Summer. It's not yet official but all the signs are here: leafy plants in full summer apparel, goslings the size of overgrown mallards, tulips and daffodils a distant memory. A few days ago a freeze claimed plants in the garden, we were picking morel mushrooms, and oak leaves were the size of squirrel ears, but today it’s 87 degrees and suddenly summer.
I took the tractor and bagger out to collect mulch for the garden. The trail to the field is now flanked with a wall of leafy green, screening what lies beyond. The raspberries are blooming, young squirrels are everywhere, summer has settled in. All that remains is the ripening of fruit and seed which for some plants has commenced or is already done. Maple samaras litter the yard and whirl through the air like so many disabled helicopters. The same trees have set leaf buds for next year so their seasonal objective is complete. They have nothing left but to dole away long summer days adding mass and pumping oxygen until the short days of autumn shuts them down.
Just now a squadron of wood ducks came in at top speed, flying low over the marsh. One of them hit the entrance hole of a nest box with incredible precision and disappeared inside to resume incubation duties. It’s likely she’s sitting on about 10 eggs, maybe more. Wood ducks often go about laying eggs randomly in suitable cavities, so by the time a hen settles down to brooding she might sit on as many as 30 eggs with no more than a third being her own. Once hatched, only 30-40 percent of ducklings survive their first 90 days and as few as 10 percent live to attain flight status. High mortality rates during the first year of life are extremely common among almost all wild species, primarily due to predation. It’s tough out there.
Suddenly summer, and life in infinite variety and complexity pulses on. For the keenly aware there are new discoveries. At the Institute of Technology in Zurich a graduate student noticed a particular species of bumblebee making tiny incisions in the leaves of flowering plants that were yet to bloom. Setting up an experiment, a team learned that the act of nipping leaves caused some plants to set flowers up to a month earlier than normal. Bumblebees are hungry for pollen in spring and the plants need bees for fertilization. By spurring bloom production both bee and plant are benefited. It is symbiosis in action, the bees telling the plants to hurry up already and the plants responding on cue.
The complexity and mystery in living processes has but one overriding objective: to adapt, evolve, and reproduce so life can go on. It's a course uncluttered, without accumulation of extraneous baggage or worthless possessions, running contrary to modern human tendencies. We accumulate things and assign value to holdings of questionable worth. It's a behavior unknown to our early ancestors who in practice were highly mobile with limited capacity or interest in transporting worthless stuff. Why do we keep clothes never worn? Why do we rummage through a corner of the garage or attic finding possessions long forgotten and of no critical value yet keep them? Thrift and economy are admirable traits, especially today in the land of overconsumption, but there are limits, or should be. Our sons indicate a total disinterest in dealing with our worldly collection when we’re gone, yet nary a nook or cranny remains unoccupied.
Predators collect prey, at times when not eminently necessary. The house cat is a perfect example. It will seldom pass up an opportunity to kill even when it’s belly is at capacity. But in nature nothing is lost. The mouse left by the contented cat is seized by the sharp eyed crow, so the mouse lives on in the form of a scholarly avian acrobat with a raucous voice. When the crow dies the essence of the mouse will be passed on again. In this way the mouse has an eternal and beneficial destiny. One day, when the earth is absorbed by the sun, what was the mouse will yet remain, perhaps as cosmic dust, and so it is with every living thing.
Crows, it turns out, will sometimes collect stuff and have shown interest in giving things to others. They will bring gifts of trinkets to humans who feed them and might have a cache where they store valued tools, say the perfect stick for extracting food from a tight spot. These are at best simple, practical behaviors, not unlike those employed by early man, and immensely different from the collecting and hoarding of items so common in human society today.
It is summer, the season of abundance, when innumerable seeds and fertilized eggs are cast out to be reckoned with as they will. Many do not advance beyond the embryonic state and those that do face dismal odds of surviving to reproduce. It is abundance not wasted or hoarded, as life fuels life. It is mass production with species survival in the offing. It is usually enough, sometimes just barely.
Monday, May 25, 2020
Wednesday, May 20, 2020
On Dogs
A dog lover, by definition, loves all dogs and generally treats them as well or better than human counterparts. By this I was never a dog lover, but not so my wife. I’ve often said if reincarnation is a viable option, try to come back as Lee’s dog.
From my earliest recollections we always had a dog, always a mutt, some random mixture of whatever roamed the neighborhood. I remember their names but didn’t have a close relationship with any. They were outside dogs, and when I think of them I go back to a hot summer day where as a boy of five or six I am crouched in the grass and focused on a serious project. There’s a dog’s face close to mine, fanning me with rancid breath and sharing a cloud of gnats. I do not feel a closeness.
Later in my teen years I realized dogs could be useful. I was a small game hunter so when offered a chance at a purported rabbit hound, I took it. Toby was a red tick beagle, beautifully marked with a great baritone voice. I can take you near the spot where more than 50 years ago on our first outing he brought around a rabbit which I shot, and I suddenly had a dog I wanted to kiss. He was a kennel dog, a working dog who earned his keep by helping put food on the table, and I saw value in dog ownership.
Around this same time I was spending every free moment with my grandpa. He always had dogs, one for loving and several for working. The loving dog was a boxer, Cocoa, the constant companion, the one I would hear grandpa talking to as I left the house in late evenings. The working dogs were bluetick hounds, bred and trained to hunt raccoons, and among them was Katy, the queen of the lot. She was a silent tracker. While the other dogs were baying on a hot trail Katy ran in stealth mode, and when her mournful howl joined the chorus we knew the quarry was treed. She was immune to distraction from opossums or foxes or any manner of misguiding scents. Katy had a singleness of purpose, a focused confidence, and never disappointed.
