Fish Tacos

On the menu tonight are fish tacos featuring northern pike from the Michipicoten River, upstream from where the grand tributary comes sliding off the Canadian Shield and empties into Lake Superior.  The package from the freezer is labeled “30 inches”, a perfect size for eating. I have no memory of catching this particular fish— it is just as likely Lee holds the honor— but even in its frozen form it conjures vivid images of a fine country and a fine river and the angry pike that inhabit it. 

I suppose they are not truly angry, but a bony ridge above their eyes gives them something of a furrowed brow, and their behavior typifies one whose patience is long exhausted. They often bump a lure, then strike hard, and if at first the hook doesn’t set they are likely to have another go at it, angry as they are.  Maybe the fish destined for our table was the one that lay hidden beneath a shoreline log and took the spoon within a nanosecond of hitting the water.  Or maybe it was the one perfectly camouflaged in a forest of potamogeton who found the jerk bait irresistible or just too annoying.  It doesn’t matter.  They all hit and fought with great vigor, and are equally appreciated.  

Our dinner plates will hold the very essence of that old voyageur route snaking through the Algoma Wilderness.  On a flour tortilla, in a fillet coated with spiced breading and fried to golden perfection, will lie the river’s black water holes, its shallow flats, its shoreline of cedars and spruce. There will be a smooth sauce of mayo and home canned salsa, our frozen corn brought to fresh picked sweetness with a dab of butter and simmer of heat, a helping of shredded cabbage, a spoonful of diced black olives, a finely chopped green onion, a sprinkle of Parmesan.  

I could go to the market and buy fish. It might taste as good or better than our pike, but it likely would have been harvested by some ocean going vessel equipped with the finest technology, towing a huge net that bounced across the ocean floor, destroying reefs while collecting countless non-targeted species.  And every year the ship travels further and works harder to locate its prey because populations are a fraction of what they once were. Overfishing and the destruction of mangrove shorelines and a general decline in ocean health has taken its toll. 

I know exactly where the pike came from, how it was harvested, how it was handled prior to eating.  I know it came from a sustainable fishery. I know of a quaint northern community that benefits when folks from outside come to spend money and time in wild country, and to catch fish. It’s a win on several fronts.  

It can be reasonably argued that there’s nothing local about fish that are 650 miles away, that no ecological good comes from our road trip, and after tallying up the costs of licenses, gasoline, gear, and assorted expenses, a market fish likely makes more economic sense.  We could fish locally, substituting panfish for pike.  But our trips north are more than the fish we bring back.  Over a couple decades we have made improvements to a simple off grid cabin, found lady’s slipper and calypso orchids in bloom, picked wild blueberries, watched moose and bear, wolves and lynx, attended area fish fries, developed solid friendships.  It’s hard to put a price on such incidentals. 

In the beginning were more innocent days, when true environmental costs were not at the fore, when a run up north was only dictated by arranging free time and justifying the dollars spent. Those days came with an illusion that we were living simply and independently while there, when in fact we were heavily reliant on gasoline, propane, and staples that all needed to be shipped to a remote community which was a half hour drive from our cabin.  In reality, we were more independent and would have made a lesser environmental impact had we stayed home with our garden and solar panels. 

The world has changed, and the travel and routines and conveniences we’ve taken for granted can no longer be assumed without consideration of environmental costs. It's a valuable and necessary change, long overdue, and begins with simple awareness. 

I haven't a clue where the olives for tonight’s tacos were grown, how they were processed, how far they traveled to reach my store’s shelf. I know nothing of the Parmesan cheese.  But the pike came from a reliable source which is under no critical threat, and in the fillet are sweet memories of a wild place where angry fish reside.  All things considered, it may cost too much, or it might be priceless.  

Maybe Not As Bad As It Seems

 I have a routine of enjoying a good amber ale in late afternoon.  On summer-like days I’ll sometimes take it on the deck overlooking the pond, where there is always activity in the form of a wayward muskrat with a mouthful of succulent iris, or a squabble among geese, or swallows dipping in low on iridescent wings to snatch insects at the water’s surface.  My wife and old dog join me, and at some point in the activity I typically generate a deep and satisfying belch which I blow in the dog’s face.  The dog recognizes this as a personal and powerful bonding mechanism and seems to enjoy it immensely.  My wife, not so much.

