Restoring Nature—Part 1

We humans—supposedly the smartest critter on the planet—have been industrially fouling our nest for centuries. Back when we were primitive and our numbers were few, these environmental attacks had minimal impact on the natural world. But as our big brains conceived of ever-increasing ways to advance our technology, we became increasingly adept at causing damage. Add to that a population explosion that has sent our numbers sailing past seven billion, and we're becoming very adept at environmental damage.

Scientists have understood for a few decades now that we are headed towards big problems, if we continue our profligate ways. They have tried to inform the public and those in power that something needs to be done to alter our course, before we smash into an environmental brick wall and suffer the many dire consequences that our behavior is leading to. Unfortunately, the leaders and the majority of people have turned a deaf ear to the warnings. Worse yet, powerful interest groups have dominated the media and convinced many people (especially in America) to carry on with business as usual: not to worry, no need to back off from the pursuit of whatever appeals to us. Go buy another car; build a bigger house.

Even worse yet, these powerful forces have attacked scientists and have attempted to show that the scientific findings and predictions about climate change are specious and irrelevant. The unfortunate consequence is that many scientists have been forced either to go on the defensive, or consciously mollified their statements, or even have abandoned their attempts to inform humanity of the truth of the matter. They find it too painful to tell the truth.

This last point has led to a very disturbing development that has recently emerged: the inclination for some scientists to give up the struggle and pursue a dangerous alternative tack. They recognize that it's already too late to correct course—that we've gone beyond the point of no return (we haven't been able to check ourselves), and we must therefore look to technology to get us out of this fix. Their thinking seems to be: we can't convince people to change their ways—to back off on their relentless pressure to consume and proliferate—and it's getting too late, so maybe the only alternative is to use our powerful technologies to try to compensate for our damage.

I find this last argument very troubling, because it continues to avoid and/or deny the truth of what we are doing. Worse yet, it's a form of playing God—as if we think we know enough to restore the environment to the condition it was, before we upset it; without having to change our problematic ways. Many of these ideas seek to tinker with the environment, in an attempt to counter what we've done. This approach is arrogant enough to think that we understand the complexities of nature, to the extent that we can engage in worldwide experiments to reduce or counter the effects of all the CO₂ we've dumped into the atmosphere—simply by a creative technological fix.

One of these schemes is to dump huge quantities of iron into the oceans. Another would purposefully scatter particulates into the atmosphere to cool things down. Yet another would rocket jillions of tiny mirrors into space to reflect some sunlight away from us. While these notions could theoretically bring about some global cooling, they will also likely cause side effects that could make things worse, or send the whole delicately-balanced atmospheric system spiraling out of control. Yes, we've developed an impressive understanding of how Earth's climate works, but as yet we have the most primitive grasp of the nature of the many complex interactions going on. You'd think that maybe we'd have learned from some of our past catastrophes (remember DDT?) of unintended consequences, but it seems that we haven't.

More on attempts to restore nature next time...

Spring Frog Eggs in the Pond

These photos show a gelatinous mass of frog eggs--soon to be hatched into wee tadpoles. The lower photo is a closeup of a portion of the upper photo. Click to enlarge.

Scary Storm—Part 2

My stormy bath reminded me of reading an account by John Muir, “Wind-Storm in the Forest,” when he found himself in a northern California conifer forest, as an 1874 storm blew his way. He waxed enthusiastically on about how the various species of trees were “singing and writing wind-music.” The woods were “enlivened with one of the most bracing wind-storms conceivable.” He had hiked to a friend's cabin, but when the storm's fury grew, he felt compelled to “go out into the woods to enjoy it.”

He wrote that nature “has always something more to show us, and the danger to life and limb is hardly greater than one would experience crouching deprecatingly beneath a roof.” Up to this point of the adventure, I'm kind of with you, John; although I'm out here, “crouching deprecatingly” in my tub.

And that's where Muir and I part company. While I hunched down fearfully, he headed for a stout tree to climb, to experience the glorious storm directly. Trees snapping and falling around him, he watched 200-foot high pines wave like “supple goldenrods, chanting and bowing low, as if in worship.” He could lean against the trunk of one of these giants and feel the sway of its mighty column.

Cresting a high ridge, Muir selected a 100-foot Douglas fir and climbed to its top. (That's like ten stories up there, John!) He was seeking sights and excitement that he knew awaited him, up in that towering cathedral. The top of the tree “flopped and swished in the passionate torrent... while I clung with muscles firm braced, like a bobolink on a reed.” Knowing that Douglas firs are incredibly strong and resilient, Muir felt completely “safe, and free to take the wind into my pulses and enjoy the excited forest from my superb outlook.” He held to his perch for several hours, glorying in the beautiful scene and thrilling to the music of the winds howling through the forest below him.

As I hunkered down in my tub, I thought of how my risk paled to that of John Muir's wild ride atop a California Douglas fir. It was little comfort, however, as I watched my sycamores and white pine bow to the gale, “as if in worship.” I didn't feel as safe as he said he was. But then again, I bet he felt a lot safer, as he later sat at his desk (as I do now), reporting his experience.

Both John and I lived through our storms. I don't think my fun anywhere near approached his, but that's OK... I get quite woozy from scaling a tree, after I've climbed only 15 feet up.

Downed White Pine

This tree gave up its grasp in the last windstorm.

Scary Storm—Part 1

I have a deep psychic need to partake of my long, hot, outdoor soakings in the tub. I can go for as many as five days between bathings, before the craving becomes overpowering, but every three days is definitely preferable. This contemplative need often has me consulting the weather forecast the immediate day after a bath, to determine whether the coming third or fourth night will offer the more clement weather. If neither one promises to be pleasant, I'll bite the bullet and face nature's worse: and bathe on a rainy or a cold night. My impulsive need to soak can find me hunkered down in the hot water during some pretty harsh weather: a frigid 15^o, a heavy rain, during intimidating wind gusts, or with uncomfortably close thunderstorms passing by.

The forecast one recent evening was for sustained winds of over 30 mph, with gusts up to 55. It would have been prudent of me to remain in the protective confines of our underground home, but it'd been five whole days since my last soak and my desire for a bath trumped my better judgment. I fired up the tub's wood stove and danced naked into the storm. I followed on the heels of my wife—who, against her better judgment, had preceded me. She quickly returned to the relative safety of the house. She was sensibly scared off by branches being dislodged from their attachments to overhead trees. Teeth clenched, I headed out.

Once submerged in the hot water—as my body began to feel soothed—my mind began to be submerged in apprehension. Overhead are three huge sycamore trees and one towering white pine. The strong gusts of wind were tossing them around as if they were spring daffodils. They bent menacingly one way and then equally menacingly leaned in the opposite direction, as the powerful gusts whirled around. Branches bashed together, raining pieces of them down, and an occasional loud CRACK off in the woods startled me, destroying any chance of my slipping into my usual mental reverie. I felt very small and defenseless against the elements. I hoped they weren't planning to harm me.

Looking up, I watched a buzzard fly overhead, well above the treetops. I like to watch these large, graceful birds, as they glide effortlessly on wind currents—usually facing into the breeze. With these fierce winds, however, this buzzard had turned tail to the wind and was being pushed along at a high velocity. He appeared more like a black meteor, streaking across the darkening sky.

More stormy weather next time...

Woodpecker Work

This is (I believe) the work of a pileated woodpecker in a pine tree. It's some serious construction for a nest... but why two holes? Could it be a pair of siblings?