There is some confusion in the literature of exactly when or from where dogs emerged in the evolutionary tree. The prevailing thought has them linked directly to wolves, but a more recent theory suggests they evolved along with, or even before, wolves. Regardless, both wolves and dogs have traits in common, among them the preference or outright need for social presence. They are pack animals, driven to not live or work alone. In the case of domesticated dogs, humans seem to satisfy the dog’s social needs, so by default dog owners become pack members.
All packs have a hierarchy. A dog in any respectable home soon recognizes its place, not as the alpha leader but as a subordinate, which carries duties nonetheless, oftentimes as first alert when anything out of the ordinary occurs. Dogs bark to warn and protect pack associates. From my experience, dogs that bay at the moon for hours on end are always tied or kenneled, separated from the pack, so this seemingly pointless behavior might indeed have a point.
I once had a pedigreed black lab that would howl at the moon, but Pete was a kenneled dog, a couple hundred feet from the house and alone in the world. He was my first real experience in training a dog from puppyhood and I did it by the books. Anytime he was out of the kennel he was under command. He lived for those 15 minutes a day and the results were both satisfying and impressive, but given a second chance I’d change the approach. I believe now I could make a disciplined retriever from a constant companion and we would both be happier for it.
I could go on summarizing my experiences with another half dozen dogs who spent their lives with us, dogs whom Lee loved and I tolerated, and it would lead us to today, to what is likely the latter years of a 75 pound bearded cur who responds to the name “Maisy”. She has weaved her way into my heart like no other. Her ability to melt into the floor when she knows we’re leaving the house without her, or when she realizes her behavior I find disappointing, cannot go unnoticed. For whatever reason, I can see in her eyes and temperament a desperate want to please, a loyalty beyond measure, an intense desire to be worthy of inclusion in the pack. I now suspect those same traits were in all the dogs that came before, but she’s the first to break through to me. She’s also the first to make it onto our bed, and every night she lies there with neck outstretched, her head resting on my thigh, her eyes peering into mine, unflinching. “Stop staring”, I say, but she persists and I fall asleep.
The dog has helped me see what Lee’s been trying to say for nearly 45 years, that I’ve never given animals enough credit. In his book, The Outermost House: A Year of Life On The Great Beach of Cape Cod, Henry Beston writes, “For the animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours, they move finished and complete, gifted with the extension of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear.”
In a race for survival where we both begin with absolutely nothing, dogs will certainly win. And yet dogs, good dogs, offer all they have to us, unconditionally, looking only for acceptance, a place in the pack, a chance to learn, belong and contribute. They’re not people and not deserving of the treatment given people in every situation, but they are neither responsible for making a mess of the planet, for poverty, famine or injustice. Their goal is only to find a pack where they are at home and with a purpose, and they look to us for that ultimate achievement.
If we are moved to grant their request we take on the financial costs and daily accommodations, the added housekeeping, the time required for training and discipline. In return we get unwavering loyalty, a lifelong companion who forgets or overlooks our faults, a comrade who teaches patience, and the chance to share the adventure of being part of the pack.
From my earliest recollections we always had a dog, always a mutt, some random mixture of whatever roamed the neighborhood. I remember their names but didn’t have a close relationship with any. They were outside dogs, and when I think of them I go back to a hot summer day where as a boy of five or six I am crouched in the grass and focused on a serious project. There’s a dog’s face close to mine, fanning me with rancid breath and sharing a cloud of gnats. I do not feel a closeness.
Later in my teen years I realized dogs could be useful. I was a small game hunter so when offered a chance at a purported rabbit hound, I took it. Toby was a red tick beagle, beautifully marked with a great baritone voice. I can take you near the spot where more than 50 years ago on our first outing he brought around a rabbit which I shot, and I suddenly had a dog I wanted to kiss. He was a kennel dog, a working dog who earned his keep by helping put food on the table, and I saw value in dog ownership.
Around this same time I was spending every free moment with my grandpa. He always had dogs, one for loving and several for working. The loving dog was a boxer, Cocoa, the constant companion, the one I would hear grandpa talking to as I left the house in late evenings. The working dogs were bluetick hounds, bred and trained to hunt raccoons, and among them was Katy, the queen of the lot. She was a silent tracker. While the other dogs were baying on a hot trail Katy ran in stealth mode, and when her mournful howl joined the chorus we knew the quarry was treed. She was immune to distraction from opossums or foxes or any manner of misguiding scents. Katy had a singleness of purpose, a focused confidence, and never disappointed.
There is some confusion in the literature of exactly when or from where dogs emerged in the evolutionary tree. The prevailing thought has them linked directly to wolves, but a more recent theory suggests they evolved along with, or even before, wolves. Regardless, both wolves and dogs have traits in common, among them the preference or outright need for social presence. They are pack animals, driven to not live or work alone. In the case of domesticated dogs, humans seem to satisfy the dog’s social needs, so by default dog owners become pack members.