In the garden is a conundrum, first experienced a year ago in the sweet corn patch.  The seeds were planted as always but germination was very sporadic, with long sections showing nothing.  I decided to replant the voids and found a mole tunnel occupying the space where corn had been planted, so I filled in the tunnels and dropped in new seed.  A couple days later the tunnels were back and the seed was gone.  There was a third failed attempt, so ultimately the seed was started in flats, the freshly emerged corn transplanted to the garden, and in the end we had a successful crop. This year the corn was planted and the space between rows immediately mulched with a thick layer of grass clippings for weed control.  In about three days I again noticed mole tunnels running down the center of almost all the rows, and where the mole had been, not a seed could be found.  

The mystery is this:  Moles are insect eaters.  I have to date found no documentation of their seeking out a kernel of corn for food.  Instead, the references say, there is a vole traveling the mole tunnel and devouring the seed.  With 600 corn seeds planted in flats as backup, today I will experiment using a turpentine dampened cloth to spread some stink on the seed surface before replanting the patch.  I suppose the answer is immaterial because the objective is to raise a crop of corn, and vermin, in one form or another, is making it difficult. But I highly suspect that moles, regardless of their known food preferences, are the culprits.  Why else would they make parallel tunnels two feet apart?

In other news, I was out collecting garden mulch the other day and happened upon a patch of wildflowers which, prior to this year, had gone unnoticed.  They covered the ground with a violet mist and occupied an area at least as large as our kitchen table.  I had no clue what they were, so in fading daylight Lee and I went to the spot for closer inspection and to collect a specimen.  Turns out they are a member of the waterleaf family and known as Miami Mist, which is a reasonable common name because their delicate and heavily fringed petals indeed have a misty appearance.  They are also known as Scorpianweed, which is a name having no logical sense.  They occupy rich woodlands throughout much of the Midwest, east, and south.  I am not at all sure how they found their way to this property but am happy enough they did.

The heat has come on strong in this latter half of May.  We have resumed our daily swims in the pond, which for me is synonymous with nightly leg cramps. But somehow an hour of flailing about in water, gasping for air as my pulse triples, feels like a good thing. The garden, with the exception of sweet corn, is literally exploding.  We had fresh picked strawberries last night alongside generous portions of an asparagus, rice, and cheese casserole, infused with chopped green onions and garlic sauteed in butter and wine, smothered in a thick chicken broth and cream sauce, and topped with cheesy bread crumbs baked to a crisp.  

It’s a great time to have a working mouth and functioning gut.  It’s a glorious time to stumble upon a heretofore unknown wildflower illuminating an area of woodland, to ponder garden vermin and challenge conventional wisdom on the food habits of moles, to watch a little green heron, frozen to a log, poised to pluck an unsuspecting minnow.  In a world that is barraged with threats mostly of our own doing, there is real contentment to be found on a pondside deck following an invigorating swim, a chilled ale in hand, a good wife, and an old dog looking for an intimate bonding opportunity.  Maybe things aren’t as bad as they seem.

The Best of Precarious Times

 My wife and I are both of German descent, with parents and grandparents directly linked to our ancestral home.  I’ve never made much effort to explore the family tree, to become familiar with individuals or their values, how they earned a living, why they left the motherland.  Maybe if I looked I’d find some explanation for my quirky behaviors.  Sometimes I think I should learn the language as a way of paying homage, or to be ready in the event the ghost of a dead relative appears in a dream and says, “Joe, wir sind eine Familie. Können wir reden?” but I understand nothing so the opportunity is lost. 

Some spiritual teachings claim we have always existed in one form or another and select a period or multiple periods in earth’s history to live our human lives.  We choose, seeing a particular opportunity or purpose. It’s an interesting concept, but what could be the motivation to be born into abject poverty, a life of slavery, plagued by incurable illness?  

If I’d had a choice, I would have joined the family tree as part of an early Germanic tribe and lived in a community of farmers, keeping a wary eye on the Vikings and Romans. Or I would have been on an early boat and among the first settlers moving west across a perceived untouched country, thrilled by the prospect of receiving land given freely by a government that simply claimed that land with little regard for its occupants.

