. So, what is it we think we control?

There is an abundance of small but dramatic August flowers blooming.  Look for them.

Rational Conclusions

 

A woman who was a classmate through grade and high school is now one of hundreds of thousands who have died of Coronavirus. Maybe she had made every effort to avoid the virus and was simply an unfortunate victim, or maybe she was confused by misinformation surrounding the safety and effectiveness of the vaccine.  Regardless, her perpetual smile is gone, and a life fueled by hope and marked by kindness is no more. 

The debate over mask mandates continues and is now an embarrassing political game. If ever we have strained at gnats and swallowed camels it is now, as we bemoan a minor inconvenience in favor of  a far greater threat. An op ed written by a 14 year old Florida Parkland student says it perfectly: https://www.orlandosentinel.com/opinion/guest-commentary/os-op-schools-masks-keep-politics-out-20210811-tl2qby2b3bgybivv2boe26ylji-story.html. 

I read that tourist businesses on Lake Powell are being threatened by the mega drought.  Some feel the national parks service is to blame with its failure to extend boat launch ramps to reach receding water levels.  “They (the NPS) are allowing a beautiful, beautiful place to fall apart.” The man with the grievance made no mention of climate change or the ramifications of not having water for hydroelectric power or irrigation or people, but rather stuck to the problem of launching a houseboat without a suitable ramp.

The other night there was a small gathering at the Black Dog Tavern to wish a local couple bon voyage as they prepare to embark on a new life in the North Carolina mountains.  There were only eight of us, and it was one of very few gatherings my wife and I had attended since COVID reared its ugly face.   It was also, I soon realized, the first time in nearly two years that I was at a table with a group of politically identical folks, and it was incredibly refreshing. It is one thing to feel connected to an online commentator and quite another to be at a table of peers carved from the same log. 

With the shroud of American presence removed in Afghanistan, the Taliban are resuming their conquest and are wasting no time at it.  How hopeful they must feel to be free of constraints in forcing their beliefs on the Afghan people.  They have persevered and are reaping, in their minds, a just reward.

We recently listened to an NPR Science Friday report on orca whales.  It’s long been known that orcas have strong and permanent family units.  The old matriarchs, with their long life experiences, will lead the pod to known sources of food in times of scarcity.  It’s also known they mourn the loss of members.  In one documented case, a mother carried its dead newborn a thousand miles before the corpse was dropped or literally disintegrated.  The pods around Puget Sound rely on chinook salmon for food, and the chinook are disappearing as a result of human activities.  Orcas are not the only mammal that values chinook, and efforts to bring them back carry with them a cascade of environmental benefits.

There was an article in the New Yorker on why it is so hard to be rational, and it made me think of the rational people I know and how well it has served them and how the world might benefit from a wave of rational thinking.  We are bombarded with news and endless opinions, and it is easy to get swept up by emotion and half truths or falsehoods and to turn a blind eye toward rational conclusions.  I came across a 

social media post from a pastor in upper Michigan: “Our minds are easily influenced, but we control what the influences are.  Choose wisely.”

August is waning.  Areas of the garden that grew sweetcorn and onions and cucumbers are ready for winter cover crop.  There was a heavy fog this morning and the nests of fall webworms, particularly common this year, were heavy with water droplets and glowing a soft white.  In the woodlot the white snakeroot is blooming, as is blue cardinal flower and wingstem and others that mark the last weeks of summer.  The forecast calls for hot and dry weather.  Parts of Tennessee received more than 14 inches of rain in just a few hours, causing incredible damage and loss of life.  A tropical system brought in moisture which accumulated in an ever warming atmosphere and resulted in an atmospheric river that emptied on central Tennessee. Physics in action.  No rational thought required.

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Rhubarb Pie to Revive a Guy

In the pond, a few bluegills spared by the otters built nests this summer.  Each nest can hold 6000-18000 eggs, and they face grave danger from the outset, with less than one half of one percent resulting in fish that die of old age.  Thirty out of every 6000.