All packs have a hierarchy. A dog in any respectable home soon recognizes its place, not as the alpha leader but as a subordinate, which carries duties nonetheless, oftentimes as first alert when anything out of the ordinary occurs. Dogs bark to warn and protect pack associates. From my experience, dogs that bay at the moon for hours on end are always tied or kenneled, separated from the pack, so this seemingly pointless behavior might indeed have a point.
I once had a pedigreed black lab that would howl at the moon, but Pete was a kenneled dog, a couple hundred feet from the house and alone in the world. He was my first real experience in training a dog from puppyhood and I did it by the books. Anytime he was out of the kennel he was under command. He lived for those 15 minutes a day and the results were both satisfying and impressive, but given a second chance I’d change the approach. I believe now I could make a disciplined retriever from a constant companion and we would both be happier for it.
I could go on summarizing my experiences with another half dozen dogs who spent their lives with us, dogs whom Lee loved and I tolerated, and it would lead us to today, to what is likely the latter years of a 75 pound bearded cur who responds to the name “Maisy”. She has weaved her way into my heart like no other. Her ability to melt into the floor when she knows we’re leaving the house without her, or when she realizes her behavior I find disappointing, cannot go unnoticed. For whatever reason, I can see in her eyes and temperament a desperate want to please, a loyalty beyond measure, an intense desire to be worthy of inclusion in the pack. I now suspect those same traits were in all the dogs that came before, but she’s the first to break through to me. She’s also the first to make it onto our bed, and every night she lies there with neck outstretched, her head resting on my thigh, her eyes peering into mine, unflinching. “Stop staring”, I say, but she persists and I fall asleep.
The dog has helped me see what Lee’s been trying to say for nearly 45 years, that I’ve never given animals enough credit. In his book, The Outermost House: A Year of Life On The Great Beach of Cape Cod, Henry Beston writes, “For the animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours, they move finished and complete, gifted with the extension of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear.”
In a race for survival where we both begin with absolutely nothing, dogs will certainly win. And yet dogs, good dogs, offer all they have to us, unconditionally, looking only for acceptance, a place in the pack, a chance to learn, belong and contribute. They’re not people and not deserving of the treatment given people in every situation, but they are neither responsible for making a mess of the planet, for poverty, famine or injustice. Their goal is only to find a pack where they are at home and with a purpose, and they look to us for that ultimate achievement.
If we are moved to grant their request we take on the financial costs and daily accommodations, the added housekeeping, the time required for training and discipline. In return we get unwavering loyalty, a lifelong companion who forgets or overlooks our faults, a comrade who teaches patience, and the chance to share the adventure of being part of the pack.
Otters, Politics, and the Fate of the Planet
There are otters in the pond, several of them, and regularly. As a result we are witness to a textbook model fishery being upended by a reintroduced and supremely adept predator. It’s a reality that forces a shift in our expectations and proven pond management practices. It has me thinking wistfully of days when we caught pound size bluegill on demand, when the pond met the definition of perfect balance. It was a great pond, and I want it great again.
Otters were plentiful throughout most of the US when the Europeans arrived, but the combination of high demand for their pelts and general changes to aquatic habitats lead to their being extirpated from the majority of their original range, including indiana. In their absence, the science of small pond fisheries management was born, and pond owners who subscribed found rich rewards in the form of angling satisfaction and delectable table fare.
Otters were a part of the evolutionary process and their presence plays a role in a balanced ecosystem. In large lakes, river systems and reservoirs they are viewed favorably to overall system health and vitality. But in a small pond environment their refined predatory skills and voracious appetites have less than desirable consequences for the avid fisherman.
After a successful reintroduction effort beginning in 1995, Indiana recently removed otters from protected status and have now implemented a limited trapping season. This year I could legally take two animals, but here's the catch: Otters have huge territories. They're not like the weasel in the henhouse where a single individual can be identified and dispatched. An otter feasting yesterday in a reservoir 20 miles away could be in our pond today. The same goes for all the otters up and down the local rivers and associated tributaries.
Otters are apex predators so are preyed upon by nothing significant other than man, and trapping is no longer a popular or semi lucrative pastime, so there is little reason to believe their numbers will take a negative turn. They are a reintroduction success, as noteworthy as the return of white tailed deer, wild turkeys, bald eagles, and peregrine falcons, and each of these stories is a refreshing distraction from the near daily reporting of wild species in peril. But the presence of river otters forces a reevaluation of small pond fisheries and their managed outcomes. I can accept this new reality or I can declare a personal war against otters in an effort to maintain something from the past, something I deem good and valuable and necessary.
In politics today there is a great divide. At the heart of it are those determined to hold onto the past, paired against those ready and willing to introduce a new way to view our society and economy. Square in the middle of the standoff is the science affirmed fact that we're rapidly altering the life support systems that allowed our civilization to develop. We stand at a threshold where technologies promise a favorable way forward, where sustainable practices surround our food production, where energy and transportation employ green, renewable innovations, where our economy is underwritten by an uncompromising environmental ethic.
Our global population has been allowed to flourish under the influence of limited and highly polluting energy sources which now permeate every aspect of our lives. Everything we find good and valued and necessary, everything we use and consume and rely on has its roots in ancient carbon rich fuels, and we now face dire consequences from burning those fuels. Our atmosphere will soon have levels of CO2 which have not existed since before the dawn of civilized man and which are assured of bringing dramatic change to life as we know it.