But maybe, as a Marcommani or Ostrogoth or some other Germanic tribesman, I’d find discontentment on the farm, grow tired of beating out a living with primitive tools, perpetuating an existence that had endured for millennia. Maybe, as an early US immigrant, I'd be less interested in the welfare of a seemingly inexhaustible wilderness than on tools and practices that promised an easier and more efficient livelihood. I may have shared the ill conceived notion that native Americans lacked sophistication and were incapable of appreciating the better life we offered.  

I don’t believe I had a choice of ancestors or a time in earth’s history, but simply hit the jackpot.  I appreciate a good metal tool, even more a hydraulic machine that delivers tons of force at the flick of a lever.  I appreciate advances in medicine that cure disease, replace worn bones, allow a rogue virus to be tamed in record time.  I like hooking up our popup camper and driving 6000 miles.  I love the internet, with all the knowledge of the world at my fingertips.  I like cooking with gas, a well stocked grocery, refrigeration, glass jars, endless conveniences.  I don’t like supporting the world’s richest man, but when I order an item from Amazon and get it in two days, I‘m happy. I live in a world where in a matter of hours I can be anywhere in it. 

So much of what we have and take for granted comes at an environmental cost that can not long continue.  A fox that raids the henhouse nightly will one day find it empty. Rats in a New York alley live large until resources run scarce and they turn on each other.  What our ancestors averted for tens of thousands of years we have brought to bear in a couple centuries.  Our concern for the welfare of the planet is not good enough, but if we had it to do over again and without the knowledge of today, would we do anything different?

I like sliding into an electric car charged to full power by sunlight, and growing food using the same simple principles and methods practiced by ancestors.  I like recycled products  and for our future’s sake nothing should be made that cannot be totally recycled.  Cradle to cradle, zero waste. I like the promise of hemp products, everything from clothing to carbon negative construction materials.  I’m thrilled by the almost daily advances in renewable energies, agriculture, and other sciences that meld with natural systems and offer genuine hope for a long and sustainable future.

 

This morning the sun rose on a sparkling spring day following a gentle two inch rain. The crabapples and lilacs are in full bloom, oak leaves are the size of squirrel ears, three broods of goslings are exploring the yard, asparagus spears are in need of picking.  We watched as 13 hooded merganser ducklings leapt from a nest box, urged on by a nervous mother. The entire countryside is literally exploding with life. I took photos and within seconds shared them with the world. Thanks to a string of Germans who kept the lineage alive I am here to see it all, in the best of precarious times.  

Still Get It Done

When I was young and invincible I saw an old farmer sitting on the tailgate of his pickup counting out ears of fresh picked sweet corn.  We made small talk, and I remember him saying he still worked just as hard as he ever did but didn’t get nearly as much done.  I’m not sure why his comment stuck with me but it has, and now decades later I can totally relate.

Lee and I have been busy this spring with a long list of chores and have actually made noticeable and satisfying progress.  On any given day we start when we’re ready and quit when we’ve had enough. The hours we spend are a fraction of what we once put in but we’re okay with it.  We feel no pressure to maximize productivity, our health is good enough, we have each other, a fine property.  Who really deserves something this good?  Regardless of how hard a person works and plans there is no shortage of ways to see a lifetime of effort snuffed out and what you have in the end boils down to luck, good or bad.  We try to shift the odds in our favor but never is there an iron clad guarantee.

Retirement is a uniquely human experience.  The vast majority of animals never get a taste of the golden years. Those raised as livestock are often taken out in their prime, and their wild counterparts are weaned from existence at the first sign of weakening.  Even the most long lived wild species are never absolved of their responsibility to fend for themselves, to find food and suitable habitats.  The family dog is an exception, if it finds itself in a loving home.  A dog is essentially born into a splendid retirement. It only needs to adhere to a few basic commands to be showered with love and praise, fed religiously, provided health care, released from domestic responsibilities and forgiven a host of transgressions.  It lives the good life from day one.

We had freakish weather around Earth Day, dangerously cold for emerging plants.  We went to some effort to cover and insulate strawberries in full bloom and numerous vegetables that we should have waited to plant.  Some things, like a giant peach tree ablaze with pink flowers, we could do little for, so we waited and watched for the certain damage that would follow two successive nights of temps in the mid 20’s.  But incredibly, the flowers were unscathed.  The delicate petals survived by adjusting their solutes, proteins, and membrane lipids to withstand desiccation and ice crystal formation, or were witness to an act of divine intervention, or a bit of both.