The capacity of the earth to replenish itself is impressive.  Many species low on the food chain produce massive numbers of offspring.  Among insects, the cabbage aphid may be the champion.  Under perfect conditions a single female could, in one year’s time, spawn enough descendants to cover the earth to a depth of 90 miles!  But since perfect conditions don’t exist, most aphids are quickly lost to predation by birds and other insects.   Generally, larger animals have fewer young, but there are exceptions. Female ocean sunfish weighing up to two tons can release 300 million eggs at a time, but most never get fertilized or are eaten by foraging fishes. Everything’s connected, seeking balance, beautifully functional.

We grow cucumbers on trellises, A-frames made of four foot wire panels.  This year we had two trellises three feet apart, each holding eight plants.   We pick cukes when they’re small and bristly, prime for pickling, and this year’s crop has been good.  There are 65 pints of pickles in the pantry, refrigerator dills for good measure, and we’ve given away over 100 pounds of surplus.  The space between trellises is filled with vines that extend into the yard and are growing up adjacent tomato cages and threatening to cover pepper plants and anything else that gets in their way.

Like all living things, a cucumber plant is driven to procreate.  Removing small cukes with their immature seeds spurs the plant to produce more fruit, not unlike stealing eggs from a laying hen.  The push to procreate and replicate is strong and mutations are part of the process, which helps explain the Delta variant.  With more than half the world unvaccinated the virus has a great playground where it experiments on cooperative and willing hosts.

In spite of my best efforts there are cucumbers I miss and they grow large and yellow and are filled with mature seeds so the plant succeeds in its objective.  Nature always wins.  We’re just players in her orchestra who sometimes pretend to be smarter and more capable.  We develop poisons to kill weeds, she develops super weeds, immune to our chemicals.  We abuse soil, she washes or blows it away.  We remove key components from established ecosystems, she removes services we deem essential.  We overpopulate and abuse land and lay resources to waste, she will ultimately thin us out like so many aphids.  Her checks and balances are finely tuned and not open to compromise.

The earth constantly regenerates resources and ecological services but every year we’re using more than can be replaced.  This year, we used our annual allotment on July 29th, so from here on out we’re in the red.  The date is known as Earth Overshoot Day and in recent history has been occurring in July.  In 2020, the influence of the pandemic moved the date back by a month to August 22, still four months shy of where we need to be.

My wife had a birthday recently and her request was a rhubarb pie. I made her one using my mom’s hand written, lard-heavy pie crust recipe and rhubarb from the freezer.  It turned out superb, if I do say so myself.  We ate a piece right after Lee summarized the news of the day: cattle starving and being sold months early due to drought, sweet onions in the NW completely destroyed by intense heat, California fighting its third largest fire in history, scientists becoming increasingly alarmed over changes in the Gulf Stream.  I was reminded of a little ditty Garrison Keillor did on his Prairie Home Companion radio show: Beebopareebop rhubarb pie.  “One little thing can revive a guy, and that’s a piece of rhubarb pie.  Serve it up, nice and hot, maybe things aren’t as bad as you thought.”  And for just a little while, they weren’t.

Exhaling

There were record floods in Germany.  A good month’s worth of rain fell in two days and water swept away roadways and buildings and people.  In India, 23 inches of rain fell in 24 hours.  China, likewise, experienced the worst flooding in a thousand years, threatening millions. In the American west record heat continues and reservoirs are drying up and fires dot the map with a frequency approaching scenic views.  Another heat dome is predicted to spread over most of the country. It’s all happening right on cue, and we’re just getting started.

After decades of avoiding the term, “climate change” is now being used routinely on the news. “Fires fueled by climate change.”  “Devastating floods brought on by global warming.”  The world is taking notice with decrees to reach carbon neutrality by 2035 or 2050.  Achieving these objectives will be fraught with challenges and require untold billions of dollars and yet to be discovered technologies.  It’s crunch time.  Yet, as surely as there are anti vaccers there are resistors and carbon emissions will continue longer than necessary, fueling a freight train of devastation headed our way.  This is not fear mongering; it’s acknowledging a reality long predicted and expected.  