How does an otter reintroduction compare to an earth altering event like climate change? It doesn't really, other than to remind me that the way forward will require a change in behavior and expectations. We can't lean on the past to justify the future. We can't use ignorance as an excuse, so we need to educate ourselves and be prepared to call out everyone, particularly our representatives, when they don't know the facts. It's not enough to know that climate change is happening, but that it matters, and postponing action is equivalent to denying the problem exists. We don't have the luxury of time. We have to reevaluate everything, including the way we live day to day, and resolve to make what personal changes we can. We need to recognize that being comfortable in our isolation makes us as guilty as those fighting to keep the status quo, that doing nothing is supporting elected and corporate leaders who are doing nothing.
Indiana river otters and climate change don't really belong on the same page. One represents a step toward ecosystem balance while the other carries the promise of global ecosystem upheaval. Small pond fisheries management developed in the absence of an influential apex predator and thus had outcomes which should have never been. Our world economy developed and is being driven by a highly subsidized and toxic energy system which likewise should have never been. Only one of these is worth my concern.
There are otters in the pond. How cool is that?
Otters were plentiful throughout most of the US when the Europeans arrived, but the combination of high demand for their pelts and general changes to aquatic habitats lead to their being extirpated from the majority of their original range, including indiana. In their absence, the science of small pond fisheries management was born, and pond owners who subscribed found rich rewards in the form of angling satisfaction and delectable table fare.
Otters were a part of the evolutionary process and their presence plays a role in a balanced ecosystem. In large lakes, river systems and reservoirs they are viewed favorably to overall system health and vitality. But in a small pond environment their refined predatory skills and voracious appetites have less than desirable consequences for the avid fisherman.
After a successful reintroduction effort beginning in 1995, Indiana recently removed otters from protected status and have now implemented a limited trapping season. This year I could legally take two animals, but here's the catch: Otters have huge territories. They're not like the weasel in the henhouse where a single individual can be identified and dispatched. An otter feasting yesterday in a reservoir 20 miles away could be in our pond today. The same goes for all the otters up and down the local rivers and associated tributaries.
Otters are apex predators so are preyed upon by nothing significant other than man, and trapping is no longer a popular or semi lucrative pastime, so there is little reason to believe their numbers will take a negative turn. They are a reintroduction success, as noteworthy as the return of white tailed deer, wild turkeys, bald eagles, and peregrine falcons, and each of these stories is a refreshing distraction from the near daily reporting of wild species in peril. But the presence of river otters forces a reevaluation of small pond fisheries and their managed outcomes. I can accept this new reality or I can declare a personal war against otters in an effort to maintain something from the past, something I deem good and valuable and necessary.
In politics today there is a great divide. At the heart of it are those determined to hold onto the past, paired against those ready and willing to introduce a new way to view our society and economy. Square in the middle of the standoff is the science affirmed fact that we're rapidly altering the life support systems that allowed our civilization to develop. We stand at a threshold where technologies promise a favorable way forward, where sustainable practices surround our food production, where energy and transportation employ green, renewable innovations, where our economy is underwritten by an uncompromising environmental ethic.
Our global population has been allowed to flourish under the influence of limited and highly polluting energy sources which now permeate every aspect of our lives. Everything we find good and valued and necessary, everything we use and consume and rely on has its roots in ancient carbon rich fuels, and we now face dire consequences from burning those fuels. Our atmosphere will soon have levels of CO2 which have not existed since before the dawn of civilized man and which are assured of bringing dramatic change to life as we know it.
How does an otter reintroduction compare to an earth altering event like climate change? It doesn't really, other than to remind me that the way forward will require a change in behavior and expectations. We can't lean on the past to justify the future. We can't use ignorance as an excuse, so we need to educate ourselves and be prepared to call out everyone, particularly our representatives, when they don't know the facts. It's not enough to know that climate change is happening, but that it matters, and postponing action is equivalent to denying the problem exists. We don't have the luxury of time. We have to reevaluate everything, including the way we live day to day, and resolve to make what personal changes we can. We need to recognize that being comfortable in our isolation makes us as guilty as those fighting to keep the status quo, that doing nothing is supporting elected and corporate leaders who are doing nothing.
Indiana river otters and climate change don't really belong on the same page. One represents a step toward ecosystem balance while the other carries the promise of global ecosystem upheaval. Small pond fisheries management developed in the absence of an influential apex predator and thus had outcomes which should have never been. Our world economy developed and is being driven by a highly subsidized and toxic energy system which likewise should have never been. Only one of these is worth my concern.
There are otters in the pond. How cool is that?
Proactive Like a Tree
Proactive Like a Tree
Nov 8, 2018
There is a groundhog in the cover crop today. We've been seeing him for a few weeks now, generally around noon, feasting on the newly emerged radish and cereal rye. I suspect this activity will come to an abrupt end if the weather forecast holds; snow tomorrow, followed by unseasonable cold. Today the hog is working beyond his usual hours, laying on fat in preparation for the long winter’s sleep. He apparently knows the forecast as well.
The groundhog is being proactive: acting before a situation becomes a crisis. It is responding to an anticipated event, which is winter, by ensuring it has laid on enough energy reserves to carry it until spring. If he were reactive, eating only what was necessary when the mood hit, he would one day soon find himself out of food and short of fat.
Evidence of proactive behavior is rampant in nature: squirrels and birds caching nuts and seed, waterfowl winging southward, insects laying overwintering eggs, frogs and turtles settling into the marsh muck. During this autumn season even plants respond proactively by shedding leaves and building winter stores.