I opened the door to a mid April morning and was greeted by a fresh snow covering and abundant bird song.  A bit of inclimate weather fails to overrule the influence of swollen gonads and the urge to establish territories.  The machinery driving natural processes is not easily altered or interrupted.  It takes something big like an asteroid impact or massive volcanic eruption to shake things up on a broad scale, and these things happen, but rarely. Or the same life altering disturbance can occur insidiously over a couple centuries, driven by something subtle, say a small shift in atmospheric compounds. 

Earth Day came and went with many of the same declarations and warnings that have been aired for decades.  This year, on the day we celebrate our reverence for the planet, there were, give or take, 150 species of plants and animals lost to extinction, over three billion tons of glacial ice lost to melting, and over 80000 acres of rainforests intentionally burned, all while we emitted over 90 million metric tons of CO2.

Life goes on, and lucky people and lucky dogs retire while millions more work and plan and look to find hope in a better future.  And many find hope has to be rooted in action, that demanding change is the only way hope can exist, that persuading others to recognize, support, and contribute to remedying the climate crisis reigns supreme.  Relying on luck assures a bad outcome, and everyone has a role, even and especially those of us beyond our most productive years, those responsible for the mess, who did not follow through on Earth Day proclamations in the past.  We can still get it done.

Hopes and Happenings, Thrills and Threats

Spring is in full gallop, and one day soon will mesh seamlessly with summer.   We hunted mushrooms yesterday, crawling through the woods as we must, the cussed honeysuckle being as they are.  But we found a handful of morels and declared the fungi season underway.

The onions are excited, growing with great zeal, their pointed foliage rising from the earth like an army marching into battle with swords skyward.  The spinach, radishes, peas, are also progressing nicely.  There is a long and arduous list of things needing done, and it leaves us with a choice to become either motivated or overwhelmed.  NPR recently interviewed a man released from prison who spoke of the thrill in traveling from one destination to another without being handcuffed, of the joy in waiting in line for a couple hours at the DMV, at seeing a child at play, and having the freedom to choose an onion to add to an evening meal.  Attitude is everything.

The beavers have developed a routine of coming at dusk onto a strip of land separating our two ponds.  They’re looking for corn remaining from the ration my wife, Lee, puts out for the wood ducks and geese.  (If, upon dying, you find reincarnation an option, choose to be a bird and fly to Lee’s house.  Better yet, come back as her dog.  You will want for nothing.)  This year, a goose is brooding on the same strip of land and her mate does not take to uninvited guests.  He is effective in driving one beaver away, while another is not easily intimidated and feeds contentedly even while being jabbed in the rump by the gander.

In late afternoon I was on the dock and looked up to see a hen wood duck disappear into a nest box after approaching with amazing speed and rifling through the entrance hole in an instant.  This is the same box we checked a couple weeks ago and found several eggs laid by a hooded merganser.  It’s not an uncommon thing to have the two species using the same box, with one or the other ultimately taking on incubation duties.  But what is a diving duckling to make of being shown the ways of survival by a dabbling mother?   Or, imagine a duckling inclined to teeter forward with its butt in the air to pick a snail from vegetation while its apparent siblings dive for minnows and aquatic insects.  What if we were raised by orangutans and encouraged to forage and sleep in trees?  Apparently, the ducks sort it out.

There is frost in the forecast so the flowers on the Carlesii Viburnum outside our office door could be threatened.  The Carlesii, with a fragrance so powerful it can make me feel I’ve eaten too many donuts when I’ve had none, shows no apprehension towards frost, nor do the peach or strawberry blossoms, the trillium or toothworts.  They’ve experienced this routine countless times and despair not.  Consternation is reserved for people who, graced with logic and reason, recognize threats and react accordingly.  

And here is the perfect segway to mention our dismally slow response to catastrophic environmental threats.  A recent article by a team of ecologists and published under the title “Underestimating the Challenges of Avoiding a Ghastly Future” sums it up. (You can read it here: www.frontiersin.org, or an opinion here:  https://www.facebook.com/680888411/posts/10158218969178412/).  

