An Alien Among the Gophers

I walk with our dog Ouiser through an old goat pasture pockmarked with gopher mounds. She walks gingerly, stiff-legged, like crossing a minefield. She pauses and cocks her head, this way, then that. Hearing what I cannot. Smelling what I cannot. Then she stiffens, cocks her head again, pounces and comes up empty-handed.

The dog’s perception of her environment is markedly different from mine. We occupy the same space but look and behave, think and respond differently. If not for a centuries-old familiarity, we would view each other as alien. 

On a September day in 1994, 62 children on recess at a private Zimbabwe school saw one or more silver discs land in a nearby field. Investigating, they encountered human-like figures clothed in black with large, dark eyes, slits for mouths, and waxy skin. When interviewed individually, the kids’ descriptions and experiences were consistent. They said they communicated with the beings with thoughts rather than words, and the telepathic message was clear: cut pollution and stop harming the planet. 

As with all alleged extraterrestrial encounters, there were skeptics. But years following the event the students are sticking to their story with a conviction that what they experienced was an encounter with an alien life form. 

It’s curious that petroglyphs left by the ancients some 8000 years ago include drawings eerily similar to modern day alien descriptions, and may include images of what appear to be beings in spacesuits. Ancient civilizations of Chinese, Mayans, Aztecs and Incas spoke of visitors coming from the heavens with knowledge for mankind.  The historic record holds no shortage of eyewitness claims suggesting we’re not alone in the universe. 

There are hundreds of billions of planets in our galaxy and over two trillion galaxies in the known universe. That reality allows a high probability that life has evolved elsewhere. Scientists today generally agree that simple life forms likely exist beyond earth, but are less united that there are advanced civilizations.

In the past few years a number of military pilots have come forward with video documentation of UFO’s (better known today as UAP— Unidentified Anomalous Phenomenon) caught on radar. The objects defy known laws of physics, move at extreme speeds, stop and turn abruptly, enter the ocean without a splash and move underwater with no apparent resistance. 

The videos made the news despite the crafts being poorly defined in blurred images, like so many snapshots of Sasquatch. In a 2025 documentary, The Age of Disclosure, quantum physicist Hal Puthoff described how blurring could be caused by a “warp bubble,” where spacetime is captured and wrapped in some kind of energy shield.  Mind-twisting stuff. 

In theory, it could actually explain how a UAP doesn’t move through air or water like a manmade vehicle. The craft would be in its own unearthly environment, insulated from air and water and gravitational forces. The theory could explain many baffling mysteries that have accompanied reported UAPs for decades.  

The Age of Disclosure focuses on an 80-year government coverup of UAP sightings and the retrieval of crashed alien crafts with their occupants. According to the documentary, the information has been carefully guarded— even presidents are kept in the dark and informed on a need-to-know basis. 

There have been an especially high number of sightings around nuclear installations, be they power plants, missile silos, or submarines. Maybe the higher frequency is related to the increased surveillance around such things. Or maybe not. There are documented reports of spacecraft hovering over missile silos and rendering them inoperable, leading to speculation that alien life may intervene if broadscale nuclear war becomes imminent. 

It’s a nice thought— that we might be spared self destruction by some advanced life form, that we might be shown a way to some new and unlimited clean energy, that our earthly paradise might be savedm. But considering world history, the nation first to grasp this advanced technology would likely use it to subdue long held adversaries rather than embrace a new intergalactic era for the benefit of all.

There is talk that extraterrestrial life could be living among us. Think of the movie Cocoon— aliens clothed in human skin, monitoring our activities, moving towards some undisclosed objective. 

It has me thinking Ouiser is from a different star system. She’s worked her way into my everyday, trained me to walk behind her and pick up her poop, deceived me into believing she is poor at catching gophers when she can neutralize all she wants with lasers shot from her eyeballs. At night, she curls next to my sleeping form and beams the day’s synopsis to a disc shrouded in an energy bubble somewhere in the darkness of space. Before all is lost, she’ll intercede. I’m sure of it. 