If a tree does it, then being proactive apparently requires little critical thinking. In nature, it is the result of eons of adapting and evolving, reacting to cues that are life changing or threatening. It is the product of a lengthy process that bears impressive results. That's not to say the process has gone uninterrupted. Dramatic, sometimes planet-wide disturbances have occurred over geologic time. Existing proactive measures were sometimes inadequate and entire species, even taxonomic families, were lost, and the slow, lengthy process of filling vacated niches with new life forms would begin anew.
A planetary disturbance is happening again and this time man, that singular species most competent in critical thought and most capable of proactive behavior, is responsible. Our systematic destruction of earth’s balanced atmosphere has earned us a new title in the epochs of geologic time: the Anthropocene, and this new era has seen the launching of the earth’s sixth mass extinction. A recent report by the World Wildlife Fund says globally, we’ve lost half of our wild animals in the past 40 years. Freshwater ecosystems have declined by 75 percent during the same period. The study looked at only vertebrate populations, but separate published research showed insects declining 45 percent in the past 35 years worldwide, and up to 75 percent in German nature preserves.
Contrary to the perceived abundance we may hear and see daily-- the bird songs, the flowers, the chorus of night insects-- facts are facts. The studies are not fictitious, no more than running out of gas on the highway is fictitious, and neither is remedied if we ignore them. As one reviewer stated, “It’s okay to freak out now”. Yet, by all apparent indicators, we are continuing with business as usual, wielding our dominion over the planet, worried little of food insecurity, mass starvation, unprecedented displacement of people from climate induced disasters. Instead we look forward to the next new iPhone and support fossil fuel consumption at every turn.
We have a one way relationship with this planet. Earth doesn't need us, we need it. At our disposal is the technology and wherewithal to influence the end game, to heal the scars, to leave future generations a home. It demands an immediate, all-in, proactive approach to sustainable energy and lifestyles. We are capable, we can save ourselves, and we owe it to the planet that has given us everything.
And that groundhog, the birds, the insects? This is beyond their proactive capabilities. Their future is on us, too.
A groundhog lays on the fat
For a long winter’s nap
The birds southward wing
To await the coming of spring
Proactively they choose their course
While man, with his critical thinking,
Burns carbon without blinking,
With nary a hint of remorse.
Nov 8, 2018
There is a groundhog in the cover crop today. We've been seeing him for a few weeks now, generally around noon, feasting on the newly emerged radish and cereal rye. I suspect this activity will come to an abrupt end if the weather forecast holds; snow tomorrow, followed by unseasonable cold. Today the hog is working beyond his usual hours, laying on fat in preparation for the long winter’s sleep. He apparently knows the forecast as well.
The groundhog is being proactive: acting before a situation becomes a crisis. It is responding to an anticipated event, which is winter, by ensuring it has laid on enough energy reserves to carry it until spring. If he were reactive, eating only what was necessary when the mood hit, he would one day soon find himself out of food and short of fat.
Evidence of proactive behavior is rampant in nature: squirrels and birds caching nuts and seed, waterfowl winging southward, insects laying overwintering eggs, frogs and turtles settling into the marsh muck. During this autumn season even plants respond proactively by shedding leaves and building winter stores.
If a tree does it, then being proactive apparently requires little critical thinking. In nature, it is the result of eons of adapting and evolving, reacting to cues that are life changing or threatening. It is the product of a lengthy process that bears impressive results. That's not to say the process has gone uninterrupted. Dramatic, sometimes planet-wide disturbances have occurred over geologic time. Existing proactive measures were sometimes inadequate and entire species, even taxonomic families, were lost, and the slow, lengthy process of filling vacated niches with new life forms would begin anew.
A planetary disturbance is happening again and this time man, that singular species most competent in critical thought and most capable of proactive behavior, is responsible. Our systematic destruction of earth’s balanced atmosphere has earned us a new title in the epochs of geologic time: the Anthropocene, and this new era has seen the launching of the earth’s sixth mass extinction. A recent report by the World Wildlife Fund says globally, we’ve lost half of our wild animals in the past 40 years. Freshwater ecosystems have declined by 75 percent during the same period. The study looked at only vertebrate populations, but separate published research showed insects declining 45 percent in the past 35 years worldwide, and up to 75 percent in German nature preserves.
Contrary to the perceived abundance we may hear and see daily-- the bird songs, the flowers, the chorus of night insects-- facts are facts. The studies are not fictitious, no more than running out of gas on the highway is fictitious, and neither is remedied if we ignore them. As one reviewer stated, “It’s okay to freak out now”. Yet, by all apparent indicators, we are continuing with business as usual, wielding our dominion over the planet, worried little of food insecurity, mass starvation, unprecedented displacement of people from climate induced disasters. Instead we look forward to the next new iPhone and support fossil fuel consumption at every turn.
We have a one way relationship with this planet. Earth doesn't need us, we need it. At our disposal is the technology and wherewithal to influence the end game, to heal the scars, to leave future generations a home. It demands an immediate, all-in, proactive approach to sustainable energy and lifestyles. We are capable, we can save ourselves, and we owe it to the planet that has given us everything.
And that groundhog, the birds, the insects? This is beyond their proactive capabilities. Their future is on us, too.
A groundhog lays on the fat
For a long winter’s nap
The birds southward wing
To await the coming of spring
Proactively they choose their course
While man, with his critical thinking,
Burns carbon without blinking,
With nary a hint of remorse.
