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.