So here we are with eyes wide open and each of us having a role.  Nothing will move us toward necessary changes faster than governmental policy so we need to make some good noise.  And as overwhelming as the problem is, it is not so big that personal choices can’t have an influence.  In daily life, the decisions we make can collectively lower carbon emissions and soften the worst of climate impacts for everyone.  It’s an all hands on deck moment that starts now and will necessarily become ingrained in the human psyche if our species is to survive.  Humanity has yet to fully embrace the concept that we are an integral part of an ecological community, not separate from it, and our actions are connected to every other living thing.  We can come to appreciate and value ecological services too long ignored or assumed.  We can learn that making the right environmental decisions is essential and benefit everything.

The smoke from western fires has reached the Midwest so we are privy to air that can be unhealthy to breathe.  The particulate provides striking sunrises and sunsets and we look and snap pictures but the beauty portends something destructive and horrific.  And when the floodwaters recede and the fires burn out we will not be back to normal but in a calm before the next event.  Normality is lost.  It may feel as if nothing has changed and we may be tempted to exhale with relief and return to our old ways but old rules no longer apply.

We listened to a segment on NPR’s Science Friday concerning the massive role batteries will play in our future, the race to design a better one, the incredible challenges in securing raw materials and building new facilities and bringing it all to scale in record time because time is of essence.  One of those interviewed was an engineer with a firm grasp on a dire situation but his confidence was unscathed.  Finding solutions to the perceived impossible is an engineer’s elixir.  It gets them out of bed and puts spring in their step.  We are in desperate need of their services right now.

 

After a period of wet weather we midwesterners are drying out and the heat and humidity of late July is settling in.  It’s wild blackberry season, and the garden is in overdrive with more fresh produce than we can eat.  Our pickling cucumbers have gone ballistic, surplus fresh tomatoes are lining up to be preserved and sweetcorn is just days from harvest.  The pond’s water temp is hovering around 80 degrees, perfect for daily swims. The beavers are building new dams, flooding new areas.  

We downloaded a couple of apps to our phones.  One allows us to take photos of any plant and in a few seconds we have an ID complete with botanical and common names, its site preference, its similarity to other plants.  I think of all the time and frustration spent with plant keys and field guides, all the required terminology, the seasonal changes sometimes necessary before an accurate identification could be made.  This app requires less time and botanical knowledge to find answers, which is not all good, but I love it so.

The second app allows us to record a birdsong and immediately know the bird behind it.  I’ve never been a wiz at birdsongs, so this app both thrills and shames me.  We haven’t seen a scarlet tanager all year but now know there’s one here.  We rarely see indigo buntings but now realize we hear them every day.  And that bird that seems to follow us while berry picking but is always just out of sight is a white eyed vireo.  I spend less time trying to accommodate an arthritic neck while peering through binoculars in poor light to see a bird that refuses to sit still.  I just push a button on my phone and the answer is there.

The garden, the birds, the beavers, the apps, all provide exhale moments, a time of calm, to recognize and appreciate the incredible beauty and bounty that still surrounds us and the remarkable technology that helps us live and learn.  We won’t give up our gadgetry, our vehicles, our comforts and conveniences, so we won’t navigate through the climate crisis without new and better technologies.  But it can’t be gadgetry alone.  There has to be a shift in our thinking so we show reverence to this incredible blue sphere and have zero tolerance for anything that wastes, poisons, or fouls it.  And everything we manufacture, build, or use has to be designed to be totally recycled and used again.  What else can possibly work?  What else can stand the test of time?

We can exhale between storms and droughts and fires, exhale and see the good in technology, our role in nature, the impacts of our living.  We can look through clear eyes and see what needs to be done, see what makes sense, and go for it.

A Wrench in the Works

 Around here, it doesn’t take a big event to make living worthwhile.  Today we pulled carrots, and our lives were shown purpose.  We sat on a bench and washed and scrubbed each one and they glistened with an orange glow and the air smelled sweet of carrot.  About every fifth one had damage from carrot maggot so a slight surgical procedure was required to render them perfect.  An occasional blemish from insect activity comes with the program when using organic methods and is proof positive that our efforts incorporate the greater ecological community.  If the crop is not totally destroyed by competitors and the harvest adequate for our needs, all is well.

There is safety in numbers, so a good gardening strategy is to plant more than needed, anticipating some loss.  It’s a good practice but since the space allotted to growing vegetables has limits, other measures are sometimes necessary, like physical barriers or spray deterrents to keep the likes of cottontails and deer from munching into our personal ration.