A Thousand Cuts
Oct 8, 2018
This morning broke foggy, dripping wet and unseasonably mild. I let the dog out and stood barefoot in the yard, the October soil warm on my feet. Fall flocking blackbirds hung in the cattails at the marsh edge, filling the morning with a raucous symphony. The colors of autumn brightened leaves in the dim light of dawn, and a delightful dank fragrance of an ebbing season’s growth hung in the air.
In that moment, there seemed such hope and promise, a temptation to think things weren't as bad as scientists say. How could we have crashing bird and insect populations, rampant deforestation, melting glaciers, impending ecological disaster? It's too easy to deny. And therein, perhaps, is the root of the problem.
We, as people, are in a tight spot. Surrounded by the technology and information to save ourselves, we are drifting passively towards certain doom. With a wartime effort rwe might avoid the worst case scenario, but the probability of acting soon enough appears hugely unlikely.
This old sphere is like a billion year old freight train, chugging along, carried by momentum, optimizing the perfect conditions for life and harboring a resistance to change. But our activities are leading to death by a thousand cuts. The cutting continues while we experience the pristine, take long drives through endless forests, tally dozens of bird species in a day of watching, find solitude in wild places and breathe air sweetened by all things raw and untainted. The cutting continues as we go about our busy days, engulfed by our efforts to make ends meet, to maintain or improve our level of comfort, to earn and enjoy our leisure, to embrace the status quo.
Recently I learned our current administration quietly acknowledged a projected 7 degree F (3.88C) rise in global temperature before the end of the century. It wasn't an admission of man-caused climate change, but rather that the planet’s fate is sealed. It was a justification to freeze fuel efficiency standards because increasing gas mileage in vehicles would play no significant role in reducing global temperatures. It was a nod to stay the course.
Then today the IPCC released a warning that we have only a dozen years to limit total warming by 1.5 degrees C. Another half degree more (i.e. 2 degrees) and dramatic, perhaps irreversible changes to life on earth are assured. According to the report, “It's a line in the sand and what it says to our species is this is the moment we must act”. The difference between 1.5 and 2 degrees is the difference in having hundreds of millions of people exposed to water stress and food scarcity. It means more forest fires, fouled air and heat related deaths. It means massive migrations of people from the world’s shorelines.
But the biggest change, according to the report, would be to nature itself. Pollinating insects would be twice as likely to lose habitat. Ninety nine percent of coral reefs would die and marine fisheries would decline at twice the rate. Ice free Arctic summers would occur every 10 years at 2C vs every 100 years at 1.5C.
The report goes on to offer specific reductions in carbon pollution and indicates how goals could be met using current technologies. Former NASA scientist James Hansen, responding to the IPCC, said “even 1.5C is well above the Holocene era temperatures in which human civilization developed, but that number gives young people a fighting chance of getting back to the Holocene or close to it”.
Meanwhile, we're on a solid course for a multi degree rise, leaving 2C in our dust.
Tonight I heard coyotes singing. Instead of the typical yipping chaos, they engaged in long mournful howls. Maybe they know something, but more likely they, as so many species wild, are being led innocently to a senseless and needlessly cruel future, if not total extinction.
Coyotes didn't occupy our fair state when I was a lad. I can say the same for whitetailed deer, bald eagles, river otters, peregrine falcons and wild turkeys. All are the result of applied wildlife science, a hugely successful reintroduction program, and a witness to wild habitats still capable of supporting species long absent. At this moment, just outside my doorstep, the night air is sweet, an ancient bird migration is underway, the songs of insects are reaching a crescendo, and the garden’s newly sprouted cover crop is lush and green.
And while the old sphere spins, a few billion years of refined perfection is being cut to shreds.
The old sphere spins
While time moves on,
We dwindle our resources
And don't see the wrong.
The sun still rises,
The flowers still bloom,
We’re content and blind
As babes in the womb.
Our mother is ill
But we acknowledge it not;
We forge headlong in a race
To lose all that we sought.
This morning broke foggy, dripping wet and unseasonably mild. I let the dog out and stood barefoot in the yard, the October soil warm on my feet. Fall flocking blackbirds hung in the cattails at the marsh edge, filling the morning with a raucous symphony. The colors of autumn brightened leaves in the dim light of dawn, and a delightful dank fragrance of an ebbing season’s growth hung in the air.
In that moment, there seemed such hope and promise, a temptation to think things weren't as bad as scientists say. How could we have crashing bird and insect populations, rampant deforestation, melting glaciers, impending ecological disaster? It's too easy to deny. And therein, perhaps, is the root of the problem.
We, as people, are in a tight spot. Surrounded by the technology and information to save ourselves, we are drifting passively towards certain doom. With a wartime effort rwe might avoid the worst case scenario, but the probability of acting soon enough appears hugely unlikely.
This old sphere is like a billion year old freight train, chugging along, carried by momentum, optimizing the perfect conditions for life and harboring a resistance to change. But our activities are leading to death by a thousand cuts. The cutting continues while we experience the pristine, take long drives through endless forests, tally dozens of bird species in a day of watching, find solitude in wild places and breathe air sweetened by all things raw and untainted. The cutting continues as we go about our busy days, engulfed by our efforts to make ends meet, to maintain or improve our level of comfort, to earn and enjoy our leisure, to embrace the status quo.