It’s the Going, Not the Getting There

We packed the truck and travel trailer and pointed the wheels west. It’s an annual excursion, spurred by two sons living on the West Coast. We’ll take our time this year, we say— shorter hours on the road, a new route, fewer interstates, slower miles. 

The weather is clear but windy. It’s always windy, and rarely in our favor for optimum gas mileage. We push on, feeling the guilt that comes from paying good money to release ancient carbon. 

We dip southwest, crossing the Illinois and Mississippi rivers, passing through landscapes not so different from home. The six cylinder purrs, the rig feels balanced and solid. We find state parks new to us where we spend our nights, and settle into a rhythm on the road. 

In the Great Plains we see remnants of once expansive prairies and think of the early settlers— immigrants traveling with oxen and wagons and every earthly possession, lured by a dream, crossing an endless landscape with bluestem, Indiangrass, and switchgrass swishing underfoot. Day after day, week after week, fording streams, repairing broken spindles, relying on questionable maps to guide them to a piece of land they hoped to call their own. Winter was coming. Their destination had to be reached with time to build a sod hut and lay in stores for the harsh prairie winter. 

We’re reminded of the massive herds of buffalo that roamed here, the physical and spiritual role they played in sustaining a people for thousands of years; how their numbers were reduced from 60 million to a few hundred by settlers and the US government in a purposeful attempt to destroy the lives of indigenous tribes. 

And less than 300 years later here we are, cruising at 60 miles per hour on smooth, paved roadways, towing a trailer equipped with food and furnishings and modern gadgetry. It’s not camping— it’s relocating a small and fully functional home on a daily basis. 

The plains transition to high desert, to mountains flecked with juniper, sage, pine, and air rich with their fragrance.  Tumbleweeds bounce across the roadway. There are magpies, ferruginous hawks, golden eagles, bobcats, foxes, pronghorns. 

We’re in the land of petroglyphs and ancient cliff dwellers and perfectly preserved dinosaur tracks, where rivers slice through bedrock exposing hundreds of millions of years of geologic history in canyon walls. The immensity of time on full display. 

We take a northwesterly course and cross more desert, stopping for gas at a convenience store stocked to the brim with fresh produce, meats and groceries. Little can be produced locally so it’s all trucked from California’s central valley, as is the bulk of foods across the US. Oddly, with reduced transportation, food in this desert may be more ecologically sound than elsewhere. It seems ludicrous that the Midwest, with the world’s finest soils and plentiful water, uses about half of its resources to produce highly subsidized and inefficient fuel rather than growing food for local consumption.  Beyond ecological advantages, local food leads to tight-knit, resilient, welcoming communities.  

These thoughts linger as we climb the east slope of the Sierra, where lodgepole and Jeffrey pines grow among giant, scattered boulders. We walk among them and climb to vistas overlooking the largest alpine lake in North America, then we’re back in the truck continuing west. 

And a mere 3000 miles after departure we unhook the trailer on the edge of the continent. We reunite with two middle aged men we still call boys.  We kayak through kelp forests, hike the headlands and redwoods, snorkel with octopus and seals. We eat great food, laugh, enjoy mezcal and michelatas.

A marathon is 26.2 miles long. Driving the distance takes a half hour or less and is a mindless accomplishment, but covering it on foot is a challenge with huge personal rewards. A road trip has similarities. Air travel is quick but poking along backroads keeps us grounded physically and metaphorically. In a hyper-fast world, slowing down is a balm. 

There is a contradiction here as we inflict more damage on the environment in an effort to experience and appreciate new biomes. There is gratitude here for the means to travel at our leisure and spend time with our sons. There is opportunity here to reflect on geologic and evolutionary forces, to consider the history of humanity with all its warring and injustices, its progress and potential, its goodness.  There is hope here, realizing that our abused planet is still strong, beautiful, and ready to heal for our sake if we’ll give it half a chance. 