We have developed a strong craving for sweet corn year round, so we eat fresh when in season then bag up plenty of frozen kernels to last the year. The goal is to produce around 600 ears, and for years it was a pretty simple objective: plant seeds, mulch for weed control, harvest.  Simple.  A few earworms, but generally clean, full and scrumptious.  Then one year the raccoons found us and when it was clear they intended to claim the entire crop we set up an electric fence.  They apparently found the sensation of excited electrons unattractive because the problem was immediately resolved, and thereafter I made a practice of installing the fence just as the ears were silking.  It was highly effective, and the raccoons left the patch alone.

For the past couple years we have experienced problems with vermin eating our corn seed within a day or two of planting.  Replanting proved futile so we now have to start the plants in flats and transplant them individually to the garden.  It’s a bit of a pain and no longer a simple process, but still worth the effort.

The stalks were just beginning to tassel this year and the fence was not yet in place when a malicious band of masked bandits paid a visit.  The ears were mere nubbins but the vandals were undeterred, knocking over plants, chewing the stalks, removing the embryonic origins of what one day would have been plump rows of sweetness.

There’s a scene in the movie A Christmas Story where the Bumpuses dogs have stolen the Christmas turkey from the kitchen table and when Mr. Parker recognizes the deed he runs to the back door and squeaks out an obscenity through a throat tightened with rage.  As I surveyed the damaged sweet corn, I found that obscenity fit perfectly and it flowed freely.  The electric fence was up in short order.

Human-wildlife conflicts have been around since the dawn of man.  Those that make the news and stir up the most emotion involve predators who view humans as prey. Next in line are conflicts involving domestic livestock.  But damage to cropland is by far the most common, sometimes occurring in the most unlikely of places.  A yoga studio downtown has a small raised bed garden that has been nipped off by deer on more than one occasion.  The garden is tucked away behind a seven foot brick wall, next to a building, and is surrounded on all sides by asphalt and roadways, but the deer still like to visit.

It is our inclination to wield dominion over everything, to force our sense of stewardship on the land, to bring order to a perceived chaos found in nature.  We don’t deal well with competition.  

Far more people are killed every year by domestic livestock than by wild animals but a killer cow seldom makes the news.  Almost all livestock deaths (prior to slaughter) are by means other than predation, but there are plenty of ranchers who would pull the trigger on the last breeding pair of wolves.  Maybe if we had more predators I’d have fewer vermin in my sweetcorn.  

Natural processes assure a healthy balance, but we have a tendency to throw a wrench in the works. We are good at damaging habitats, disrupting timeless checks and balances, then crying about the outcomes.  We encroach on woodland areas to build our dream homes then curse woodpeckers that drill holes in the siding.  We love our farm ponds but loathe the otters that periodically drop by.  We spend millions for toxic chemicals to apply to our monocultures of turfgrass, destroying a natural blend of grass and weeds which actually make our lawns more resistant to disease while benefiting everything from insects to songbirds to predators.  We’re programmed to deem almost any bug or weed residing within our declared space a bad thing.

It’s a challenging road to navigate, especially when the concept has not been culturally engrained. I didn’t agree to a bowling tournament in our kitchen ceiling organized by local pine squirrels and I won’t plant an acre of sweet corn in the hopes of harvesting 600 ears.  There has to be limits and controls, but the best solutions are found in working with natural processes that have been billions of years in the making.   Any other approach spawns larger and more complex problems. The evidence is everywhere.  We can all do better.

A Birdsong in Every Bite

We had a rainy spell in late June.  It was unusual.  Near constant cloud cover and daily rains for a week.  The mercury hovered around 90 every day and the humidity hung like a wet blanket so the air seemed to have literal weight.  Tropical rainforests had nothing on the Midwest. 

The wild raspberries loved it.  They fattened and ripened and drew us into the brambles under conditions that were less than ideal but the rewards were handsome.  Thirty pounds of berries, and counting.

We had visitors from the great state of Colorado.  They live outside Boulder where the canyons sing with snowmelt and magpies flit among pines and the Rocky Mountains arch their bare jagged spines through forests that seem endless. It's a fine place to visit and probably an even better place to live.  

