In early January, rainfall in California led to historic flooding as storm systems lined up across the Pacific and brought wave after wave of atmospheric rivers ashore. Reservoirs, long critically low, overflowed. For much of the state, the grip of the megadrought lessened, at least temporarily.
The event brought snow to the Sierras, more than 300 inches, and the forecast promised additional feet! South Lake Tahoe was buried under billows of powder, its streets flanked with snow banks reaching 8-12 ft or higher. We stepped out the door, clipped our boots into cross country skis, and traveled city streets and sidewalks to the shore of the largest alpine lake in North America, a lake whose crystalline waters run deeper than Superior’s. We skied among the ponderosa and Jeffrey pines, their boughs heavy with snow, radiant in the sun. They stood in sharp contrast against a blue sky enriched by the blackness of space. High altitude blue is a color all its own.
The elephant seals hauled out onto the beaches of coastal California. Breeding bulls gathered harems. Cows gave birth. For several weeks an ancient scene played out as bulls fought and pups were weaned and females were bred.
We hiked the headlands north of Bolinas and stood on a bluff at the edge of the continent. Below us a shale reef parallel to shore was speckled with resting harbor seals, a mix of gulls, a few cormorants. Behind us, within the boundaries of Point Reyes National Seashore, lay pastureland flecked with coyote brush and pocket gopher mounds. A coyote appeared, rolled onto its back to scratch in loose sand, pounced unsuccessfully at something, then strolled past us within 20 feet, showing scant regard. We saw northern harriers, kestrels, coopers and red tailed hawks, groups of bluebirds and white crowned sparrows, mule deer, a black-tailed jackrabbit, a burrowing owl.
We happened upon a couple biologists trying to determine the southernmost range of the mountain beaver. When they learned of our Midwest connection one asked about fireflies, and the conversation shifted to a European study showing a dramatic decline in overall insect populations. “The animal that is the foundation of the food web,” the biologist noted, “is in rapid decline worldwide, and few are talking about it.” He shook his head resolutely before disappearing in the headlands to resume his work.
We drove to Mount Tamalpais and hiked a canyon trail. A cool rain was falling on the redwoods. The canyon waterways raced and leapt and cascaded among misty ferns and primeval forests.
So much can look and feel right when so much is wrong. The benchmarks we use to define environmental quality are always in a state of flux. Populations of birds, insects, fish, mammals, the number and extent of areas wild and undisturbed, the health of soils and oceans, are nearly all in steady or dramatic decline. We look at what we have, recognize the good, adjust the benchmark and resume living as we do.
Lee and I recently realized that in the past year we saw fewer house flies than butterflies, and far fewer butterflies than usual. We saw no more than a few dozen grasshoppers, a smattering of snakes and frogs, zero June bugs, and the number of insects drawn to the summer evening porch light was slim. As of mid February, ice covered only six percent of the Great Lakes, compared to an average of 41 percent, and sea ice globally was the lowest on record. In the past 50 years, world animal populations have decreased nearly 70 percent.
We made a road trip to west coast destinations and in the process pumped over 9000 pounds of CO2 into the atmosphere. We returned to find canada geese showing interest in nest islands, to sandhill cranes winging northward, to an intensity of bird song that seemed unusual for mid February. And, this morning, a single golden eagle winged its way over the pond.
Finding the good in our environment is a healthy habit and a source of hope, but recognizing what has been lost and what we’re losing keeps our objectives grounded in reality. It shows us what happens when destructive practices are not abandoned, when opportunities for curative actions are missed. It allows a truer perspective when so much still seems so right.