Crossing the continent on a road trip doesn’t change the world— it changes us. The destination isn’t the end; it’s a reason to keep going.  Singer-songwriter Harry Chapin summed it up nicely: “That’s a thought for keeping if I could. It’s got to be the going, not the getting there, that’s good.”

Hope is a Tool

I was recently asked to read some of my essays at The People’s Social, a local winery. It was a good event from my perspective, proving that a small gathering of like minds can be uplifting even when the subject matter is not. It’s not easy to be joyful when talking about biodiversity loss, the devastating consequences of climate change, and an administration that refuses to acknowledge any of it. But it’s inspiring when everyone at the table shares your concerns and respects scientific facts.  There’s solace in numbers.

Towards the end my friend Natasha asked if I could find reason for optimism, however cautious, and my knee-jerk response was to say “no.” Maybe it was a defeatist’s mindset after reading a handful of depressing essays. But then my wife Lee spoke up about Jane Goodall, and how she believed that hope was not just a feeling but a tool that created agency and inspired action. Dr. Goodall understood how small, local victories show that change is possible— keeps us working towards a better future.  Without hope, we’ve lost, thrown in the towel before the game is over, and we’re better than that. 

Galileo said the world doesn’t exist for our comfort and pleasure but has a will of its own.  The earth responds to our tampering with the carbon cycle, our contaminating land and water with plastics and long-lived toxins, but it responds without regard for our wellbeing. The laws of physics and chemistry aren’t altered on our behalf.

And yet, even as the earth heats up, our attention has been hijacked by another existential threat: the whims of a fascist government.  I understand the priority shift. Once fascism takes control it’s not easy to reverse, but history shows it’s possible. Italy broke away from Mussolini’s regime after World War II.  Germany established a democratic government after the fall of the Nazis. Spain transitioned to democracy after Franco, Portugal did the same after Estado Novo. It happens but it takes time, and time is something we can ill-afford on a rapidly warming planet. 

Justice often depends on those willing to resist unjust authority. Thoreau said, “If the law is of such a nature that it requires you to be the agent of injustice to another, then, I say, break the law.”  Committing ourselves solely to our personal lives— our jobs and ambitions and pastimes— and believing we can’t have an influence on governmental decisions, makes us complicit to the eroding of principles on which our country was founded. Remaining ignorant to the hatred and prejudices guiding current policy is inexcusable. Believing problems can be resolved through intimidation, by terrorizing legal immigrants and defying the law, takes a special kind of willful ignorance. Submitting to oligarchs fuels authoritarianism and puts us at odds with the framers of our constitution. 

I’m beyond ignoring political reality, past holding my tongue out of concern I may offend someone.  Complacency is a vote of approval.  As the late Rep. John Lewis encouraged, “make good trouble” when necessary, and today it’s necessary. 

Our niece Lydia and her delightful, inquisitive four-year-old Calvin are visiting for a few days. Calvin asks,“Why do butterflies exist?” He works his mouth as he contemplates gears on a honey extractor, squats to closely inspect a grasshopper, questions what animals might be tucked away in a hollow log. In the evening he makes the rounds to wish the pond and root cellar a goodnight. 

The future belongs to him but the kind of planet he inherits is on us. French philosopher Albert Camus said, “No matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger— something better, pushing right back.”  

That something is hope, and it moves us forward one victory at a time. 

The God of the Gaps

I once worked for a man who was baffled by the fact that a cow could eat green grass and produce white milk. He saw it as a great mystery, a miracle, giving certain evidence to the existence of a deity.  

The “God of the gaps” is a phrase used in science to explain the unexplainable. When earthly evidence hits a wall, God fills the void. Isaac Newton couldn’t fully explain the orderly motion of the planets using laws of gravity so he conceded to divine intervention.  For millennia, lightning was attributed to the likes of Thor and Zeus until Ben Franklin flew a kite in a thunderstorm and discovered charged electrons. Physical illnesses were seen as God’s punishment until Louis Pasteur introduced germ theory.  Mental illness and epilepsy were works of the devil until our understanding of brain activity, neurology, and genetics provided an explanation. The incredible diversity of life on Earth wasn’t created instantaneously but can be attributed to evolution by natural selection. Earthquakes, volcanoes, and violent storms don’t indicate a wrathful God but are natural occurrences driven by plate tectonics, geology, and weather systems.