I remember a college professor describing his reaction to seeing the Rockies for the first time.  He looked skyward, his mouth wide open, and without saying a word summed up the experience perfectly.  I thought of him years later when an acquaintance was on a guided tour of Denali.  As is typical, the summit was shrouded in clouds, but my friend was enjoying his time at the base, reveling in the smells and sights, knowing he was in the presence of greatness.  Then he looked up and couldn’t believe his fortune as the clouds parted and there lay the summit, snow capped against a backdrop of azure blue.  He was standing, awestruck, when the guide moved in quietly and whispered, “That’s not the summit,” then pointing straight up said, “That is.”

There is an appeal to mountains that is almost universally shared, and rare is the person not humbled by them.  The Rockies, the Cascades, our beloved Sierras, need no introduction.  When among them we speak in whispers, as if in a grand cathedral, because we are.  Grandeur has that effect.  

Midwest cornfields generally do not elicit similar emotion. When they extend uninterrupted to the horizon they carry a beauty reserved for industrialized farmers.  But when a cornfield is interwoven among wooded draws and brushy fencerows where the soil has been undisturbed a different story emerges.  It lacks the splendor of a snow capped peak but offers a cacophony of birdsong and a symphony of life that nonetheless commands attention.  Biodiversity flourishes where deep and nutrient rich soils underlie the landscape.

The other day I shot a video of something outside and sent it to a friend.  His response was not of the footage, but the background noise: a riotous blend of varied and incessant birdsong.  Mountains, especially those in the west, are often incredibly quiet.  The same is true in the wild lands of northern Ontario or the desert Southwest where, on windless days, the silence can be deafening.  And what all these places have in common are relatively thin, poor soils.  The Yosemite area illustrates how little soil is actually required to grow trees.  Walking through a mature stand of pines rooted in the cracks and crevices of bare granite is a mind blowing experience: a forest with trees separated by clean, weather-smoothed rock.  

Lee and I and the dog spent a night in our backyard in a tent set close to the pond.  It was an interesting night but not a restful one.  A beaver in close proximity repeatedly slapped its tail in alarm, raccoons chattered, coyotes howled, deer snorted, the dog bounced off the tent in an attempt to investigate it all, and with first light we were awakened by birds.  It was a fitful night of wild disturbances exceeding anything we’d experienced in national forests or wilderness areas. 

Rich soils allow wild populations to be more diverse and productive, with physically larger individuals found in greater densities than on poorer soils.  So here in the heartland, where a cottontail might need a packed lunch to make it to the next bit of brambly cover, a rich assortment of wild species and the hint of a fully functioning ecosystem can still exist given half a chance.

We need cropland to grow food, but popular methods of producing most crops, by anyone’s assessment (USDA included), results in soil degradation and loss.  Management strategies refer to a “tolerable” loss of soil, which is a way of feeling good while describing a loss that becomes intolerable over time.  There are new methods employing permaculture principles with extensive use of cover crops that offer tremendous hope in preserving and restoring valued organic matter to topsoil while lessening reliance on pesticides.   These methods promote biodiversity, and of critical importance, store massive quantities of CO2.  Agricultural lands everywhere hold a critical key to addressing climate change and the rapid loss of biodiversity now sweeping the planet. 

Today I learned the heat wave gripping British Columbia has resulted in the death of more than a billion seashore animals, and 75 percent of the crops have been literally cooked on the vine. Wildfires in that province are three times the normal with two thirds of them burning out of control.  Temperatures reached 121 degrees in a small village within the Canadian temperate rainforest, and within days 90 percent of the town burned in a wildfire. The haze from western fires is influencing our weather.  We’re talking a lot about climate change, promising technologies and practices, but global emissions continue to rise. We’re planning trips, rebuilding our economy, getting back to normal following a pandemic that might not be over. The oceans are rising and there will be mass migrations of people away from coastal cities probably before their new 30 year mortgages have matured. Most of us lack the mental construct to know what we’re in for. It’s just too much to process.