I have a tendency to steer the conversation towards environmental doom, and why is that?  I recently asked my friend, Jim, to respond to an essay I’d written which laid out our environmental future in black and white, and his response was, “What’s your point?”  He avoids the news regarding climate change though he is finely tuned to the threat.  He does what he reasonably can to reduce his carbon footprint, but is more focused on staying active and happy in life.  Further into the conversation he mentions the solace he finds in the belief that humans will one day soon be gone, and the earth, with the luxury of time, will begin the long process of rebuilding to her former glory.  

My point, Jim, is that it’s all so unnecessary.  Solutions to this environmental crisis are truly within our grasp and a worldwide implementation of remedies would not only assure continuation of the human race but would, in the process, address a host of societal woes and injustices.  Our occupation of the planet doesn’t have to end.

True to forecast there was a heavy frost last night.  It’s good we didn’t plant the impatience we bought, bad that we left the flat sitting out.  The morning is bright and sunny.  A squirrel is at the feeder, her teats clearly defined.  The onions, unscathed by the cold, are marching on. Dozens of birds are claiming territories, advertising for mates.  A planet is poised to heal.

Where We Are

June stopped for a visit this April. Temperatures approached 80°, and with plenty of sunshine the lawn awoke and greened and was soon worthy of mowing.  In the garden, fall planted garlic put out fresh shoots, puckered rhubarb leaves unfurled; spinach, radish, and peas germinated.  On the log at the pond’s edge, over 40 turtles basked in the warming sun, and the yard was a symphony of birdsong.  In late afternoons we would sit on the deck overlooking the pond, a balmy breeze carrying hints of hyacinth, a chilled brew in hand, and revel in the great awakening. 

But there were notable absences.  The cacophony of birdsong lacked the melodious warble of bluebirds. In our walks along the pond edge, snakes were a scarcity, as were frogs and toads.  On the south wall of the chicken house where the first warm days typically bring a gathering of wasps and flies, there were few.

It’s early in the season.  Birds are still moving, insects, reptiles, amphibians, still emerging from overwintering retreats or yet to hatch.  It’s too soon to draw conclusions for the year, but over decades on this property we have noticed downward trends in both the variety of species and their relative numbers, even as the quality of key habitats has markedly improved.  

Worldwide, loss of species diversity is well documented and sooner or later will be apparent everywhere.  It’s a canary in the coal mine moment, where the canary is a host of wild populations and the mine is the biosphere. The canary is dying.  It’s insidious, but the day comes when we realize instead of dozens of migratory swallows darting over the pond there is but a handful, the young toads that once numbered hundreds in the outdoor stairwell to the basement are nonexistent, the flowers on the willow that should be abuzz with pollinators hang in nearly undisturbed silence.  

Explanations are many, and all are based on an ambitious objective for societal growth with a less than adequate consideration for environmental health.  We have, in our quest for comfort, convenience, and an overall higher standard of living, acquiesced to corporate influence, pledged our allegiance to a capitalistic ideal, and let pass our best shot to assure an optimistic future for the generations that will follow us.  We have infused our environment with forever chemicals, overfished and contaminated our oceans with plastics, subscribed to destructive agricultural practices, abused our waterways, and set a solid course towards climate catastrophe.

So where are we?  Mayer Hillman, an 86 year old British architect and town planner who spent his life promoting a more socially and environmentally conscious public policy, believes we are doomed.  He says it with a broad smile and a twinkle in his eye, following his 60 plus years of work to call attention to the threat of climate change, and particularly the role that automobiles have played (he is an enthusiastic supporter of bicycles).  He likens his apparent cheerfulness with the attitude taken by someone diagnosed with terminal illness: they do all they can to prolong their lives and rarely go on a disastrous binge.  His focus today is on music, love, and education.  Happiness, he says, can still be pursued and enjoyed with little or no fossil fuel consumption.

Hillman points out that even if the world dropped carbon emissions to zero today, we would not prevent the ice caps from melting.  There are consequences in having CO2 levels spike to a range not seen in three million years, and most of those consequences are yet to be experienced.

The majority of us now recognize the dire environmental threats we face and accept responsibility for them. Many of us take personal action to lessen our impact on natural systems in our daily decisions and behaviors, on the purchases we make. Hillman believes our efforts are futile, that we cannot separate ourselves from our reliance on fossil fuels and the endless stream of products produced via non sustainable and often toxic practices. A collapse of civilization, he believes, is likely.