Recently I learned our current administration quietly acknowledged a projected 7 degree F (3.88C) rise in global temperature before the end of the century. It wasn't an admission of man-caused climate change, but rather that the planet’s fate is sealed. It was a justification to freeze fuel efficiency standards because increasing gas mileage in vehicles would play no significant role in reducing global temperatures. It was a nod to stay the course.
Then today the IPCC released a warning that we have only a dozen years to limit total warming by 1.5 degrees C. Another half degree more (i.e. 2 degrees) and dramatic, perhaps irreversible changes to life on earth are assured. According to the report, “It's a line in the sand and what it says to our species is this is the moment we must act”. The difference between 1.5 and 2 degrees is the difference in having hundreds of millions of people exposed to water stress and food scarcity. It means more forest fires, fouled air and heat related deaths. It means massive migrations of people from the world’s shorelines.
But the biggest change, according to the report, would be to nature itself. Pollinating insects would be twice as likely to lose habitat. Ninety nine percent of coral reefs would die and marine fisheries would decline at twice the rate. Ice free Arctic summers would occur every 10 years at 2C vs every 100 years at 1.5C.
The report goes on to offer specific reductions in carbon pollution and indicates how goals could be met using current technologies. Former NASA scientist James Hansen, responding to the IPCC, said “even 1.5C is well above the Holocene era temperatures in which human civilization developed, but that number gives young people a fighting chance of getting back to the Holocene or close to it”.
Meanwhile, we're on a solid course for a multi degree rise, leaving 2C in our dust.
Tonight I heard coyotes singing. Instead of the typical yipping chaos, they engaged in long mournful howls. Maybe they know something, but more likely they, as so many species wild, are being led innocently to a senseless and needlessly cruel future, if not total extinction.
Coyotes didn't occupy our fair state when I was a lad. I can say the same for whitetailed deer, bald eagles, river otters, peregrine falcons and wild turkeys. All are the result of applied wildlife science, a hugely successful reintroduction program, and a witness to wild habitats still capable of supporting species long absent. At this moment, just outside my doorstep, the night air is sweet, an ancient bird migration is underway, the songs of insects are reaching a crescendo, and the garden’s newly sprouted cover crop is lush and green.
And while the old sphere spins, a few billion years of refined perfection is being cut to shreds.
The old sphere spins
While time moves on,
We dwindle our resources
And don't see the wrong.
The sun still rises,
The flowers still bloom,
We’re content and blind
As babes in the womb.
Our mother is ill
But we acknowledge it not;
We forge headlong in a race
To lose all that we sought.
A Family Visit in July
On a weekend in July we were paid a visit by Lee’s family from the Indianapolis area. Her sister, our nieces and nephews, their spouses and kids made up the assemblage. It’s an event that occurs at best once a year despite it being highly anticipated, especially by the kids, who relish having access to our wild acreage.
I view it not only as a chance to commingle but for the opportunity to expose young minds to their connection with the natural world, to challenge their phobias toward spiders and snakes, to talk about butterflies, the compost pile, the dried exoskeleton of a dragonfly nymph hanging from the dock.
But before they can focus on the lessons of the day there is energy to burn. A few laps around the pond manning the oars of the jon boat is a start. Shortly after casting off, an arachnid emerges from under the seat, and suddenly the boat lists starboard as a squealing mass of juveniles wrangle to put distance between them and the spider. “Don’t worry about it”, I say. “It’s a daddy long legs. It’s a good spider, enjoying the ride like you are. Now focus on the oars”.
Next comes swimming. I explain that the mud on the pond bottom isn’t gross, it’s just soft wet soil. “It feels good oozing between your toes, doesn’t it?”, I ask. “And that algae tickling your feet is just a plant, like grass. Here, look at it, touch it. See all the tiny insects and snails there? It’s loaded with life, food for ducks and fish and wading birds. It’s all connected and it’s all good”, I say.
I know from daily swims that little bluegill like to nip at me and are especially attracted to an insect bite or anything irregular on my skin, and their nips are surprising and impressively fierce. I can’t help but twitch and occasionally yelp when attacked. My usual remedy is to keep swimming as they seem less interested in a moving target. But now, with my attention focused on youngsters, I’m pausing frequently to provide them a point of anchorage, and thus exposing myself to marauding bluegills.
If I am to offer a series of positive, natural world introductions and experiences, and not to initiate phobias, my reaction to a fish attack needs to be calmly controlled, ideally unnoticed. “Why are you jumping, Uncle Joe? Are you messing with me?” I could see just behind those trusting eyes a readiness to bolt, panic-stricken for shore. A bad experience today could have lifelong implications. I couldn’t let it happen, but neither could I keep from flinching, especially when a gang of particularly aggressive bluegills began showing an interest in my right nipple. I had to come clean. “Yes, the fish are biting me but you’ll be fine as long as you keep your nipples covered”.
There will be a time to interject more of the harsh realities of the natural world, to share the understanding that almost everything alive feeds on something that is also alive, and sometimes the process gets downright brutal and ugly. The want for food and procreation is the thread that weaves all life together. The quest for survival, the seizing of opportunity, spins the gears of evolution.
But all of that is a lesson for later. Today we focus on pond life and fresh wild berries and baby toads. Today we learn it’s okay to step barefoot in goose poop because it’s just grass and water. Today we keep it simple in the hope of sparking a greater appreciation and curiosity of the natural world.