The magnificent mountains of the west aren’t going away. Their glaciers will disappear, their flanks will turn to tinderboxes, and when fires pass through, their forests may not return and another critical carbon sink will be lost.  The Midwest is losing topsoil, and what remains is becoming less functional.  But soil can be rebuilt, and the Midwest’s value in supporting a vast array of diverse life can be improved.  We can all play a role.  We can choose foods that are produced using sustainable, soil and life enriching methods. Think of it as a birdsong in every bite. The onus is on us.

 

417.62 ppm

It’s raining, and according to the forecast it might rain for 10 days, maybe 6 or more inches before it winds down. Meanwhile, the west lies parched and baked and the reservoirs are drying up.  The northwest is insanely hot with triple digit temperatures and Siberia set an all time record of 112 degrees.  It’s not craziness, it’s 417.62 ppm CO2.

The national news outlets suggest that half of us have gone mad.  People who know history see indicators of rebellion within our borders.  The pandemic is not over, largely because too many of us refuse to be vaccinated.  Half of our government officials demonstrate less collective reasoning than a group of monkeys.  Which half depends on who you ask.

The other day I met a man for the first time and we exchanged pleasantries before the subject wandered to national affairs.  We expressed our mutual concern and  disgruntlement on matters of economy, environment, and equality, without divulging political affiliation, and later I realized I had no clue which side he was on.  We were in total agreement but might have been miles from understanding each other.  Such are the convictions that divide us. 

The rain is nice.  Gentle.  The wild raspberries are ripening so we’ve begun our forays through the brambles.  We enjoy picking, almost as much as we enjoy a big mound of fruit on our morning oatmeal.  It takes a good number of berries to satisfy a year’s worth of oatmeal and we may fall short but will give it our best shot, one berry at a time.  Wild raspberries behave a bit like mushrooms: last year’s hotspot may not be the same this year.  Yesterday we found a new patch that looks promising, in and around a brush pile we built a few years ago.  A Purdue prof once told us that birds will “plant” their preferred food types near cover they frequent, and right here was solid evidence, which made me think of the unique evolutionary relationships between everything.  Birds and box turtles and raccoons are the raspberry’s ticket to new and greener pastures. It’s a win for all.

Since we sold the business our property has been largely set free and is turning itself into a bit of a jungle.  It’s in an adolescent phase where everything is vying for a spot in the sun, and competition is fierce.  Among the participants are introduced invasives like bush honeysuckle, Bradford pear, and multiflora rose, but the natives still make a strong showing: wild grape, greenbriar, and poison ivy among the mix.  They are determined to have their piece of the pie and contribute mightily to the berry picking experience with a network of entangling stems and tendrils. It’s somewhat impressive, what a man can work through given sight of a clump of berries hanging seductively just out of reach.  It’s like Bathsheba to the eyes of David, beyond the capacity of mortal man to resist. 

We’ve seen some interesting changes in the plant communities around the property.

The place where the woodland meets the county road has always been occupied by a mix of shrubs and brambles, which is expected given the increased sunlight it receives. The area remained virtually unchanged for decades, but now has rather suddenly taken on a different composition.  Choked with invasive species and rampant vines, it has become a nearly impenetrable wall. With increasing CO2, certain plants, including wild grape, hops, and poison ivy, get a boost in virility, so again our observations are not imagined or crazy, but instead likely the result of 417.62 ppm CO2.

The man I met the other day mentioned climate change as one of his concerns.  We both agreed it was an existential threat, second to none.  But it could be he sees the threat as real but not man caused, with the only practical solution involving geo engineering.  It could be he is convinced the election was stolen, all lives matter, voter suppression or rebellion is our only hope.  We both agreed that COVID did a number on the economy but maybe he believes it was all by design and China is to blame.  Maybe he can’t wait until August when our rightful president is reinstated and the wall can be completed and America can be made great again.  

He and I need to pick some raspberries, sort things out, see where we stand. At this point we’ve only established common ground but could be at odds when it comes to solutions.  Maybe if we disagree, there among the brambles, we’ll get drawn into deep discussion and the vines will ensnare us and we’ll die and be composted on the spot because we couldn’t agree on a way forward and in this way mimic the halls of Congress. But the raspberries will get a good shot of nitrogen and our carbon will get locked in the soil and the earth will experience a bit of healing so it would not all be bad.  It might be the best we can do.