Not everyone in the earth sciences agrees.  Some hold firm to a more hopeful outlook and believe we will, eventually, make the right decisions so life can go on. But it will not be an easy transition and things will assuredly get worse before they get better.  The burning of fossil fuels will play no role in the future and there will be dramatic changes in our use of and respect for our remaining natural resources, our attitudes towards natural systems, the foods we eat, our values, even our way of defining and finding happiness.  Almost everything must change.  What we cannot do is pretend we can save ourselves with a new and improved environmental awareness while hundreds of airports are being built, cruise liners gear up for business as usual, and countries are salivating to see GDP’s return to pre-pandemic levels.

We haven’t lost our spirit, and like Hillman, still have the ability to recognize and enjoy good music and company, to love people, to ride bikes, to smile and be decent to one another.  We haven’t lost the opportunity to educate ourselves, to demand equality and a fair distribution of wealth, to defend democracy and better understand, appreciate, and respect the magnificence in nature.  We don’t have to lose hope and let go of happiness.  We can still make the world a better place.

Springing into an Electric Car

I got my drivers license in the 60’s when the SS 396 and GTO were the sweetest cars on the road. It was a time when a car’s value was measured by the number of barrels in its carburetor, how it purred at idle and roared when the throttle was open.  In those days most of us didn’t look at engine heat and noise as lost energy.  We were even less likely to think that gases spewed from tailpipes might one day contribute to a global climate crisis.  Instead, we accepted the internal combustion engine as an essential and necessary part of our lives, and over the decades saw cars grow cleaner, quieter, smarter, refined by a litany of complicated and synchronized parts, while their elemental reliance on gasoline and oil remained unchecked.

Last week we bought an electric car, and in an instant all the sophistication and refinement of the gasoline engine seemed cumbersome and antiquated.  The car performs without a combustion fuel or lubricating oil, so at a very fundamental level breaks a long standing tradition.  There are no pistons, spark plugs, valves, camshafts, or rocker arms.  There is instead a comparatively simple motor powered by electrons. The low rumble of the 396 has given way to scarcely audible hums and whirs in a vehicle with thrust and responsiveness akin to something out of Star Wars.  It’s not the Millenium Falcon, but close.

More than 120 years ago, Thomas Edison was working to improve the lead acid battery and was zinging along roadways passing horse drawn buggies in his electric powered car.  At the same time, Henry Ford was continuing work on the internal combustion engine. And then we found ancient oil deep in the earth and our preference fell to a noisy, polluting, inefficient technology that has led to a multitude of health and environmental concerns. 

A sewer pipe and a car’s exhaust share a similar purpose: to carry waste.  The electric car lacks this appendage as there is no combustion and no associated byproducts.  And in an electric car, the energy historically lost in the process of braking, as well as that made available while coasting downhill, is captured and sent to the battery to help propel the car down the road.  It is an infinitely cleaner, more efficient, preferred method of transportation, and a thrill to experience.  On a single charge we can drive up to 250 miles with zero emissions using a battery that is guaranteed a hundred thousand miles in a car requiring essentially zero maintenance. The average daily commute in the US is 32 miles.

A few days ago we drove to an Indy destination which, according to the map app, was 75 miles one way.  It was a cool day, low 40’s, cloudy and blustery.  It takes a lot of battery energy to heat a car’s cabin so we were curious to see how we’d get along.  We ran the heat sporadically, visited relatives, made a couple stops for groceries and lunch, and returned home with 92 miles to spare.  No fuel burned, no worries.  We kept passing businesses featuring big display signs with illuminated numbers, but the product they were promoting was foreign to us. We pulled into our shed and plugged in the car to get recharged from a bank of solar panels.  But even without the panels, even if we were stuck with powering up with energy from outdated coal fired power sources, it would still be a win for the environment, and still cost significantly less than gasoline and routine maintenance.

It’s April and in our part of the globe spring is weaving its way into a world fraught with problems and challenges, but there are glimmers of hope.  We are at the precipice of massive infrastructure changes that will make long distance travel in battery powered vehicles convenient and mainstream as momentum in the industry appears unstoppable.  It’s one small step up a mountain of challenges that must be met if we’re to preserve what is left of our functioning biosphere.  As more of us experience the thrill, satisfaction, and economic benefits of electric vehicles, this step should be a quick one.