Some fear that science and its capacity to unravel mysteries questions God’s existence. Theologians disagree, and argue that using God to explain the unexplainable holds us in ignorance rather than pushing us towards better understanding.

I heard a priest say that a loving God isn’t responsible for an earthquake that destroys lives, that natural disasters were part of creation. God does not intervene when fault lines reach their limits or twisters rip through towns.  “God,” the priest said, “is there for the rebuilding, for the strength and healing needed by survivors.” 

Faith is belief in the absence of proof, a confidence even when the odds against us are high. It keeps hope alive. But it’s not an excuse to take life sitting down, for concluding that injustices and prejudices are beyond our ability to change. 

It doesn’t take a theologian, philosopher, or academic to find the God of the gaps inspiring.  Thanks to man’s drive for knowledge and understanding, gaps are steadily whittled away. In the process, our preconceptions of the divine can evolve into something greater— more mysterious, powerful, and humbling.  Modern science asks us to be open to the possibility of a multiverse, multiple big bangs, universal consciousness, alternative realities and dimensions, reincarnation.  Rather than being threats to religious convictions, such theories suggest we might be selling our divinity short. 

There’s a parallel between our reaction to the God of the gaps and our willingness to dissect and challenge long held beliefs and practices. Most if not all world religions advocate peace. Buddhism teaches mindfulness, compassion, and detachment from desire. Christianity promotes love and forgiveness: “Blessed are the peacemakers.” “Salaam”, the root word of Islam, means “peace”, and the Quran favors reconciliation over violence. Judaism sees peace as a divine ideal. Hinduism emphasizes tranquillity and peace as a personal and cosmic goal. With peace a universal objective and wars dominating the world stage, something fundamental is long broken. 

Atheism is not a religion in the traditional sense but provides a framework for understanding life in much the same way religions do. It took me a while to accept that some of the most moral and generous people I know are atheists. Their motivation to “do unto others as you would have them do unto you” is out of common sense and decency, not eternal destiny. Too many organized religions subscribe to a slightly altered version: “Do unto others as the bastards would do unto you,” and it changes everything. 

There is no arguing the value or benefits of a spirit-filled life, but living it with stubborn righteousness is a problem. Often without realizing, we fall into lock step with misinterpretations or weaponization of scripture  to defend our positions, and justify hatred or violence against those whose beliefs are different. Religious texts were written by men with their own ingrained cultural notions regarding slavery and women’s rights and societal divisions. And over centuries original scrolls were misinterpreted in translation, rewritten, and letters and gospels withheld to satisfy scholarly attitudes of the time. 

While a college student, I heard a housemate say when we die we will meet the God of our faith, regardless of religion.  I considered it blasphemous but now see the merit in his reasoning. It allows mutual respect and understanding in a world where multiple traditions claim exclusive access to eternal destiny.

As a fourth grader, I remember a nun asking our class, by show of hands, if we lived in homes with a non-catholic parent. “Oh, pray for them,” she said, and a half dozen impressionable kids went home fearing their moms or dads were bound for hell. 

Benjamin Franklin is often misquoted to have said, “Beer is proof that a loving God exists.”  He was actually referring to wine, but either way it garners broad support regardless of religious preference. Maybe it’s a starting point, common ground for realizing we have more in common than we think.

Tonight, shortly after sunset, the light took on an orange hue, illuminating the landscape with a soft glow, highlighting the yellows and reds of early autumn. Wilderness activist Sigurd Olson wrote about it in his book, Runes of the North, after spending time afield with photographer Frank Ross. Frank would wait patiently for that rare evening light that could change the ordinary into something magical. 