There is a paramount danger in being unaware of ecological principles, of the rippling influence of removing a single living component from a complex ecosystem. Embracing an ethic that puts planetary health front and center is vital to civilization as we know it, and acting to improve and preserve ecological well-being will by default lead to resolution of many other world problems.
In A SAND COUNTY ALMANAC, Aldo Leopold wrote “There are two spiritual dangers in not owning a farm. One is the danger of supposing that breakfast comes from the grocery, and the other that heat comes from the furnace”. I think of these dangers as I consider the opportunity of the day, taking young minds on an exploration of life on a semi-abandoned midwest farm. By the end of it we stride barefoot through goose poop with little regard. I hear young voices volunteering to take food waste to the compost pile. We’ve learned to catch tiny man-eating bluegill using small hand nets. We know when to protect our nipples. These are experiences that might one day help spark a commitment to save a crippled planet.
There is a growing consensus that the sixth great extinction, or the first great extermination, has commenced. Climate change, with its complexity of feedback loops, has been unleashed, and many of its consequences will not be avoided. Two bedrocks of ecological systems, insects and coral reefs, are in rapid decline. The oceans are acidifying, food systems are failing, water emergencies declared, devastating weather events and mass migrations of people are underway, and all will only worsen. We are entering an era not seen since the advent of man, solidly science based, yet denied by national leadership.
Today’s youth are rising up. The climate strikes initiated by Swedish teen Greta Thunberg have spawned a global movement demanding bold and immediate adoption of actions which just might save our civilization. Ditto the Extinction Rebellion and Sunrise Movement. Collectively they represent an inspiring and hope filled revolution with solutions that are within our reach, but the responsibility of seeing them through rests on us adults and our decision makers. Exposing the very young to the wonders and beauty of natural systems, helping them visualize man as a harmonious and respectful component in the web of life, is a part of the process.
Here’s to the youth who see
How a peopled earth should be
Here’s to the ones who dare
To stand up and show us they care
They tell us
A bit of madness is okay
If it advances the solutions of the day
They know where a future unchanged will lead us
And that’s why they need us*
In the end it comes down to this
A chance they beg we don’t miss
Our earth is dying
Our leaders are lying
And our children are crying
Resist!
*credit La La Land, The Fools Who Dream
Lawn
Think of your lawn as a young forest. In it lives a rich diversity of plants-- grasses, broadleaves, legumes-- and a host of insects and microorganisms that have evolved in relative harmony. Collectively they support a broader ecosystem-- birds that feed on the insects, bees that pollinate the clover, cottontails that munch the plantain.
If left unattended, our lawns will advance through a succession of plants-- vines, brambles, woody shrubs-- and ultimately become mature forest. Mowing keeps the forest at bay, holding plant succession at a very early stage.
If our yard is large we can elect to mow less, thereby pollute less, save money, and introduce more diversity into our landscape. We can control or speed up this otherwise random succession by choosing to buy and install native shrubs and trees in a design that suits our eye. (There is a great book on this matter: Bringing Nature Home, by Doug Tallamy.)
But let's say we don't do any of this (because collectively, we don't), and instead we routinely mow massive areas (45 million acres), and for some ill born reason, apply chemicals (100 million pounds annually) to kill everything but a particular grass species. Gone are the broadleaves, the nitrogen fixing legumes, the tiny speedwell of spring, the trailing ivy, many of the insects. Gone is the diversity. In comes the synthetic fertilizer, irrigation (nine billion gallons/day), fungicides and insecticides (all of which contribute to the dead zone in the Gulf of Mexico in no small way). We create a monoculture that nature opposes at every turn. We direct our money and efforts at something that is second only to artificial turf in being natural or supporting a healthy ecosystem. There is nothing more out of place than a manicured stand of pure bluegrass, green and lush, particularly in periods of drought. Grasses have evolved to endure drought, and by design, go dormant to protect themselves.
Are we nuts? Have we really thought this through? Mow less, can the chemicals, conserve the water, curb pollution, keep the money, and appreciate the results!
If left unattended, our lawns will advance through a succession of plants-- vines, brambles, woody shrubs-- and ultimately become mature forest. Mowing keeps the forest at bay, holding plant succession at a very early stage.
If our yard is large we can elect to mow less, thereby pollute less, save money, and introduce more diversity into our landscape. We can control or speed up this otherwise random succession by choosing to buy and install native shrubs and trees in a design that suits our eye. (There is a great book on this matter: Bringing Nature Home, by Doug Tallamy.)
But let's say we don't do any of this (because collectively, we don't), and instead we routinely mow massive areas (45 million acres), and for some ill born reason, apply chemicals (100 million pounds annually) to kill everything but a particular grass species. Gone are the broadleaves, the nitrogen fixing legumes, the tiny speedwell of spring, the trailing ivy, many of the insects. Gone is the diversity. In comes the synthetic fertilizer, irrigation (nine billion gallons/day), fungicides and insecticides (all of which contribute to the dead zone in the Gulf of Mexico in no small way). We create a monoculture that nature opposes at every turn. We direct our money and efforts at something that is second only to artificial turf in being natural or supporting a healthy ecosystem. There is nothing more out of place than a manicured stand of pure bluegrass, green and lush, particularly in periods of drought. Grasses have evolved to endure drought, and by design, go dormant to protect themselves.
Are we nuts? Have we really thought this through? Mow less, can the chemicals, conserve the water, curb pollution, keep the money, and appreciate the results!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)