Sig coined it the Ross light, and for decades the Scheidler household has used the term to describe an unworldly and satisfying evening glow. We don’t need the God of the gaps to explain the phenomenon— meteorology has it covered.  And when the Ross light bathes the countryside, people notice and are moved. Some credit their God and others say it’s just a strange and inspiring light. Either way it reveals a beauty that was always there— we just have to open our eyes to see it.

 

Abundance

We dug potatoes yesterday, a chore Lee looks forward to. I run the fork while she kneels on the ground snatching up tubers. She grins like a kid on an Easter egg hunt, squealing now and then. Every spud is a trophy. They were small this year, most the size of duck eggs. Much of the summer was extraordinarily dry and our watering efforts were half-hearted, so the yield matched expectations. But we have enough— the shelves of the root cellar are full. 

In September the sweet corn is tucked away in the freezer and the pantry is stocked with green beans, pickles, and tomatoes diced and juiced and sauced.  Labeled jars line the shelves like rank and file soldiers. Onions and garlic bulbs are fully cured, kraut and hot sauces fermented.  A year’s worth of goodness lies at the ready.  

And still the garden lives. Peppers and tomatoes and sweet potatoes will do what they do until frost shuts them down. If we were better gardeners we’d have fall crops of carrots and greens, cabbage and broccoli. But by late season we’re buried in abundance and our enthusiasm wanes, so weeds have their way.

The giant ragweed and pokeweed hide the compost piles and garden table. The smartweed and pigweed and foxtail claim every neglected space. And as wildness encroaches crickets sing, butterflies flit about the zinnias, finches feast on ripened sunflowers.

The September garden is both disorderly and inspiring, reminding us that our efforts to impose order are temporary.  The garden gives us tomatoes, sweet corn, and green beans, but a lapse in tending invites a riot of growth, diverse and aggressive with a beauty of its own.

Abundance extends beyond the garden. In early September there were thousands of demonstrations to celebrate workers over billionaires. A million seconds pass in 11 days, but a billion requires 32 years. It’s a big number, particularly when it refers to money. And the idea that a person or corporation can lay claim to so much is absurd. It is the epitome of capitalism gone berserk, inequality at its worst.

Collectively, billionaires control nearly 50 percent of the world’s wealth. Most fail to acknowledge that their fortunes were made by the working class and use their money for political leverage or personal power.  Some are directly linked to environmental and social woes, standing at the helm of corporations responsible for deforestation, oil and mineral extraction, sprawling development.  They are consumed by an inextinguishable drive for more profit.  Always more. With the ability to shape the world’s response to climate change and social justice, it seems most are more interested in bigger yachts and mansions. 

MacKinzie Scott, ex-wife of Jeff Bezos, is a standout. In four years, she gave away 14 of her 38 billion dollar divorce settlement. Sixteen hundred organizations benefited— community colleges, food banks, women’s shelters, racial justice groups. No fanfare, no philanthropic galas, just quiet, radical giving to organizations dedicated to making the world better. Her approach mirrors the generosity in nature: seeds scattered, harvests shared, growth without expectation of return. I can imagine MacKinzie planting a vegetable garden, getting her hands in the dirt, growing greens, tomatoes, and carrots— a woman grounded in reason and compassion despite her fairy tale wealth. 

The other day I saw an AI clip of the White House occupant dressed in torn trousers and a ragged jacket. He was astride an old tractor, harvesting potatoes, and I’d never seen him look more respectable. A garden humbles a man, providing food while illuminating broader planetary concerns and obligations.  Nature gives freely while greed and hoarding, with rare exception, are human tendencies.

In September, with the pantry and freezer full, we let the seeds of chance have their way. In the treetops a loose gathering of kingbirds pause on their journey south. A toad hops from under a clod of soil. Asters and tickseeds bloom. Locusts sing. 

Life in its infinite forms reminds us we are all in this together.  We are outnumbered, but fully capable of damaging environments supporting all life. Our efforts to displace and control are temporary but causing long term harm. A highly functional living planet awaits our next move.